The Color of Light

by Helen Maryles Shankman

  It was not yet dark. He could have rung her doorbell, but he preferred the familiar intimacy of knocking on her window. In his jacket pocket was a plane ticket, the redeye to Italy. Late in the afternoon, he had received a call that there was an instructor at the Accademia di San Luca who could draw like Da Vinci. He doubted anything would come of it, but he felt duty bound to chase down every lead. He wished he’d had the forethought to buy a ticket for Tessa; he would have liked to show her Rome, the Sistine Chapel, the ruins of the Forum, the Colosseum, the Arch of Titus. Another leap of the muscles in his belly. Someday.

  The sun was not yet down, she buzzed him in. He swept through the doors, ignoring the mirrors in the entryway, made the turn to her apartment.

  He could smell her cooking before he reached her door; fresh bread, ginger, olives, saffron, chicken. Oh, the things she could make. A pity he could not taste them, but he could still find pleasure in the way they perfumed the air.

  She was on the phone when he came in. She had already showered, he could see; her wet hair hung heavily down her back, staining the orchid jalabiya a darker purple. She turned to face him, and now he was jolted out of his happy reverie. Her eyes were dark and stricken, something was up. Probably the grandfather. The old man must have died. He looked at her sympathetically. After the call, she would run to him, he would hold her. Whatever this is, we can get through it.

  She was nodding, nodding, funny, because the person on the other end of the line couldn’t hear her response. Her eyes fastened on him, wide and wild, as if she wanted to remember him this way forever. Finally she said her goodbyes, put down the phone, and then she was his. He waited expectantly.

  The phone call came at six, as she was toweling off after her shower. Frowning, she pulled on her robe and ran to answer it, wondering who would be calling her this late on a Friday, so close to Shabbos.

  Usher’s voice on the other end of the line sounded tight. There was an unfamiliar note to it, suppressed rage. She braced herself for what would surely be bad news.

  “It’s Zaydie,” he said.

  “Is he…” she couldn’t bring herself to say the words.

  “He’s fine,” Usher said shortly. “He was really shaken by the heart attack. Apparently, he and Bubbie have been talking it over, that’s what he said, anyway, and they decided to give their jewelry away to their children. They don’t want to wait until after they’re gone. They want to see the family enjoy their gifts.”

  “Very big of Zaydie to give away Bubbie’s jewelry.”

  “Let me finish. Eva gets Bubbie’s diamond engagement ring. Bernie gets a gold watch. Auntie Barbara gets Bubbie’s diamond wedding ring. Allen gets the other gold watch. Cilla gets a pearl necklace. Suri gets a diamond broach. Rifkie gets emerald earrings. And Dad, gets nothing.”

  Tessa was stunned. “Nothing?”

  “Nada.”

  “What did he say?”

  “You know Dad. He’d never say anything that might upset his beloved Pa. A week goes by, maybe two. He invites Zaydie over for a Shabbos lunch. Finally, he comes around to asking him why. And you know what he says?”

  At that moment, there was a rap at the window. Rafe, in all likelihood. She buzzed him in.

  “He says, ‘Because of your Tessa.’”

  She put her hands flat on the table to steady herself. Her head was swimming, she found she couldn’t breathe. There was a small click at the door as Rafe let himself in.

  Rapidly, Usher sketched out the rest of the story. Zaydie had a sister, he never talked about her. She was trouble. An artiste! There was a shonda, she had drawn her friends, children in the village, her own brother, without their clothes on. Naked. Disgusting! No one in all of Poland would have her for a wife. Just before the war, the family sent her to Paris, maybe there she would find someone more modern. She went wild there, running around with some shaygetz.

  “‘It was a disease, a sickness! And I can see your Tessa is traveling down the exact same road! I’m giving you one warning, Sender. Stop her! Or you’re not my son anymore. You’ll be a stranger to me.’”

  Numb with shock, Tessa didn’t really hear what Usher said after that. Somehow she got through the rest of the conversation, wished her brother a good Shabbos, and hung up the phone.

