He gets to the point. It’s a large canvas, but I’m still staggered by the price he names. Francis’ face is all brown angles and gentleness; his mouth blossoms into a wide smile.
“Actually, she was thinking more of…”
He goes a thousand over the man’s offer, and I’m shocked when the latter agrees. I’m barely concentrating. The matter is settled quickly, and before I realize it Francis has a cheque in his hand and the man is walking out the door with my painting.
Francis puts the cheque in his shirt pocket; he handles all my money affairs, which is a godsend. I look toward his work, displayed at the front of the studio. “You’re a marvellous agent, Francis— an incredible artist.”
“Not like you, Jess,” he says, gently. I know what he’s referring to, the comments: that I’m ambivalent, unfocused on my career, but that the fusion of color and light, that brightness at the core of every painting I’ve ever completed, has won me praise, even a mention of genius. I’d do far better if I just applied myself. I’ve kept my darker secrets as best I could, along with a cultivated mistrust of outsiders. “What’s wrong?” he asks.
I’m shaking all over. “A sculptor in the park — George Maldern — he…” I cop out. “He collapsed. I think he’s dead. That’s why I’m late.”
“George?” Francis is taken aback. “They were unveiling his bronze today, his fountain— we’re invited to the reception. You’d have known if you’d been in this week.”
“Sorry.” I whisper. The memory of what I saw, improbable or not, causes bile to rise in my throat. Besides, Francis is good to me, and I don’t deserve it. If I tell him — how can it be true? — he’d worry terribly.
“Here,” I take some crumpled bills from my skirt pocket and cram them into his hand. “Part of the rent. The rest when you put the cheque through, I promise.”
He puts his arms around me and I start to cry. Then I hug him fiercely and pull away. I have to force myself to stay in the studio, to try to paint. I can’t just walk out. Francis works so bloody hard. He sells well, but unlike me, he’s earned it, and he never gets the kind of acclaim I do.
I settle as best I can in front of an unfinished canvas, with my oils and brushes. On top of everything else, and particularly today, the familiar monster crowds in— doubt. Even when I do feel compelled, I paint for a few days only, then stop, paint then stop… I know, no matter what, that the work will never be quite good enough. It’s a love-hate thing that consumes me.
Right now, all genesis seems stuck somewhere between my brain and my unsteady hand — it’s the park thing, of course, but I won’t — can’t — sort it out yet. Thoughts about my own mortality and my sense of worthlessness are so mixed up in it all. A ray of sunlight slips through a space in the window blind, lighting up my arm. Odd, how the light seems to stay there, no matter how I move. It’s so bright.
None of this is right— the colors, the mediocre composition. “Damn… useless!” I fling my brush to the floor, sending the canvas clattering after it, ruining it.
“How can you expect to realize your potential, to really succeed, when you only finish a few paintings a year?” Francis, stacking paintings against the wall beside me, asks calmly.
I know he’s right. Even with my growing panic, I’m ashamed of my outburst. My efforts sell for decent sums, which keeps me going, but that’s a shabby reason to paint.
“I will pay you— and you’ll take your commission, of course.” I pat the cheque in his shirt pocket, my voice breaking; I’m losing it. “Later…” I manage.
Francis tries to grab my hands. “Jess— Jessica! It doesn’t matter—”
I’m gone, running downstairs into the street. I look nervously to the left, front and right before I start out, taking care to avoid lines or cracks.
* * *
The heat builds fiercely for the next few days. By the end of the week, it’s hell. I’ve been dreaming of the woman in white, catching glimpses of dazzling light in the corner of my eye. There’ve been confusing rumors about how it happened, but George did die. That confirmation shook me. Apart from what I think I saw, what if I were suddenly cut down like that, if it all just stopped? George was so gifted, I’d never measure up to a legacy like his, or anyone else’s I can think of. Still…
“I didn’t see that woman— I didn’t!” If I tell myself this often enough, maybe it will make it true. Besides, I’m really scared. I’ve never hallucinated about anything— it just isn’t part of my problem. But if this is a new symptom…
“Check,” I mutter as I take the first of three right turns, stepping over a line. I’m not sure just when this thing with threes started, but I feel that along with avoiding cracks and the like, it saves me, that if I stick to my rituals I’ll be all right. Besides, if I don’t give in, the urge builds inside me until I feel I’ll burst.
