So Much Fire and So Many Plans

by Aaron S Gallagher

  He blurted, “What else?”

  She looked up at him. “Excuse me?”

  “What else did he do? What other kinds of jokes did he play? What else can I no longer trust about Ossirian’s work?”

  She shook her head. “The rest of his work, as far as I know, is sincere. Earnest. He wasn’t malicious. I would have thought you’d understand that by now. He created his work in earnest, he painted what he saw. He wanted it to mean something, that’s all. He was disillusioned with the knowledge that people couldn’t see past the technique to the heart of the artist below it, but he resigned himself to that. All of his work-”

  “All of it?” Brent cut her off. “Even Tanto?”

  Carolyn looked away.

  “‘High on a mountain in the Burgh Prunn, across from the castle in which Hans Toefler was born and still resides, overlooking the Altmühl River, guarded twenty-four hours a day by a private security firm created for this one purpose,’” Brent quoted. “‘Locked in a stainless steel case with an impenetrable biometric palm lock and an alternate timelock. To be opened and seen by you, or to be automatically opened in one hundred years. Ossirian’s final work, his reputed masterpiece, Tanto Fog e Tantos Planos. So Much Fire and So Many Plans. His last painting and the only one no one has ever seen except for its creator.’ What’s in the case, Carolyn?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What’s in the case?”

  “I said-”

  “Why wouldn’t you know?” he asked, voice bitter. “You could. You’re the one who can. Either we wait a hundred years, or you open it today, right now. Your palm print, Carolyn. He made no secret of that. Either the world gets it, or you, alone. Either everyone gets it a lifetime from now, or you get it and it’s destroyed. If you open the lock, you’ll see the one painting that only you and he will ever see. Why wait?”

  Carolyn stood up. her face was darker than normal, but her words were even. “You’ve no idea what you’re talking about. No idea what you’re asking.”

  He followed her out of the library and into the kitchen. “Then explain it.”

  “I don’t owe you an explanation.” She put her cup in the sink. He stood next to her.

  “That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? To understand him? Well, now I understand him. But you? I don’t understand a damned thing about you.”

  “You’re right,” she said.

  “You brought me here to talk to. You brought me here to explain it. Not just him, not just Toefler, but you. Unless you were just looking for a fuck-”

  She slapped him. He stared at her, cheek stinging.

  She slapped him again. Stepping back and pulling her robe closed she said, “I’ve made many mistakes in my life, Mr. Metierra. If this was one more, then it is one more. I’ve made my peace with making mistakes. I’ll have the plane ready. I can have you flown back to Chicago in the morning. If you’ll excuse me?”

  She turned to go. She made it as far as the door before he said, “Why?”

  She turned to look at him over one shoulder. “Pardon me?”

  “Why am I a mistake?”

  She uttered a laugh. “You need to ask?”

  He said earnestly, “I do. I don’t know what I’ve done. I listened while you told me what you thought was important about Ossirian. I listened when you told me he made a mockery of my life’s work. I listened when you asked me for help-”

  “Did I now?” she asked in a frozen, desolate voice. “I asked you for help? You approached me, Brent.”

  She used his first name. He didn’t fail to note this. “So I did. And yet, you asked me for help. You don’t like to sleep alone. You don’t like to be alone. You asked me to come with you. Whether you used the words or not, you did. You’re hurting. You’re mourning. At first I couldn’t figure out why you would tell me this. These things that you’ve told no one. But… this isn’t an explanation. That… that bullshit about me wanting answers for the sake of understanding? You don’t believe it. I don’t think I believed it. This is… this is a eulogy, isn’t it? You’re talking your grief.”

  She didn’t move, so he went to her. He held out a hand. He didn’t touch her, just held out the hand. She stared at it as he talked.

  “I’ve learned one thing about Ossirian that you don’t want to admit, I think,” he said.

  “And what is that?”

  “He was a selfish prick.”

  She glanced up at his eyes, and back to his hand. “Oh?”