  She turned to look at Rafe. He was standing near the kitchen, and the left side of his face was cast in warm yellow light. As she stood there, with her grandfather’s harsh words singing in her ears, he smiled reassuringly.

  “What is it?” he said.

  She slipped her arms inside his coat, buried her face in his chest. His arms went around her, and he rested his head on her hair.

  “Tell me,” he whispered into her ear. He waited for the tears, the guilt, the recriminations. He thought of all the comforting things he would say to her. Thought of other, softer, fleshier ways he would comfort her.

  Angry tears flooded up, surprising her, scalding her cheeks. She swiped at them with her fingers. “Zaydie had a sister. An artist. She drew her friends, children in the village, her own brother, naked. He says it was a disease, a sickness. And I’m just like her.”

  Rafe blinked at her, staggered back a step, as if she had shot him.

  Suddenly the walls were closing in on him, history was closing in on him, he had to get out of there. Easing away from her, he groped blindly for the doorknob. He tried not to look at her small hurt figure as the door slammed shut behind him.

  That night, she slept poorly. She leapt out of bed at every sound, thinking it was Rafe, knocking on the window. But she was mistaken. He was gone.

  On Saturday afternoon, feeling like she was trespassing, she walked to Gramercy Park and knocked on the intimidating oak door of his townhouse. Of course, no one answered. A well-dressed little boy being guarded by a uniformed nanny with a face like a bulldog stared at her through the sharp rungs of the park fence. It was cold. She wrapped her coat tighter around herself and walked back home.

  Sunday morning dawned a clear, cold gray. She awoke to a stuffy nose and achy limbs. Still, tomorrow was the first day of the new term, and she had promised the founder of the school that she would begin building her canvases. Rafe. A throb in her heart. She turned over and went back to sleep.

  After lunch, she pulled on leggings and an old sweater, headed off to school. The studio floor was empty and cold. People were still away, returning to the city later today, or tonight. She put on the news. More hand-wringing over the Bill Clinton and Gennifer Flowers affair. Some dumb story about a Hillary Clinton/Barbara Bush cookie bake-off. Background noise.

  At work in her studio, she felt better. She went through her paints and threw away tubes that were dried up or empty. She took inventory of her supplies and noted what she would need for the upcoming semester. Took down the three thesis sketches and worked out the measurements. Kicked herself for not trying harder to find a job. For the first time in a month, she wondered what Lucian was doing.

  At dinnertime, footsteps echoed down the corridor. The footsteps headed up towards the sculptors’ grotto, bypassing her, stopping at Graham’s studio. Tessa heard Turner’s voice, Graham’s voice, Turner’s voice again. The back and forth of a meeting with an adviser. After twenty minutes or so, it was over. The footsteps headed back up the corridor, stopped outside her studio.

  Turner was dressed in a light blue button-down shirt with a thin tan stripe, khakis. He was holding, as usual, his clipboard.

  “You’re here on the last Sunday night of Intersession? Very dedicated.”

  “I’m a little behind on my thesis project,” she admitted.

  There was a smirky little half-smile on his pale, doughy face. “Josephine’s your adviser, isn’t she?” He put the clipboard behind his back, strolled around her space. “How’s that going?”

  “She’s great. It’s just that, well…she doesn’t have a lot of spare time.”

  He was looking appreciatively at Gracie’s drawings. “Well, you know. That’s how it goes with wo
men artists sometimes. They get married, they have a couple of kids, art goes poof.” He turned to face her, clipboard in hand. “So, these are your thesis sketches? Mind if I have a look?”

  She was perspiring. Was it warm in the studio? He parked his squat body in front of her wall, looked from one to the next, then back again.

  “Hmmm. Kind of illustration-ey, aren’t they,” he mused. “You know what the problem is, Moss,” he confided, turning towards her. “They’re too generic. Anybody could have done this. You’re not bringing anything new to the table.”

  She stared fearfully at her drawings. He was right. Anyone could have done them. Suddenly, her face was burning, she felt sick to her stomach.

