For the first time, real fear hit him. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep having these attacks and still function. What if he had one in public, what if he had one with Her.
There would be no way to explain it, and at some point he knew he wouldn’t be able to hide them anymore. The episodes were growing stronger and becoming more frequent.
Consumed by these thoughts, he was unsure of how long he had been walking until he found himself heading to the wharf. He passed by street vendors selling their wares to tourists, and a Haitian woman behind a makeshift table displaying silver rings called out to him.
“Hey, I have ring for you.”
Bryan turned and saw her holding it out to him.
“This one suit you,” she said, her smile a riddle, and put the ring in his hand. “It protect you from bad spirits.”
Bryan stared dumbfounded at the turquoise ring. It was almost identical to Pushkin’s talisman. The only difference was in the marbling of the stone.
“How much?” he asked, reaching for his wallet.
She wanted twenty. Bryan gave her the bill and slipped the ring on his finger. It felt as if it were made for him. Was it a sign? If so, he couldn’t imagine what the message might be.
As he walked on, he thought about the ethereal woman Alexander had seen moments before his death. This was not the first time she had materialized in the dreams of the people whose lifetimes Bryan had remembered. He wondered who she was and why she kept appearing. She looked like a picture he had once seen of the Egyptian goddess Isis, and this had been the real reason behind his visit to the Great Pyramid exhibit. He kept hoping to discover who she was.
Maybe he would try to paint her again. He had only attempted it once, years ago. With a sigh, he put his hands in his pockets—hands that should not belong to an artist but did—and for the thousandth time, he prayed for understanding.
SIX
Linz didn’t usually attend art openings. A hermit by nature, she preferred curling up with a good book or working on a new puzzle whenever she gave herself downtime from work. And she did attend the symphony. It was her one foray into the arts.
She enjoyed going regularly, at least monthly, and had been doing it for years. In college, she had been teased by acquaintances for blasting Beethoven instead of the Black Eyed Peas. It was just one more thing that made her feel out of step with her generation and added to her shyness. So attending a cocktail party to discuss the latest in art was definitely out of her comfort zone. But Derek and Penelope were her oldest and closest friends, and she had promised to come see their new gallery as soon as she got back to town. That had been three months ago. So she had feigned enthusiasm when she received an invitation to tonight’s event.
The Keller Sloane Gallery was high-end but modest and nestled on Newbury Street in one of Boston’s most famous districts. After four blocks of inching forward in traffic, Linz finally spotted the marquee and pulled her car up to the valet sign. Handing her keys over to the young attendant, she maneuvered through a crowd in cocktail attire outside the gallery with wine and cigarettes in hand. She felt out of place already.
* * *
As Linz approached the entrance, the art critic for the Boston Globe held the door open, his eyes lingering on her as she passed. Linz didn’t notice her effect as she walked in, but her arrival brought a breath of fresh air to the room.
She spotted Derek and Penelope sipping champagne in the corner. The gallery owners were quite the odd couple: Derek Sloane, flamboyantly gay and ramrod thin, loved to talk art and fashion at all times and could charm a rock; Penelope Keller was the business mind behind the dynamic duo and a quiet introvert with an obvious weight problem.
Derek swapped Penelope’s full glass for his empty one and took a generous swig. “The reporter just left. I need a Valium.” He turned to greet someone.
Penelope saw Linz right away and made a beeline to her. “Finally!” She hugged her. “You made it!”
Linz returned the embrace with a tight squeeze. It was good to see her again. Tears welled in her eyes, and she had to fight them back. What was wrong with her today? Ever since she had gone to the exhibit she had become hypersensitive. She saw Penelope give her a searching look and she tried to play off her strange behavior. “Sorry, I’m just happy to see you. I’ve been so busy trying to get everything up and running at the lab.”
