She shook her head. “I never asked. He told me once that he used his name because it reminded him. I took that for what I thought he meant,” Carolyn said.
Brent nodded. “I would, too. So, the beach. The big question.”
Carolyn nodded. “Ossirian was struck by it, as though by lightning. It reordered his mind, realigned his perception.”
“One question.”
“Given Ossirian’s other peculiarities, does this surprise you so much?”
Brent considered this. “Okay,” he admitted. “Maybe not much. So what happened then?”
Carolyn gave him a strange look. “You’ve seen what happened.”
Brent’s skin prickled. “The… the rooms?”
“Yes,” she said. “He decided to understand them. So he became them. Each room represents the personalities of the artists. Ossirian became them and painted like them. To learn their languages. To ‘understand’, he said.”
“Uh… that’s a little…” Brent struggled for a moment. Then he shrugged. “Psychopathic.”
“Extreme. Intense doesn’t begin to describe it,” Carolyn said.
“Well… as far as homework goes, it sort of makes a twisted kind of sense. How long did it take him?” Brent asked.
Carolyn gave him a flat look. She turned her face up to the sun and closed her eyes. “Five years.”
The silence that fell between them was a physical thing. Brent’s eyes widened. He stared at the trees, mind racing. Then: “My god.”
“Yes.”
“That was when he-”
“Shortly after,” she said.
Brent’s skin prickled. “He painted House after five years’ study. No wonder-”
She snickered. He frowned at her.
“What is so funny?” he demanded.
“You still don’t understand. You don’t understand why he painted it. Or why he gave it away.”
“Well? Are you going to tell me?”
Carolyn nodded. “But of course. But you need to understand first. He painted for five years. Intricate, involved work. He read constantly, painted constantly. It was during that time that Miciela took ill. As she worsened, Diego sold me the house. Ossirian didn’t notice. He paid little attention to anyone during those years. He painted, he ate, he slept. We made love at night, and he would sleep dreamlessly. He took on the personalities of the artists, and it was unbearable for the longest time. Michelangelo was an arrogant, antisocial bastard. Caravaggio was prone to terrifying violence. Goya… Ossirian struggled with Goya. He came to believe Goya was a fraud, a figurehead. That his paintings were forged. Picasso is a misogynist. Bacon was an emotional terrorist. Gauguin was a child molester. Degas was an anti-Semite. Lipi wanted a harem. Raphael probably made love until he died.” Her lips quirked. “When he was Raphael it was… exhausting.”
Brent smiled. “I’m sure.”
She blushed at his knowing look. He found it charming. “But… you said he didn’t realize Miciela was ill.”
Carolyn’s face changed. It closed to him as she recalled. “She had been dead three weeks before he asked after her. He didn’t understand where she had gone. He refused to accept it. He never spoke of it again.”
“Never?” Brent mused.
“Ossirian couldn’t cope with loss. With death. I expect it’s because of the reason for his orphaning. You understand.”
Brent’s teeth ground. “There were never any charges brought for his parents’ deaths,” Brent said. “Too little evidence. ‘Death by misadventure’ is what’s on the certificate, but I’ve seen autopsy reports that suggest otherwise. Ossirian was shipped off to the Clearbornes. He survived. He seemed to thrive in school. And then one day, Ossirian vanished.”
“His way of dealing with loss was to shut down. He buried himself in the work.”
“How did Diego deal with it? Losing his wife?”
Carolyn stared out over the trees. “He stopped eating. He stopped dressing. And a month later, he died in his sleep.”
“Jesus.”
“They were together forty years. He didn’t wish to go on without her,” Carolyn said. She didn’t look at Brent. “It is that way, you know, when you spend a lifetime loving someone.”
Brent stared at his hands.
She cleared her throat. “So. Two more years of solitude. Painting. Being. Searching. My parents died. My father at the beginning of the year, my mother at the end. They had a decent life. It was hard; the hardest thing I had to face. Ossirian, of course, was little comfort. He was wrapped up in himself. He and his search.”
