Bryan. She needed to hear his voice. She called him without giving her impulse a second thought.
The phone rang. A man with a European accent answered, “Hallo?”
Linz hesitated. “Hello, yes, is Bryan there?”
“Wie noemt alstublieft?”
The voice sounded similar to Bryan’s yet different. She must have misdialed. But instead of hanging up she asked, “Bryan, is that you?”
“Ik ben Christiaan. Goede dag.”
* * *
Bryan hung up the phone and got back to work. His mind had shut down after he’d read the journal, and when he saw Christiaan’s clock, he had gotten out his old toolbox and begun to take it apart.
He had promised his mother he would fix it, and the task of disassembling the gears had calmed him. He quickly pinpointed the problem: the escapement mechanism had rusted and the screws were bad. With great care, he had cleaned every piece, losing himself in the work until he was no longer spinning out of control and the life in ancient Japan had receded into the back of his mind.
The intrusive ticking of the restored clock brought him back to reality. Bryan blinked and looked around at Michael and Diana’s boxes. The past had weighed on Bryan all his life, and now it was as if the answers were arriving on a baggage carousel that was moving too fast. He lay back on the floor and stared at the ceiling.
The phone rang. He reached for it. “Hello?”
“Bryan? Hi, it’s Linz.”
His body relaxed at the sound of her voice. She had no idea of her effect on him. His tone became intimate. “Hey, I was hoping you’d call.”
She hesitated. “I actually did before, but some foreign guy answered. He sounded German or something. I couldn’t tell.”
Bryan sat up in surprise. He didn’t remember her calling. He must have answered the phone in Dutch while he was lost in Christiaan’s thoughts.
“I thought I got the number right, and it sounded like your voice…”
Bryan waited, hoping she would let it drop so that he wouldn’t have to explain. Things were strange enough between them as it was.
“I was calling to thank you for the painting,” she continued. Her voice sounded thick with emotion.
He couldn’t believe he had only left it on her doorstep this morning. It seemed like weeks ago—so much had happened since. “I wanted you to have it.”
“I’d like to pay for it,” she said tentatively.
“No. It’s a gift.”
“I still want to.”
“It’s a gift. I insist.”
Linz was silent for a moment. “Thank you.”
Neither said a word for a minute, just listened to the sound of each other breathing. Bryan wanted to hang up the phone and drive over there. He needed to see her soon.
Linz started talking again. She sounded nervous. “So I’ve been reading some more of those library books. I still can’t figure out our dream. I mean, why ancient Rome? Why not some other time?”
Bryan looked around at all his paintings. She had no idea. She was still stuck on that one life. Then it occurred to him, maybe if she saw everything in his studio she would remember more. “Come over tomorrow night?” he offered. “I’ll make dinner.”
He could detect a hint of a smile in her voice when she asked, “What time?”
SEVENTEEN
“You slept with him?” Derek yelped.
“I didn’t sleep with him. I said I attacked him in my sand garden.” Linz was beginning to question her impulse to drop by the gallery for a little girl talk. Even though they had sequestered themselves in the back room, she hoped no one else could hear their conversation.
Penelope gave her a look and went for the leftover chardonnay in the fridge.
Linz tried to defend herself. “It just happened. There’s this bizarre, intense chemistry between us.” Intense was putting it mildly. She blushed at the thought of their last meeting.
Penelope handed her a glass. “The guy is a freak of nature, an artistic genius. I’ll grant you he’s sexy, but my God, can he even talk?”
“Of course he can talk!” Linz knew she sounded defensive. So what if he was a little eccentric. So was she.
Derek rolled his eyes. “Fine, he talks to you. We get it. So how was the hanky-spanky?”
Linz shook her head and laughed. “Derek, come on.”
“What? Let us ride the roller coaster with you. I haven’t had sex in a year and Penel’s about to become a lesbian.”
Penelope gave him a withering look and sat next to Linz. “Okay, let’s do a reality check. First, he’s not your type. Trust me.”
Derek agreed. “Yeah, wasn’t your last boyfriend some bald, fat accountant named Todd?”
Penelope reminded him, “You’re forgetting about Greg.”
Derek snorted, “Honey, I think we’ve all forgotten about Greg.”
Linz had to laugh at that. “Todd wasn’t fat. And he was a financial consultant.”
“And you took his DNA sample before you had sex with him. What’s up with that?” Derek snickered.
Linz turned to Penelope. “You told him?”
Penelope looked sheepish. “Oops.”
“Look, I know you guys are right,” Linz admitted. They weren’t saying anything she hadn’t already told herself. “He’s just so in my head. I can’t stop thinking about him.”
Derek gave a dramatic sigh. “Well at least you have this dream connection going. My relationships are so god damn shallow.”
Linz grimaced. She couldn’t believe she was going to ask this again. “Do either of you believe in reincarnation?”
Penelope held up her hand. “If you say soulmates I’m going to puke.”
“Here, here.” Derek clinked his glass in solidarity with Penelope. “Honey, past lives are an excuse for people who are unhappy with their own. Can we get back to the sandbox?”