I’m meeting my friend Connie at Jacques— after this I go one block, another right, another block and a right into the café. From the shade of the awnings, the light beyond looks surreal. Everyone, every thing is different in the harsh cast of sunlight, brighter or paler, more angular…
I love Jacques, with its old-world atmosphere and rich aroma of coffee and croissants. Connie is sitting in an alcove by the far window, away from everyone. Her face looks drawn, and she has a satchel and some papers on the table in front of her.
“The ceiling fans in here sure help,” I comment, sitting opposite. I take some napkins and divide them into three neat piles; wisely, Connie says nothing.
“Not going well?” I venture. I can see the papers are part of her latest novel. She’s been having a rough time with it; something made all the worse, I suspect, by her considerable fame.
“What do you think?” She shoves the top pages at me. Her voice is low, coarsened by years of heavy smoking, and I know this isn’t really a question. Connie loves writing. This is about pain, and I have to be careful. I read the passage, noting the change in dialogue since I last saw it, the absence of detail, which is not her style.
“I liked the first version better,” I say gently, handing them back. “You revealed so much more about the characters, and the setting, the atmosphere, contributed to that.”
“That isn’t what they thought.” She pushes her empty paper cup away.
They are her editor and agent, and they’ve been hounding her for weeks.
“My last book barely earned out its advance, Jess, and if I don’t fix this— well with everything being so sensationalist, now, so plot-driven…”
Connie is dear to me, and I hate seeing her like this. She’s one of those gifted artists and writers who achieve success in their lifetime, when so many don’t. She’s won awards and rave reviews, and has a slew of fans. But she’s bound by the bottom-line mentality of all-too-many publishers, that it’s all about the money now, and if you mess up, you’re gone.
“This is better than your last novel Connie— it has a strong plot. Put back what you took out, and the story’s dynamite.” She hires people to vet her work. I don’t know if they’ve seen this yet, but I can tell by her face that I haven’t reassured her.
“I’ve tried and tried. It’s no damn use.” Connie hunches over her manuscript. “I haven’t shown anyone the last of it. I’ve deleted the thing— smashed the backup.” She reaches into her satchel and pulls out a wad of papers, stacking them with the others. “This is the only hard copy. I think we should take the whole thing back to my place and burn it— what do you say?” To my dismay, she leafs through some pages and starts to tear them. “Maybe I should give everything up!”
“No Connie, not like this.” I grab at her wrists, struggling with her at first, then wresting the manuscript away. Her face contorts in anguish as she reaches after it, as though she has to commit this act before she loses her courage. It’s as if she’s murdering someone, and I don’t even know if she wants me to stop her. The
sun slips past the café awning, flooding the table.
Connie gets hold of the manuscript’s edge, distraught. Nothing I say calms her. If I know one thing at this moment, it’s that I have to save her book. I wrench the papers free, losing my balance, slipping off my chair and landing on my side. I still have the manuscript— there are a couple of tears. Connie drops to her knees by the table, reaching for me. Raising my head, I see a pale, bare foot next to me. Then I notice the creamy, luminous dress.
I twist back. “You!”
Bathed in a commanding radiance, her figure looks titanic. She steps forward, with her doubled red string and bright, trailing balloon. I feel a chill gust in the sunlight. With a keening moan, she reaches down and winds the cord around Connie’s neck, starting to twist and pull.