If she felt bitter about it, he couldn’t tell. Her voice remained even, steady. He considered her again, in something approaching awe. She had weathered unfathomable loss on her own. She was strong enough for the both of them. Of course she was, he thought. She had to be. He certainly wasn’t. Coward.
“And he finished. And the evening that he did, he started painting his own work. He began with a series of sketches.”
“Sketches of what?”
“You’ve seen those as well, dear boy. He wanted to paint the house.”
“The-”
“Yes. He painted the house,” she said. “Over and over.”
Brent glanced back at the house. “Oh. The… the paintings in the halls.”
“He wanted to express something new. He painted the rooms in all the different styles of the great artists. And then he painted one subject in each style.”
“The house?”
“Something he knew intimately. This house.” Carolyn glanced back at the house. “He was born to live here. He knew it the moment he saw it. That day on the lawn, he never went anywhere else in his heart but here.”
Brent watched her reliving it, saw the history playing in her eyes. He saw the smile before it curved her lips.
“What?”
“I was thinking… Toefler. He saved Ossirian. Not once but more than once. And…” she gave Brent a mischievous smile. “…and I’m going to tell you something you don’t want to know. Or perhaps you do. It depends on how much of a sense of humor you have.”
“I don’t understand.”
“What did you think of the paintings?” she asked.
“Which?”
“The studies of the houses in the hall.”
“They were technically brilliant, but they were just… reproductions.”
She gave him a brilliant smile. “Very good! Ossirian thought the same. And when he finished them, he was distraught. They were as lifeless as his other work. He was confused, restless, and frantic. A relapse. I sent a letter to the one person I could think of that might hold influence. And then came Toefler knocking.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
She flung open the door. Behind her, Ossirian ranted, storming through the gallery hall, accusing the paintings that hung between the rooms of being disingenuous.
Carolyn stared at Toefler. He’d grown a beard, but he appeared much as she’d last seen him, the afternoon after their trip to the beach.
“Good afternoon, Senhora Delgado,” Toefler said with a bow. He took her hand and kissed it. “Wonderful to again be in your presence. I received your message. I understand you are having trouble with-”
With a crash, an empty bottle of cachaça shattered somewhere in the house. “Worthless!” Ossirian bellowed. “Redundant!”
Toefler raised an eyebrow. “Ah. I see our dear painter is at it again. May I enter?”
“Please,” Carolyn said, and stood aside for the aristocratic German. “Would you like a drink? I have several bottles hidden from him.”
Toefler gave her a brilliant smile. “Perhaps later. What seems to be the trouble? Your letter was urgent but vague on details.”
Ossirian stomped into view, a sour eye cast upon the both of them. “Of course it’s you. You turn up at the most appropriate times.”
Toefler’s brow furrowed. “Is that… is that an accusation? It seems somewhat toothless.”
“You and
your beard are unwelcome here,” Ossirian said. He staggered, caught himself on the wall, and stomped back out of view.
Wincing, Toefler asked, “How much has he had to drink?”
“All he could find.”
“Ah.”
Toefler set down the small suitcase he carried and opened his arms. Carolyn came to him and gave him a fond hug and a quick kiss. “Thank you for coming, Hans.”
“But of course, Carolita.”
She led him through the house. “You’ve renovated. This wing is new.”
“Yes. We… I hired several of Senhor de la Luna’s colleagues. The plans are his. He left them behind. He had grandiose dreams for this house. I thought it would be fitting a tribute to finish them for him. For them.”
Toefler’s face grew somber. “Ah, yes. You never responded to my letters. Did you-”
“I received them,” she said. She opened the door to a room and stood aside for him. “Thank you for your kind words. I never responded because I wasn’t ready.”
“No, but you contacted me to help with Herr Ossirian.”
She gave him a level look. “I did. You refocused him. Gave him a purpose. I was hoping you might be able to help with the next problem.”
For the first time, Toefler seemed irritated. “I am not a babysitter. Nor am I a teacher. I have my own work.”