  “Of course he was. He used you. You were there to be sucked dry.”

  “He used me, did he? Do I strike you as someone who’s easily used, Mr. Metierra?” she asked.

  “No, you don’t,” he said. “You strike me as a woman who loves hard. All the way to the-”

  He broke off. She didn’t say anything, watching as he fumbled for words.

  “When you love that hard, you tend to become blind to the things everyone else can see. He wasn’t malicious, but he didn’t put you first. A woman like you deserves to be put first. Not just his Muse. His wife.”

  “I told you, I don’t-”

  “I know what you told me. And I’m good enough at what I do to spot forgeries when I see them,” he said.

  She looked away.

  He continued to hold out his hand. “I think he was a selfish prick,” he said again, “that you forgave over and over because you loved him. You wanted him and he wanted everything else and you. If Ossirian knew how to love at all, he wouldn’t have left you alone.”

  She looked at him with eyes shiny with fresh tears.

  “He left you alone. The one thing you hate. He gave you the one thing you hate. So don’t tell me he was misunderstood, or that he was otherworldly, or mystical. He was a self-absorbed, self-centered myopic ass. But whether or not those things are true doesn’t change anything for you. You hate to be alone. I’m not leaving you alone. You can talk, or not, and I’ll listen. Or I’ll just be here. Carolyn Delgado, you’re the weirdest, most interesting person I’ve ever met. I know what you’ve got planned.”

  Her eyes popped open.

  “It’s obvious. You can’t think you’re being subtle.”

  “Brent…”

  “I don’t care. I don’t care if I’m here for a week or for a month or for a year. I won’t leave you alone. You wanted to give me something. A look into Ossirian. An understanding. Well, after this week, I understand. Too much, I understand. I don’t see what you saw in him. But I see you.”

  She stared at his hand. It was steady. She took it. Looking away she said, “If what you say is true, Brent, you’re not going to write about-”

  “Anything. I don’t care,” he said, wondering if he were lying. “I’m not here for that. Just let me be here for you.”

  She squeezed his hand, and he returned the gentle pressure. She cleared her throat. “Brent, I seem to have misjudged-”

  “Don’t. Just… don’t. I’m not sure I want to see you when you’re not… well… Carolyn Delgado, CEO, art maven, and fashionista. Just don’t. Change, I mean.”

  She studied his face. “You’re a singular man.”

  “Yeah, well, two of me’d be too many.”

  “I don’t know about that,” she said with the ghost of her impish smile. “It raises possibilities.”

  He chuckled. “You use sex as a distraction, did you know that?”

  “Not just as a distraction,” she said. “Besides, it’s one of the four things worth spending time upon.”

  “I’ve heard that.”

  She looked at him with solemn gratitude. “Thank you, Brent.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She poured herself a glass of water and drank it in one go.

  “I feel like seeing the sun and the water. Would you like to go into the city with me?”

  “I’ll go anywhere you like,” he said.

  She gave him that smile again. “You are a dear. Very well. Let’s change into something less appropriate.”

  �
��Lead the way.”

  She took his hand and she tugged him to the bedroom where she shucked her robe, sloughed off his own, and they tumbled to the bed.

  After a shower together (“To conserve water,” she said, and he didn’t argue, being environmentally-minded himself) she picked out a tee shirt and cutoff jeans for him, and he chose a bikini for her. She collected a packed lunch from the kitchen (with Brent looking around, wondering how the maid had known, and where the hell she had been hiding) and tucked both into the car. After another hair-raising, barely-controlled descent down the mountain they came from run-down barrios to the city center. The traffic was thick as a fresh logjam, with horns blaring, voices shouting, and pedestrians flowing like a slow-moving stream sometimes ten sets of shoulders wide along both sides of the roads. They spent two hours worming through the city as the sun sank lower, and the shadows loomed. She stopped twice, once for a bottle of trago de caña and once for a floppy hat, handmade and fine-looking, and they escaped the city. The coast loomed in front of them, the wide golden beaches shimmering in the late afternoon sunset. She parked the car along the road and they walked to the beach hand-in-hand, the basket over the crook of her left arm, her right hand in his left. The flinty, sun-toasted smell of sand and water and people enveloped them.