I hear shouting, people in the background, but I see only what’s before me— the light obliterates the café and patrons. It’s all about us, dazzling. I scramble to my knees, reaching for the creature’s hands, trying to loosen her grip. Connie’s choking, grabbing at the ligature. The white menace has long fingernails, and she twists the cord with one powerful hand — right at Connie’s neck — working at both of mine with the other, her nails cutting cruelly into Connie and me. Connie grapples hard, looking toward her tormentor, swaying in that same strange way that George did. The other moves with her, saying something to her, but the noise around us is louder and I can’t hear that well.
“Stop!” I clench my teeth, putting my full weight against the woman’s leg— it’s immovable. Grabbing the cord with one hand, I get my other behind Connie’s head, yanking her toward me. “Connie, come on, breathe, try!” Connie’s assailant hisses at me, her dark eyes full of rage. She rips the crimson cord from my grasp, and I feel a sharp tug on that arm. My other hand loses its grip on Connie. A ragged brilliance erupts from the cord, swirling around her. I can barely see. I think Connie mouths something at her attacker, but I can’t make it out— she gestures, begging…
And then it’s over. The white menace and light vanish— it all happened so fast. I’m kneeling, panting, and Connie’s lying on her back on the sunlit floor in front of me. There are people crowded around, and a man is crouching next to us, clutching my arm.
“I’m a doctor,” he says to me. “What the hell’s going on? The two of you—”
“She gets carried away,” I interrupt glibly. “She’s stressed, smokes constantly—” My heart sinks as Connie stops breathing. The doctor tries to rouse her, checking her pulse before beginning chest compressions. Someone holds a cell phone to his ear as he orders an ambulance. For an awful moment nothing happens; then, with a hideous gasping noise, Connie starts to breathe. She looks at me, stricken, drawing me down in a shaky embrace, and I’ve never been so happy to hug someone in my life.
“Jess, what was—?” Her voice sounds reedy in my ear. She can’t finish. She knows. I can tell from her face. Like me, she saw, even if no one else did, and I’m damn sure she spoke with that thing, felt something.
“The hard copy’s all right.” I forestall her with a warning look. “Someone can type a new one, or maybe retrieve the file from your laptop.”
There’s a lot of talk around us, but no one’s blaming me for anything, yet. Signs remain of an attack this time— we’re both left with sinister marks and scratches. When the paramedics and ambulance come, Connie wants me along, and I climb into the front seat, glancing down the street as I reach to close the door.
The woman in white is there, hair and garment fluttering, balloon bobbing. She stands transcendent in the summer light, totally in command of the space she inhabits. She doesn’t care if she attacks in broad daylight, even when there’s someone like me who can see and intervene. Those terrible eyes stare right at me, her expression cruel and carved-looking, like stone. Once more I see a face in the red balloon, like some grotesque trophy— oh God no, Connie’s! And then it disappears…
When we reach the hospital, I accompany Connie as they wheel her stretcher in; she plucks at my sleeve. She looks even more terrified than I feel, and she’s ghastly pale.
“Jess, back there, did you see—?” Once more, she can’t finish the question, and I sense she never will. Worst of all, I think I get it now— I really do.
* * *
My hand is shaking so badly, there’s paint all over the place and my canvas is a mess.
For days I’ve been looking out my window, over my shoulder, thinking I see that white dress, the red balloon. Connie’s phoned me so many times, chattering frantically about the progress on her book. She’s read me passages, and they’re astonishing; rambling and brilliant, but I doubt they’ll do for today’s market. Worse, her conversations are so scattered I’m afraid she’s losing it. I’m convinced her wild burst of inspiration is because of the woman in white, of some promise she made that she has no hope of keeping. She hasn’t mentioned any part of that awful day, even her hospital visit, and when I press her, she hangs up. She won’t see me.
I can’t say I wasn’t warned…
It all begins with a touch of light on my hand, my arm.
The creature’s picked her time, when Francis is out. Her approach is so silent. I just turn, and she’s there; no gust of air, though it’s freezing. If I thought her radiance dazzling before, it was nothing compared to now. Her look has never been so direct, so cruel and angry. I see no mercy in her face, and I deserve none. I’ve betrayed my art. I’m a slacker, a self-pitying, pathetic loser. She starts for me, the cord ready, and all at once she speaks.
