So Much Fire and So Many Plans

by Aaron S Gallagher

  “Ossirian.”

  The silence pressed in.

  He said, “Toefler’s still alive.”

  She stopped breathing.

  “He never married. That might be a sign that-”

  “Brent, far worse than turning a man’s proposal down is begging. It would be the height of poor manners for me to ask him for a second chance at this late date.”

  “Huh.”

  “What?”

  “It’s interesting you’d rather be proper than happy. That’s not how I read you this entire time.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “You loved Ossirian. Toefler loved you. What did Ossirian love?”

  “Ossirian loved his life. He loved all life. He celebrated being alive every second of every day. He lived fearlessly, one foot in this world, and one foot in a world I never understood.”

  He stared at the ceiling. “Oh,” he said thoughtfully.

  “Oh?”

  “You were trained as an art critic.”

  “I’m an art historian.”

  “Yeah.” He was silent for a second, then said, “You know how they say nobody goes into psychiatry because they’re sane?”

  She didn’t respond.

  “You wanted to paint, didn’t you?”

  She didn’t respond.

  “I get it.”

  “Oh, you get it, do you?”

  “What, you think I’m an art critic because I love writing?” This drew a chuckle from her. “I got the skill. Kind of. I can paint. But I got no vision. All I ever did were generic landscapes. I wanted to be Wyeth. Turns out there’s already one of those.”

  She chuckled again.

  “Tell me something?”

  “What would that be?” Her voice contained a frosty note.

  “What was Ossirian doing in Westchester?”

  She took a deep breath.

  “He wasn’t there for an exhibit. He didn’t live there. He had a show scheduled the next day in Paris.”

  She said nothing.

  “Where on earth did he find a Tucker Torpedo?” he asked. “There can’t be that many ’48 Tuckers left.”

  She sat up, brushing his hand aside. He was worried he’d offended her but she put on the light and said, “I need a drink.”

  She got out of the bed and paused at the door of the bedroom. “Are you going to join me?”

  She hadn’t dressed, so he didn’t bother. They padded into the kitchen where she poured them two drinks. She downed hers, and he his. She refilled them and stared out the wide windows into the night, glass in one hand, all but for gotten.

  “By the late eighties, Ossirian and I were apart much of the time. As the pressures of business became more intense, as he produced more and more work, I spent the majority of my time in New York overseeing Muse.”

  “Even though you loved him, you let him go,” Brent said.

  “He went where the inspiration took him. By ‘90 he was constantly travelling, constantly painting. Everywhere he went they knew him immediately. He couldn’t stay anywhere long, because the critics and gadflies would swarm. Being Ossirian, he would never refuse an experience. But it wore on him. He had long since tired of the crush, the demands upon him. He was Ossirian, and the world had come to believe he belonged to them. And he hated that more than anything.”

  “Why wouldn’t he simply go home to Brazil?”

  Carolyn shrugged. “He was still Ossirian. Driven. Manic. He produced painting after painting. And he was always interested in whether they moved others. He couldn’t simply hide away. It was never his nature. He was as much a prisoner of himself as… …as those drawn to him.”

  Brent scowled. It hurt him to see her forlorn. He didn’t know what else to say, so he asked, “You didn’t travel with him?”

  “Not as often as I liked. The business, you see, took up more and more time. And someone had to protect him, protect his work. Everywhere he went, he left paintings to be discovered like the detritus of a shipwreck.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  “Do you know how many paintings I recovered from the Florida house, Ossirian?” she asked.

  “I do not understand the question,” he said. His voice sounded faint and he sounded drunk, as usual. The connection was poor. The lines between New York and New Zealand were spotty. It was eight A.M. in New York which made it… she counted on her fingers… just after one A.M. Enzed local.

  “You left over seventy canvases in the garage, Ossirian.” She wasn’t even upset. She couldn’t be upset at him. It would be like punishing a puppy for not opening the door to let the cat outside. He didn’t understand the problem on a fundamental level.