Even as she said it, Linz went back to thinking about today. After chess, she had gone to the office and cleared her calendar for Friday. No easy feat, there had been two important meetings that day—one with a colleague from Copenhagen who was flying in to review her study on a specific plasticity gene. That meeting technically couldn’t be pushed back, but she had done it anyway. All for a stranger who she couldn’t stop thinking about.
“Is that our mad scientist?” Derek joined them and kissed both of her cheeks. “About time we had our reunion.”
“I’m sorry it’s taken me forever to get over here. But this”— Linz motioned to the space—“is beautiful. When did all this come about?”
Penelope grabbed two more champagnes from a passing waiter and handed her one. “We were both in New York for the holidays last year and hatched the idea for the gallery over drinks.”
“And voilà,” Derek snapped his fingers. “Keller Sloane Gallery was born.” His eyes scanned the room, looking at potential buyers. “Lord knows I needed to spend my money on something besides clothes.”
Linz shook her head at his attempt at modesty. Derek had a graduate degree in art history from the Sorbonne and not only had an encyclopedic knowledge of the subject but was brilliant at spotting talent. Penelope was just as accomplished. She had an MBA from Dartmouth and had been looking for a challenge outside her family’s successful real estate firm. Their partnership made perfect sense to Linz. But then she also knew them well. They had been inseparable in high school, sharing a special bond that came from four years of being labeled the fat girl, the gay guy, and the geek. Although the trio had gone their separate ways for college, they had managed to stay connected over the years. Now here they all were back in Boston.
Linz looked around the room. “This is quite a turnout.” In fact, she could feel the buzz in the air—this was an event. For the first time, she became curious. “Who’s the artist?”
The crowd had started to swell, and the noise level in the room had amplified. Derek had to lean in and raise his voice. “Bryan Pierce, came out of nowhere and made a huge splash in New York.”
“Huge splash,” Penelope agreed, eyeing an older gentleman in the corner making pencil notes on his card. “Buyers are even in from Europe and we have the exclusive.”
Linz glimpsed a dramatic painting of a Japanese woman in an elaborate kimono. Her black hair fell like a silk curtain and trailed to the ground as she knelt at a koi pond, a lotus flower dangling from her hand. A reflection shimmered in the water as a man stood watching her from the bridge above.
The artist had signed his name in Japanese. Linz nodded to the painting. “He’s Japanese?”
Penelope shook her head. “He signs each work with a different name. He won’t explain why. We’re guessing it’s whoever’s point of view the painting is from.”
“Pretty wacky but original,” Derek chimed in. “Part of his mystique.”
Linz glanced around at all the men. “Which one is he?”
“Our man of the hour isn’t here,” Derek said, signaling a circling caterer to go refill his tray.
When a group of people moved aside, it offered Linz a glimpse of another painting nearby: the Palace of Versailles under construction. The detail in the sprawling image captured the transformation of King Louis XIII’s hunting lodge to Louis XIV’s opulent palace to perfection. Hundreds of workers had been painted in miniature, draining swamps, clearing trees, and expanding the building’s core. On the periphery, the geometric expanse of the gardens was beginning to take shape, with the king himself overseeing its design.
Overcome by the urge to see everything, Linz abandoned her friends. “I’m going to take a look around,” she murmured and wandered toward the first wall.
She lingered at the Versailles painting. The longer she stared at it, the more she was filled with a strange desire to be in seventeenth-century France. The painting was signed Louis Le Vau, and she wondered if he existed. She’d have to look him up when she got home.
Next, she moved to a rendering of Machu Picchu, the Lost City of the Incas, as it would have appeared in the fourteen hundreds. The artist had conjured a breathtaking vista thick with people in motion, in the midst of some kind of religious ceremony. Again, it was as if time had opened a portal so she could peer into the past. She bent down to study the signature. Instead of a name, it was a symbol of an eagle with a tiny feather in its claw.
