by Aliyat Lecky
Mom took a sip of caution from her cup before speaking. “Magda.” Her tone was one of a parental warning, not one addressing a friend, and certainly not a customer to a service person. “Magda,” she repeated, much in the same way. “Do you wanna go to the back and talk privately?” Her voice was swollen with concern.
“Yes, I want to talk, but we can sit here. It’s so hot in the kitchen. I don’t want you to get hives.” Tears rose in Magda’s eyes, but did not fall.
Mom put her paper aside and slid the chair adjacent the younger woman. The two put their heads together closely while Mom offered seasoned advice to her brokenhearted friend.
Helen watched the two with compassionate interest. She could not hear them, and that was just fine. She could tell their conversation was best left private. Magda, the server, had problems of the heart, perhaps. Anyone in the room who cared to give her a second glance could guess her trouble.
“Magda. Phone.” An unseen voice called from the back. “It’s Veda,” the voice added somberly.
Mom and Magda turned their attention to the voice. Magda stood slowly, clearly with more effort than the task required. As she walked away, she glanced over her shoulder at Helen, who anticipated the action too late, and was caught seemingly intruding in on their privacy. Mom, seeing the alarm on Magda’s face, followed her stare to Helen’s frozen expression, caught Helen’s gaze, and smiled at her, giving her a curt nod. Magda, on the other hand, went to answer the phone. As she walked toward the call, she gave Helen a hard look over her shoulder that made Helen feel as though Magda thought she had taken something from her.
Mom returned to her daily news. The other servers continued to serve customers. Helen turned again to face outside and to mind her own business. Sappho’s Repose was becoming midday busy. Everyone seemed to be on a first-name basis, or at least familiar with most of the gathering crowd. At the table closest to Helen’s, four women sat chatting about the governor’s inability to see past his own star quality and presidential potential in order to better care for his constituents and the state’s deteriorating roads. Across from them, two college students sat quietly sipping tea, with their faces buried in thick textbooks. In the back near the shared bookshelf, a group gathered sitting crossed legged, listening as a woman slight in stature read from Morrison’s Paradise with such heart and commitment that, if the listener was incapable of seeing her body, would have imagined that she was part of the tale.
Then Helen saw her, the woman she had seen numerous times in the last several weeks or so. She had been so sure that the woman had been following her. Once or twice, she had been with Angie and had pointed the woman out, swearing that she had seen the woman before, but each time, Angie assured her that it was her imagination, and kidded that, “All African American women don’t look alike.” Yet there she was again, about to enter the same business in which Helen found herself. It was too frequent to be coincidence. Helen braced herself. The moment Helen realized that she was going to come in, she decided that she was going to speak to her. Regrettably, she had no idea what she would say.
“Hi, Ms. Dahl, I’m Noami.” She sat in the unoccupied seat at Helen’s table.
“Helen, please,” she responded, taking her hand. It took a moment for Helen to put the pieces together. She was not quite there yet.
“It’s nice to meet you, finally.”
“Right?” She nodded in agreement. The realization dawned. “So, that’s it? You have been following me?” The question sounded a bit too much like an accusation. Helen blushed apologetically, which was odd, because she never blushed, just as she never giggled. Yet there she sat, giggling apologetically, blushing like a fiend, as if she had somehow wronged the young artist seated opposite her, who, if she were a breath past thirty, Helen would eat her cup after she drained it of her chai.
“Yes.” Noami joined in with Helen’s laughter. “I have to do that when the painting is a surprise. I hope I didn’t make you too uncomfortable.”
“Not at all.” Helen lied. If truth be told, she was presently slightly uncomfortable. She was caught off-guard. Noami had a way of forcing eye contact. It was unsettling. “Besides, who wouldn’t want to be followed by such an attractive, creative person? I don’t believe I minded at all.” She lied again, and tugged brutally at the hair at the nape of her neck. “I was sure I saw you once or twice.” Four times, really, she thought to herself. Five, if she included the day she spied her twice. Once during the day and again that evening when she and Richard were in Chanhassen at the new gallery opening. She remembered that Noami had worn a lovely flowing coral summer dress in the afternoon and a short black number with the plunging neckline that evening. “I suspect you had a lot of help.”
