Forgetfulness (9780547526980)

by Just, Ward S.

  Thomas had tried many times to make a portrait of his mother but had never succeeded. He finished the pictures but they were no good because he was never able to see beneath the skin. They were stillborn. He was never able to settle on the expression, although he was attracted to the disappointment on his mother’s face when she looked upon Karen’s portrait and had pulled back from it as though she had been physically struck, her abrupt motion dramatic enough to have drawn attention from those around her—who leaned in to look at nude Karen to see what there was about her that had caused such a reaction. Thomas had seen the same expression many times, most often when his father had taken one bourbon too many and had said something coarse or unfeeling. Her son was unable to locate his mother in relation to himself or his father. She seemed to be a star in a distant orbit, now bright, now far away. Her orbit had nothing in common with his orbit or her husband’s orbit, yet was studied meticulously by both, studied with the care of astronomers—amateur astronomers, it had to be said. Astronomers who reckoned her orbit in relation to their orbits, not as something unique in itself, and no doubt she did the same. Your mother is fragile, his father said to him once, yet to Thomas she did not seem fragile at all. From her distant location she seemed to rule things, though he reached that conclusion years later, when she was gone. The half-dozen times he had tried to paint her portrait he felt as if he were painting a stranger, but that was no explanation because he had successfully painted many strangers. Strangers were his métier, fifteen minutes’ acquaintance and a series of snapshots all he required. But she refused to come to life on his canvas, still a distant star.

  He had resolved not to paint his father until he himself was sixty-seven, the old man’s age when he died. He wanted to see his father through mature eyes, remembering his voice and his manner when speaking to his patients, his voice so soft it could barely be heard. His voice was his manner. No one delivered more bad news than a doctor, bad news a part of the day’s portfolio. At the end of the day his father’s voice was wan, used up and wrung out, the wrinkles in his face so deeply etched they might have been carved in stone. At the end of a very long day at the easel Thomas’s own face had a similar look, not quite a thousand-yard stare but close to it, the day’s events pressing in, the details clear but soon to fade. The day’s bad news always lingered but it was his own bad news, not another’s, and he was under no obligation to share it, still less an obligation to cure it. Of course a portrait never captured a single moment but an accumulation of moments, and the older the subject, the greater the accumulation. Thomas could begin his father’s portrait any time now but he knew he would wait until his own life was more settled, equilibrium achieved, so that he could recollect with confidence. If he attempted his father’s portrait now he would end up with a self-portrait disguised as his father’s portrait. To some degree all portraits were self-portraits, as all novels were to some degree autobiographical. Trouble was, the artist could never calculate the precise step on the ladder, the exact degree of separation; and the viewer knew even less. That which appeared true was false, and vice versa. A visage was sometimes true and false at the same time, the natural effect of a hundred brushstrokes or a dozen rewrites. Autobiography resided in the style of composition and from that the viewer could conclude whatever he wished or nothing at all. The possibilities were nearly infinite. Thomas thought he would wait before attempting his father’s portrait. The old man was entitled to a picture that was his very own. His mother deserved her own, too, but that would have to wait a little longer.

  Thomas covered the billiards table and extinguished the bright, green-shaded overhead light. He put his empty glass in the sink, then thought again and fetched the cognac bottle and poured a generous measure, all the while sensing a shudder of disapproval in the room. He took a swallow, allowing the disapproval to gather. That was Florette, glaring at him from her space above the fireplace, irritated that he had drunk something before dinner and one bottle of wine during dinner and was finishing now with cognac, one, two glasses, and, still not satisfied, a third. This was insupportable. Drinking after dinner was dangerous unless you were entertaining guests. After-dinner drinking was unwholesome also, an unfortunate indulgence, in no way comme il faut. Florette was sympathetic toward the bored or the lonely or the melancholic, but not toward drinking as a solution. He tried to explain to her that drinking usually increased loneliness or melancholy but was a specific against boredom because alcohol cast a cockeyed light on your surroundings. That which was dull became vivid. That which was static became a whirlwind. Grief became hilarity because the world was skewed. Thomas turned his back on Florette’s portrait and sipped his cognac. The time was midnight. He finished that glass and poured one more, turning now to give a sideways look at Florette, glaring back at her with what he hoped and believed was a rapt expression of admiration and respect.

  The room was in near darkness and he was happier now, filled up with cognac, living inside himself, his ghosts gathering around. Florette was there and Granger and the Slovenian bears and the appalling Victoria Granger, a repertory company obliged to follow an unfamiliar script. Thomas was writing it now as he sipped his cognac in an enviable zone of well-being, snug in a well-made house, at that moment without a worry in the world. Something came into his mind and went out again, a fugitive thought that made him smile and then laugh out loud in the empty room. The world was elsewhere and might not exist at all, an incoherent VSOP-cognac milieu majestic in its carelessness. He tasted cognac and blew an imaginary smoke ring from an imaginary cigarette. The wind had come up, whistling loudly in the eaves, perhaps the signal of another storm, most likely not. No storms tonight. The wind produced a strange sharp sound and that was what came from living alone in an old farmhouse, ominous sounds that could put your nerves on edge if you listened carefully enough and paid attention, something he had no intention of doing, conjuring trespassers in the shadows—and then Thomas understood that the telephone was ringing, one bleat after another, six, seven, eight bleats, and sudden silence as the answering machine connected and he heard his own voice and after a pause the voice of another, not at all welcome at this hour. He had not received a telephone call in days.

