And now she was gripping her bench and looking down at the rugged Pacific coastline as the miniature-like train sped around a bend in the cliff. Through the salty foam dripping down the windowpane, she imagined Ada reaching out her bare arms toward her, calling out her name. An ocean wave crashed over her head and dragged her under.
How horrible those last seconds must have been. If only I’d been there, I would’ve stopped you. Why, Ada, why?
She pulled down the green window shade to shut out the vision, but it only conjured up another image: Ada lying facedown on a beach. Seagulls pecking at her flowing red hair spread out like angel wings. The carmine embroidered roses of her black flamenco shawl buried in the wet sand.
Ada had visited her in Paris the previous summer and bought the flamenco shawl when they went shopping on the Champs-Élysée. Sarah had admired her purchase and Ada, always generous, at least with her gift-giving, bought her an identical shawl. Sarah often wore it and even now it was folded in her valise.
The Del Monte leaned into a sharp curve and the Examiner slipped off her lap onto the floor. A patch of sunlight fell on the black-and-white copy of Ada’s painting of Carmel Point, bereft of its silvery pink sky and glimmering jade sea.
“Tragic waste of talent,” said the gravelly voice of the stranger seated across from her.
“Yes,” she mumbled, picking up the newspaper and folding it into her satchel.
She turned back to the window, snapped up the shade, and looked at the passing view, only to be confronted by his reflection in the glass, his dark eyes pinned on her from behind. His pearly white teeth below a pencil-thin moustache.
He was like one of those older Parisian men in the Jardin du Luxembourg who would block her path and try to start a conversation. As if she’d be interested in high-fashioned dandies. Her French girlfriends called them les dragueurs and warned her to ignore them. Easily done on a path in a garden, but it was difficult with one sitting across from you in a cramped train compartment, his legs grazing yours.
“I see you’re traveling with an artist’s sketch box,” he said, ignoring her obvious, though silent, request to be left alone. “Have you come here to study art?”
She had no wish to tell him she was here to bury her sister, and she kept her eyes on the pastoral scene of grazing cows now that the train had left the coastline.
“I have a gallery in Carmel-by-the-Sea and I’m always interested in helping young women painters like yourself. Why don’t you come visit me and bring some samples of your work?”
Was it only a year ago that her heart leapt at such offers? She would spend days choosing which paintings to show the prospective art dealer, hoping he (it was always he) would admire her work and advance her the money she needed to pay the rent, restock art supplies, and buy something fashionable to wear at her first exhibit in his gallery. After a few off-handed comments about her work, he’d invite her to dinner. When she was full of wine, caviar, and false promises, the seduction came. She was certain this pin-striped dealer’s offer was no different.
But she was different. She now had a reputable dealer in Paris who had offered her a one-woman exhibition and with her advance she’d bought the Chanel suit she was now wearing.
The yearning for a cigarette and a need to be away from this dragueur brought her to her feet. She excused herself with a side glance, stepped over his extended legs, and closed the door behind her.
Two cars down, she entered the parlor and found one empty seat facing the window. She searched in her satchel for a packet of Gauloises and ordered a black coffee.
Suicide, Ada? For god’s sake, why?
Sarah’s thoughts turned to when she’d last seen Ada six months ago in Manhattan. She and several other selected art students from Académie Julian had come to New York for a collaborative exhibition of their paintings at the Whitney Studio Club, a significant modern art gallery.
Ada had been waiting at the gangplank when her ship docked at Chelsea Piers and had immediately swept her away to Keens Chophouse for dinner. “Please, Sarah, promise me,” Ada had pleaded until Sarah said yes, not knowing it would become her sister’s dying wish.
Keens on East 36th Street was famous for its members’ long, thin, clay pipes that hung from rafters over the regal, walnut-paneled dining room. These exclusive members were financiers, mobsters, and celebrities, and their pipes were identified by numbers. The celebrated painter Ada Belle Davenport owned number 806.
