Burnt Sienna

by David Morrell

“What?” Sienna straightened. “Then why did my husband hire you?”

  “Actually, it’s called ‘offer a commission.’ I’m sensitive about the word hire. Basically, your husband likes my work, and he’s awfully hard to turn down.”

  “That’s my husband all right.”

  “But I do know how to paint, Mrs. Bellasar.”

  “I don’t doubt it. Call me Sienna.”

  “Have you eaten yet?”

  “Just a couple of apples I shared with my friend here.”

  “Then maybe we could have breakfast.”

  3

  While a guard watched from a side of the terrace, they sat at a wrought-iron table, an umbrella sheltering them from the sun, which was warm for February.

  “Chase?” She sipped her coffee. “That’s an unusual first name.”

  “Actually, it’s a nickname. My first name is Charles, but at one of the grade schools I went to —”

  “One of them?”

  “I went to a lot. It’s a long story. The teacher put a list of our names on a bulletin board to make it easier for us to get to know one another. To save time, she used abbreviations. Richard was Rich. Daniel was Dan. Charles was Chas. She put a period after it, but the period had a little curlicue that made it look like an e, so the kids started making fun of me, calling me Chase. It didn’t bother me, though. In fact, I thought it sounded kind of cool, so I kept it.”

  “Nothing metaphysical about being chased or chasing your destiny?” Sienna picked up a croissant.

  “There were plenty of instances, especially in the military, when chasing was going on. As far as being an artist goes, I think I did find my destiny. But you’re not doing a portrait of me. I need to learn about you.”

  “I thought you’d be working by now,” a voice interrupted.

  When Sienna turned and saw her husband standing at an open door that led to the terrace, her stomach contracted. No longer hungry, she set down her croissant.

  But Chase took a bite from his own, responding calmly, “We’ve already started.”

  “You have a strange way of painting.”

  “Painting’s the easy part. It’s the thought that goes into it that’s hard. I’m being efficient, eating breakfast while I study my subject.”

  Chase made it sound like a joke, but when he glanced at her, his gaze assuring, Sienna suddenly realized how attentive his blue eyes were. Despite the casual way he’d been looking at her, she had the sense that she’d never been looked at so totally, not even when she’d been a model.

  A burst of machine-gun fire broke the stillness. From the range beyond the Cloister. On edge, Sienna jerked her head in that direction. Managing to calm herself, she returned her attention to her husband, noticing that neither he nor Chase had been distracted.

  “Sounds like a .50-caliber,” Chase said.

  “You have a good ear.”

  “Well, I’ve been shot at by them often enough.”

  “One of my engineers is working on a modification, a faster feeding mechanism.”

  “How are they compensating for the increase in heat?”

  “That’s the problem.”

  The subject infuriated her. No. Inwardly shaking her head, she corrected herself. What infuriated her was that the man with whom she had been talking, an artist who had seemed to display sensitivity during the conversation, was as comfortable talking about guns as was her husband. The two were no different.

  She stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go shower, fix my hair, and get ready for the session.” She made herself look indifferently down at Chase. “What would you like me to wear?”

  “Those boots, jodhpurs, and leather jacket you’ve got on are fine. And if you wouldn’t usually shower right now, I wish you wouldn’t. I want to get an idea of what you are, not what you’d like me to think you are. Don’t fix your hair or freshen your makeup. Don’t do anything special. Just let me look at you.”

  His gaze was once again total. It made her shiver.

  Whump-whump-whump. With an increasing roar, one of the helicopters returned, a distant speck that enlarged into a grotesque dragonfly and set down on the compound’s landing pad, halfway between the château and the Cloister.

  “I look forward to seeing the progress you make,” her husband said, a vague warning in his voice. But it was obvious that his attention was elsewhere as he stepped from the terrace and walked with anticipation along a stone path near a rose garden and a fountain, approaching a man stepping down from the helicopter.

  4

  The man was too far away for Malone to get more than a general look at him. The hearty way he and Bellasar shook hands, then gripped each other’s arms, it was clear the two knew each other well and hadn’t seen each other for a while. Wider at the hips and waist than at his chest, the newcomer had rounded, forward-leaning shoulders, which suggested he spent a lot of time hunched over a desk. He wore a suit and tie, was Caucasian, and had hair only at the sides of his head. At a distance, his age was hard to tell, maybe mid-forties. He turned with concern toward several large wooden crates being unloaded from the helicopter. Each crate was heavy enough to require two men to lift it, and as one of the men stumbled, almost losing his grip on his end of the crate, the newcomer stepped frantically backward, gesturing in alarm, his barked command to be careful echoing the hundred yards to the terrace.

  “Ah, the artist’s life,” a caustic voice said.

  Reluctantly, Malone switched his attention from the helicopter toward Potter, who stepped from the château.

  “A pleasant chat over a late breakfast. No schedule to worry about.”

  “I’ve already had this conversation with your boss,” Malone said.

  “Then there’s no point in being repetitive.” Potter took off his glasses and polished them. “I never question methods of working as long as they get results. Good morning, Sienna.”

  “Good morning, Alex.”