  “I was finished with them,” he told her. “I forgot about them.”

  “Well, the canvases you just forgot were sold, every single one of them. For record numbers, I might add.”

  “Why?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Why would you add that?” he asked. “And why would you not? And why would you tell me you might when you clearly did?”

  She sighed. “Where are you?”

  “New Zealand,” he said. “The beaches here are very like home. I miss Brazil.”

  “As do I, Ossirian. But where in New Zealand?”

  He was silent for a moment. “I don’t know. Somewhere sunny. And on a beach.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “It’s okay. There are hotels and bars.”

  “Wonderful,” she said again. She closed her eyes. A migraine had settled between her eyes, and she was fighting the urge to slam the phone down.

  “I will be in… hold on a minute.” There was a clunk as the receiver fell from Ossirian’s hand, and some kind of shouting and scuffling from the distance.

  “Ossirian? Ossirian?” Carolyn yelled. Panic gripped her, but before she could speak again, Ossirian came back. “It is amazing! Amazing! What are you-”

  “Ossirian, what’s going on?”

  “I apologize, my Muse. It is Hans! He is here. He happened to be walking along the beach. Well met indeed!”

  Her heart thumped painfully, twice. She rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Indeed.”

  “It has been too long, my friend!” Ossirian gushed. “Here- speak to my Muse! She has missed you, as have I. Now where did that barman get to? Here, we need-”

  The sound of Ossirian’s voice faded, and another took its place. “Good afternoon, Carolita,” Hans said in Portuguese.

  “Hans.” Her face lit in an unaccustomed smile. “It is wonderful to hear from you. I was worried… for the first several years.”

  “I apologize,” Toefler said. “I had to get some distance.”

  “The entire world, it would seem, was the distance you needed from us. Ossirian did not notice, I’m sure, but I did. I… Hans-”

  “It is all forgiven, all forgotten, Carolita. I assure you.”

  “But I must apologize-”

  “You need do nothing of the sort. Your apologies fall upon deaf ears for they are unnecessary.”

  “You are too kind.” Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes.

  “I am what I am.”

  “Tell me, Hans… where are you? All Ossirian remembers is ‘New Zealand.’”

  Toefler chuckled. “We’re just outside of Christchurch. There is a rare car show. It has been diverting to me to collect rare automobiles. I have a modest but interesting assemblage now. I came as the guest of one of the diplomatic envoys. It was a boring affair, and after securing the vehicle I wanted, I escaped. To my amazement I found our painter wandering the beach in search of a barman.”

  “Christchurch. I see. Do you think you can somehow persuade him to board a plane for New York? It’s been… it’s been some time. There are things to attend to, and… I miss him,” she said, and guilt shot through her like a jolt of electricity.

  Toefler cleared his throat. “I shall do my best, Carolita. Miss him, you say? How long has it been since you two were last together?”

&nb
sp; She sighed. “Hans, it’s been almost a year. He’s been working so-”

  “A year.” His voice shook with emotion. She couldn’t pin down the flavor of it.

  “Yes.”

  “I see.”

  “Hans-”

  “I’ll take care of it, Carolita,” he said. His voice had become gentle now.

  “Hans…”

  Toefler’s control of himself was evident even a world away. His voice was gentle and yet taut with unspoken emotion. “It’s okay, my love. I’ll handle it.”

  She swallowed the lump in her throat. “T-thank you.”

  “Of course. Leave it with me.”

  She closed her eyes and smiled. “I miss you, too, Hans.”

  “And I you, Carolita. I’ve got to go; he’s chasing seagulls.”

  She chuckled involuntarily. “Of course he is. Be safe.”

  “We shall. I’ll give him your love.”

  Something in his voice made her smile impishly. “I’m sure you will,” she said with a note of insinuation.

  He chuckled. “Goodbye, Carolita.”