The next canvas told another story, of a bedouin family on their way to lay offerings at the Treasury in Petra. The dawn light cast golden embers over the city, which was carved within a mountain. A young man stood high on a cliff, playing a wooden pan flute to the girl down below as she walked with her parents and her brothers. The girl was looking back at him, her head tilted upward with a smile. The moment had been captured so vividly; the song the boy played resonated in the paint.
Every painting was a masterpiece—even Linz could tell that. She assumed the artist must have traveled to each location in order to paint with such authenticity. But it wasn’t just their beauty—something about the images pulled at her, making her want to be alone with them in the room.
She turned the corner, where a freestanding wall had been erected to hold a single painting, the largest and most dramatic piece in the gallery. The moment she saw it, her thoughts vanished and she was suddenly standing on a mental precipice that was threatening to give way.
Minutes stretched to their breaking point. Every brushstroke screamed back at her. Somehow this artist had reached into her mind and captured something known only to her.
“So what do you think?” Penelope had joined her.
Linz had trouble speaking as she tried to grasp what she was seeing. The horrific image looked as real as any photograph. It was a painting of a woman tied to a stake while a sea of prisoners and Roman soldiers watched her burn.
“He brought this one in two days ago,” Penelope said. “It’s magnificent.”
Linz was still struggling to find her voice. “P, I know this sounds weird, but did you tell this guy about my dream?”
Penelope frowned. “What dream?”
“The dream. The one I always had. Remember, I was going to that therapist?”
“You mean in high school? That dream?”
Linz turned to her, trying hard not to sound as hysterical as she felt. “It’s the same as this painting. Exactly the same.”
“Why would I tell someone about a recurring dream you had in high school? That’s crazy.”
The dream had haunted her not just in high school but her whole life. More like a nightmare, it had started when she was five and plagued her for years—always the same vision of being burned alive. It was so real that she would wake up screaming.
Her father had taken her to therapist after therapist. They had tried hypnosis, sleep studies, medication, but nothing had helped. Then one day, it just stopped, right around the time she had left home and gone to college. Over time, she had filed it away as a strange childhood phobia and tried to forget it.
But now the nightmare had manifested itself in unbelievable detail on a canvas at her best friends’ art gallery. Her gaze darted over the painting again. She could already count twelve details that no one but her could know. One—the black crow that had come to land on the wood at the woman’s feet, wings spread as if to shield her from the flames. Two—a child and a young woman watching from the tower; they had shared a cell with the woman at the stake and were to die the next day. Three—the priest reaching out to stop the flames as guards held him back, swords at his neck. He had been the woman’s friend and teacher. Linz even remembered his name. Her eyes went to the signature on the canvas and she gasped. Origenes Adamantius—the Roman priest’s name. There was no way he could know it.
Unable to comprehend the coincidences in play, she stepped back from the painting. “I need to talk to this artist.”
SEVEN
Fingering the new turquoise ring on his hand, Bryan walked on automatic pilot as his mind tried to force his new memories to settle. When he finally did look up, he saw he had headed down Atlantic to a restaurant near the wharf, Doc’s Waterfront Bar & Grill.
Bryan hesitated at the door, wondering if he felt up to seeing anyone tonight. Just as he was about to turn around and go home, the door opened for him.
“Well look who Picasso dragged in.” Lou Lou, the house manager, winked. “Your dad’s in the back counting lobster.”
“I’ll wait at the bar.” Bryan went and sat at the far end, away from the tourists enjoying cocktails. He glanced at his watch, surprised by the time. His stomach grumbled.
Patty, his father’s longtime bartender, came over. “Hey Bry, your dad said you were back in town. What’ll it be?”
Bryan grimaced. Most of the employees at his father’s restaurant had worked there for years and known him when he was growing up. His father, Doc, inspired people to stick around. Doc was a big bear of a man with the kindest heart and was always the first to be anyone’s friend. He was also a wonderful father, but Bryan could count on one hand the number of times he had seen him since coming back, even though he knew how much weight his father had placed on his homecoming.