“No. What do you know about him though? His background.”
Derek said, “Darling, we’re not a credit check.”
“Linz.” Penelope put her hand on Linz’s like a concerned parent.
“Relax, it’s just dinner,” she assured them. “It’s not like we’re getting married.”
* * *
Michael and Diana’s wedding portrait sat on a storage box, watching Linz and Bryan eat.
Linz motioned to the boxes. “Are you moving in or out?”
“Neither, I was cleaning out an old storage room.” Bryan left it at that.
Linz examined the space. The enormous loft was divided into two areas. She assumed his studio sat on the other side of the Japanese silk screens. The sofa and dining table were the only indications that someone lived there.
She glanced again at the wedding portrait. Something about it made her uneasy. “Are they your parents?”
“No. Does the word ‘Renovo’ mean anything to you?” Bryan asked.
“Sounds like an awful name for an Italian car. Why?”
“Do you dream when you’re awake?”
Linz put down her fork. Between Bryan’s searing gaze and the stares of the couple in the wedding portrait, she was losing her appetite. “You know, we have the weirdest conversations. I feel like everything’s happening backward. We hardly know each other.”
Bryan searched her eyes. “We know each other.”
Linz looked away. “I mean conventionally. I don’t even know where you’re from. If you have any brothers or sisters, those things.”
“Words.”
Linz swirled her wine, watching it spin. “I like words. It’s called communicating.”
“Okay. I was born in Boston. No brothers or sisters.”
Linz laughed. “That’s it? What about your parents? School? Jobs?”
“Parents both live in Boston. Dad’s a chef. Mom’s a shrink. Never went to college. Barely graduated high school.”
She found herself defending him. “You’re quite talented. Were you always into art growing up?”
“Hardly. I coul
dn’t even hold a paintbrush.”
She was surprised to hear that. “When did you start studying?”
“I’ve never studied.”
It took Linz a second to process what he was saying. “You’re telling me you’ve never taken an art class?”
Bryan looked at her. She could tell he was making an important decision. “When I was thirteen,” he said, “I had a dream I was a painter.” He took a deep breath and added, “After that I could paint.”
She waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. “So you could paint, just like that.” She snapped her fingers.
“Like you can speak Greek, just like that.” He snapped his fingers back.
Neither spoke until Bryan broke the silence. “You wanted to know.”
“Does anyone else know about this?”
He shook his head. “No. Just you.”
Linz could feel herself getting emotional and had no idea why. “What was the dream?”
“Not what, who.”
He got up and disappeared behind the screens, and returned a moment later with a portrait of an old man with a turban on his head. “Meet Jan Van Eyck. He was the painter, not me.”
Linz studied the painting and noted the signature at the bottom: Johes De Eyck Me Fecit Ano MCCCC.33.21 Octobris. On the top of the frame he had painted in Greek-looking letters ALC IXH XAN. The inscription almost looked carved.
“What does it say?”
Bryan translated, “Jan Van Eyck made me on October 21, 1433.”
“And what does this mean?” she asked, pointing to the three words at the top.
“‘As I Can.’” Bryan smiled as if remembering something private. “He signed a lot of paintings with that motto.”
“As I can,” Linz murmured, looking at the portrait. There was something mysterious about Jan’s gaze.
“It’s the first painting I ever did. I was upstairs in my room and I felt an episode coming on. When I woke up, this painting was done, staring back at me.”
“You painted that while you were dreaming?”
“I remembered Jan painting it. I must have re-created it as I was reliving the memory.”
“And you just happened to have oil paints lying around?” Linz couldn’t keep the disbelief from her voice.
Bryan laughed. “My mother had bought me a set of paints and canvas boards earlier that week, after she had read about the power of art therapy. She thought it would help.” Bryan grew quiet. “For a while, I convinced myself that on some kind of subconscious or maternal level, she had known I would need them.” He gave a rueful shake of his head.
“So you’ve been able to paint ever since,” Linz said, still not quite able to wrap her mind around what he was saying.
“Ever since.” Bryan propped the painting against the wall and sat back down. “You’re the first person to see how it all began.” He swirled his own glass of wine around and murmured, “Your turn.”
Linz watched his hands, noting all the calluses and faint shadows of paint stains. She couldn’t imagine waking up one day and being able to paint like a master. Her brain tried to compute how that was possible—something she had found herself doing more than once since she had met him.
Still thinking about his confession, she launched into her own history and realized Bryan was right—all this was unnecessary. They were well beyond small talk, but she continued to explain herself to him anyway. “I’m from Boston too. You already know about my mother. She and my brother died in a car accident.” Before he could say anything, she rushed on. “I don’t remember them. I grew up with just my dad. Got into science. Lots and lots of never-ending school, first Harvard and then Stanford. I moved back here after finishing my PhD.”
“What made you decide to become a neurogeneticist?” he asked.
No one had ever asked her that question, but the answer came easily. “Because genes are the most beautiful puzzle I’ve ever encountered. And I solve puzzles.”