  “But that’s not why I’m here,” he said. He consulted his clipboard. “I have your grades from last semester.” He hesitated, tapping it with a pen. “It looks like you got a C in Studio Painting.”

  “I did?” She was sweating, the world was spinning. She brushed her hand across her forehead. So hot. “But that was with April. You can’t count that.”

  “Well, maybe.” He checked his clipboard again as if he didn’t already know what was there, looked at her with all sympathy. “But there was also this C+ in Perspective. I’m sorry, Tessa.”

  Baffled, she looked at him, not understanding.

  “Your scholarship. You have to keep up a B average, or you lose your scholarship,” he explained.

  “But…but I didn’t know that.”

  “You should have. It was in the contract you signed.” He thumbed through a xeroxed form. There was her signature, on an application she’d filled out last June. “See?”

  Slowly it dawned on her, the import of what he was saying.

  “Of course, if you can pay for this semester up front,” and he spread his arms out, as if to say it was no big deal. “That will be seven and a half thousand dollars.”

  “I don’t have any money,” she said.

  “What about your family?” he asked helpfully.

  Her heart was hammering. “No.”

  “Friends? Grandparents? A favorite aunt?” Wordlessly, she shook her head, kept shaking it.

  “Well,” he said, sounding genuinely contrite. “I’m sorry to be the one to say this. You’re going to have to clear out your studio.”

  She wondered if it were possible for her heart to stop inside her body, for her to die right in front of him.

  He glanced around the crowded room. He actually felt excited. “Take all the time you need,” he insisted. “It doesn’t have to be tonight. Tomorrow is fine.” Her face was very white, she was standing perfectly still. With satisfaction, he noted a faint sheen of perspiration over her forehead. “Now, listen,” he said firmly. “Don’t take this too hard. You’ll find the money somewhere, it’ll just take a little time. You can always reapply next year.”

  His job here was done. He pushed aside the curtain, paused on the threshold, turned back as if he had just remembered something. “Oh, hey,” he said conversationally. “How about April Huffman and Lucian Swain getting married at City Hall on Friday? Who saw that coming? Took us all by surprise.” A faint predatory smile, and then he was gone.

  She was very cold and very hot at the same time. She maneuvered herself into a chair, trapped her freezing hands between her knees. God, it was so hot. Was it always this hot in the studios? She pushed open the window. Frigid air rushed in. She doubled over, put her head between her knees, tried to breathe.

  I’m nothing. I’m nothing. I’m nothing.

  Alone in her studio, she bent her head into her hands. She couldn’t bear the thought of showing up tomorrow morning, clearing out her things with all her friends surrounding her, pitying her, trying to help. She would do it right now. Where to start? She cast her unseeing gaze around the room, taking in the bordello couch, the Moroccan table, the Persian rug, the accoutrements of art. So warm. So inviting.

  The wall. She would start with the wall. Slowly, she started unpinning the postcards and sketches, the Exquisite Corpse games she’d saved because they were so funny. One by one, she put them on the work table, dropping the pushpins into an empty coffee cup. Faster and faster she worked. In a frenzy, she made one pile, then another, and another. The first pile tipped over, taking the others with it. She took no notice when they spilled onto the floor. She would get it later.

  Next, she turned to her canvases. There was one for every day of school so far, and class had commenced way back in September. She laid the first canvas on the floor—a real beauty, Sivan, laying on her side on the model stand, the light following the curves of her languorous figure—then laid another flat on top of it. In this way, she made three precarious heaps in the middle of the dusty floor. The stacks teetered over the top of the makeshift wall separating the studios.

  Well. She couldn’t take them all home, not like that. So hot. She brushed her arm across her forehead, went to the studio one over, the studio across the way, opened those windows as well. There. Returning to her work table, she selected an xacto knife out of a coffee can. The light glinted off of the razor-like blade.

  She took a canvas from the top of the pile. With four measured strokes, she cut it out of the stretchers. It lay like a corpse on the dusty floor. And then she selected another. And another. And another.

