So Much Fire and So Many Plans

by Aaron S Gallagher

  He squeezed her hand. “There will never come a day when I wish to be separated from you, my Muse. But I don’t know where to go. I don’t know what to do. Nothing I say, nothing I do matters. I could piss on a canvas, and those…” he trailed off. “I don’t know the word. Birds? That eat the dead?”

  She frowned. “Ah. Yes. Abutres.”

  “Thank you, my Muse. These fucking vultures have no sense of taste! They’ll swallow anything that doesn’t struggle! This art doesn’t challenge them! It doesn’t fight with them. It doesn’t…”

  “Move them.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Correct. They buy because their peers buy. Their peers buy because they do. Not because the art moves them, but because that’s the game. The spin. The investment.”

  “Don’t do it for them,” she said. “Take their money and do what you want. Who cares why they buy it?”

  It was the wrong thing to say. He yanked his hand from hers and rounded on her. She swallowed her fear as he barked at her, but his voice wasn’t angry. It held notes of desperation, confusion, and despair.

  “A painter wants to paint! A painter wants to move someone! It’s a connection! It’s a link to someone other than myself! How can I know if anything is real if I cannot touch them!”

  In the recent weeks his mood had become more erratic; he was dissatisfied with something. She had thought it was her. Despite unease at his thunderous outburst, she found herself glad it was something beyond her. She put a hand on his chest and could feel his heart galloping like a racehorse in the final stretch. “You reached me.”

  He stopped in his advance, eyes round. He put up a shaking hand and pressed it to his chest. “Did I?”

  “Yes. Most of your work is brilliant, Ossirian, but two of the pieces, Utterance and Evolution of the Wire, moved me. Touched me. I felt profound sadness in Utterance, and as for Evolution,” she said with all the sincerity she felt, “I was moved enough to weep. It was overwhelming. The asymmetry, the juxtaposition of light and dark, negative and positive space. The way the lines flowed inward, never touching. Falling to infinity. I could weep now, if you like. I’ll remember that painting for the rest of my life.”

  He stared at her, sighed, and said, “Yes.”

  It was enough. She knew he understood. Understood she wasn’t playing with him, or making up a story to appease him. Those paintings had stirred her soul. Moved the her within that thrived on the indefinable but utterly necessary beauty of art.

  His voice held an aching weariness. “May we return home, my Muse? I don’t want to face those vultures. I would rather take you to bed, if you will allow me.”

  She stretched up and kissed him. “I would love that too. And I shall. But we promised Senhor and Senhora de la Luna that we would come. They asked as a special favor. They want to show you off. They’re delighted that you love them so.”

  “They are real,” he said. “As are you.”

  “What about you, Ossirian? Are you real?”

  “Someday, I hope to find out.” He sighed. “Come. I will not disappoint the Patrão and his wife.”

  She smiled at him and they strolled up to the house, hand in hand. She was filled with childlike delight, watching as he stared in avid appreciation at the huge double doors. She knocked. Senhora de la Luna opened the door and beamed at them with a dazzling array of white teeth.

  “Ah, the hero and his lovely Muse. Please do come in. Everyone is breathlessly awaiting your arrival.”

  Ossirian bowed. “Thank you, Senhora de la Luna.” He took her proffered hand and bent over it, almost but not quite touching his lips to the back. Carolyn found herself amused at his chaste propriety, and also a distant stab of not-quite-hot jealousy as his eyes rose over the hand and found Senhora de la Luna’s. Their hostess’s eyes held the same mischievous, knowing look that Ossirian’s held.

  Carolyn glanced away. She didn’t labor under the idea that Ossirian was hers alone. He had a liberal- almost egalitarian- appreciation for people and for sex. She was all but certain that the lady and he had shared at least one dalliance.

  But his flirtatious manner meant almost nothing. He flirted with everyone, but not on purpose. He was a lover of people, she had discovered. As enraptured with a street vendor as the president of the Brazilian Arts Council. He memorized everything for later transcription into his paintings. He embraced all life with open arms.

  Senhor de la Luna joined them. He performed the same formal bow-and-kiss as Ossirian had; bent over Carolyn’s hand he appeared courtly, dignified, and utterly reserved. The carnal heat that boiled from Ossirian, however, emanated from the gentleman as well.