Keens’ maître d’ had ushered us into the crimson Lillie Langtry Room, so named for the actress who sued the restaurant for not allowing women to dine there—and won.
A Negro waiter appeared at our reserved table carrying two champagne flutes on a silver tray next to clay pipe #806, and a small packet of tobacco. With great finesse, he popped the champagne, wrapped it in starched linen, and filled our flutes. Several of the other diners, mostly men puffing on their own pipes, stared openly. I was uncomfortable, but you, never one to avoid making a spectacle of yourself, were equally amused by my discomfort and the admiring stares.
The attentive waiter returned with a tray of raw oysters on the half shell, placed them in the center of the table, shook out napkins in our laps, and slipped back out of view.
In between dipping the juicy morsels in a spicy red sauce and slurping them down, I told you about my recent work in Paris, my teachers at the Académie Julian and my experimentation in complementary colors that had changed my palette and encouraged new ideas onto my canvas. It had to have been the bubbly because I was usually not so forthcoming, particularly with you, who so often found fault in my work.
When only a few oysters were left on the melting ice, you leaned toward me and said, “I have a small favor to ask you.”
I was immediately suspicious. When you asked me for a favor it was never a small one.
You then raised your glass and said, “Ars longa, vita brevis—Art is long, life is short.”
I asked you what this Latin phrase had to do with what you wanted me to do for you.
“Don’t you see. An artist’s life is short,” you said, “and I need to trust someone to carry on my legacy after I’m dead.” You waited until the waiter refilled our champagne glasses and then added, “Didn’t John Middleton Murry publish his wife Katherine’s lifelong work after she died?”
You knew I was an admirer of Katherine Mansfield and would know the answer. “Yes, but Katherine’s dying wish was that he publish only her best work and destroy everything else. He’s a cad. Instead, he published every scrap of paper she ever wrote. He did it for the money.”
You relit your pipe. “Okay. Maybe he’s not the best example. What about Vincent van Gogh’s brother, Theo? When life became too difficult, Vincent shot a bullet through his heart. It had to make it easier to kill himself knowing his brother would keep his legacy alive.”
“We still don’t know if he did kill himself,” I said. “Maybe someone shot him. Suiciders seldom aim for the heart; their preference is shooting themselves in the head.”
“But what does Murry or Theo have to do with your small favor?”
“I’m about to write my will and I want you to be the executor of my artist’s estate. So if something were to happen to me, I’d know my legacy was in reliable hands.”
I felt trapped. I’d moved to Paris to get away from your consuming demands for my attention, which often interrupted my own work, and now I was being dragged right back into your orbit.
“What about your dealer, Paul deVrais? Isn’t he reliable?”
Your reaction was unexpected. “No!” Then with a swish of your hand as if swatting a fly, you said, “Believe me when I say he’s a worse cad than Murry. I would never entrust him with my life’s work. In fact, I’m about to break our contract.”
You then covered your hands over mine and said, “You’re the only one I can trust to carry on my legacy. Please, Sarah, promise you will do this for me.”
I wanted desperately to say no, but the d
eep scars on your hands stopped me. After our parents died in a Manhattan hotel fire and you barely escaped the same fate by sliding down a rope, you cared for me like I was your own child though you were only six years older than me.
“All right,” I said, “I promise to be your Theo.”
“Thank you, Sarah. I couldn’t ask for a better Theo than my own little sister.”
The word Peace engraved on the pendant hanging from your neck glimmered in the candlelight and my heart sank.
Many years ago, when teaching at the San Francisco Art Institute, you had been upset about the exclusive Bohemian Club of poets, authors, and artists not letting you join their club. They wouldn’t allow any women in their club. They still don’t. So it was just like you to start La Bohémienne Club for women only. The creed was similar to the Bohemian Club. If any member failed in achieving artistic satisfaction they could choose death by suicide, a morally acceptable escape from melancholy or disgrace or plain boredom.
The pendant hanging from your neck carried a lethal dose of cyanide. All the Bohemienne Club members wore one. I asked, “I don’t expect there’ll be anything I have to do anytime soon. Right? You’re not planning to do anything foolish, are you?”
