He was entitled to his pride, but I had mine. God knows I needed the money, but I wasn’t going to paint the Minotaur in any setting. No sense avoiding the issue; I’d have to take the bull by the horns—
‘Louise!’
Santiago turned and rose, smiling as she entered. I stared at the girl — tall, slim, tawny-haired, with flawless features dominated by hazel eyes. The room was radiant with her presence.
‘Allow me to present my wife.’
Both of us must have spoken, acknowledging the introduction, but I can’t recall what we said. All I remember is that my mouth was dry, my words meaningless. It was Santiago’s words that were important.
‘You will paint her portrait,’ he said.
* * *
That was the beginning.
Sittings were arranged for in the den just beyond the living room; north light made afternoon sessions ideal. Three times a week I came — first to sketch, then to fill in the background. Reversing the usual procedure, I reserved work on the actual portraiture until all of the other elements were resolved and completed. I wanted her flesh tones to subtly reflect the coloration of setting and costume. Only then would I concentrate on pose and expression, capturing the essence. But how to capture the sound of the soft voice, the elusive scent of perfume, the unconscious grace of movement, the totality of her sensual impact?
I must concede that Santiago, to his credit, proved cooperative. He never intruded upon the sittings, nor inquired as to their progress. I’d stipulated that neither he nor my subject inspect the work before completion; the canvas was covered during my absence. He did not disturb me with questions, and after the second week he flew off to the Middle East on business, loading tankers for a voyage.
While he poured oil across troubled waters, Louise and I were alone.
We were, of course, on a first-name basis now. And during our sessions we talked. She talked, rather; I concentrated on my work. But in order to raise portraiture beyond mere representationalism the artist must come to know his subject, and so I encouraged such conversation in order to listen and learn.
Inevitably, under such circumstances, a certain confidential relationship evolves. The exchange, if tape-recorded, might very well be mistaken for words spoken in psychiatric therapy or uttered within the confines of the confessional booth.
But what Louise said was not recorded. And while I was an artist, exulting in the realization that I was working to the fullest extent of my powers, I was neither psychiatrist nor priest. I listened but did not judge.
What I heard was ordinary enough. She was not Maria Cayetano, Duchess of Alba, any more than I was Francisco Jose de Goya y Lucientes.
I’d already guessed something of her background, and my surmise proved correct. Hers was the usual story of the unusually attractive girl from a poor family. Cinderella at the high school prom, graduating at the stroke of midnight to find herself right back in the kitchen. Then the frantic effort to escape: runner-up in a beauty contest, failed fashion model, actress ambitions discouraged by the cattle calls where she found herself to be merely one of a dozen duplicates. Of course there were many who volunteered their help as agents, business managers or outright pimps; all of them expected servicing for their services. To her credit, Louise was too street-smart to comply. She still had hopes of finding her Prince. Instead, she met the Minotaur.
One night she was escorted to an affair where she could meet ‘important people’. One of them proved to be Carlos Santiago, and before the evening ended he’d made his intentions clear.
Louise had the sense to reject the obvious, and when he attempted to force the issue she raked his face with her nails. Apparently the impression she made was more than merely physical, and next day the flowers began to arrive. Once he had progressed to earrings and bracelets, the ring was not far behind.
So Cinderella married the Minotaur, only to find life in the labyrinth not to her liking. The bull, it seemed, did a great deal of bellowing, but in truth he was merely a steer.
All this, and a great deal more, gradually came out during our sessions together. And led, of course, to the expected conclusion.
I put horns on the bull.
Justification? These things aren’t a question of morality. In any case, Louise had no scruples. She’d sold herself to the highest bidder and it proved a bad bargain; I neither condemned nor condoned her. Cinderella had wanted out of the kitchen and took the obvious steps to escape. She lacked the intellectual equipment to find another route, and in our society — despite the earnest disclaimers of women’s lib — Beauty usually ends up with the Beast. Sometimes it’s a young Beast with nothing to offer but a state of perpetual rut; more often it’s an ageing Beast who provides status and security in return for occasional coupling. But even that had been denied Louise; her Beast was an old bull whose pawings and snortings she could no longer endure. Meeting me had intensified natural need; it was lust at first sight.