  “Goodbye, Hans.”

  She hung up the phone. The piles of papers all around her desk were intolerable. The weight of the company, of the entirety of Ossirian’s life were intolerable. They weren’t new, just oppressive. She realized belatedly that she’d not asked Hans about his new acquisition. He was quite justified in his pride. His antique car collection had become almost as much of a topic as his own paintings, and his ongoing public rivalry with Ossirian.

  A beach. Sunlight. She longed for home.

  She pressed the buzzer on the phone. Her assistant answered. “Yes, Ms. Delgado?”

  In English she said, “Harper, I’m done. I’ve had enough of this for today. Unless something’s actively on fire, I’ll be out of the office until Monday.”

  “Very good, Ms. Delgado. Shall I call the car?”

  “Yes, please.”

  The car took her to the Dakota, where she had kept an apartment for ten years. She drank some run, listened to some music, and fell asleep staring out over the city.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Two weeks later, she received a call from Ossirian.

  “Hello, my Muse,” he said. His voice was distracted, bereft of its usual cheerful ring.

  “Ossirian, my dear,” she said with a smile. “Where are you?”

  “Germany,” he said. “Hans and I have been touring the estate.”

  She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled. “Oh?”

  “It’s is lovely here. The river, the view. You should come.”

  “I have a lot of work to do, Ossirian. You’ve left a mess behind. The New Zealand Arts council is under the impression you donated thirty canvases to them.”

  “I asked them to get rid of them for me,” Ossirian said. His distracted tone caught her attention.

  “Ossirian, are you all right?”

  “I… yes. I’m… I need money.”

  “Of course. Where shall I wire it, and how much?”

  “I need a line of credit,” he said. She had never heard him sound business-like. “I want to hire contractors, and I need a piece of property here. I need property lawyers, estate lawyers, and-”

  “Estate lawyers?” she blurted.

  “To set up a trust,” Ossirian said. “An ongoing grant.”

  “Ah.” Relief flooded her. “I see. Cannot Hans-”

  “No. This is for me.”

  “All right. Let me have the details of the project.”

  Ossirian hesitated, and she almost asked, but he continued. “I’m setting up a small studio. I need twenty-four-hour surveillance, guards, and a very specialized kind of container. I… I’ve painted a… I think I’ve made a masterpiece, Carolyn.”

  Her blood chilled. No wonder he doesn’t sound right, she thought. He’s got to be losing his mind! “Ossirian, I can’t remember the last time you used my name. Am I no longer your Muse?”

  “Of course you are.” His voice was low, sincere, and carried the edge she had always heard when he spoke to her lovingly. “You are and always will be my Muse.”

  “Good,” she said, and the childish delight that sang in her veins amazed her, even now. How simple a thing, to make her happy. A sudden, painful lump occluded her throat. She wanted to speak, but couldn’t.

  “Can you arrange it?”

  “I can arrange anything and everything.”

  “Thank you.”

  She looked out the window. “Do you wish me to come? I can have the jet ready-”

  “No. Not until it’s done.”

  “All right. I’ll contact some people and have it set up. Will you need anything else?”

  “No,” Ossirian said. “Hans is handling the minor details. But this has to be all mine for now. It’s something special.”

  She smiled. He was always so otherworldly it felt like the sun coming out from behind a cloud when she had a real conversation with him. “Very well, my little painter. Keep your secrets.”

  He said nothing.

  “Let me get to work, so that you can invite me as soon as possible to see it.”

  “Thank you, my Muse,” he said. He sounded sad. “I shall contact you when I’m finished.”

  “Very well. Give Hans my love.”

  “I will. He sends his. I… I love you, Carolyn.”

  She froze. Before she could speak, he hung up.