  They made their way through the throngs of people. Men and women and children crowded the beaches full, and Brent enjoyed himself immensely, seeing first-hand the cavalier attitude toward little to no clothing.

  She gave him a smile. “It is not like America. We worship the sun. And skin is the highest form of prayer here.”

  “I was baptized Catholic,” he said judiciously, “but I’m tolerant. I might even convert.”

  She nudged him with her hip. “You might look good in one of those,” she said, pointing at a man who wore a Speedo so small Brent needed no imagination.

  “You first,” he said.

  “That can be arranged,” she said. “A fair bargain is no cheat.”

  He smiled at her and they found a spot near the water’s edge. She set down the basket and they sprawled in the sand. The sun-warmed beach sand cradled them like a warm bath, and they pushed piles around for pillows. She curled up next to him and they watched the sun sink lower. She opened the bottle of trago and sipped. He took the bottle and had several swallows, coughing. “Man that’s… okay, that’s pretty excellent. I’m starting to seriously enjoy that.”

  “I’ll have a case sent to you,” she promised again.

  A shadow passed over her face, and he remembered everything. She squeezed his hand.

  They watched the sun set the ocean ablaze as the thousands of beachgoers frolicked and enjoyed the heat and the water, the crystal blue of the ocean and the white sand of the beaches and the orange-gold of the sun forming the most beautiful symmetry.

  The darkness fell on them as they shared out the bottle, and the heat of the day cooled enough that it was time to be off. He rose first, helping her to her feet. Then he brushed the sand from her body, she returned the favor, and they walked back to the car, taking their time to enjoy the scorching warmth of the sand, the bracing breeze carrying a salt tang and the scent of sunlight. The trago had done its work, and they were pleasantly drunk as they staggered through the sand. She fished the keys out of the basket.

  “Oh, no,” he said, and took them from her.

  “I wasn’t going to drive,” she said, holding up the basket. “I want to put this away so we could go find a restaurant.”

  “Ah. Okay then.”

  She did so, locked the car, and handed him the keys. He pocketed them and they, arm-in-arm, walked through the streets in search of a meal.

  They found a tapas bar and indulged themselves, the drink and the bite-sized delicacies welcome. After drinks, music, and dancing, they proceeded into the steamy São Paulo night. Two more bars, and they were exhausted, drunk, and pleased to have discover a small bed & breakfast run by an ancient woman with a shock of surprising blonde hair.

  They stripped down and climbed into the bed. She put a hand on his chest and he kissed her. Carolyn responded, pressing against him. Soon they were entwined, clinging to one another. In the cooling aftermath of sex, she began to speak.

  She said, “Munich, Germany, in nineteen seventy-five was an interesting place to be. The streets were alive with the sense of impending revolution. All things seemed possible. The art community was reaching in every direction for something new upon which to build.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  “-having contributed to the world’s artistic evolution from a young age, and having recovered from the war… and the Olympics two years previous. We are exhibiting a new host of Ossirian’s work in a gallery in the Lenbachhaus because after the recent expansion was finished but is not filled. The gallery is the perfect place for Ossirian’s latest work.”

  Her English had improved and she spoke it to the reporters because it irritated them. She hadn’t learned enough German to sound adequately professional and they didn’t speak Portuguese. She sipped a glass of champagne and stared over the heads of the reporters. A dozen of them crowded around her. “Are they impressionist? He’s been dabbling in impressionism since his reappearance, and these new paintings are-”

  “The paintings speak for themselves,” she said, bored. It had become tedious, speaking with the earnest press, all crowding for a tidbit about the painter, never the work itself. Some tiny scrap of flesh clinging to the well-gnawed bone.