  Thomas? Are you there? I know you’re there. Pick up, it’s Bern—

  Bernhard, Thomas said, his hand on the telephone at last.

  —calling from London.

  Yes, Bernhard.

  Thomas? It’s late, I know, Bernhard said. But I’m glad you’re still up and about. What are you doing?

  Playing billiards, Thomas said.

  Who with? Get rid of him.

  Nobody. I’m alone.

  Playing billiards alone? That makes no sense to me. Billiards is a two-man game.

  Not my version, Thomas said.

  Bernhard’s laugh rumbled down the line and died out.

  But I’ve finished now. I’m going to bed.

  I need a minute of your time, Thomas.

  Later. In the morning.

  This won’t take long. And it can’t wait.

  Morning, Thomas said.

  Are you sure you’re alone?

  Your voice is not clear, Bernhard.

  I’m calling on my mobile.

  Where are you? And as he asked the question, Thomas knew he had made a mistake, prolonging the conversation. He did not care where Bernhard was. He wanted Bernhard off the phone and now he had to listen to an explanation.

  I’m not at home. I’m away for a few days, here and there, the usual. Thomas heard voices and a discreet round of laughter, as if Bernhard were in someone’s living room or an after-hours bar. The background language did not seem to be English but it was hard to be certain. Bernhard said, You’re sure you’re alone?

  Thomas said, Victoria’s here.

  Who’s Victoria?

  Granger’s great-niece. He left her his house. And now she’s come to sell it, and she wants my advice as to an asking price. Also, she wants to destroy my portrait of Granger but I
won’t let her have it. So that’s the situation with Victoria Granger. She’s from Pennsylvania. Have you ever been to Pennsylvania?

  Yes.

  So have I. Years ago. I didn’t like it. You know what they say about Pennsylvania? No great picture has ever been painted in Pennsylvania. It has to do with the damned light. Eakins is the exception. Goddamned artistic wasteland like the Rocky Mountains. Unless you count Bierstadt, which I would never do.

  Thomas?

  She’s got the house on the market for eight hundred thousand euros, which is a joke. She’ll never get it.

  Thomas?

  She’s appalling.

  Pauling’s in New York.

  Well, she’s in Pennsylvania.

  She’s not there, is she?

  She was here but she left early. Last month.

  So you’re alone.

  I was happy sitting alone in the dark but now there are trespassers.

  Focus for a minute, please.

  I’m tired, Thomas said.

  I’m going to talk LaBarre. Do you understand?

  Thomas sighed. More cloak and dagger.

  Jesus, Bernhard. It’s late. I don’t know what time it is, but it’s late and I’m a little drunk. I’m ready to go to bed. No codes at this hour.

  It’s necessary.

  I’m sure it is.

  There’s a man I want you to meet.

  Thomas did not reply. The wind came up once more, whistling in the eaves. He felt a soft breeze, a reminder that the house was not as snug as he thought. Nothing was. He looked at his watch, past midnight; tomorrow had arrived and he had not even noticed. His future was filled with dread, score-settling on Florette’s behalf. Just then he thought he heard her voice inside the wind-whistle but the words were swiftly carried away. Bernhard said something but Thomas did not hear what it was, owing to the background noise and the wind in the eaves. Whenever in the past Bernhard had a man he wanted Thomas to meet, trouble always followed. He had been a fool to answer the telephone. What he should be doing was listening to Billie Holiday or Art Hodes but the stereo was at the other end of the room so he had Bernhard Sindelar instead. Thomas tucked the phone between his neck and his shoulder, opened the fridge, fetched the bottle of white wine inside, and poured the last of it into his glass, spilling some, neglecting to notice that it was the two-ounce pony. He threw it back as if it were whiskey and put the glass in the sink.

  I want you to make his portrait, Bernhard said. Will you do that?

  No, Thomas said.

  You wouldn’t recognize him, Bernhard said, but he has an unusual head. Bernhard went on to describe the head but in terms Thomas found difficult to grasp. Late at night, Bernhard’s descriptive powers often failed. He said, Because of the shape of the head I think you’d like to meet him. Talk with him, get to know him, do his portrait. He’s interesting, this man. Not your usual subject. And he has friends, and the friends are also interesting.

  I’m not accepting commissions.

  Thomas? Pay attention.

