The Color of Light

by Helen Maryles Shankman

  Tessa was astonished. It was as if a character in a movie she was watching had walked off the screen, found her in the theater, and delivered the lines from the big love scene.

  He looked up at the ceiling, where workmen had already begun installing the new ventilation system. “But I’m a thousand lifetimes older than you. And I’m on the board. I’d be kicked right out if anyone suspected anything. And then we all lose.”

  The wind started up again. It whistled mournfully through chinks in the buildings armor, sent plastic grocery bags tumbling end over end and paper cups skidding down the sidewalk on the street below.

  “Listen,” he went on, in a tense, low voice. “I know you’re in love with Lucian Swain. And, for what it’s worth, I think he loves you, too. Not as much as he loves his dick, of course. But…he is what he is. And he’s not fit to touch the hem of your skirt.” The neon sign on the Astor Place Theatre advertising Blue Man Group flashed on and off, staining his face blue and yellow by turn. The blue light heightened the angles of his handsome face, made him look almost dangerous. A muscle in his jaw flexed; and then he added, “And neither am I.”

  Tessa studied her image in the dark window.

  Oh, dear God, she can see that I have no reflection.

  He heard the rustle of her petticoats, felt the warm aura of her presence tickling the hairs on the back of his neck. She was standing beside him, looking out over the rooftops of Greenwich Village through windows dotted with raindrops.

  “Thank you,” she said softly. “Thank you for all of it. The dance, the school…the things you said. Everything.” Her breath made a foggy patch on the glass. She traced a heart with an arrow through it. “You know, this is my turf,” she said forlornly. “What’s he doing here, anyway?” She expelled a deep, shaky sigh. “I always imagine this block is mine,” she explained apologetically. “I feel safe here. Silly, huh?”

  He registered a surprising flutter of pleasure. “No,” he said. “Not silly at all.”

  Take her. Take her now. No one else is around. She wants it. She’s waiting for you.

  “Look,” he said, against his better judgment. “Would you like to go out for a drink?”

  She shook her head no. “I’m sorry. I have to get home. It’s Friday night.”

  “Friday night?” he repeated, not understanding.

  Shy, embarrassed. “It’s a long story. I’m usually home on Friday nights… my Sabbath…I didn’t want to miss the Halloween Party.”

  Sofia’s hands describing circles in the air as she lit the Shabbos candles. Isaiah covering his eyes with his baby fists, imitating her.

  “Do you mean…Shabbos?” he said, the syllables rusty on his tongue.

  Tessa’s mouth dropped open. “How do you know that word?” she asked slowly.

  I want to tell her.

  Don’t be an idiot.

  There was a burst of noise over in the sculptors’ studio; a bump, a crash, a whispered oath, shh-shhing. Drunken party guests looking for a place to consummate their excitement, knocking over someone’s hard work.

  The spell was broken. “I’d better go.”

  “Stay,” he said. She shook her head no. He could feel her withdrawing, backing away from the intimacy of the moment. “Let me walk with you, then.”

  A ghostly figure in a red dress materialized from the gloom. “Mr. Sinclair? Is that you?”

  It was Allison, accompanied by one of the first-year students, a boy from Germany. Exasperated, he turned to her. “Yes?”

  “Giselle is looking for you. She thought she saw you come up here.”

  Damn. “I’ll be right down. He turned back to Tessa. “Will you wait for me?”

  “I can’t.” She was receding from him, irretrievably called back to her life, the world of light, the land of the living.

  Allison, from the shadows. “Mr. Sinclair?”

  “Tell Giselle I’ll be there in a minute,” he commanded her. “Now, go.” He could hear her muffled giggles as she fled through the studio floor with her new friend, the staccato clatter of their tread echoing down the stairs.

  “Tessa?” he said, his voice soft and low, trying to win her back again.

  Her eyes, her eyes. They looked at you the way you had always wanted someone to look at you. They believed every tale you ever told and took your side. They roused him, made him restless, made him want to protect her, pursue her, hunt her down, keep her safe.

  “Yes,” she said quietly. “I feel it too.”