Today, it’s a terrifying, banshee’s-howl of a voice, full of accusation and contempt. She lists my shortcomings relentlessly, and this time her words are so loud and clear there’s no mistaking them. She lunges at me and I drop my brush— I have this mad hope I can escape. We duck and weave among the easels. The way we move left and right reminds me of George and Connie, and their strange swaying.
Suddenly, she leaps, looping the dreaded cord around my neck— she twists it at my throat, playing the length out a little, toying with me. I can still breathe, perhaps speak. She’s enjoying my fear and distress— I sense they’re part of my punishment, and I feel an overwhelming rage.
“I’m not ready, damn you! I won’t go— I won’t! At least I’m trying!”
We begin a perverse dance of retreat and pursuit, the ligature tightening and tightening as she pulls me toward her, and me tugging on it, trying to ease it; there’s jagged light all along it, and it burns. The balloon floats near. I see tiny and countless tormented faces in it, hear their high-pitched, unearthly screaming, feel their desolation and despair.
At last she corners me. I know what she wants. I’ve finally realized how important my painting is. I’ve used every kind of excuse, even my compulsions — ’poor me, I can’t cope’ — to avoid the challenge of my true potential. It’s ironic that it’s taken her to make me see this. The craving for perfection isn’t what matters either. It’s the work itself, the striving, and right now I so badly want another chance at that.
“Please.” I’m still standing; I’m dizzy, and breathing horribly— I won’t beg, or kneel willingly, which is a stupid kind of pride. “Just listen.” I choke the promises out. It may be fear, but I mean every one of them. She smiles in disdain, finally hauling me to my knees. The light grows blinding, and there’s a sharp pain around my heart before it all goes blank.
* * *
My recovery is slow— like Connie, I don’t talk about what happened.
Many thoughts run through my mind as I stand working. I haven’t seen my nemesis yet, but I sense she’s stalking me. She’s always been with me, really— that source of light in my work, what others call my genius.
There is no compromise for anyone creative, only acceptance of the compelling, incessant urge to do. The woman in white embodies the brilliance, the force, that matrix which drives us all. She and her balloon are surreal and dis
turbing, like so much in literature and art, but beautiful, too. The problem lies with the darker persona that lurks in all that light, the judge and avenger, that killer Muse. She has high standards, and she doesn’t like weakness.
“Jess, take a break,” Francis, on his way out, urges me.
“Can’t— sorry,” I say gently, looking after him. He’s so deserving— he should be safe from her. As for me, I’m in a state of both madness and growing bliss. Odd, but I feel such joy now, though I know that nagging quest for perfection will set in soon enough.
Things really do go in threes: there was George, who just quit, then poor, conflicted Connie, and now — and least worthy of all — me. My sins of omission loom large. I have to keep striving for that perfect painting. I promised.
Besides, I want — I need — to see what I really can do.
But somehow the colors, the focus and form required for absolute perfection elude me, and I know in this particular effort I’ll fail. I’ve stepped on so many cracks, lately. I put it aside to finish another time, as best I can. That, too, was part of the pact— no more tantrums.
I start another canvas— my third today, and hopefully the magic number.
Is that a light I see in the corner of my eye, coming from the top of the stairs, with a bob and flicker of red? I hope she approves. She must know I don’t want anything to happen, not yet— I can’t succumb to her, let that force consume me…
That brightness.
* * *
Mary E. Choo’s work has appeared in many publications, both print and electronic. She has been on the preliminary ballots of the Nebula and Bram Stoker awards (the latter for poetry) and is a two-time Aurora finalist.
Night Market
by Steve Rasnic Tem and Melanie Tem
Cara really had to have a good time tonight. The way that beagle at work had looked at her, obviously knowing he was about to die…
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