“Nope. Did it rub off in transit?” I smiled and silently patted myself on the back. This would just drive Jack crazy. He scowled at me and I do believe he was seriously hurt by the comment. Turning around and mumbling inaudibly, he carefully replaced the painting in its bed of straw.
“There is no signature. That’s my point.” Apparently, my sleight did not have a lasting effect on him. He sat down and grinned as he gulped his Scotch. “But then, how could there be a signature? The Master didn’t sign his paintings.” He stopped. A long pause which I’m sure was intended to allow me to catch on and fall at Jack’s feet. Begging forgiveness for being such a crude, ignorant peon.
While I thought I knew where he was going, I wasn’t going to play his game. I shrugged my shoulders, cocked my head and raised my eyebrows in the international sign language gesture for ‘what the Hell are you talking about?’
“It’s a da Vinci.” Involuntarily, I guess I must have been impressed, because I let out an unintentional ‘Hmm.’ He smiled.
“I know! As a matter of fact, it’s only the fourth da Vinci painting known to exist. Well, it’s not really known. That’s half the fun. There are only three da Vinci’s known to the modern world: the Mona Lisa, of course; the Last Supper and the Virgin of the Rocks. And this one is “Pheidippides’ Defeat at the Gates of Athens.” That’s my working title anyway. So what do you think?” I sipped my Scotch and made a pronounced sucking noise.
“How do you know it’s a da Vinci?” I guess I was intent on irritating Jack that night, because I knew this one would send him over the edge. I wasn’t wrong. He sat up in his chair and plunked the glass down on the coffee table with a loud crack. His eyebrows furrowed and for a moment I thought he was going to jump out of the chair and escort me to the door. Leaving me to contend with the furies of mother nature, equipped with nothing but Hugo’s finest cashmere and cotton.
“Who the fuck do you take me for? Jesus!” As if he only just realized that he was raising his voice, he suddenly calmed himself. “I had two of the world’s foremost experts on the Master examine this painting. And I’ve been able to trace the ownership of it back to 1521. Two years after the Master died.” I was getting sick of hearing Jack refer to Leonardo as “the Master,” but I should have been used to it by now. After all, I had gotten used to his gratuitous fashion community name-dropping.
“It was bequeathed by a local patron of the arts to King Francis of France.” He paused and peered at me, I’m sure for effect. “The patron was from Cloux, which is where the Master died. And King Francis was at the Master’s side when he died.”
I looked at him suspiciously while I took another gulp of Scotch. There were so many things going through my mind as I listened to him talk. As long as I had known him, I had always accepted egocentricity and predilection for the dramatic as patented Jack. It didn’t faze me because it was part of his character, and I had grown to accept that and even admire it for its simplicity. But I was beginning to wonder who this person was. He sat before me looking maniacal and possessed with something unfamiliar and unwieldy.
“You’re kidding, right? Jack, I don’t even want to know how much you paid for the painting. Just tell me how much you paid for that line of bullshit.” I stared at him and smiled wryly before I quaffed another gulp of Scotch.
It was a simple statement, and the look I shot at him was one I had given to him so many times before. But combined, the words, my facial expression and my confrontational demeanor had an unexpected effect. Jack stopped and looked at me as if he was about to ask me a dead-serious question.
But nothing came out of his mouth. Rather, he put his glass on the coffee table and stood up as his eyes became accusatory flaming suns. The veins in his forehead pulsed with all the rage that was intended for me. Clenching his jaw, his lips pursed into an indescribable pucker that needed to explode.
He stood over me. His body quivered and his eyes slashed at me. Suddenly and disturbingly, I was reminded of the day I found him covered with blood.
He’s not well.
A massive crack of thunder erupted outside, finding its way through the night air into a small crack of an open window. I jumped.
“What?” He asked the question simply, but there was much more behind it than the word implied. In spite of myself, I sunk back into the chair and gripped my glass. There was a strange tremor in my chest and I found it difficult to look him in the eye.