  And then she was backing away, letting herself be swallowed up by the darkness. He heard the steel door slam; the sound of her footsteps running down the stairs was drowned out by the noise of Harker’s band playing Rock Lobster.

  A fiery ball mounted in his chest, rising to his brain. Her bare flesh under his hands, under his control as he forced her backwards around the dance floor. The swell of her breasts over the lace as she arced back in a dip. Her long white neck. His head throbbed. He pressed his fists against his temples.

  Go. The party. Remember? Giselle. Biggest fundraiser of the year.

  Halloween. A million people dressed as someone else on the streets of Greenwich Village tonight looking for a good time. Some looking for that special someone. Others looking for trouble. Odds were good that some would find both.

  Tessa, by herself, on a night like this, in the path of someone like me.

  Now he hurried, racing down the stairs to the service entrance at the back of the building.

  In the middle of Lafayette Street, he stood still. He closed his eyes, inhaled, concentrating. Due to the storm, tonight New York was a confusing jumble of unfamiliar odors, full of questionable smells blown in from faraway places. The stench of wet garbage; the burnt-rubber stink of asphalt; the overpowering odor of the homeless blowing up from the subway vents. The omnipresent scent of dry cleaning chemicals; the sharp reek of sweat and vinyl raincoats; the smoky musk of burning wood; cooking smells from the Korean deli; the unmistakable cold tang of winter.

  There it was, a whiff of summer, the scent of blackberries trailing off in the direction of Astor Place. He headed north on Lafayette, then west on Eighth Street, circumnavigating a bevy of NYU students, their hair spray-painted purple, blue, ruby, emerald.

  Despite the storm of the century, the streets of the village were packed. He lost her scent as he passed through a platoon of transvestite Marilyn Monroes, catching it again at Fifth Avenue. The crowds leaving the parade route along Sixth Avenue made way for him, a striking but slightly sinister man in a tuxedo stalking down Fifth Avenue, focused on a single object somewhere ahead of him.

  Crowds were flowing down all the major avenues, converging on Union Square, the end of the parade route. A man strode past him wearing nothing but blue body glitter, a codpiece and a pair of white feathered wings. A couple of Chers, a couple of Lizas, several different versions of Dorothy Garland from various eras. A pair of hippies. Leather-legged punk rockers sporting hair shaved and shaped into neon-green mohawks. A couple outfitted as condoms. Scattered rubbery George Bush masks. One diehard Nixon.

  There she was, crossing Ninth Street, heading uptown. He would have recognized her anywhere, her hair hanging almost to her waist, the curls jouncing with each step.

  There were girls dressed as cats, girls dressed as witches, girls dressed as Elvira, girls dressed as Playboy bunnies, girls dressed as hookers. Posses of young men in flannel shirts and jeans, redolent of Corona and Sam Adams, come down from the East Side, or Columbia, or the boros, or Jersey, for one wild night in New York City. A unicorn, resplendent in a sparkling transparent body stocking, shimmery lavender tail and an iridescent horn glued to his forehead. A hooded Grim Reaper, ten feet tall, sweeping by on stilts, tapping on an oversized watch as he passed.

  Expertly, Tessa navigated her way through the lanes of foot traffic moving along the sidewalks with a native’s feel for the natural rhythm of the street. Rafe watched young men glance covetously over their shoulders for a second look at h
er luminous face, one slamming with an audible oof into the person walking just ahead of him.

  At Sixteenth Street, in front of Armani Express, she turned left, a single diminutive figure fighting the hordes surging east. A skeleton the size of a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade balloon hovered over the throng, in the wake of a samba band trying to find its way to Union Square. The giant skull bobbled left and right with a wicked grin, and the staring empty eye sockets seemed to be searching for someone in the crowd. Tessa hugged the buildings, squeezing past a stoop with an Anarchy symbol spray-painted on it, just avoiding the reach of its skeletal fingers.

  Near the end of the block she reached in her pocket for a key, pulled open the glass fronted door of a building and entered. Rafe sprinted forward, getting there just in time to see her pass the elevator, turn right, and disappear from view.