Carolyn raised an eyebrow. “Oh? I’ve not heard of any recent shows.”
“Hardly the point,” Toefler muttered stiffly, coloring. “It’s still no reason for me to fly across half the world and-”
“To see him again is not reason enough?”
Toefler’s mouth snapped shut. His lips thinned, and he sniffed delicately. “Still.”
She gave him a smile. “You flew halfway across the world on a single letter for a single favor. Don’t play the victim, Hans. We both know Ossirian, and the draw he commands.”
Toefler grinned and scrubbed a hand through his already-tousled short blond hair. His merry blue eyes twinkled. “It is disconcerting, being so transparent to one such as you.”
“You would be transparent to a child.” Her voice chided, but she smiled.
“Well, I can unpack later. Shall we go see about our painter?”
“Please.” He offered her his arm and she took it. They proceeded into the main body of the house, searching for Ossirian.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The coffee was fresh and hot, rich and milky. Toefler blew on his and sipped delicately. Carolyn cradled her cup in both hands. Ossirian sat and glared at his. She watched him, seeking the signs. His eyes flickered and he stared at the steam rising from the cup in front of him. She saw him tracing the living curls of the steam with his gaze. She saw him twitch, and then still. The faint hope that had flared in her chest faded.
“But what do you want to paint?” Toefler asked.
“Nothing. I have nothing to paint,” Ossirian said, sullen.
“Pretend for a moment you did,” Toefler said. “Imagine a man inspired. What would he paint?”
Ossirian frowned at his cup, picked it up and sipped it, apparently indifferent to the heat. “I don’t know.”
Toefler slapped a hand on the table between them, and the sharp crack of flesh on wood made Carolyn jump. Ossirian didn’t even blink. “Damn it, man, think about it.”
“I did think about it,” Ossirian said. “I can’t imagine what a man inspired would paint.”
Toefler scoffed. “You’re being obstinate. You just spent five years of your life recreating the visions of men of inspiration. Do not tell me you cannot imagine what they would paint.”
“I can imagine what they would paint. I cannot imagine what I would paint.”
Toefler shook his head and sipped his coffee. “Fool.”
“Perhaps,” Ossirian said earnestly. “Perhaps I am. Perhaps I’ve always been a fool.”
“Why should you be any different?” Toefler asked him. “We are all fools. But a fool with talent is a better fool, perhaps.”
“Talent is useless without vision. Without inspiration.” Ossirian sneered at him. “I’d be better off painting houses.”
“So do it,” Toefler said.
“I would, if it meant an end to this ceaseless torment!” Ossirian snapped.
Toefler finished his coffee with a final sip, set the cup carefully into the saucer, and stood. He bowed to Ossirian and turned to Carolyn. “My stay will be briefer than expected. I shall leave in the morning. Unless you can arrange a car to the airport tonight?”
Carolyn’s skin prickled. “You cannot-”
“I cannot help him,” Toefler said. He gestured at Ossirian but did not look. “He isn’t incapable, he’s stubbornly refusing.”
“I am not refusing. I have no inspiration,” Ossirian growled.
Toefler turned cat-quick, slammed both hands on the table, and bellowed, “You ungrateful, immature, whining, petulant, disgusting coward! You are thrice-blessed! You’ve a beautiful woman to be your muse, the talent the Gods themselves might envy, and inspiration immeasurable, and you refuse them all! You turn your back on your gifts. I cannot help you because you refuse to admit to yourself that you are scared. I am done with you. Your work, Herr Ossirian, was potentially brilliant. But you are worthless if you cannot face who you are. Do not contact me again.”
Toefler turned to leave. Ossirian stood. “I tell you I have no inspiration!”
Toefler said over his shoulder. “Liar.”
Ossirian’s cup shattered against the wall. Carolyn cried out and flinched, although the cup shattered against the wall opposite her. Her cry brought Toefler back to the room in great strides, and he had Ossirian by the shirtfront, dragging him up onto his toes. Their faces were scant inches apart and Toefler growled through clenched teeth, “If you do one more thing to make her upset, I shall beat you unconscious.”