I fought – battled – to keep eye contact as I scramble to retain my composure. I thought about my situation. I was vulnerable. I was in a huge home, devoid of any life but for the two of us. Not for the first time and not for the last time, I stopped regarding Jack as someone who was my friend. Instead, I regarded him as someone who held my life in his hands.
He tried to kill him…
“Uhhh…” I shook as I flimsily put the glass down at the table. Somehow, I found the ability to expound a confident and conciliatory statement.
“It’s a simple question, Jack! No offense intended.” I knew my eyes were painted with fear. But I resented that I had to explain myself. And even more incredulously, that I had to placate him.
He’s not well.
“I was just wondering if the painting was for real. You don’t have to get all freaky on me. Seriously.”
I added that last word, ‘seriously’ with regret. Shakily, I picked up my glass and raised it to my lips, watching him closely. As a matter of fact, my eyes didn’t leave his face while I drank down. But I couldn’t look into his eyes, so I generally focused on his face and waited for what seemed like an eternity for him to respond.
Easy, mate. This can only be touched by me.
I’m sure that there was something going on inside his head, but I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what. Suddenly, the tension in his body released like flood gates. He nodded and sat down in a sweeping and grandiose manner. As if he had forgotten that we ever had the uncomfortable moment, he smiled and changed the subject.
“So aren’t you curious why everything’s packed up?” He paused briefly and continued. It was a rhetorical question. “I’m moving. What do you think?” After the scare, I decided that wry comments were definitely not the way to go tonight. My response was simple and without confrontation.
“Did you find something else in Montreal?” Insipid, but it was a safe question. Another sharp crack of thunder rolled hauntingly in the distance. One corner of his mouth raised and he shook his head. Slowly and deliberately.
“No.” His response was replete with something that made me forget my fear and aroused my curiosity. I raised my eyebrows and peered at him. ‘What do you mean?’
He paused and I wondered if he was formulating an answer to my questioning look. That irritated me. He initiated this conversation. As usual he had caught me in his little web of confusion. And I wasn’t the patient type.
I watched him and waited for an answer, as if the recounting of the newest chapter in the life of Jack would be a revelation of epic proportions. But experience had taught me better than that. Jack lived in the world of the mysterious, and I wasn’t about to get an answer from him.
“You’re obviously tired. Let’s sleep on it, and we’ll talk over breakfast.”
Without waiting for my protest, he stood up and began to walk toward the hallway. I realized then that I was exhausted and severely jetlagged. I stood up, grateful that for now I could lose myself under warm clean sheets. And with any kind of luck, I would experience dreamless sleep.
But as I wended my way through the boxes, an enormous explosion of thunder shook the house and rolled away slowly and into the distance. I jumped. The ominous crack of nature’s might gave me my answer.
It was going to be a long night.
Chapter 31
As usual, my trepidation proved prophetic, for the night didn’t end when I retired to bed.
As I curled under sheets – which would normally have been welcome and filled with desperately-needed warmth – t
hey felt like a clammy shroud, stroking my body in a crypt.
It didn’t help that the room was bare save for boxes. With no curtains, there was no visual protection from the furies of the night. Thankfully, Jack had lit a fire in the hearth, and while its roaring warmth would have normally pleased me, its garish light filled the room with disquieting shadows. Lightning glared and shot through the tall slender windows, amplifying the impression that I was in a tomb. I huddled in a fetal position, pulled the bed sheets around me and prayed for sleep.
However, it isn’t wise to pray for something when you’re not sure you want it. As I quickly wafted into the abyss of the dream world, the phantoms which screamed at me all these years returned in a fit of pure hatred and revenge. They whirled and cackled around my head. I drifted off…
Light melted into darkness without any perceptible change. My head swam with dark and disquieting thoughts, and my body wove in and out of what must have been a waking dream. I saw visions that night. I’m sure that they were more than dreams. The fire attempted to warm my soul and I instinctively moved toward it, still lying on the bed. But no matter how much I tried, the warmth and comfort was just out of my reach and I shivered uncontrollably.
