by Mike Resnick
"It's a bargain!" said Dali eagerly. He was about to extend his hand to shake on it, but at the last moment he thought better of it. "This is a very unusual place you live in," he continued after a moment. "Everything is so strange here."
"Not as strange as my paintings," said Jinx.
"Birds walk, snakes fly, rivers flow upstream, chipmunks and trees talk . . . what could be stranger than that?"
"There's nothing strange about that," replied Jinx. "It's the natural course of things. If you want strange, you should see my art. It upsets everyone who sees it."
"That's not a terrible thing," said Dali.
"It isn't?"
"At least they remember it. If it's unique, if no one else paints like it, then it will always be identified with you."
"Is that a good thing?" asked Jinx.
"Do you want to just be another painter, interchangeable with all your peers?" said Dali. "Or do you want your work to stand out, to be like no one else's?"
"It already stands out, and nobody except me understands it," said Jinx.
Dali smiled. "I feel an affinity with you, Jinx. I don't know where I am or how I got here, but I'm glad we met, and I hope the next time I fall asleep or get drunk I meet you again."
"You won't, you know," said Jinx.
"Oh?"
She shook her head. "When you sleep, you dream. I am not a dream. You can visit me whenever you want, and I hope you will let me visit you, but only when you're awake."
"You're sure I'm awake?"
"Yes."
"It is the middle of the night, though," he continued, looking at his wristwatch. Suddenly he noticed Jinx staring at his watch in rapt fascination. "What is it?" he asked.
"I've never seen anything like it before," she said.
"You've never seen a watch?"
"I've seen lots of watches. But never one like that."
"I don't understand," said Dali.
"It doesn't change."
He held it out for her. "The hands move."
"But the watch doesn't change. It's fixed and rigid. It was flat and circular a minute ago, and I suspect it will be flat and circular an hour from now."
"Of course it will."
"That's what's so strange. The world changes with each passing second. I have never heard of a watch that didn't change too, to show the passage of time."
"You are a very interesting young lady," said Dali. He smiled. "And a very pretty one, with just the right number of eyes and noses."
"Thank you," she said. "If you like, I will pose for you." She paused. "But I won't take my clothes off."
"I haven't asked you to."
"But you would have. All artists like to see what's beneath the clothing. I would disappoint you: just arms and legs. No snakes, no insects, no white bones."
"Good God!" exclaimed Dali. "What do the people of this world look like?"
"It's your world too, you know," said Jinx. "And they look just like people."
"I am losing my mind," he said. "For a few minutes there everything seemed to make sense, but clearly I have gone over the edge."
"The edge of what?" she asked curiously.
"Of sanity."
"I think I had better take you home, Salvador, before you convince yourself that you've gone mad." She reached out and took him by the hand. "Come this way."
She walked ten paces to the left, then ten to the right. Then she led him in a large circle.
"But we're right back where we started," said Dali, puzzled.
"Do you really think so?" asked Jinx.
"It's obvious," said Dali.
"Then why are you standing next to the door at the back of your closet?"
He turned and was astonished to find the door, standing all by itself, about ten feet from the birch tree. He reached out tentatively, half-expecting it to be an illusion, and his hand made contact with the knob.
"It's a door!" he whispered in awe.
"Of course it is," said Jinx. "I told you I'd take you back to your home."
He opened it, stepped through, and found himself standing in his closet. "Come along," he said to Jinx, waiting for her to join him before closing the door.
"This is a very strange place," said Jinx.
"In what way?" asked Dali.
"The rooms are square, the walls are straight, and all the rooms have ceilings," said Jinx, frowning in puzzlement. "It's like a very weird dream."
"It is?"
"Absolutely," she said. "I'll bet your chair doesn't even talk to you."
"No, it doesn't."
"And the rug—why is it so big?"
"To cover the floor," said Dali.
"Is the floor that ugly?"
"No."
"Then why don't you have a little rug, maybe the size of a pillow?" she asked. "You could just order it to keep moving under your feet whenever you walked, so you wouldn't have to walk on the wood floor unless you wanted to."
Dali had been listening intently. Finally he smiled.
"Can I get you something to eat or drink?" he asked solicitously. "I have a feeling we've got a lot to talk about."
Chapter 5: When the Ludicrous Isn't
Dali prepared tea for Jinx and poured himself a glass of wine from two different bottles, one red, one white.
"Why do you drink that?" she asked, indicating his miscolored wine, when he rejoined her in the studio. "It can't taste very good."
"I drink it because no one else does."
"But maybe there is a reason why no one else does," she persisted.
"Reason and consistency are the twin hobgoblins of little minds," he replied disdainfully. "I do not smoke my cigarettes through a twelve-inch holder because it makes them taste better, or because it is easy to manipulate. I do it because it adds to all the things that make me Dali." He paused. "I do many such things. Once when I saw the carcass of a bat in the park, I ran over, picked it up, and took a bite, just to see what it tasted like."
"How could that possibly help you as a painter?"
