She coughed. He looked up from the manuscript and fixed her with the same peculiar gaze as before. She shifted her limbs, testing them. He chewed on his beard with his upper teeth. The sparks returned to her periphery and fizzled away.
“Well, well, well.” He smiled. “Up and at ’em, I see.”
She looked away.
“Can I get you some water?”
She shook her head. He studied her for a moment longer and then returned his attention to the manuscript. She examined the room. Before, in the midst of her delirium, her only impressions had been those of danger and anarchy. Now only the anarchy remained. Rows of salt-stiff books, towers of warped glass jars, ragged undershorts and photographic negatives dangling side by side from a length of fishing line. A typewriter on a folding table, its keyboard a good deal larger than normal and outfitted with many foreign-looking keys. A collection of deer antlers in a hammered copper basin. Dozens of postcard-sized reproductions of famous works of art crookedly pinned to the wood-paneled walls.
“Where am I?”
He smiled again and tapped the papers against his knee. Then he rose from the beer crate and wedged the manuscript onto a crowded bookshelf across from the bed.
“My home,” he answered genially, returning to his seat. “My lab.”
“Lab?”
“Biological. I study things from the sea.”
She leaned back, narrowed her eyes, and inspected the room again. The biologist was not a designation she had questioned when her father had first introduced them. Now, however, she was skeptical. There was nothing here that indicated the contemplation of science, much less its practice.
“I see,” she replied.
“Skeptical, eh? Well, I don’t blame you. Around here, I’m afraid I’m best known for embalming cats.” A pause. “And then there are the tours of the tide pools, but I tend to reserve those for only the most oceanically inclined of the hotel’s guests.”
She slumped against the bed and pressed the heels of her hands against her temples.
“What’s wrong? Should I get the bucket?”
“I’m not inclined toward the tide pools. Not one bit.”
“That’s funny. Your father said you were obsessed.”
“He was trying to get rid of me.”
“Now why would he want to do that?”
She shook her head, her hands still knitted around her skull as if holding her brains in place.
“I really think you should have some water.”
“Fine.”
“How about something to eat? Something that’s not a steak?”
“Just the water.”
His smile was so big that he almost appeared to be in pain. When he stood, she anticipated the relief of being left alone. But he remained in the room, stopping in the doorway and craning his neck just slightly beyond it.
“Arthur? Some water, if you please.”
In response, the drumming of fast footsteps, the squeak of a loosening tap, water splashing into a sink and continuing to splash for longer than it should have taken to fill a drinking glass. The biologist returned to her side.
“Sorry about the wait. It always takes a minute or two for it to run clear.”
Another smile, another alarming inflation of his face. She looked away again, her eyes landing on the nearest wall. Out of all the oddities this room contained, the little postcard galleries were perhaps the oddest. They were arranged with no deference to style or period and were, for the most part, in exceptionally bad taste: three too many Renoirs, the most predictable Manet in existence, something that looked like a lesser Picasso but was probably a Braque. There was also, however, a work she admired: Caravaggio’s rendering of Bacchus, his ruddy face and sunburned hands those of a cheerful outdoorsman, a torpor in his heavy-lidded stare that seemed both inept and threatening all at once.
“The god of wine,” the biologist explained.
“I know.” She looked down and straightened her blanket.
“Caravaggio.”
“I know.”
“A great artist, but an unpleasant man. Nervous, temperamental, violent. Kept bad company.”
“I know.”
“Art, then. Do you practice? Or do you just preach?”
She made fists, the blanket bunching between her fingers. “Neither.”
“Don’t lie.”
“How dare—”
“Beg pardon.” A voice from the doorway.
The biologist swiveled around and beckoned the interloper forward. She recognized this young man, but just barely: his hive of red hair, his stout limbs and blocky posture. He had been there postfall, amid the confusion and fear, but she couldn’t remember what role he had played or if he had been as nervous as he was right now. His hands trembled as he approached the bed and offered her the cup. She took it, drank, and passed it back without comment.
“Thank you, Arthur,” the biologist said. “She’s quite grateful.”
“Is there anything else?” Arthur murmured.
“You’re sure you don’t want that beer?” the biologist asked her.
“I’m sure.”
“How about some oil? From a basking shark liver?”
“From a what?”
“Arthur. The oil, please.”
“No, I—,” she insisted.
“Arthur, there’s a fresh box down in the garage.”
“There’s a fresher one at the market. I delivered it yesterday. I’ll go back and—”
“I said no!” she barked.
The two men froze, eyes wide. The biologist cocked his head in the direction of the door. Arthur scurried out of it. Margot clenched her calf muscles until they cramped.
“Sounds strange, doesn’t it?” The biologist’s words were coming much slower now, and with a new undertone of caution. “But it’s known in the East for its general tonic properties, especially for allergies and arthritis. It’s chock-full of something akin to cortin, a substance used to keep cats alive after they’ve been adrenalectomized. Also something of an aphrodisiac, if John’s Hollywood friends are to be believed.”