“Yes. Thanks to your husband, I knew when you were in the area. Again, I hope I didn’t cause you any discomfort.”
“No, not really.” Helen waved away her concern. “And even if you had, the end result is well worth it. Honestly, I was speechless when I first saw the painting. I still haven’t quite recovered. You have quite a talent.”
“Thanks.” Now it was Noami’s turn to blush. “I spent more time than usual on the observation sketches.” She faltered. “Because, well, honestly, I knew who I was sketching. I am a fan of your father’s work.”
“Oh?” This impressed Helen. She assumed that Jack Dahl was an obscure reference among the young set at best. “I’m surprised. I didn’t think people your age knew much about his work.”
“Your father is just as relevant now as he was in the forties and fifties, and I’m probably older than you think.”
“Please excuse me. I didn’t mean—”
“Forty-six.” Noami cut her off. Her bright smile let Helen know that she was not offended.
“I’ve been a fan of your father’s since before I knew what his work really meant. I mean, before I understood art was art, and its significance.”
Helen was sure Noami misread the curious look on her face, and seemed to feel the need to explain further, so Helen let her continue.
“When I was in sixth grade, my teacher took our class to the Oakland Museum.”
“You were raised in Oakland?” Helen was intrigued. She loved the Bay Area. Many of her best evenings were spent getting lost in different corners of the San Francisco-Oakland area. Once she found herself lost on Fruitvale Avenue, one of Oakland’s major arteries. There, she discovered a man pushing a cart, selling mango covered in chili pepper and lime juice. She also had the best hand-rolled chicken tamale she had ever eaten in her life. The idea of Noami being from Oakland simply thrilled her. She rested her chin on her loose fist, preparing herself for an interesting tale.
“Yes. Anyway, Mrs. Tyler, our teacher, took us to the Oakland Museum. She was always working hard to expand our horizons and all that.” She paused thoughtfully.
Helen could tell from her expression that Noami appreciated her teacher’s efforts.
“We spent the morning split between the History section and the Natural Sciences area. It was a little different than it is now. The History Exhibit was a physical timeline of the development of California. The Natural Sciences section really was just displays of plants and animals indigenous to California.” She seemed to change lanes mid-thought. “Have you ever been to Oakland?” Her expression was one of a new acquaintance inquiring about an old beloved friend. Noami’s smile broadened when Helen confirmed that she had visited her hometown. “Yes. I miss it. A lot.”
Noami studied Helen’s open expression for any sign of her thoughts or any opinion of her favorite city Helen’s countenance might offer. Finding none, she continued. “The rest of the day, we spent in the Art department. It was the first time I’d ever been to the museum, and I remember being extraordinarily intimidated stepping into the room. The first piece I remember seeing was The Trial of Constance de Beverly.”
“That was your first art experience?” Helen asked, fascinated by the story being shared with her.
“No, but R
osenthal’s painting was the first that I can remember that moved me. I thought, ‘I could do that. I could create something so base and so beautiful all at once’.”
“You thought that at ten or eleven?” Helen interrupted once again. She had not meant to, but she wished somehow to be part of the Noami’s anecdote. To hear the account was not enough.
“Of course I didn’t think about it in those terms. I was only a kid at the time.”
“Still, I don’t believe I could have discovered so much at such an early age,” Helen said.
“No?”
“And I lived with it.”