  “Did you enjoy your ride?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Are you getting along with Mr. Malone? He has a tendency to be abrasive.”

  “I haven’t noticed.”

  “Then perhaps it’s only to me.” Potter put his glasses back on and stepped from the terrace. His squat figure got smaller, as he followed the same route past the rose garden and fountain that Bellasar had, joining the group as they entered the Cloister.

  “He obviously doesn’t like me,” Malone said, “but am I wrong, or did he seem a little distant to you?”

  “There’s only one person he gets along with, and that’s my husband.”

  “A first-class guard dog.”

  5

  The sunroom smelled musty. It was a single-story extension of the château, built onto the terrace, the floor made of the same flagstones that led into it. With a southern exposure, it had a wall of windows and several skylights.

  “It must be ten degrees warmer than outside,” Malone said. “I imagine you eat breakfast in here on chilly days.”

  “No, the room hasn’t been used since I’ve lived here.”

  “With a view like this …”

  “Derek isn’t fond of the place.”

  It was spacious, with a high ceiling. Except for several wooden tables along the left side, it was so empty, their footsteps echoed.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to change my clothes?” Sienna asked.

  “I don’t want anything except for you to do what you’d normally do.” Malone sat on one of the tables, his legs dangling. “See, my problem is how to do this portrait so it captures you, so someone who knows you will say, ‘Yes, that’s Sienna there all right. That’s not only how she looks but what she is.’”

  “Whatever that is.”

  Malone chuckled. “There’s nothing like a heavy conversation to put you at ease.”

  “You don’t need to entertain me.”

  “After all the weeks I spent learning to play the banjo.”

  Sienna half-smiled.

  The next few seconds st
retched on and on as Malone studied the curve of her slightly parted lips, the unique combination of brightness and vulnerability in that half smile.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Doing?”

  “The way you’re … Even when I was a model, no one ever stared that hard at me.”

  “Sorry.” Malone felt his cheeks turn warm with self-consciousness. “I don’t mean to seem rude. I have to look at you that way. By the time this project is finished, I’ll know your face better than I’ve known anyone else’s in my life. Can I ask you a question?”

  She looked unsure.

  “I told you how I got mine. How did you get yours?”

  “I don’t —”

  “Your first name.”

  “Oh.” She seemed relieved. “There’s not much to tell. My parents were Italian-Americans. From a little town in Illinois. But their parents had come from Italy, from Siena, and all the old folks ever talked about was how wonderful that part of Italy was, so when my parents went on their honeymoon, that’s the place they chose. They couldn’t think of a more loving first name to give me.”

  “Your parents were Italian-Americans?”

  “They died when I was twelve.”

  “… I’m sorry,” Malone said.

  “My mother was killed in a car accident. My father had a heart attack two months later, but I always thought it was literally a broken heart.”

  “You loved them.”

  “Very much. The way you said that, did you really think I might say no?”

  “Everybody’s situation is different.”

  “You didn’t get along with your parents?”

  Malone was surprised that he’d opened the subject. “I never had any arguments with my father.” He surprised himself further. “It’s hard to fight with somebody you’ve never met.”

  A burst of machine-gun fire broke the moment. Malone turned toward the sunroom’s open door. The stuttering blast echoed from behind the Cloister. “Doesn’t that get on your nerves?”

  “Actually, the pauses are what bother me,” she said. “It’s like when I lived in Manhattan. I got so used to the noise of traffic, even in the middle of the night, that I felt something was wrong if I was somewhere quiet.”

  “Well, this sunroom’s about as quiet as it’s going to get.”

  6

  Malone brought a chair from a corner and set it in the light. It was wooden, with a slotted back. “This doesn’t look very comfortable. We should bring a cushion from —”

  “It’s not a problem.” But when Sienna lowered herself onto the chair, she did look uncomfortable. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Do? Nothing. Just sit there.”

  “But how do you want me? Head tilted to the right or left? Eyes up or down?”

  “Whatever way you feel natural.” Malone picked up a large sketch pad and a box of charcoal crayons. “This is very preliminary.”

  “Do you mind if I stand?”

  “So long as you keep your face in my direction.”

  The charcoal scratched on the pad.

  She looked more uneasy. “Photographers hated it if I stood still. I had to keep moving. Often, there was rock music. When the film in one camera was exposed, they’d quickly hand it to an assistant, then switch to another camera and never miss a shot. They’d have a fan pointed at my hair so when I spun, my hair twirled. They’d tell me to keep fluffing it with my hands.”

  Malone’s charcoal crayon stopped scratching.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  “You’re going to have to keep still for me. Don’t exaggerate. But I do need you a little less animated if I’m going to make a good likeness.”

  “Can I talk at least? Photographers also hated it when I talked.”

  “Be my guest.” Malone made a few more scratches with the charcoal, then tore the sheet from the pad and set it on a table.

  “That one didn’t turn out? Did I move too much?”

  “No, it’s fine for what it is.” Malone resumed scratching on the pad. “It’s just a study. I’ll do hundreds before I try anything permanent.”

  “Hundreds?”

  “To get a feel for your face.”