A branch scraped against the window. I peered up from my supplicant position, feeling small and vulnerable. As I watched, it became the hand of a dead man, perhaps one of Jack’s long-dead artisans. It swirled and swayed, as if it was putting the final brushstrokes on a painting or conducting an orchestra. The fire which dwindled and flickered became the fire that lived behind the eyes of the maiden...
Ah, the maiden! Her eyes longed for something she could not, would not, have. The beauty, majesty, loathing and terror! The great beast stood there, between me and the maiden, and I faltered...
I may have wakened, but wasn’t sure.
The wind receded to nearly inaudible tones and the fire was just a pile of shimmering coals. I shivered despite the mountain of sheets covering me. I shook the soporific daze of sleep from my head and leapt out of bed. As I rushed to the door I sensed something so incredibly horrific on the other side that my blind courage shocked me. The brass knob was deathly cold.
In that moment, I saw the dark void between life and death, lightness and darkness. I faltered, but only for a moment as I flung the door open with the greatest fit of rage I'd ever experienced.
To this day I truly believe that were the very Devil standing on the other side, I would have confronted him with all the might of my Byzantine rage.
Instead however, I stood facing darkness and silence.
What a fool! I thought to myself as I stood there panting and perspiring.
Fully aware that my body was drenched in a lather of sweat and that my heart was racing, I clasped the edge of the door frame and steadied myself. As I caught my breath and cleared my head of the dream phantoms which lingered, I felt a strange urge. As if something called out to me.
I don’t know what bravado possessed me that night, but I walked out into the dark, unsavory hallway. Half in a trance, I traversed tortured corridors. Dim shadows of statues were silent sentinels. The dark paintings were haunting and somber. I stepped lightly as sensibility struggled with reality to make fifteen minutes become hours.
As I came to my waking senses, I grew disconcerted, even frightened. Finally, unable to bear any more, I resolved to return to my room and its limited safety.
It was then that I saw the dim flickering of a light in the distance. Damned human curiosity tugged me forward. I approached a door. A wedge of light shone from the cracks. I don’t know why I was so drawn here, but I resolved to open that door and see what sucked and clawed at me at this ungodly hour.
That’s when I heard it.
A high-pitched wail came from behind the door, and grunts which couldn’t have been human. Not in a thousand years. I listened while I stepped backward. Slowly and methodically. As I did so, I backed into a marble pedestal.
A small brass basin collapsed to the floor with a resounding clamor. It sounded like a thunderclap resounding in that barren hallway. As it echoed through the mausoleum I jumped.
The wail ceased. The silence screamed at me and I couldn’t move. Then, I heard a slow steady scraping sound. Like something dragging itself toward the door.
A shockwave coursed through my system. I can only describe it as the moment when I knew I was going to die a most horrible and painful death. I mustered every fiber of strength left in my being and steadied myself. Catching and holding my breath and afraid to make any more sound, I continued to back away from the door. Fear pounded its way through every pore, every artery of my body. My brain pulsated against my skull and all rational thought left my being.
In a moment of imperative lucidity I bolted and frantically raced down the hallway. When I got back to the room, I slammed the door shut and steadfastly locked it. Quietly and quite shaken, I sat in an armchair by the fire, threw a fresh log on and slept no more that night.
I awoke screaming. The lather which covered my body pasted Jack’s silk pajamas to my frame. I felt warm, sticky, and extremely cold at the same time. As I caught myself screaming, I stopped short, panting incessantly. In that moment of clarity, the silence grew to deafening proportions. Strange shadows cast themselves around the room and I propped myself up, looking around anxiously. I half-expected to see something at the foot of the bed, staring ravenously and lasciviously at me.
There was nothing in the darkness save for deathly silence. As I pried the sheets from my body I realized that the warmth and moistness was not simple perspiration.
I had pissed myself.