As for me, I soon realized that behind the flawless facade of face and form there was only a vain and greedy child. She’d created Cinderella out of costume and coiffure and cosmetics; I’d perpetuated the pretence in pigment. It was not Cinderella who writhed and panted in my arms. But knowing this, knowing the truth, didn’t help me. I loved the scullery maid.
Time was short, and we didn’t waste it in idle declarations or decisions about the future. Afternoons prolonged into evenings and we welcomed each night, celebrating its concealing presence.
Harsh daylight followed quickly enough. It was on 18th December, just a week before Christmas, that Carlos Santiago returned. And on the following afternoon Louise and I met for a final sitting in the sunlit den.
She watched very quietly as I applied last-minute touches to the portrait: a few highlights in the burnished halo of hair, a softening of feral fire in the emerald-flecked hazel eyes.
'Almost done?’ she murmured.
'Almost.’
‘Then it’s over. ’ Her pose remained rigid but her voice trembled.
I glanced quickly toward the doorway, my voice softening to a guarded whisper.
‘Does he know?’
‘Of course not.’
‘The maid—’
‘You always left after a sitting. She never suspected that you came back after she was gone for the night. ’
‘Then we’re safe.’
‘Is that all you have to say?’ Her voice began to rise and I gestured quickly.
‘Please—lower your head just a trifle — there, that’s it—’
I put down my brush and stepped back. Louise glanced up at me. ‘Can I look now?’
‘Yes.’
She rose, moved to stand beside me. For a long moment she stared without speaking, her eyes troubled.
‘What’s the matter?’ I said. ‘Don’t you like it?’
‘Oh, yes — it’s wonderful—’
‘Then why so sad?’
‘Because it’s finished.’
‘All things come to an end,’ I said.
‘Must they?’ she murmured. ‘Must they?’
‘Mr Brandon is right. ’
Carlos Santiago stood in the doorway, nodding. ‘It has been finished for some time now,’ he said.
I blinked. ‘How do you know?’
‘It is the business of every man to know what goes on in his own house.’
‘You mean you looked at the portrait?’ Louise frowned. ‘But you gave Mr Brandon your word—’
‘My apologies.’ Santiago smiled at me. ‘I could not rest until I satisfied myself as to just what you were doing.’
I forced myself to return his smile. ‘You are satisfied now?’
‘Quite.’ He glanced at the portrait. ‘A magnificent achievement. You seem to have captured my wife in her happiest mood. I wish it were within my power to bring such a smile to her face.’
Was there mockery in his voice, or just the echo of my own guilt? ‘The portrait can’t be touched for several weeks now,’ I s
aid. ‘The paint must dry. Then I’ll varnish it and we can select the proper frame. ’
‘Of course,’ said Santiago. ‘But first things first.’ He produced a cheque from his pocket and handed it to me. ‘Here you are. Paid in full.’
‘That’s very thoughtful of you—’
‘You will find me a thoughtful man.’ He turned as the maid entered, carrying a tray which held a brandy decanter and globular glasses.
She set it down and withdrew. Santiago poured three drinks. ‘As you see, I anticipated this moment.’ He extended glasses to Louise and myself, then raised his own. ‘A toast to you, Mr Brandon. I appreciate your great talent, and your even greater wisdom.’
‘Wisdom?’ Louise gave him a puzzled glance.
‘Exactly.’ He nodded. ‘I have no schooling in art, but I do know that a project such as this can be dangerous.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘There is always the temptation to go on, to overdo. But Mr Brandon knows when to stop. He has demonstrated, shall we say, the artistic conscience. Let us drink to his decision. ’
Santiago sipped his brandy. Louise took a token swallow and I followed suit. Again I wondered how much he knew.