  “Of course, but the-”

  “All relevant materials are in the briefings,” she said, impatient to be done. She glanced around, saw a porter. She held up the glass and he nodded. He came to take it from her. She thanked him and turned back to the eager young vultures. “If you’ll excuse me, I have many details to which I must attend.”

  “Ms. Delgado-”

  “Thank you, but all the materials with which you’ll be supplied are in the briefing,” she cut in. “Personal questions are not encouraged, as you know. If you’ll-”

  “May we speak with the artist?”

  She bristled. She looked at the man who had spoken with as much disdain as she could muster. “Artist? Of course not. There is no artist here. Ossirian repudiates the title. He is a painter. If you know him, you knew that before you asked. If you didn’t…” she trailed off with a half-shrug. “Well. You must be new.”

  She turned her back on the red-faced young reporter and walked to the office of the museum, sure every eye was on her. She wore a gown that fitted her like second skin, a green brocade and gold trim silk sheathe with matching heels and gold earrings.

  Ossirian’s paintings were selling for ridiculous amounts, and the corporation that she had set up with the help of the de la Luna’s (and now hers) accounting firm was one of the twenty largest in the art community. Within a decade it would be the fifth.

  As she reached for the door to the office a voice said in Portuguese, “And how did you escape from the wall, my dear? That dress is a work of art. And your smile is the stuff of a masterwork.”

  She turned with a pleased smile and held out her arms. “Hans!”

  They embraced and he kissed her. She returned his caress. When they leaned back to arms’ length, she examined him. His hair was cut very short, styled and shaped like a fitted cap. His cheeks were clean for the first time in years, and he wore a tiny pencil moustache of gold-red, darker than the hair upon his head. He wore a suit that probably had cost as much as her car.

  “I was very sorry to hear of your father, Lord Toefler,” she said solemnly.

  Hans ducked his head. “Thank you. I received your note and the flowers were magnificent. I assume the painting-”

  “Ossirian isn’t capable of acknowledging something so… familial,” she said, “but he thought that flowers were appropriate.”

  “It is as magnificent as his heart,” Toefler said. “Are you busy just now? Shall we dine?”

  “I have scant hours before the gallery o
pens. I must find Ossirian, and change.”

  Toefler’s eyes twinkled. “I spied Ossirian with one of the glitterati gathered at the pre-event. I assume he and the lady… and the lady’s assistant… are occupied just now. And as for changing… I am certainly able to help you out of your dress.”

  She smiled impishly up at him. “Why, Lord Toefler, you are most impertinent.”

  “Call me ‘Lord’ again and I shall paddle you, Carolita,” he said with no menace, and the touch of a smile curling his lip. “I may be saddled with the title and the lands and the enormous wealth and the burdensome responsibility of the family lineage, but that doesn’t mean I’ll brook cheek and familiarity from the likes of a little village girl from Isidro Ayora. A little village girl who, I understand, recently completed her doctoral defense.”

  She smiled at him. “I did indeed.”

  “And how did you find the committee?” He offered her an elbow and she took it. They strolled to the opening of the museum where, at the bottom of the wide stairs, he had a car waiting. A driver in a severely immaculate suit opened the door of the ancient Rolls Royce.

  “I found them to be inadequate to the task,” she said. “After one has weathered Ossirian, a doctoral committee is thin beer indeed.”

  He laughed. “I shouldn’t wonder. And the subject of your dissertation?”

  “A comparison of the compositional elements of Godefroid, Gris, and Pascin as proof of mathematical imperfection in impressionist art.”

  “Heady stuff indeed,” he said. To the driver he added, “Tantris, please.”

  The car sped through the streets as they watched the ancient buildings speed by. “How have you been, Carolita?”

  She shrugged. “It is interesting, managing the corporation. We’re starting several museums. One in New York, one in Paris. Collections of work that most overlook. Ossirian’s picking the work. He’s choosing to populate them with work that moves him.”

  “Indeed. And will you tell anyone that’s why the work is there? Because it amuses him?”