  She stared at the phone, heart triphammering in her chest. She set the handset on the cradle with exaggerated care. She took several calming breaths, and pushed the buzzer to summon Harper. She explained what she needed, what Ossirian required, and gave her the relevant details as she had them. Harper accepted the assignment and left to work her particular witchcraft on the vast webbing that Muse, Inc. had stretched over the world, while Carolyn stared out the windows of her office, heart ablaze with the words he had left her with.

  I love you, Carolyn.

  She pressed shaking hands together and stared out the window, and if she wept, just a little, there was no one to see it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Six month later, Ossirian summoned her to Germany. Atop the mountain overlooking the Altmühl River, across from Castle Toefler, the glass room waited. Ossirian opened the door and let her in, and followed her. Toefler himself watched from the outside.

  The room held a stainless steel box seven feet wide and six feet high. Two feet thick, it resembled a bank vault, but narrower. Along the right side was a panel. The digital readout above the panel read: 51,559,11.00. As she watched, it rolled backward. One second, then another.

  She frowned at the readout. The steel face of the case was blank. To each side, and to each side of the door, guards with automatic rifles stood watching.

  “I… I don’t understand. It’s blank.”

  “That’s the back,” Ossirian said without a smile. “The painting faces the river.”

  She walked around the steel monolith. She gave him a sour look. “This side’s blank too, Ossirian.”

  “No, it’s covered.”

  She folded her arms. “Explain.”

  He took a deep breath. She noticed he seemed more introspective than he usually was; he appeared deep in thought most of the time. She would have thought him depressed, but he continued to work feverishly, despite having produced this… whatever it might be.

  “Inside is my masterpiece. In one hundred years the time lock will disengage, and the panel will open. Long after I’m gone, I will give the world my greatest creation.” Ossirian stared at the river below.

  “Oh.”

  He nodded. “It is the perfect message. I finally found the words my soul wants to say to another.”

  “Why wait? Why not give it to the world now?”

  “Because I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to discuss it, or dissect it, or hear about it.” He continued to look down at the river, his eyes tracing its lazy looping path through the valley.


  She nodded. “Okay. May I see it?”

  “Yes,” he said. He pointed to the panel below the timer. “If you press your palm on that pad it will open for you.”

  She stared. “A biometric lock? That’s why you needed me to-”

  “Yes.”

  She reached for the pad, and he said, “If you open it, you have sixty seconds in which to view it. Then it seals and it will be destroyed.”

  She froze. “What?”

  “If you open it-”

  “I heard you, Ossirian. I was asking for clarification.”

  “Oh. You can open it. But you cannot do so if there are cameras. You cannot do so if there are observers. The guards will prevent you from opening it if you attempt to bring anyone else. Or it will unlock on its own in one hundred years, give or take a couple of minutes.”

  “Why would it be destroyed?”

  “It is only destroyed if you choose to view it early,” Ossirian told her, staring into her eyes in an unsettlingly direct manner. “If the timer ends, it will open and be available to all with no destruction.”

  “But why? Why give it to me for one minute, or the world forever? I don’t understand.” She frowned at him. Unease gripped her belly.

  “Because it’s either for the world, my Muse, or for you.” Ossirian looked pained. “Those are the terms.”

  She studied him. “Why do this?”

  “Because it’s not for everyone. It’s either all yours alone, or it’s every else’s except yours. That’s the way I want it,” he said. He turned away. “We should go. Hans has invited us dinner at the castle.”

  She stared at him as he walked away. She glanced at the guards uneasily and followed after him. “Ossirian, why are you doing this?”

  “Because it has to be this way.”

  “Will you tell me nothing about it?”

  He stopped. He stared at the slab over his shoulder, gave her a solemn look, and said, “I can tell you the title of the piece, if you wish.”

  She examined his somber, clouded face. He was being very stubborn, and very… not like himself. She took his hand. “I’m sorry you’re upset.”

  “I’m not upset,” he assured her. “I’m not.”

  “All right. Well then, keep your secrets, my painter. And tell me what it is you want to tell me. What is your masterpiece called?”