  “The photographers I worked with sometimes took hundreds of exposures in a session.”

  “Well, this is going to take longer.”

  Sienna raised her eyebrows.

  The expression was marvelous. “Good.”

  7

  “Madame, will you be wanting lunch?”

  Confused, Malone turned toward an aproned servant standing in the doorway. “So early?”

  “It’s almost two, monsieur.”

  Malone’s confusion changed to amazement when he looked at the table behind him. A chaos of sketches littered it. “My God,” he told Sienna, “you must be exhausted.”

  She was sitting on the chair by now. “A little. But you were so engrossed, I didn’t want to say anything. Besides, it’s been interesting.” She thanked the servant.

  “Interesting?” Malone followed Sienna onto the terrace. His eyes adjusted to the increased brightness. “Watching me draw?”

  “No, talking with you.”

  Malone tried to remember their conversation. He’d been so absorbed in working while glancing surreptitiously outside toward the helicopter area and the Cloister that the things they’d talked about were a blur.

  “I haven’t had a long conversation with anybody in quite a while.” Sienna sat at a table and told the servant, “Just a salad and iced tea, please.”

  Malone ordered the same. “Yes, your husband’s so busy, you must be alone a lot.”

  Sienna didn’t respond, but something in her eyes made Malone suspect that even when she and Bellasar were together, they didn’t talk.

  “You never met your father?”

  The question caught him by surprise. It took him a moment to recall their unfinished topic from when they’d entered the sunroom.

  Sienna looked apologetic. “Don’t answer if I’m being too personal.”

  “No, that’s all right. I don’t mind talking about it. My mother was a drunk.” Malone tried to sound matter-of-fact, but he couldn’t stop bitterness from creeping into his voice. “She had a string of boyfriends I was supposed to call Dad, but I never did.”

  “At the stables, you mentioned something about a grandfather.”

  “My mother’s father. He took care of me on his farm when my mother wasn’t dragging me from state to state with whatever boyfriend she had at the time. I spent a lot of time by myself. That’s when I started to draw.”

  “It just goes to show — sometimes good can come out of bad.” She sounded as if she wanted to believe it.

  “Excellent,” Bellasar said, approaching from the sunroom. “You’ve begun.”

  Sienna stiffened.

  “You saw the sketches?” Malone asked.

  “They’re very promising. Any of them could be the basis for a splendid portrait,” Bellasar said.

  “They probably won’t be. I’ve got a long way to go.”

  “But sometimes first instincts are best. It’s possible to overthink something.”

  “True.”

  “I’m glad we agree. Not every task has to be difficult and take forever. My wife is an uncommonly beautiful woman. All you have to do is portray her beauty.”

  “But she’s beautiful in a hundred different ways,” Malone said. “Since I’m not going to do a hundred portraits, I need to figure out which way most reflects her nature.”

  Sienna glanced down at her hands.

  “Forgive us, my dear,” Bellasar said.

  “For what?”

  “Speaking about you as if you’re not here. Going back to work wasn’t too tedious?”

  “Not at all. I found it interesting.”

  “Well then,” Bellasar said, “let’s hope it continues that way.”

  8

  It certainly continued that way for Malone. He couldn’t help thinking
about the proverb that equated hell with interesting times. The days assumed a pattern. Each morning before work, he did calisthenics by the pool. He would have preferred to jog but needed to be stationary at a location that allowed him to keep watch on the helicopter pad and the Cloister. After Sienna returned from horseback riding, he joined her for breakfast, then went to work with her, trying to conceal his interest in what was going on outside. As the afternoon progressed, he offered to quit early in case she was tired. Always, she told him she wanted to continue. When they separated at five, he knew that he would see her again for cocktails at seven.

  That was Bellasar’s evening routine — cocktails (although Bellasar kept to his vegetable juice) and dinner (the dress always formal). Malone hoped someone else would be invited: the man who had arrived on the chopper that first morning and who had been so nervous about the rough way the crates he had brought were being unloaded. Malone wanted a closer look at him. Perhaps the man would reveal something about his relationship with Bellasar. But as far as Malone could tell, the man remained in the Cloister.

  Sometimes, Malone found another centuries-old first edition on his bedside table, to be analyzed by Bellasar during dinner. Hobbes’s Leviathan was one, a 1651 treatise maintaining that warfare was the natural state of humans and that the only way to achieve peace was by the force of a dictator. Bellasar’s implication was that supplying arms to repressive regimes wasn’t the evil it was made out to be. By preventing the masses from following their natural instincts and lunging for one another’s throats, dictatorships saved lives — so did arms dealers.

  After conversations of this sort, during which Sienna remained silent, Malone climbed the curving staircase to his second-story room, more on guard than he’d been since he’d left the military. No matter his tense sleep, he awoke the next morning with greater concentration, more committed to the dangerous balance he had to maintain. If he focused his attention too much on Sienna, he risked failing to notice something important at the Cloister. But if he didn’t focus on her, he wouldn’t accomplish the quality of work that he wanted, and that could be equally dangerous, for Bellasar might think that he wasn’t making an effort.