"I must experience things than no one else experiences if I am to paint things no one else paints."
"It sounds good," she admitted. "But I really don't see the connection."
"You are very young."
"Will a dead, rotting bat taste better when I am older?" asked Jinx.
"I do these things to be regarded with awe, not to be imitated," said Dali.
"I thought you painted to be regarded with awe."
"That, too," he said. "You've had a few minutes to look at them. What do you think?"
"These are good," she said, indicating his two most recent efforts.
"Thank you," said Dali, surprised that he actually cared about a young girl's opinion—and such a strange girl from such a strange place. To his surprise, he briefly found himself wondering if she was even real.
"Yes," she said. "Nice use of color. Excellent brush strokes. They are very good first efforts."
"I beg your pardon!" said Dali heatedly.
"Why?" she asked innocently. "They don't offend me. They show great promise." She paused. "I wish I knew why men had such an overwhelming urge to paint naked women."
"Suppose you tell me what's wrong with them?" said Dali, trying to control his temper.
"With naked women?" she asked.
"With the paintings."
"Don't you know?" said Jinx.
Dali stared at the paintings, and all the energy seemed to leave him. He slumped down on a chair, deflated. "Of course I know," he said. "They are exquisite examples of the mundane. They are fine displays of the current state of painting on the European Continent, and they could have been painted by any of fifty men I could name."
"See?" she said with a smile. "You do know."
"Knowing what's wrong is a far cry from knowing how to improve them," said Dali unhappily.
"True," she said. "But it's a first step—and like they say, every journey begins with one."
"I am already in my twenties," he replied. "If it
has taken me this long to take one step, how am I ever to achieve anything of lasting value?"
"Maybe we can help each other," suggested Jinx. "Maybe while I am learning from you, you can learn from me."
"But you're just a child."
"Perhaps I am," she admitted. "But I knew what was wrong with your paintings, and I am sure you will know how to help me become a painter."
"Let me ask you a question," said Dali.
"Ask anything you want."
"Why do you want to become a painter?"
She considered her answer for a moment, then spoke: "Part of it is because art lasts. If I am a good painter, people will admire my work long after I am dead, and I find that comforting." Suddenly a guilty smile crossed her freckled face. "But I suppose the real reason is that painting makes me happy. Not just putting colors on a piece of canvas, but painting something that's meaningful to me, that would never have been painted quite that way by anyone else. That makes me happy."
"You are wise beyond your years, young Jinx," said Dali admiringly.
"Why do you paint, Salvador?"
"I am not totally sure," he replied. "I paint to make money, of course, and to become famous, but that is a given. I think the real reason I paint is perhaps the exact opposite of yours. You wish to capture the images of things that are unique to you; I wish to expunge them from my soul, and capture them on canvas, with everything the word 'capture' implies. Once there, they cannot invade my subconscious again. Or at least that is what my friend Freud would say."
"But I sense you also want to be the best," she said. "That you are unhappy with anything less than brilliance."
"Of course," agreed Dali, pacing restlessly around the studio. "With proper training, anyone can become a painter. But to become an artist . . ."
"You have it within you, Salvador," said Jinx. "I can tell that from what little I've seen of your work."
Dali stared at her long and hard, then sighed deeply. "Why am I listening to a girl who is barely into her teens?"
"Because no one else has told you what you need to hear," said Jinx with a smile.
"My friend Lorca, the writer, once told me what he thought I needed to hear," said Dali. "Do you know how I responded?"
"No."
"I shaved my head, buried my hair on the beach, and didn't speak to him again for years."
"You've gone out of your way to appear so strange and eccentric that everyone except Senor Lorca probably thought you'd start foaming at the mouth if they spoke to you frankly."
"Perhaps," said Dali, not without a trace of satisfaction. Suddenly he glanced nervously around the studio and out into the adjoining room. "What am I to do with you?"
"Teach me and learn from me."
He grimaced. "That is not what I meant. I have this . . . ah . . . friend . . ."
"Your mistress?" asked Jinx curiously.
"Not exactly," said Dali uncomfortably. "She is a married woman."
"Then what does it matter if she sees me here?"
"It could become awkward," said Dali. "We have an . . . understanding. As soon as I am more successful, she will leave her husband and marry me. But in the meantime . . ." He let the sentence linger in the air for a moment. "She has a temper, and she is very possessive."
"If she loves you," said Jinx, "why does she not leave her husband now?"
"You are just a child," answered Dali, suddenly very uncomfortable, because he could think of a number of reasons why Gala didn't leave her husband, each of them valid, and each very unflattering to Dali. "You do not understand."
"I understand love," she replied, "and if you ask me— "
"I didn't and I won't," interrupted Dali. "The subject is closed."
"What is her name?" she asked, ignoring his order.
"Gala."
"It is a pretty name."
"She is a pretty woman. In fact, she is a beautiful woman. There will come a time when I will include her face in every painting I do."
"That sounds very tedious."