“Keep treating your son like that and he’ll revolt.”
When he threw back his head and laughed, a strip of white skin flashed beneath the border of his beard.
“Oh, is that what’s got you so worked up? Arthur’s not my son, I’m afraid, not at all. He’s an orphan of the classic type, dust bowl and whatnot, plucked straight from the pages of John’s book. Came to town to make a living in the canneries but seems to spend most of his time here in the lab. Fixing the Buick, catching the cats, being generally underfoot.”
She considered the Caravaggio again. Its initial appeal had faded a bit, its cheeks and lips now bordering on the feminine. Escape was pointless. Pointless then, pointless now.
“Funny,” he said. “I think I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Margot.”
“You’re French.”
“And Swedish.”
“Ah, yes. Form and function, all in one.”
Her legs went stiff again, causing the blanket above them to shiver.
“Why don’t you explain it, then?” he continued. “Tell me how wrong I am.”
“I’m in business with my father. Or at least I used to be.”
“They say he’s got the sardine game in his sights. I hope he isn’t too upset when he finds out most of them are already in cans.”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“A rift between you, then. Was it ugly?”
Too much talking, too many questions. He was her captor, she wanted to remind him, not her confidant.
“And does he see the value in your art?” he continued, undeterred. “Beyond the commercial, that is?”
“Excuse me?”
“The sketchbook. In the satchel. It fell out when you took your tumble, but I was too much of a gentleman to open it without asking permission first.”
“I don’t think—”
“
If you’re too shy, I understand completely.” He gestured at his walls. “As you can see, I have some dreadfully high standards.”
She retrieved the satchel from the bedside table, withdrew the sketchbook, and tossed it to him.
“Mine are higher.”
“That’s more like it!” he crowed.
And when he opened the book, she was surprised at her nervousness. He’s no one, she told herself. He likes Renoir. But her pulse disagreed, her heart hammering as he thumbed the pages with the same intense, almost hyperactive concentration he had lavished on the typewritten manuscript, lingering on each image for several seconds longer than seemed necessary. Many of the earliest sketches didn’t warrant the scrutiny: a fly-haloed bowl of pancit, the head and torso of an emaciated water buffalo, the bloodied corpse of a fighting cock. Then there were a handful of which she was actually proud: a shiny-skinned lechón spinning on its milk-doused spit, trash fires burning in the alleyways, their well-contained heaps dotting the city with distant flares of orange heat. Her best work, however, took the form of two recent portraits, both of which had been completed on her last day in the Philippines. There was her father standing alone within the loamy wasteland of what should have been his tobacco fields. Then, on the very next page, there was one of Luzon’s millions of rural poor, a girl no older than herself, a newborn twin baby at each nipple, breasts swollen to the point of hard, shiny pain, the look on the young mother’s face that of suffering and startled ecstasy.
She glanced up from the sketchbook. He was frowning at the image, just as he had frowned at her in the seconds before her accident.
“I’m sorry if it’s beneath your expectations,” she muttered.
“Quite the contrary. It vastly exceeds them.”
She didn’t know what to say.
“After Sargent?” he asked.
“That was the idea. Yes.”
“Can I have it?”
“What do you mean?”
“For my collection.”
She looked at the wall. “I don’t think there’s room.”
“Then we’ll send one packing. Your choice.”
“One of the Renoirs.”
“Which one?”
She pointed.
“I thought you’d say that.”
Smiling, he tore the page carefully from her sketchbook and stood. He unpinned the Renoir from the wall, shoved it in his pocket, and secured the nursing mother in its place, after which he didn’t return to the crate. Instead, he sat alongside her on the bed, his hands behind his head, his legs just inches from hers. He was admiring the sketch as proudly as if he had drawn it himself.
“The Philippines?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Hmmm. A fellow from the bureau of fisheries was here a few months ago, direct from Manila. The way he talked about it made me want to do something irresponsible. Close up the lab. Scare up the steamship fare. Go over there for a while to collect.”
She nodded, lips between her teeth.
“Did you ever see one of those horse fights?” he asked, eyes sparkling. “Rumor has it they’re downright ghastly.”
“No.” She thought he would accuse her of lying again, but he didn’t.
“Well, I’m sure you—”
“Doc! Doc!” Arthur’s voice, coming from somewhere beneath them.
“Oh, for God’s sake …”
“Doc!”
“Coming!”
He swung himself off the bed, rope mattress whining. At the doorway, he stopped and looked over his shoulder.
“How much do you want to bet there’s nothing actually the matter?”
She began to speak.
“No, no!” he interrupted. “You’ll suggest something I won’t be able to afford.”