Warm urine soaked my entire body from my chest to my calves, and the realization only caused me to feel more unstable and distressed. But this was more than piss.
With resigned and tremulous fingers, I reached down and touched my groin. I felt a familiar warm stickiness that could only have been semen. Painfully reminded of my first Wet Dream so many years before, I sighed with lament and gingerly peeled the sheets away from my body. Defeated and destroyed, I jumped out of bed and hurled the soiled sheets at the floor.
I stood and shivered. Realizing my plight, I tore the pajamas from my body and doffed my boxers. As they fell to the floor I shook my head and forced myself to come to a fully waking state.
The rain had stopped and the glow from a half-moon gently wallowed around the vague and mysterious crevasses of the room. Small signs of shimmering coals in the fireplace reminded me that there was a hot fire there, once. But the embers subsided and wallowed in their own inefficacy. I shivered again but the dull, dead air in the room didn’t affect my naked skin either way.
I peered around the room as my eyesight adjusted to the darkness. A damp lump of bedding sat on the mattress, resembling the creature I imagined in my dream. Without thinking, I violently tore them off the bed and threw them to the floor, alongside my wet clothes.
After this savage act, I caught myself. Lowering my head, I sighed deeply. I wondered what demons existed inside this house to make me dream such things. Today, I know that the demons didn’t reside inside the house, but then I was exhausted, and I dropped to my knees.
Naked and prostrate, I began to sob, at first with short stuttered bursts. But they transformed into uncontrollable bawling. I put the palm of my right hand on my forehead. What the Hell is happening to me? I didn’t understand and I couldn’t comprehend.
I knelt for several minutes. But eventually, exhausted and desperate for sleep, I stopped crying. I put my hands on the floor and pushed myself to my feet.
God, I wanted a cigarette. But the thought of going out into those empty hallways in search of a smoke was an unsavory and flitting consideration. I peered through the darkness and looked for a throw or a blanket.
Of course, there wasn’t any furniture. Just boxes. But I was freezing, so I made my way slowly through the darkness. When I stubbed my toe against one of the crates I screamed inwardly. I have no idea how I managed to keep sil
ent. The jolt of shocking pain stabbed my foot and had the benefit of providing clarity. Cursing silently, I began to peel the cardboard boxes open. I rummaged frantically, and in the second box I felt blankets. I hungrily tore them out of the box and jumped on the bed with them.
I pulled the covers over myself and shivered while I tried to fall back to sleep. I avoided the wet spot, which no longer spread warmth frenetically across the mattress. Desperately, I shoved one of the blankets under me and curled into a fetal position.
I lay there for hours, eyes open and tragically alert. No matter how desperate I was for it, sleep wouldn’t come to me that night.
Chapter 32
As golden rays gently broke through bedroom windows, I quickly pulled myself out of bed. Clouds of fine dust particles wandered through the morning light and appeared to take on a life of their own. The still-cold rays of a newborn day wafted across my body and I shivered. Longingly, I eyed my dry clothes and craved to don them. But I was swathed in the scent of dried urine and cum, so I left the bedroom in search of the nearest bathroom.
The shower invigorated me. It was the first one I’d taken in over forty-eight hours. Streams of hot water caressed my skin and I was beginning to feel human again, despite the facts that I had no sleep to rely on and I was still severely jetlagged.
I returned to the room, refreshed and filled with hope, now that night was over and daylight presided. Although they were wrinkled from time spent in my overnight bag, I donned my clothes. They were clean and felt wonderful against my skin.
I brushed my hair – I used a window as a mirror. While doing so, my eyes caught the disturbing sight of Jack’s pajamas and bedding. Lying on the floor and soaked through with urine and necrotic sperm. My mood changed and I thought about the disturbingly realistic dream that held my mind captive only hours before. I didn’t understand what was going on in my head, but Jack seemed to be the focal point, and that left me with more questions than answers. As I finger-styled my hair a sharp jab coursed through my right wrist. A profound reminder of the night’s events.
The House that Jack Built Page 21