  “Welcome, my friends! And thank you so much for gracing our home with your presence. We are humbled,” he said.

  “The honor is ours,” Ossirian said, shaking hands and embracing the old architect. “Thank you for having us.”

  “Of course! Of course!” the older man boomed. “But what are you drinking, dear boy? And for you, my lady?” He winked at Carolyn.

  “I’ll have whatever you’re having,” Carolyn said to Senhora de la Luna.

  “White wine. A vineyard’s worth. There’s a troublesome, rowdy lot of fine young things assembled in the main rooms. Fortification is an absolute necessity.”

  Carolyn bowed her head, smiling.

  “And you, sir?” Ossirian asked. “What is my host drinking?”

  Diego de la Luna snorted. “Caipirinha, of course. Our cachaça is some of the finest, and I have instructed the barman to pour with a heavy hand. This crowd is too pompous to deal with sober.”

  Ossirian barked laughter, and clapped the man on the arm. “Then to your heavy-handed barman I beg to be taken. Muse? Shall I bring you your wine?”

  “I’ll be along momentarily. The Senhora and I must catch up.”

  “Of course,” Ossirian said, and bowed. De la Luna led him away, and they were laughing in moments.

  Carolyn gave the lady an inquiring glance. “Is it bad?”

  “It’s heady, to be sure. They’re very full of facts and opinions and quotations, all of which sound as though they were memorized for just this occasion.”

  “Heaven preserve us,” Carolyn whispered. “We might need caipirinha ourselves.”

  Senhora de la Luna gave Carolyn a wink. “I have a pitcher set aside for us. Come, my dear.”

  Carolyn followed the matron into the sitting lounge beyond the foyer, where small groups of two or three smartly-dressed men and women milled about, gesticulating pompously and arguing, Carolyn felt sure, using as weapons opinions she herself had read not too long ago in her textbooks. He is right to be wary of these people, she thought. They’ve not an original thought between them.

  Senhora de la Luna led her to a side alcove in which a small Cavalcanti, a portrait of a woman holding flowers before her, watched over an icy pitcher. Carolyn took a moment to admire the diminutive painting, which was ten or so inches wide and little more than that tall. Senhora de la Luna poured her a frosted glass full of the cocktail and made one herself. She touched it to Carolyn’s.

  “Beauty and truth, but never too much of each,” she proposed.

  Carolyn laughed. “Of course.”

  They drank, and Carolyn felt the alcohol rush through her like a thousand fireworks spinning to the ends of her body in every direction. She sighed.

  “What’s the matter, my dear? I understand the showing was a rousing success. Your client is quite popular, and he has made you both wealthy.”

  “Success is measured differently be each of us. In his estimation he’s no success. He hasn’t found what he’s looking for. He’s upset and I don’t know how to help him.”

  “He seems quite unsettled. Have you tried taking him to bed?”

  “Of course.” Carolyn gave the other woman a puzzled look. “But how does that help with the problem?”

  “Men, in my experience, are easily distracted. And I would think that goes double for our dear Ossirian,” de la Luna sa
id with a gentle smile and eyes that followed the boy across the room. “It’s hard to keep him focused for more than a short while.”

  Carolyn decided not to ask. “Easily distracted, perhaps, but he eventually remembers his problems.”

  “Perhaps you need to learn to be more persuasive.” Senhora de la Luna sipped her drink again.

  Carolyn, piqued, said, “My education is extensive, Senhora. I assure you I am extremely persuasive.”

  The older woman smiled. “In the art of persuasion, the two most unforgivable sins are thinking you know everything, and being unwilling to learn new techniques.”

  Carolyn blushed as the older woman gave her that catlike smile again. “My mind is open to new ideas,” she murmured.

  De la Luna gave her a long look and whispered, “I wonder.”

  Before Carolyn could think of a response, the older woman slipped an arm into hers. “Come, my dear. There is someone I wish you to meet. The usual ilk are all in attendance, of course,” she said as she led Carolyn into the common area. “Disconfit is here, of course, with his hangers-on. Dreadful man. But quite a good painter. And the Cristianos have come all the way from France for the show. I gather between Diego and the old Duke Disconfit, some pressure was applied to raise the visibility of our little gathering. They’re all interested in meeting Ossirian, of course, but there’s someone I wish for you to meet.”