She glanced up and they both grew quiet. Bryan reached out and took her hand, whispering, “What do you see when you look in my eyes?”
The question made her chest constrict. “That’s a strange question,” she said.
Bryan pulled his hand away and stood up to clear the table.
Linz saw the closed look on his face and tried to repair the moment. “That was delicious.” In fact it was the most delectable meal she had eaten in a long time. He had served Greek food. She had tried not to read too much into his choice of cuisine and stuffed herself with dolmas, hummus, spanakopita, and decadent pistachio pasta. She assumed he had ordered it from some swank restaurant, but the last thing she wanted to do now was ask in case he might bring out a painting of some famous Greek chef. “Can I help?” she offered.
“That’s okay. I got it.” His voice held a hint of frustration.
She watched him stack their plates, unsure if this was a signal that the evening should come to an end. Although now that she had seen the Van Eyck, she was eager to see the rest of his work, but she felt nervous about asking. “Do you mind … if I take a peek at your studio?”
He hesitated only a fraction of a second. “No, I’d like you to,” he said, before disappearing into the kitchen with the plates.
Left alone, Linz got up and approached the Japanese silk screens, thinking again about how exquisite they were. But the thought fled her mind when she stepped around the partition. Over a hundred paintings on the walls greeted her, ranging in size from modest portraits to grand canvases.
She sensed a great energy in the room, bombarding her psyche—every image stirred her to life. This silent audience broke her heart, made her want to weep, to laugh, to even scream. She loved every single painting—was moved by their beauty, their tragedy.
She was unaware of her feet moving; she needed to look at them all. But there were too many to take in. She stopped at a painting that was propped against the wall in the corner, and crouched to get a closer look.
Bryan came in and hovered behind her. Without turning around, she asked, “Who is she? This is the woman from the wedding photo.”
“Her name was Diana Backer.”
Linz glanced up at him and saw the question in his eyes.
“Do you recognize her?” he asked.
“No. Should I?”
“She was a friend of my father’s who died before I was born. I found her picture last night.”
Linz tried to make sense of what he was saying. “You saw her picture after you had already done the painting? So when did you do this?”
“The night we met. You inspired it.”
His meaning was clear. She stood up. “Oh, no. Don’t bring another dead person into the equation.”
“It’s not an equation. It’s a feeling.”
Linz was at a loss. She pretended to glance at her watch. “You know, it’s getting late. I should go. Thanks for a lovely dinner.” She knew she sounded a bit formal, but she couldn’t help it. She didn’t know how to deal with this.
“Just hear me out for a second. Look at Diana’s painting again. Please.”
“No, I should go.” Linz made it to the door but then turned around. Bryan looked completely shattered. So she ignored every rational thought running through her head and put down her purse and stayed.
* * *
They sat quietly on the floor in front of Diana’s portrait. Linz checked her watch again. The minutes felt like hours. “I don’t know, Bryan. I’m tired.” And this is crazy.
“Don’t give up. What do you feel?”
“What do you want me to feel? The same way I felt about the other painting? Well I don’t.”
“Why can’t you see it?” Bryan was getting frustrated. “You’re not trying hard enough.”
“How can I? I’ve never dreamed about this woman,” she stressed.
“Well I have, more than once. I…” He trailed off. Suddenly the zipper on his sweatshirt seemed to fascinate him.
“You what?” she prompted, not sure
she wanted to know.
“I was her husband. We were married.”
Linz couldn’t help the nervous laughter bubbling up inside. That sounded like a proposal. “Okay, I think we should stop there. Thanks again for dinner.” She gathered her things and started to head toward the door, intent on leaving this time.
He followed her. “Don’t run away. You feel something. I can see it.”
Linz didn’t know what she felt anymore. She hadn’t been prepared for this new turn of events. “Bryan, I really have to go.” She opened the door and turned to look at him.
Bryan tucked away a stray hair dangling by her cheek, as if he’d been doing it for years. “All right, but that doesn’t mean I won’t think about you.”
He was making this very difficult. “Just please don’t bring any more paintings into this relationship,” she pleaded, kissing him softly. His lips fit hers perfectly. “Good night,” she whispered.
“Tomorrow’s Friday. Are we still going to play?” he asked.
“So you can gloat?” she teased.
Bryan leaned against the door and watched her head to the elevator. “You know we’re going to play tomorrow.”
She couldn’t help but laugh at that and waved without turning back.
* * *
The first thing Linz did when she got home was get online and look up Jan Van Eyck. A Flemish painter who lived in the fourteen hundreds, he had obtained fame in his lifetime as one of the best artists of the century. Historians called him the Father of Oil Painting.
She scrolled through his works and stopped at a painting titled Portrait of a Man in a Turban with a notation in italics that said, “possibly a self-portrait.” She was shocked. Bryan had shown her the exact same painting tonight. They were identical, right down to the subject’s enigmatic gaze.
The Memory Painter: A Novel Page 10