Ossirian’s face fell. His eyes went to Carolyn and they were mournful. He stammered, “M-my Muse… I apologize. I… I have forgotten myself. I am ashamed.”
He looked up at Toefler.
“You are correct, of course. I apologize.”
Toefler’s breath was coming fast, his adrenaline up, but he nodded, jerkily, and released the younger man. “Very well. Accepted. If the lady accepts.”
“Of course,” Carolyn said, her pulse slowing again. “He is upset. Allowances are made.”
Toefler gave her a strange look. “It has been years. How many allowances can one be afforded?”
“As many as it takes,” she said. “As many as I have.”
They both looked at her, Toefler with disbelief, Ossirian with gratitude and adoration in his eyes.
“I accept your rebuke,” Ossirian said, still staring at Carolyn. “But you are wrong. I have no inspiration.”
Toefler looked down into Ossirian’s upturned face. “Perhaps you don’t understand. You answered my question. Did you not hear yourself?”
Ossirian stared at him. “What do you-”
“You’d be better off painting houses,” Toefler told him. “So quit whining. Do it.”
Ossirian started to retort, but looked thoughtful, and closed his mouth. “Okay. But… I did that. They’re shit.”
Toefler looked at Carolyn. “He did thirty paintings of the house,” she explained. “Each in the styles of the masters. The same as the rooms.”
“Rooms?”
Carolyn gave him a sly smile. “I’ll show you, if you stop threatening him.”
“I haven’t threatened him, now that he’s behaving himself,” Toefler pointed out.
“True,” Carolyn said. “Come with us. We’ll show you.”
“They’re shit,” Ossirian said again.
“They are not. They’re an experiment. There’s nothing wrong with an experiment if it gives you the answers you require,” Carolyn said.
She led them through the halls to the central opening and one by one they toured the rooms and the paintings. Ossirian watched Toefler as he examined first
the rooms of the Masters and then the paintings Ossirian had done in their styles. When they had finished, he made a quiet noise of contemplation. “I believe you’ve painted the wrong room,” he said thoughtfully.
“The paintings are of the house from the outside,” Carolyn commented, but Toefler waved this away.
“No, no. After all the caution, all the care, and all the precision with which you’ve painted the inside of the house, you’ve painted the wrong room, Ossirian.”
Ossirian stared at Toefler with a frown. “I… I do not understand.”
“You’ve been so focused on the bigger picture, as it were, you’ve missed the minute details. Your… your mother’s chair,” Toefler said with a wry smile, “has three legs, not four.”
Ossirian’s face split in a delighted grin at the reminder.
Toefler gestured at the open rows of rooms surrounding them. “You’ve spent so much time here. And yet, when pressed, you focus on the outside. You painted thirty pictures of the house. You want to paint the house, Herr Ossirian… so paint the house.”
Ossirian cast his eye about, scanning the gallery of rooms. His face changed.
Carolyn held her breath. She knew that look. Knew that man. It was Ossirian, but not as he was, it was Ossirian as he used to be. The boy that seduced her quickly and easily with his earnest smile, the boy who produced paintings like effortless words spilling from his lips. The boy whose confidence was unshaken by the realization that he was emotionally mortal.
His eyes roved over the well-known surfaces of the rails, the carved and sculpted waterfall of wood and love that cascaded over the door. He walked to the door to stand under the ever-moving, time-frozen brown and infinite depth of the frothing, motionless water.
He walked as if in a dream to the entrance of the hall that Diego de la Luna had created but never built. He turned and looked at the long gallery of rooms lining the upper and lower halls. He stood motionless, staring at the rooms he had spent five years painting.
“My Muse,” he whispered, but his voice carried to her clearly.
“Ossirian?”
“Would you be so kind as to fetch canvas and paint? I have… I have an idea, and I’m afraid to move.”
So Much Fire and So Many Plans Page 19