  They approached a foursome debating the merits of a minor Porto-Alegre that de la Luna had acquired. A couple were debating the intricacies of the brushwork with a young woman in a red sleeve dress, upswept blonde hair, and a vacuous, adoring gaze which fell upon the fourth member of their party, a tall man with his own wave of blonde hair, although much shorter of cut, the sides almost shaved to skin, blisteringly blue eyes, and an enviable tan. The man was extolling the brush strokes in fluid, flowing Portuguese, lightly dusted with a Germanic accent.

  “…and here, where you see the deliberate line of the stroke, tiny, feather-light, but still visible. Oil, as you know, is slow to dry, and the flow of the pigment often leaves the surface smooth. Here, Porto-Alegre deliberately shows us his brush, he wants us to see him in action. It’s very like Rembrandt in that respect, being obvious about the technical creation of the work, but still enticing us with the beauty and natural lines. Quite enviable.” He turned to greet the women as they approached. “Our lovely hostess has graced us with her favor.” He took Senhora de la Luna’s hand and bent low over it. He kissed the air a hairs-breadth above the skin of the older woman. He straightened and turned to Carolyn. “And you’ve brought a forest nymph along with you.”

  Senhora de la Luna put her arm around Carolyn. “Perhaps I have, but she is not for you. I wanted to introduce you so she would know to watch for you.”

  Those ice blue eyes fixed on Carolyn. “And do I need to be watched for, hm?”

  “It would seem so.” Carolyn held out a hand and he took it, his lips pressed against her skin, and she thought she felt the barest tip of his tongue touch her hand.

  “May I present to you Senhorita Carolyn Delgado. She is Ossirian’s business manager,” Senhora de la Luna said with a twinkle in her eye as she watched the pair. “She is, you might say, the discoverer of our new miracle. Carolyn, may I present to you his esteemed lordship, Herr Hans Toefler.”

  The man smiled up at Carolyn over the hand he had not yet released. “Please. I’m hardly a lord. Carolyn Delgado, it is my pleasure to meet you.”

  “Herr Toefler is modest,” Senhora de la Luna commented to the assemblage.

  “In fact, I’m not.” He straightened. He was tall, his blonde hair well-cut and in place. His shirt, jacket, and trousers were impeccably tailored. He looked quite the aristocrat to Carolyn. He flashed Carolyn a wide, white smile. “My father, Lord Karl von Toefler, is the title holder. I’m but a humble holzgraf.”

  “And what might a… holzgraf be?” Carolyn wondered.

  Toefler released her hand. “It’s a show title. “It means I’m steward of the Toefler estates. A groundskeeper, if you will.”

  Senhora de la Luna laughed merrily. “Hans, you’re a naughty boy.”

  “Of course I am.” Again his eyes found Carolyn’s. “It’s the best way to irritate my family.”

  A cleared throat, and the gentleman to their left in a richly-cut tuxedo said, “And speaking of which…”

  Senhora de la Luna smoothly took up the interruption. “And speaking of which, this is Maximilian Rojas, my second cousin, and his charming wife Licha Rosario Lorenza Rojas. Max, Licha, Ms. Carolyn Delgado.”

  “Lovely to meet you,” Carolyn murmured. She allowed Maximilian to bend low over her hand, but he did not put his lips to it. Afterward, she pressed her hand into Licha’s.

  “We were discussing the technique of Porto-Alegre in this and, to a lesser extent, his other works. Are you familiar with his work? And have you an opinion, Ms. Delgado?” Toefler asked in a snide voice. Toefler’s tone caught her the wrong way. She sensed a teasing lilt, and did not care for it.

  “As a painter or as the manager of a painter?”

  “Either,” Toefler said. “Or as a woman, if you prefer. Or as a person. Or in any way you might elucidate the subject.”