‘You do not know just what this moment means to me,’ he said. ‘To stand here in this house, with this portrait of the one I love — it is the dream of a poor boy come true. ’
‘But you weren’t always poor,’ Louise said. ‘You told me yourself that your father was a wealthy man. ’
‘So he was. ’ Santiago paused to drink again. ‘I passed my childhood in luxury; I lacked for nothing until my father died. But then my older brother inherited the estancia and I left home to make my own way in the world. Perhaps it is just as well, for there is much in the past which does not bear looking into. But I have heard stories.’ He smiled at me. ‘There is one in particular which may interest you,’ he said.
‘Several years after I left, my brother’s wife died in childbirth. Naturally he married again, but no one anticipated his choice. A nobody, a girl without breeding or background, but one imagines her youth and beauty enticed him.’
Did his sidelong glance at Louise hold a meaning or was that just my imagination? Now his eyes were fixed on me again.
‘Unlike his first wife, his new bride did not conceive, and it troubled him. To make certain he was not at fault, during this period he fathered several children by various serving maids at the estancia. But my brother did not reproach his wife for her defects; instead he summoned a physician. His examination was inconclusive, but during its course he made another discovery: my brother’s wife had the symptoms of an obscure eye condition, a malady which might someday bring blindness.
‘The physician advised immediate surgery, but she was afraid the operation itself could blind her. So great was this fear that she made my brother swear a solemn oath upon the Blessed Virgin that, no matter what happened, no one would be allowed to touch her eyes.’
‘Poor woman!’ Louise repressed a shudder. ‘What happened?’
‘Naturally, after learning of her condition, my brother abstained from the further exercise of his conjugal rights. According to the physician it was still possible she might conceive, and if so perhaps her malady might be transmitted to the child. Since my brother had no wish to bring suffering into the world he turned elsewhere for his pleasures. Never once did he complain of the inconvenience she caused him in this regard. His was the patience of a saint. One would expect her to be grateful for his thoughtfulness, but it is the nature of women to lack true understanding.’
Santiago took another swallow of his drink. ‘To his horror, my brother discovered that his wife had taken a lover. A young boy who worked as a gardener at the estancia. The betrayal took place while he was away; he now spent much time in Buenos Aires, where he had business affairs and the consolation of a sympathetic and understanding mistress.
‘When the scandal was reported to him he at first refused to believe, but within weeks the evidence was unmistakable. His wife was pregnant. ’
‘He divorced her?’ Louise murmured.
Santiago shrugged. ‘Impossible. My brother was a religious man. But there was a need to deal with the gossip, the sly winks, the laughter behind his back. His reputation, his very honour, was at stake.’
I took advantage of his pause to jump in. ‘Let me finish the story for you,’ I said. ‘Knowing his wife’s fear of blindness, he insisted on the operation and bribed the surgeon to destroy her eyesight.’
Santiago shook his head. ‘You forget: he had sworn to the pobrecita that her eyes would not be touched.'
‘What did he do?’ Louise said.
‘He sewed up her eyelids.’ Santiago nodded. ‘Never once did he touch the eyes themselves. He sewed her eyelids shut with catgut and banished her to a guesthouse with a servingwoman to attend her every need.’
‘Horrible!’ Louise whispered.
‘I am sure she suffered,’ Santiago said. ‘But mercifully, not for long. One night a fire broke out in the bedroom of the guesthouse while the servingwoman was away. No one knows how it started; perhaps my brother’s wife knocked over a candle. Unfortunately the door was locked and the servingwoman had the only key. A great tragedy. ’
I couldn’t look at Louise, but I had to face him. ‘And her lover?’ I asked.
‘He ran for his life, into the jungle. It was there that my brother tracked him down with the dogs and administered a suitable punishment. ’
‘What sort of punishment would that be?’