"That is because you have not seen her," said Dali. "In the summer we would walk along the beach near her seaside villa at night, and every few steps I throw myself on the sand and kiss her feet."
"You must love her feet very much," said Jinx.
Dali sighed. "You make it sound ludicrous."
"I?" asked Jinx, unable to repress a smile of amusement.
Dali sighed. "All right. I make it sound ludicrous. But it isn't."
"Say that again."
"Why?" asked Dali, puzzled.
"Because that's the answer," said Jinx.
"What are you talking about?"
"The ludicrous doesn't appear ludicrous to you."
"So?"
"So think about it," she said.
He stared at her, puzzled. "You look like you think you've said something profound, but I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Then that's doubtless why you haven't painted it yet."
"Painted what?" he asked irritably.
"May I have some more tea, please?" she said sweetly, holding out her cup.
"You are making no more sense then the crazed world behind the door in the back of the closet!" snapped Dali, so annoyed that he couldn't hold the pot steady and spilled some tea on the floor after filling her cup to the brim. He put the pot in the kitchen before he made an even bigger mess, then returned to the studio.
"No more and no less," she said.
"All right," he said in frustration. "Now what does that mean?"
"It means that if you know how to make your way through my world it makes perfect sense, and if you would listen to me, you would see that I make perfect sense too."
Dali glared at the young redhead, half-admiring her calm and air of certainty, half enraged by it.
"You seem very sure of yourself, young lady."
"Thank you."
"Thank you for what?"
"For calling me a young lady," replied Jinx, brushing a wisp of hair back from her face. "No one's ever done that before."
"Could we get back to the subject, please?" said Dali, trying to hold his exasperation in check.
"Certainly."
He paused and his face went blank. "Suddenly I'm totally confused. What was the subject?"
"The answer to your problem." She paused. "Your problem as a painter, not your problem with Gala's feet."
"I have no problem with her feet."
"With the rest of her, then."
"Leave her out of this and tell me the answer to my problem as an artist," he said, picking up his wine glass and downing its contents with a single swallow, then grimacing at the terrible taste.
"I already told you," explained Jinx patiently, "but you weren't paying attention."
Dali began pacing back and forth in front of her.
"Tell me again."
"You said it yourself," replied Jinx.
He stopped in his tracks. For just a moment it seemed he was about to scream at her, or perhaps even take a swing at her, but through an enormous effort of will he forced himself to become calm.
"What did I say?"
"That the ludicrous doesn't appear ludicrous to you," she answered.
Dali was silent for a long moment, lost in thought. "So you are saying that I should paint the ludicrous?" he said at last. "That I paint the things I see in my dreams—or the world behind the door in the closet?"
"It would be unique, wouldn't it?"
"It would be ridiculous!"
"Only if you thought you were painting something ridiculous," she said. "May I give you an example?"
"Please do."
"All right," said Jinx. She lowered her head in thought for a few seconds, then looked up. "Imagine a roly-poly animal with six legs and three eyes, the size of a small dog, but more closely resembling a pig. Pretend it is blue, and that it is somewhat cross-eyed. That's ridiculous, is it not?"
"Certainly."
"Now imagine the same animal, its breasts fille
d with milk, mournfully nudging the corpse of its dead baby. Is it still ridiculous?"
"No, it is not."
"But it is the same animal," said Jinx. "You see? If the artist does not think it is ridiculous, he will not paint its image in such a way that it appears ridiculous."
Dali sat down heavily and remained motionless for almost a full minute. Finally he looked up at Jinx.
"You have a point," he admitted. Then: "How many other artists have entered your world?"
"The only entrance is in your closet, Salvador," she replied. "How many artists have you ushered through the door?"
"I never even knew it existed until tonight."
"Then you know the answer."
"So I am the only one to see it?" he persisted.
"Except for the people who live there," said Jinx. "Just as I am the only one from the other side of the door to see your world." Suddenly she giggled. "They will think me quite mad when I finally paint it."
Dali said nothing, and after a moment Jinx spoke again.
"What is the matter, Salvador?"
"I am still considering it," he said.
"Teaching me to paint?" she replied. "We have an agreement."
"I will teach you to paint," he said distractedly. "I am considering what you said."
"Why?" she asked. "You know I'm right."
"Are you this bold at home, young lady?" he asked.
"I prefer to think of it as self-confidence."
"I assume that is an affirmative?"
"Yes."
"Has anyone told you that you are an exceptionally precocious young lady."
"I do not know that word," said Jinx. "Is it a good thing or a bad thing to be?"
"That all depends."
"On what?"
"On whether or not my painting improves," said Dali.
"Then you're going to follow my advice?" she asked happily.
He drew himself up to his full height. "I am going explore your suggestion," he replied with dignity.
"Same thing," said Jinx.
Dali seemed about to lose his temper. Then, instead, he smiled.
"Same thing," he agreed.
Chapter 6: Effect and Cause
Three days had passed, days in which Jinx worked on her sketchbook and Dali on a painting. Neither showed the other what they had done, preferring that the other see only the finished creation.