You let go of my hands and rubbed the pendant between your fingers. “You needn’t worry about this, Little Sis. I only wear it because of my loyalty to the Club. You really should become a member. It’s a fabulous group of talented women artists.”
“No thanks. I don’t believe in suicide pacts.”
“It’s not a suicide pact. It’s just a reminder of life’s transience. I’d never really swallow it.”
You took out a small key from your bag. “This opens my safe deposit box at the Wells Bank in Monterey. I’ve been spending so much time on the West Coast that I set up an account there. I’ll put in a copy of the will, an inventory of all my paintings, and any other legal documents that might be relevant. Only you will have a key.”
You opened my fist and placed the key in my palm. It felt like burning coal and I dropped it into my bag.
The Del Monte Express took another sharp curve and the tasteless cup of American coffee that had gone cold splashed across Ada’s photograph on the Examiner’s front page. Sarah patted it dry and looked closer. Yes, there it was. The pendant engraved with Peace.
Her eyes came to rest on what was left of her cigarette. She pinched the end of it and dropped it in the almost-empty packet. There might not be any Gauloises in the remote village of Carmel-by-the Sea.
The pinstriped dragueur was asleep when she returned to the compartment. She stealthily stepped over his legs again, hoping not to wake him.
Outside the window, blurred rows of purplish green artichoke plants passed by in straight lines across vast, flat fields. They were tended by groups of men, women, and even children moving slowly between the rows. It was the first time she’d actually seen the plants growing on black-stained fields or the immigrant laborers who were harvesting them hunched over in the hot sun. Ada had romanticized their labor in her many paintings of Central Coast California agricultural scenes, scenes that had made her famous. Wealthy collectors who had never toiled in the hot fields bought them.
Asian children in tattered clothes looked up at the train passing by and waved.
To fill the remaining time on the train to Monterey and to divert her thoughts, Sarah brought out her drawing pad and began sketching Daumier-like caricatures of Mr. Pinstripe. She put a top hat on his head and gave him a rotund belly like Daumier’s satirical drawings of the fat bourgeoisie.
The drawing helped her forget her misery. Sketching had that effect. Particularly now.
A sudden jerk by the train knocked Mr. Pinstripe’s knees against hers and the drawing pad fell on the floor. Her caricature grinned up at them with a toothy smile under a thin moustache. The likeness was obvious. Unamused, the dealer stood up and took down his attaché case from the luggage rack.
Sarah closed the pad, placed it on the wooden bench, and brought down her valise. When she reached for the leather strap of her sketch box and started to hook it over her shoulder, he stepped toward her. “Here. Let me carry that. I know how heavy they can be.”
“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,” she replied firmly.
He let out a laugh. “Oh dear. You just arrived and you’re already sounding like all the other independent ladies who flock to our artist colony to make paintings, though I really think it’s to escape the clutches of chivalrous gentlemen. Won’t you give me a chance to help a damsel in distress?” He grinned and reached again for her sketch box.
“I’m not in distress, sir,” she said as she squeezed by him through the narrow doorway.
He caught up to her at the exit door and held up the drawing pad with Sarah Cunningham written on the cover. “Did you forget this?”
Grateful that she hadn’t lost the pad, she thanked him, and put it under her arm.
“I should’ve recognized you right away,” he said, “but your face was half hidden under your cloche and I could never get you to look at me until now.”
“And why should you have recognized me?” she asked, irritated at being at a disadvantage.
“Why your sister’s portrait of you, of course. Such a strong likeness.”
She reddened. Who was this man who had seen Ada’s portrait of her? A portrait that she herself hadn’t seen.
He seemed not to notice her distress—or he was enjoying it—and continued. “Ada told me that you went by your mother’s maiden name, Cunningham, to distinguish your artwork from hers, and I’ve been expecting your arrival, but I hardly thought I’d be lucky enough to share a compartment with you on the Del Monte.”