Santiago raised his glass. ‘The young man was stripped and tied to a tree. His genitals were smeared with wild honey. You have heard of the fire ants, amigo? They swarmed in this area—and they will devour anything which bears even the scent of honey. ’
Louise made a strangled sound in her throat, then turned and ran from the room.
Santiago gulped the rest of his drink. ‘It would seem I have upset her,’ he said. ‘This was not my intention—’
‘Just what was your intention?’ I met the bull-man’s gaze. ‘Your story doesn’t upset me. This is not the jungle. And you are not your brother. ’
Santiago smiled. ‘I have no brother,’ he said.
* * *
I drove through dusk. Lights winked on along Hollywood Boulevard from the Christmas decorations festooning lamp-posts and arching overhead. Glare and glow could not completely conceal the shabbiness of sleazy storefronts or blot out the shadows moving past them. Twilight beckoned those shadows from their hiding places; no holiday halted the perpetual parade of pimps and pushers, chicken hawks and hookers, winos and heads. Christmas was coming, but the blaring of tape-deck carols held little promise for such as these, and none for me.
Stonewalling it with Santiago had settled nothing. The truth was that I’d made a little token gesture of defiance, then run off to let Louise face the music.
It hadn’t been a pretty tune he’d played for the two of us, and now that she was alone with him he’d be free to orchestrate his fury. Was he really suspicious? How much did he actually know? And what would he do?
For a moment I was prompted to turn and go back. But what then? Would I hold Santiago at bay with a tyre iron while Louise packed her things? Suppose she didn’t want to leave with me? Did I really love her enough to force the issue?
I kept to my course but the questions pursued me as I headed home.
The phone was ringing as I entered the apartment. My hand wasn’t steady as I lifted the receiver and my voice wasn’t steady either.
‘Yes?’
‘Darling, I’ve been trying to reach you—’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing’s the matter. He’s gone.’
‘Gone?’
‘Please—I’ll tell you all about it when I see you. But hurry—’
I hurried.
And after I parked my car in the empty driveway, after we’d clung to one another in the darkened hall, after we settled on the
sofa before the fireplace, Louise dropped her bombshell.
‘I’m getting a divorce,’ she said.
‘Divorce—?’
‘When you left he came to my room. He said he wanted to apologize for upsetting me, but that wasn’t the real reason. What he really wanted to do was tell me how he’d scared you off with that story he’d made up. ’
‘And you believed him?’
‘Of course not, darling! I told him he was a liar. I told him you had nothing to be afraid of, and he had no right to humiliate me. I said I was fed up listening to his sick raving, and I was moving out. That wiped the grin off his face in a hurry. You should have seen him; he looked like he’d been hit with a club!’
I didn’t say anything, because I hadn’t seen him. But I was seeing Louise now. Not the ethereal Cinderella of the portrait, and not the scullery maid; this was another woman entirely: hot-eyed, harsh- voiced, implacable in her fury.
Santiago must have seen as much, and more. He blustered, he protested, but in the end he pleaded. And when he tried to embrace her, things came full circle again. Once more she raked his face with her nails, but this time in final farewell. And it was he who left, stunned and shaken, without even stopping to pack a bag.
‘He actually agreed to a divorce?’ I said.
Louise shrugged. ‘Oh, he told me he was going to fight it, but that’s just talk. I warned him that if he tried to stop me in court I’d let it all hang out — the jealousy, the drinking, everything. I’d even testify about how he couldn’t get it up.’ She laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I know Carlos. That’s one kind of publicity he’d do anything to avoid. ’ ‘Where is he now?’
‘I don’t know and I don’t care.’ The hot eyes blazed, the harsh voice sounded huskily in my ear. ‘You’re here,’ she whispered.
And as her mouth met mine, I felt the fury.
* * *
I left before the maid arrived in the morning, just as I’d always done, even though Louise wanted me to stay.
Gift-Wrapped & Toe-Tagged: A Melee of Misc. Holiday Anthology Page 124