Noami smiled more to herself than at the woman seated opposite her. She would never understand the life Helen seemed to take for granted. Such privilege. “That’s the day I fell in love with the idea of painting as a medium of self-expression. My mother started me with watercolors. It was all we could afford. She made an effort to support us all. When she saw that I had some talent, she really made sure I had the supplies I needed whenever she could. One Christmas, when I was fifteen, she took me and one of my sisters, Monica, to a gallery in Berkeley. She’d gotten three tickets through the community center. You know those, let’s-give-away-a-bunch-of-free-tickets-to-the-poor-and-we’ll-feel-better-about-what-we-do-and-they’ll-be-a-little-more-enlightened deals.” She shrugged noncommittally.
Helen nodded understandingly, hoping that she did not reveal what she thought. The young artist was as cynical as she was talented. A lethal combination. Helen wondered if Noami had a collection of sketches hidden in her loft she only shared with a particular type of client. Helen began to make a comment, but was too interested in Noami’s tale to be diverted.
“My mother apologized over and over again.”
“Well, why? Whatever for?” Helen could not fathom why anyone would apologize for a trip to an exhibit, or for encouraging her daughter’s interest.
“She thought the exhibit was supposed to be all paintings, however, there were only one or two paintings. I remember she even brought me a new sketchpad for the occasion, and made me bring it along. I felt so guilty, because she kept apologizing. It was during that trip I realized how difficult it had been for my mother to support my interest in becoming an artist. You know, before then, I hadn’t really considered what she was giving, only what I wasn’t getting, you know?” Noami gazed into Helen’s face.
Helen thought she perceived Noami’s obsidian eyes darken with remnants of childhood compunction she had yet to abandon or work out through her artistry. Of course, she could never appreciate that particular sacrifice, but she had her own memories from which she could draw her own childhood remorse. “Surely your mother did the best she could.”
“Yes, she did.” Noami’s tone spoke finality. Her mother’s efforts to support her as a developing artist were not to be questioned. “I was a little disappointed, I admit. Nevertheless, I pushed into the exhibit just so she wouldn’t be sad. I assured her that I loved it. I guess I did. I even opened my pad to sketch, just to show her that I was interested. After I convinced her I was thrilled to be there, I looked around.”
Helen sat on the edge of her seat. She had herself had too many experiences like the one Noami was describing not to recognize it for what it was.
Noami continued. “I wasn’t that impressed with the show. It was mostly sculpture, various life images that did not hold my attention. I drew a few paltry sketches, but my mom was impressed, so I felt better about how she was feeling. I was sketching a piece, I don’t remember which, my mother standing over my shoulder watching me, when Monica came over from out of nowhere. She grabbed my arm and pulled me through to the back of the gallery beyond a set of velvet black ropes that cordoned a display near the back corner of the gallery. My life changed. It was a moment of truth for me. When we stopped, I was standing in the middle of, Helen’s Dream.”
Helen understood completely. Her father had created Helen’s Dream shortly after she was born. It was one of four pieces Jack Dahl had named after his daughter, and one of many he told her she inspired. Helen’s Dream was her favorite work of her father’s. His magnum opus. The small collection of life-size sculpture was magnificent. More than sculpture, the piece was created well before its time. Unlike traditional sculpture, the piece was an installation of sorts. A three-dimensional reflection of what Jack believed was his daughter’s newborn imagination. This work by Jack Dahl continued to transcend any efforts by artists who even over fifty years later attributed his work as their greatest inspiration. He was well ahead of his time. At the time, his skill and innovation was unmatched.
After a few moments of mutual silence in which both women considered the other almost strategically, Noami added, “It was just a…”
“…defining moment.” Helen completed Noami’s thought.
“Yes. That’s your father’s work. I assure you, he remains quite relevant.”
“That one has always been my favorite. I used to play amongst the elements. You say you saw it in Oakland?”
“Berkeley.”
“That exhibit has traveled to more places than I have. He’s retired it, did you know?”
“Yes.” Her answer was mournful and full of regret. “But I cannot tell you how many hours I’ve spent sketching your father’s work, particularly Helen’s Dream.”
“I’d really love to see your sketches, if you still have them. If what you did for us is any indication of your talent, I’m sure they’re excellent.”