He took off his fedora and, leaning into her, lowered his voice. “My deepest sympathies, Miss Cunningham. I was very distressed by the facts leading up to the inquest verdict. I knew Ada at times was, shall we say, ‘down in the dumps,’ but I never thought her melancholy would drive her to suicide.”
His hot breath and presumed intimacy were stifling, but there was no space in the small corridor to move away from him.
“How do you know my sister?” she asked, feeling woozy from the drageur’s cologne.
“Know her,” he said, seemingly offended. He pulled a business card out of his lapel pocket and handed it to her. “Ada was my most valued client. I’ve been her art dealer for many years. But certainly you know that?”
Sarah held his card between her hands and reread it several times to avoid looking into the eyes of Paul deVrais—the art dealer who Ada had accused of stealing her artwork and her entire legacy if he could get away with it.
She forced a smile and, shaking his offered hand, said with feigned politeness, “Why yes, Mr. deVrais, my sister told me all about you.”
“After you get settled, please come see me at my gallery. Shall we say Saturday morning? Come early and I’ll make sure we’re not disturbed. We have much to discuss.”
To Sarah’s relief, the train came to a stop and the door opened onto the Monterey depot.
“Where are you staying?” the dealer asked, while helping her off the train.
“Miss McCann has offered me a room at her lodge.”
“What a pity. I’d take you there myself, but I have a previous engagement.” He pointed to a muddy, elongated yellow sedan with viewing windows on the sides and a gaping open roof. “There’s your ride. You’d better hurry. José doesn’t like to wait.”
She declined his offer to carry her baggage to the autobus, he smiled, tipped his fedora, and walked away.
When she handed her valise to José, out of the corner of her eye she saw Paul deVrais get into a smart two-seater Ford driven by a gorgeous, young blonde. Sarah adjusted her lopsided cloche, shouldered her sketch box, and climbed aboard the bus.
With her thoughts on deVrais, it wasn’t until the rickety bus started climbing up a steep incline that Sarah paid any attention to the well-heeled tourists. They had boarded at the Hot
el Del Monte depot and sat in their reserved front-row seats as if it were their moral right to do so. The Asians and Hispanics were crowded into the back of the bus. Sarah was embarrassed. Negros were also forced to sit in the back of New York City buses while she and the other whites sat in the front. She lacked the courage then and the courage now to say anything.
The racial discrimination in Monterey was not unknown to her. One of her fellow students at Académie Julian, a Chinese American girl, Moon-Li, was only six years old when her Chinese fishing village was burned to the ground by their white neighbors. Moon-Li’s homeless family then moved to San Francisco where her father helped rebuild that city’s Chinatown after the 1906 earthquake. Later, Moon-Li had worked as a maid on cruise ships to pay her way to Paris, where she could study art in a city where people didn’t discriminate against her because she was Asian. That was not to say the French were racially tolerant—only that they had chosen others to discriminate against.
The bus strained to reach the top of the hill and then turned sharply and started a breathtaking crawl for ten minutes down a bumpy dirt road. The panoramic view of Carmel Bay beneath a cobalt blue sky was just as Ada had painted it.
They dropped down into a small village with scattered shops on either side of the road, rustic cottages and barren lots shaded only by a row of pine trees whose foliage was hardly mature enough to offer more than dappled relief from the bright sunlight.
Ada had told her that Carmel was only one square mile in area, but it was densely populated with painters, mostly women, who came there to create art in peaceful surroundings. Ada had complained about the railroad tracks that the immigrants had laid down between San Francisco and Monterey, paid for by the robber barons of the Southern Pacific Railroad so the upper classes could conveniently spend their holidays at the neo-gothic Hotel Del Monte resort in Monterey. The current tourist pamphlets advertised Carmel as a must-see artist colony, as if Ada and her contemporaries were exotic, caged animals to gawk at in a zoo. But she also admitted that the paintings made by the local artists were sold at the Hotel Del Monte Art Gallery and that put much-needed money in their pockets.
The Artist Colony Page 2