  Hours later, she had flayed every canvas free of its wooden supports. They lay around her like fallen leaves. The joints in her fingers ached. Her back throbbed, her knees were sore from kneeling on the hard wooden planks. For the first time, she wondered if she was coming down with something. She went to the window to cool her burning face, watched her breath disappear into the night as gusts of frozen vapor. Glancing at her watch, she saw the hands pointing to three in the morning. Morning creeping up on her, and still so much to do.

  Morning. What would she do the next morning? And the next day? And the day after that, and the day after that, and the day after that? The thought of classes starting tomorrow without her, the thought of walking out the front door never to return, was a knife in her heart. Worse; with no money and no job prospects in sight, would she have to give up her apartment? Go back to Chicago? She knew what they would say to her upon her return. Enough with the art narishkeit. Settle down already.

  April Huffman’s pale-skinned back, her straight dark hair, her bony knees, her small flat ass, her legs straddling her partner’s sides as she mounted him, the famous painter Lucian Swain.

  The pain exploded inside of her then.

  I’m nothing. I’m nothing. I’m nothing. I’m nothing. I’m nothing.

  Her gaze fell on the last item on her wall, now a sea of white. The finely textured charcoal drawing of a naked woman seated at the edge of a bed, her whole body yearning towards a man hidden in the shadows.

  The temperature in the studio had dropped precipitously; she could see her breath as she stepped over the canvases littering the floor, and pulled out the four pushpins in the corners of the paper.

  Savagely, she ripped the drawing in half, then in half again. Again and again, into smaller and smaller pieces, until it was nothing but tiny bits of very expensive imported four-ply confetti, scattered across the floor.

  She was dizzy. Swaying on her feet, she put her hand across her eyes until the sensation passed. I should lie down for a little while, she thought to herself. But the couch was so far away. You know, right here is good. Just for a few minutes. She went down on her knees then, folded herself over until her head touched the floor. Her last conscious thought was that it felt good on her burning forehead. And then she passed out.

  At eight-thirty Monday morning, Levon walked out of the elevator on the second floor with the Times under his arm, waved hello at Arletta, continued down the corridor to his office.

  The lounge was packed with students, the comfortable jumble of backpacks and portfolios, dozing on the makeshift couches, or excitedly exchanging news of the winter break. It was good to have them back. He found Intersession lonely, with its deserted clas
srooms and empty halls.

  He unlocked his door, placed his cane in the umbrella stand, took off his coat. Just as he was about to sit, a first-year student burst through the door with urgent news.

  Levon ran down the hall, flew up the stairs two steps at a time, the pain in his knee be damned.

  The first thing he noticed was the temperature. It was so cold he could see his breath. A crowd was gathered around the second studio from the front, and he made his way down the corridor, pushing through the curious onlookers.

  He shouldered aside the curtain. And there he stopped.

  Some catastrophe had occurred during the night. Scattered around the floor were a tangle of distended stretcher bars bent at odd angles, picture postcards, drawings, drifts of studio paintings hacked free of their supports, all dusted over with a blizzard of torn paper. In the middle of it all, Tessa Moss, huddled in a heap on the floor.

  He looked to her friends, David, Ben, Clayton, Portia, Gracie. They all wore the same pale, frightened expression. “Go get Raphael Sinclair,” he said.

  But he was already there.

  Conversation ceased as if it had been shut off with a switch. He stood framed in the doorway, his voluminous coat stirred by the cold breeze blowing in through the open windows, calmly taking in the situation. And then he strode into the studio.

  He squatted down beside the motionless girl, tilted his head to hers. She whispered. He listened. For a minute, nothing happened. Then he swooped her up in his arms, turned, and swept out of the studio, his coattails billowing out behind him. A path opened up for him, then closed after he passed. No one said a word.

  Portia caught his gaze as he went by. For a moment, their eyes locked. Her blood ran cold. For suddenly she knew, without a doubt, felt it in the marrow of her bones, that the rumors were true, he was exactly what Clayton had said he was. A vampire.