  There was a row of wide, high, street-level windows, and he peered into them through a chink in the dirty venetian blinds. Here, between the slats, he could plainly see a long narrow room with a door at the end of it. Ubiquitous New York City exposed brick walls. A staircase, a sagging corduroy couch, a wooden table, a lamp, a TV, a coffee table. Tessa, throwing her coat down on the couch.

  “Hey!” a sharp male voice behind reprimanded him. “We don’t do that here.”

  Rafe turned his head. A clean-cut young man in a suit and trench coat, Wall Street type, or a lawyer, doing the right thing. At any other time, he would have applauded his civic responsibility, but now he fixed him with a hard, baleful glare. The young man sucked in his breath, jerked away like he’d been stung, then hurried off down the street, fearfully glancing back to see if he was being followed.

  By the time he turned back, Tessa was gone. He straightened up, noted the location. 43 West 16th Street, her awning said, between Fifth and Sixth Avenues.

  He had left the party without his coat, and now he felt the chill biting into him. A bitter cold front was riding in on the tail of the storm. There was a phone booth in front of the Korean deli on the opposite corner. He trotted across the street, pulled a business card from his wallet, dropped a quarter into the slot with shaky hands. Fumbled the number. Cursed himself. Found another quarter, dialed again.

  “Drohobych Import Export,” answered a bored Russian operator.

  “This is Mr. Sinclair,” he said urgently. “Janina, please. Now. The usual place.”

  “Yes, sir. We know there are many other import export businesses in the city. We appreciate your patronage,” she droned, and cut the connection.

  He placed the phone back on the receiver. His eyes fell on the dim glow of her window. For a fleeting moment he felt warmed just by being in her corner of the city.

  He was shivering now, and the hunger made it worse. He pulled up the collar of his tuxedo jacket in a fruitless attempt to keep out the cutting wind. Luckily, an empty taxi turned down Sixteenth Street.

  Go back to the party. It’s not too late.

  “Gramercy Park,” he told the driver. “Northeast corner.”

  “This could take awhile,” the cabdriver told him. “Faster to walk.”

  “That’s all right,” Rafe said. As the cab nosed its way through the crowds, he settled back into the scarred leather seat and closed his eyes, letting fatigue overtake him.

  12

  April Huffman held a makeup class at eight a.m. the following Monday.

  Over the weekend, the temperature plummeted. Heavy snowstorms and frigid conditions blanketed the Midwest, a parting gift from the perfect storm. The classroom was cold. David, Clayton and Graham were huddled in their winter jackets mixing paint and blowing on their fingers when Portia stuck her head in the doorway.

  “You’re not in this class anymore, you sissy,” said David.

  “Yeah,” said Graham. “This class is only for real men.” They made hooting caveman noises.

  “Tessa here yet?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

  “No,” said Clayton, putting down his palette knife. “Why?”

  “Oh, you know. Just wanted to say hi.” Portia hadn’t heard from Tessa all weekend, and she was concerned. Not that she heard from her any other weekend.

  “Are you worried that she’s been turned into a vampire?” he said, lowering his voice.

  “Clayton,” said Portia, putting her hands on her hips. “I thought we were over that.”

  “Hey,” he said defensively. “I was over it. It’s Gioia. That’s what she was saying at the party. She was talking so fast I couldn’t understand her. She kept saying, ‘vampiro, vampiro, vampiro.’ She wouldn’t shut up about it. So now I can’t help thinking Tessa got turned into the evil undead over the weekend.”

  “Hey, guys.” said Tessa, lugging in her load of paints and space heaters. “Evil undead monitor, coming through.”

  “Tessa!” Portia pounced on her joyfully. “Where did you learn how to dance like that! You should have seen the look on Lucian’s face!”

  “Those were some sexy moves, Tess,” David said. “Why don’t you give us a little show right now?”

  “That’s the thing,” she said. “I can’t. I can’t move like that. I can’t do the hokey pokey. It was all him. Anyway…nothing happened. We went up to the studios. We talked, that’s all. He’s nice.”

  Clayton groaned. Ben shook his head sadly.