  She cocked her head, staring at him. Without looking at the painting, she said, “Although the Baron was known more for his portraiture than his landscapes, he nonetheless painted both. He also wrote poetry and plays, and even drew caricatures in his later years. His painting style might be considered by some uninspired, perhaps even unoriginal, but this piece in particular,” she gestured without taking her eyes from his, to the waterfall and the bare rock exposed by the breaks in the rushing torrents, “is possibly the best example of his eye for natural detail. And yes, in reference to your earlier observation, Baron Porto-Alegre did choose to use his lines in painting, but exclusively in his naturalistic work, never in the portraiture. His oil portraits were exacting, minutely detailed, and painted with thinned oils so that they would dry wet, as it were, and erase his brushwork. In his landscapes, particularly when painting water, he would use thicker oils that his brush lines would catch the light from certain angles. He would give the illusion of motion with these tiny glints of light on the oil. This painting, Great Tijuca Waterfall, was finished in 1833, and he exhibited it in 1837 at Escola Nacional de Belas Artes, calling it ‘a modest attempt’. Due to the quality of his portraits he was named official painter to Emperor Pedro II in 1840. He painted for Pedro II as well as instructing in painting history at University. In 1848 he chose to leave his alma mater… and mine.”

  “Bravo, Ms. Delgado.” Toefler’s eyes shone, and he gave her another dazzling smile. “And are you an artist?”

  “I am trained as an art historian.”

  Toefler’s grin did not waver. “Delightful.” He favored the gathering with his smile. “Senhora de la Luna, you have brought me someone quite interesting.”

  “I thought you’d enjoy being put together,” the woman said, sipping at her drink. Carolyn glanced at the matron, whose innocent eyes gave nothing away.

  “One can hope,” Toefler murmured.

  “Is your training helpful or harmful in guiding Ossirian’s career, my dear?” Maximilian asked. “Do you find it harder to assess his work with educated eyes?”

  “His work,” Carolyn said with pique, “either moves one or it doesn’t. It’s not my place to decide for him or anyone else. My job is to manage the technical details. He is the painter; I am the businesswoman. Rarely does my training enter into his domain.”

  She gave Toefler a sideways glance. “I do find it rather more useful for holding conversations at galleries and parties.”

  Toefler laughed and put a hand on her forearm. She could feel the heat from his palm, despite the warm night.

  “I needn’t imagine.” He gave the rest of them a wink. “I believe I’ve just been put in my place. I apologize for putting you on the spot. One meets so many people at these gatherings who unders
tand more about the price of art than the value.”

  Carolyn found herself matching his smile. She put her hand on his and said, “I quite agree. So many times I’ve met people with impressive credentials to realize it’s all they have to recommend them.”

  She thought he might take offence at the biting remark, but Toefler only laughed again. “Well put, Ms. Delgado.”

  Ossirian joined them, drawn by Toefler’s energy and laughter. He had a tall glass in his hand and it was half-full of caipirinha.

  “Ah, the great artist, I am forced to assume,” Toefler greeted.

  Carolyn’s gaze went to Ossirian. The boy flushed. “I am a painter.”

  Toefler’s smile lessened. “But you are a great artist as well.”

  “Do not call me that!” Ossirian snapped. For the first time, he seemed to see Toefler’s hands on Carolyn. He glowered but said nothing.

  “And have you met Senhor Ossirian?” Senhora de la Luna asked.

  “Just Ossirian,” the boy corrected, his voice firm. His eyes were still on Toefler’s hand.

  “My apologies,” Senhora de la Luna said. “I didn’t realize you had a preference.”

  “I do,” Ossirian said. “My name, my profession, they are everything. I have a preference.”

  Toefler gave the boy his smile. “And of course you should. May I ask, if it won’t offend you, what is so bad about being an artist?”

  “It implies mastery,” Ossirian said. “I’m not a master. I’m not an artist. I paint. That’s all.”

  A faint crease appeared between Toefler’s dark blonde eyebrows. “But is an artist not one who makes art?”

  “What is art?” Ossirian sipped from his glass and held it aloft. “I have drunk my drink without choking. Am I an artist?”

  Toefler’s mouth opened but he said nothing.

  “I can walk without falling. I dress myself. I wipe myself after I shit. Am I an artist? Or am I competent?”

  Carolyn colored and glanced away, hiding a smile.

  “Just because you do something does not make you an artist. Anyone can walk without falling. Perhaps even dance,” Ossirian continued, waltzing in a circle. People around them were turned to watch. From by the wall, Carolyn saw Diego de la Luna watching, amused.