When he had gone, she watched the doorway and listened. This time, however, there were no hints—no footsteps, no running water—so she picked up the sketchbook, counted the remaining blank pages, and slapped it shut. Nine more drawings and then it would be over, at least temporarily, the book eased into a fire, rising into smoke, settling down into ash. She had done it twice now, and each time it had been an absolution born of pure, puzzling impulse: the blistering cardboard, the papers thin and orange. Now, however, she was reconsidering. His interest had been sudden and more than a little suspicious, but affirming nonetheless, which made her wonder. Had there been something in those first few books worth keeping?
She listened again. He was not someone who interested her, especially in an aesthetic sense. For some reason, though, a more definitive assessment now seemed long overdue, so she retrieved her pencil and began to draw. She worked for thirty minutes, maybe forty, and when she was done, she held the sketchbook out at arm’s length, almost entirely certain of what she’d find. The image, however, shocked her: features as precise as they were handsome, a cool, cunning glint in the eyes, the subtle execution of which seemed far beyond what she had always assumed were the limitations of her talent.
A shadow across the page. She looked up. He was standing there, watching her. She closed the sketchbook and pushed it beneath the blanket.
“A bit too late for modesty, don’t you think? I’ve already seen everything you’ve got.”
Since he’d left the room, something about him had changed. His attention now seemed reluctant and divided, his tone blunt and low and almost suggestive. A large glass jug was in his hand, its label reading “FORMALDEHYDE” in unambiguous script. His face was nowhere near as open and flushed as before. Instead, a gloom had settled behind his eyes, which made his hair appear even darker, his skin paler, his body even more agile and kinetic. What’s more, music had begun to play without her having realized it: a string quartet from the phonograph in the other room, its melody unrushed and familiar.
She looked out the window. Midnight. Or later.
“Shame is almost as useless as pride,” he warned.
“I’m not ashamed.”
“Then why did you hide your drawing?”
“Because you interrupted me. Before I could finish.”
“Unfinished work makes you anxious?”
“Very.”
“Toil away, then.”
“Don’t move.”
“Not a muscle.”
But it didn’t matter if he moved or not, because she didn’t even have to look at him. Everything she wanted to add to or subtract from the sketch was already outlined in her head, so she drew for a few minutes longer while he stood beside the bed, swaying and humming atonally to the music.
“I thought I told you to hold still,” she said.
“You didn’t tell me to be quiet, though.”
“Be quiet.”
“Fine. I’ll try. But I’m afraid it’s like the Patiria miniata. Cut off one arm at just the right angle to the central disk and two arms grow back in its place.”
He took a long drink from the jug of formaldehyde. She looked down at her sketch. Yet again, the sight of it was alarming, transcendent. Her father always claimed that certain industries were built for his manipulations, even if they seemed nonmanipulable on the surface, and now, for the first time, she fully understood what he meant.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Are you all right?”
“I changed my mind about the beer.”
“Oh. It’s too late, I’m afraid. The last bottle was dispensed with hours ago. But I can certainly offer you some of this.”
He brandished the formaldehyde. She took it from him and put it to her lips. The liquid hissed down her throat like a snake.
“I could have sworn you had better sense.” He laughed. “But then again, it’s always the ones who look so well-adjusted …”
“What’s in there?” she sputtered, wiping her eyes.
“Very expensive tequila. I keep it in the formaldehyde jug to fool the others.”
The song ended, its final chord just a step shy of resolution. A brief pause. And then another song began, its tempo and motifs almost indistingu
ishable from the first. When he reclaimed his seat beside her on the bed, it was without permission.
“Much better,” he said, indicating the sketchbook on her lap. “I look a bit less like General Sherman.”
“You should be flattered. Sherman was ruthless.”
“Come work for me.” His voice was clear and even, totally absent of its earlier, sullen depth. “I need some drawings for my catalog.”
She looked out the window at the deepening night.
“That’s not the kind of work I do,” she replied.
“Of course it is!”
“No, it’s not. To call myself an artist would be like you calling yourself a …”
“A what?”
She felt a redness rising. She put her hands over her face.
“Quick! Have another drink!”
Her second taste was less like a snake and more like a trail of determined ants. This time, she didn’t cough. Instead, she remained motionless as the tequila reached her belly, as the warmth erupted and then fizzled, a sorrow claiming her that had nothing to do with tears.
“I know that look,” he said. “You’re either homesick or in love.”
“Wrong on both counts.”
“Then what’s this?”
When he picked up the sketchbook she was appalled, at first, to think he was referring to his own portrait. But then he flipped back to one of the earliest sketches: her and her father’s former residence, all balustrades and terra-cotta, the Spaniards and their elaborate leavings.
“I had to practice on something,” she grumbled. “Didn’t matter what.”
“What happened here? Not so very long ago, but so very far away?”
Monterey Bay Page 2