“Thanks. Therefore, you like your portrait. I hoped you would.”
“Like? I was stunned when I first saw it. You are gifted. It’s exceptional.” Helen picked up her empty cup and began to gnaw at the ceramic lip. She had so many questions for Noami, but felt it best to progress cautiously. “Umm, what was your inspiration?”
“You were.”
“No, what I am trying to ask is…” Helen, the wordsmith, was at a loss for words. “I mean, where did the idea of placement, the pose come from? Was it something Richard requested?”
“Oh, I understand your question, Ms. Dahl.”
“Helen, please.”
Noami nodded. “I know what you are asking me. When my services are requested for a surprise, either I get a photo to reproduce, or I don’t. In your case, I didn’t. Mr. Muir asked me to portray you in a way that was appropriate for his wife. That was his only request. He didn’t give me more specifications or parameters than that. I assume that after coming to my studio to check out my portfolio, he was satisfied that I could be trusted not to represent you in a way he might disapprove.”
“So you began to follow me around?”
“Yes. Sketching and taking notes.”
“Notes?”
“That’s a large part of what I do. I take notes about you, your interests, where I see you, what you’re doing.”
Helen squirmed a little in her seat. Of course she had not done anything that she wished had gone unobserved, or that she would have regretted, but that was really not her concern at the moment. Her thoughts returned to her initial reaction to the portrait. Who had seen into her soul and put it on canvas? She was not getting the answers she wanted. Perhaps a different approach was in order.
“You have never seen me in a dress like the one in the painting before.” She tried to make her statement sound less like an indictment, and more like a joke.
“Yes and no. You wore a gown very similar to the dress in the painting when you accompanied your husband to the Guthrie. I simply changed the texture of the dress, and the color, for artistic reasons. In fact, I don’t think I changed the bodice of the dress at all.”
“Yes, but in the painting, it’s practically falling off.” Helen was aware of the tone of her voice. She was beginning to sound defensive, which was completely opposite to how she was feeling about the portrait. “Don’t get me wrong. I love the portrait. I just want to know where the ‘Helen’ you painted came from. She doesn’t feel like me.”
Noami finally understood.
“I’d like to show you my sketches. See my process for yourself. I don’t put anything on the canvas that isn’t present for all to see. We should get going, anyway, or most of the natural light will be gone. You mentioned earlier you had time to sit, so I could make some final adjustments.” She reached past Helen to grab the painting. “Where are you parked?”
“In the lot on the corner there.”
“Good, my loft is walking distance, a few blocks east. Ready?”
As they exited the building, Helen looked back over her shoulder. Sure enough, Magda was shooting cold stares at her back.
“Do you come to this place often?” Helen could not help but think her simple question sounded a bit like a come-on line.
“Yes, it’s a great place to relax. Friendly.”
FIVE
BY THE TIME they reached Noami’s place, they each had mined the other for their histories and additional points of interest. For instance, Noami had learned that Helen’s mother, Helena, was devastated when at age three she enrolled Helen at a local dance studio, and finally gave it up as a lost cause when Helen was age seven and realized her daughter had the grace of an elephant. Helen was ten years old when her parents decided that she hadn’t inherited enough of their talent to become a visual artist, despite the fact that they continued to hope she would pursue the craft until she made clear her preference for writing. Noami also learned that Helen, despite her parents’ attempts to convince her otherwise, did practice painting as a hobby, and had become quite good at landscapes and fruit bowls. In fact, all her artistic endeavors were hung around the house by her adoring husband.
Helen learned that when Noami was sixteen, she had received a full scholarship to Macalester College, which was how she came to live in Minnesota. She never relocated back to Oakland. After living in Minnesota, she had no desire to return to the East Bay to live. Life, she found, was slower in the Midwest, and she preferred it that way. So far, she had convinced one of her sisters, Monica, and her mother to move to the Twin Cities. Noami was certain that now that her mother lived in the area, the rest of her family would follow.