It wasn’t that Bryan didn’t want to see his dad. The problem was that when he stared into someone’s eyes for too long, he could recognize them as other people from his dreams. Needless to say, this complicated matters when he was around those closest to him. He’d always known he couldn’t talk about such things or someone would lock him up for sure. Or maybe he did need help, he wondered for the thousandth time. He was no longer sure if he could keep struggling alone.
“Bry? You okay?” Patty was still waiting for an answer.
“Sorry. Stoli, straight up.” It seemed only fitting after today.
Patty poured him a shot and left the bottle on the bar with a wink.
Bryan took the shot and poured another, already regretting his decision to come here. Then he saw his father walk toward him, beaming.
Doc enveloped him in a hug. Bryan closed his eyes and squeezed back.
His dad pulled away and slapped him on the shoulder. “Covered in paint, surprise, surprise. I knew you were working. Told your mom that’s why you missed tonight. When we left, there was quite a crowd coming in.”
Bryan shrugged, unable to explain the real reason he hadn’t showed—that he was too busy reliving Alexander Pushkin’s life. He grimaced and poured another shot. “Want to hang out and drink with your son?”
“Twist my arm,” Doc said, but then tried to sound serious. “Just call your mother tomorrow. She was disappointed we missed celebrating your birthday last week … she even came to the gallery with a cake in the car.”
Bryan gave a pained sigh. He was in for it. “I’ve had a lot on my mind,” he said, knowing he sounded defensive.
“Hey now, don’t shoot the messenger.” Doc brought over a basket of peanuts. Bryan loved the fact that his father knew him well enough not to ask what had been on his mind. “Be right back,” Doc said. “Let’s round you up some real food.” And he was off to the kitchen before Bryan could protest.
Bryan downed another shot, welcoming the burn of the vodka. His cell phone vibrated and he looked at the number. Apparently the same person had called earlier—twice. He also had a voice mail. On a whim, he picked up. “Hello?”
“Hello? I’m trying to reach Bryan Pierce.”
Bryan stilled at the sound of the woman’s voice, felt it reaching for him through the line.
“My name is Linz. I’m a friend of Penelope and Derek’s, from the gallery. I ma
de it to your show tonight.”
He knew this voice. It was the woman from the park. Bryan grabbed on to the counter, unable to believe this was happening.
“Hello? Are you there?” she asked.
“Yes. Go on,” he whispered.
“There’s a painting I’d like to ask you about. Maybe we could meet?”
“Yes.” He wanted her to never stop talking.
“You signed a painting Origenes Adamantius. Isn’t that the priest who watched the woman burn?”
Tension began to coil in his body. “You know that?”
She didn’t say anything.
“How do you know that was his name?” Bryan waited, holding his breath.
“I was going to ask you the same thing. Like I said, we need to meet.”
“When?” He was ready to hang up and go now. Instead, she suggested her place in the morning. He agreed and wrote down the address, his hand shaking. This was why the painting had to be at the opening—he had brought it to the gallery for her.
He hung up and stared at the phone in disbelief. He now had her name, address, and phone number, and he was going to meet her tomorrow. He wouldn’t have to wait until next Friday for their paths to cross again. They were already entwined.
He looked at his turquoise ring and, on impulse, kissed it for luck.
EIGHT
Bach’s Air on the G String blared from the speakers. Linz sat at her dining room table, nursing a third cup of coffee and placing puzzle pieces together. Last night had been her worst sleep in ages. From the moment she had recognized the painting, she had been wired. Then an even stronger anxiety had gripped her after she had spoken with the artist. What had compelled her to suggest her place? A coffeehouse would have been better.
Already nervous, she looked around her immaculate living room but could find nothing to clean. She forced her attention back to the five-thousand-piece puzzle she had begun earlier this morning, now already half-finished, and tried to calm her nerves. The whole thing was probably just a strange coincidence, and no doubt this meeting today was entirely unnecessary. Maybe she should cancel.
The Memory Painter: A Novel Page 3