  “No, no, no.” David said firmly. “We don’t want to hear any of that ‘he’s nice’ crap. Many things have been said about Raphael Sinclair. No one has ever said he was nice. Let’s hear it, Tessa. What really happened up there?”

  “He knows about me and Lucian. He was trying to make me feel better.”

  More head shaking from the men. “I’m sorry,” said Graham, “But recent polls indicate that nobody believes you. Come on, Tessa. We saw the way he was looking at you.”

  “He wanted to see what everybody is working on for their thesis projects. I took him around the studios.”

  David, Clayton, Graham and Ben were like a wall; they crossed their arms expectantly, waiting patiently.

  She sighed, set down the heaters. “Okay,” she said, lowering her voice. “I never thought it would happen to me. First, I said, ‘You have really beautiful eyes,’ and I asked him if he would pose for me. He said he didn’t want to, but I could tell he really did want to. So then I said, ‘Hey, Mr. Sinclair, you look uncomfortable, why don’t you take off your jacket?’ So he takes off his jacket, and stands there just kind of looking at me, like you’re doing right now. And then, I say, ‘I paint better when I’m nude, is it okay if I take my clothes off?’ And he says, ‘Okay, I guess that’s all right.’ So I take my clothes off, and then he says, ‘My pants are really chafing me, would you mind if I removed them?’ And I say, ‘Sure.’ And then the cleaning lady comes in, and she sees us, and she asks if she can…”

  David cut her off. “Come on, Tessa. The guy’s a major hound. He’s boffed half the women on the Upper East Side. You can’t expect us to believe that nothing happened.”

  “Hey, I want to hear the rest of the story.” Ben protested.

  “Nothing happened,” she repeated, thinking of Raphael Sinclair’s eyes, his voice, feeling a little flutter of warmth.

  “I know this sounds crazy,” said Portia hesitantly. “Look…I’m incredibly grateful to him, for what he’s done for us, for this school…nobody appreciates it more than me. But when I looked in his eyes, when he shook my hand, I felt…violated. You have to trust me on this, Tessa. I have a nose for these things.”

  “He was so kind.” Tessa said, in a voice filled with wonder. “I don’t know how he knew, don’t know how he found me…when Lucian came in with April…and then later, when I saw them making out on the dance floor…well, for me, it was like the end of the world. I’ve been with him through so much, and for so long, I don’t even know what I am anymore, besides Lucian Swain’s assistant. When I looked in his eyes, when he touched me, suddenly none of it mattered. He said—”

  Portia never got to hear the r
est of what Rafe said, because at that moment, April Huffman blew in like a cold front. Without a word, she closed the door in Portia’s face.

  “Monitor, where are the heaters?” April demanded. “Where are my lights?”

  “I’m sorry,” Tessa apologized swiftly. “Here you go.” Hurriedly, she clipped the lights to scaffolding on the ceiling and distributed the heaters. In the meantime, April posed the model. She put a stool on the stage next to her, then added a coffee cup and a trashcan to the composition. As an afterthought, she placed her leather bag next to her feet.

  For a while there was quiet, nothing but the sound of bristles scratching on canvas as they roughed out their compositions. The trouble began after the second break.

  “Awful,” April ejaculated. “Just awful.”

  She was standing behind Ben. Tessa heard him murmur something in reply, and it grew quiet again.

  Come on, Tessa, focus. She frowned at her canvas. Normally, she concentrated on the figure, getting the anatomy right, trying to paint the progression of light as it moved and changed across the body, but April wasn’t interested in that. She scraped in some lines to describe the pose, then drew the bag, the coffee cup, and the trashcan. Squinting to eliminate unnecessary detail, she began painting in Sivan’s torso.

  April’s loud voice broke the silence. “I want everyone’s attention,” she announced. “Look over here.”

  She held up Graham’s canvas. “This,” she declared, “is a disaster. The composition is static. The drawing is clumsy. The colors are muddy.” Her words cut clear across the classroom. “I’d say it’s ugly, but it’s worse than ugly. It’s boring.”

  She handed the painting back to Graham. “Painting is seduction, boys and girls. Seduce me.”