  It was true his concentration had wandered, Florette’s phantom voice, the puddle of wine on the kitchen counter, and his obligation toward Billie Holiday. Swing, brother, swing. Thomas was watching a car wind up the road to St. Michel du Valcabrère and wondering what it was doing at this late hour. People went to bed early in the village, rising at dawn to commence the day’s chores. No doubt this was Monsieur Bardèche returning from an assignation.

  Did I tell you Granger’s niece was here? Grandniece.

  Yes. Now listen to me.

  A Pennsylvania matron.

  Can you get up to Paris tomorrow?

  Most unpleasant.

  Noon train?

  I’m working, Bernhard. I’m working damn hard, day and night. I don’t want to go to Paris because Paris will interfere with my work.

  You’re being selfish, Thomas.

  Not now. Maybe later.

  —paint his portrait. And the portraits of his friends.

  No commissions.

  I’m afraid this can’t wait, Thomas.

  Have to wait, he said. He thought an eternity was about right. He was much happier alone with his ghosts than he was talking to Bernhard Sindelar. He said, Florette was here a second ago but she had to leave. It’s late. I’m tired.

  What was that about Florette?

  Nothing. Forget it.

  I’m worried about you, Thomas.

  Don’t be.

  All right. But guess what? Russ is here with me.

  Well, tell him hello.

  Thomas, Bernhard said. Focus just for a moment.

  He watched the car dip over a hill, its headlights lost to view. Country rhythms, Thomas thought, a single car on a lonely road late at night, destination surmised; and still the hubbub in Bernhard’s phone, voices and soft laughter. He said the thing that came to mind and knew at once that he had made a mistake, the conversation prolonged once again. He said, I haven’t heard from Russ for a while. How is he?

  Not so good, Thomas.

  What’s wrong?

  They’re not renewing his contract. They’ve said bye-bye to Russ. Thanks very much. They’re giving him a medal. But on the whole, he’d rather be working. So that’s another reason to come to Paris, help out old Russ. He’s pretty broken up about it.

  I’ll be there, Thomas said. But not tomorrow and not next week. He paused, searching for the car that had passed over the hill, surely Monsieur Bardèche’s green Peugeot. I’m tired, Bernhard. It’s late. I couldn’t walk across the street. Give me a number, I’ll call you tomorrow. We can make plans tomorrow, meet whoever it is you want me to meet. What did you say his name was?

  I didn’t.

  That’s right, you didn’t.

  His name isn’t important.

  I don’t care who he is anyway. I’m not accepting commissions. Yes, you said that.

  Thanks for the call. Give Russ my best. Tell him I’m sorry about his retirement.

  Don’t hang up, Thomas.

  Goodbye, Thomas said and hung up.

  He knew he had been abrupt, but Bernhard’s conversation made no sense to him, except the part about Russ. Russ should have retired long ago. The idea of Paris filled him with dread, the raw urban chill of January, washed-out Monet skies and bare plane trees, Giacometti women in the Tuileries, a leaden atmosphere of everyone wishing to be somewhere else, a ski resort in the Alps or a beach in Morocco or the Costa del Sol. And he was not accepting commissions. People called you late at night and assumed you were eager for a jolly chat when all you wanted was to go to bed, shove tomorrow a little farther into the distance. Christ, he was drunk, already forgetting what Bernhard had said to him, something to do with a man in Paris, a mysterious man-with-no-name. Thomas lifted the pony glass from the sink and turned out the lights, startled when something brushed against the window and melted into the shadows, a shape darker even than the night. He rapped on the window and looked into the darkness but saw nothing. Through the crack in the window he could smell an alien odor, feral, musky, slightly sweet. He did not think he was imagining it or the dark shape either. Thomas stepped unsteadily to the front door and locked it, something he never did at night. Thomas stood quietly listening but heard nothing. He reached instinctively for the telephone when it rang again, most shrilly.

  Russ Conlon said, You shouldn’t hang up on Bernhard. He doesn’t like it.

  Is that right?

  Yes.

  Well, fuck him.

  Thomas, Russ said, a voice of profound disappointment.

  What does he want? It’s something about Paris, isn’t it? He wants me to paint someone, is that it?

  No, he doesn’t.

  That’s good. I’m not taking commissions.

  Not to paint, Thomas.

  That’s what he said.

  It isn’t what he meant.

  I’m tired, Thomas said. Also, I’m just the slightest bit drunk. And someone’s been prowling around my house. Big bastard. Stinks.r />
  What?

  A prowler outside my window.

  Russ was silent, his hand evidently over the phone’s mouthpiece, for the background noise vanished. When he came back on the line he said, There isn’t any prowler, Thomas.

  You don’t think so?

  Trust me.

  What do you know about it?

  Thomas, you’ve had a long night. And Bernhard wants to talk to you again. It’ll only take a minute.

  Not now, Thomas said loudly.

  All right, then. Go to bed.

  How can I when the phone’s always ringing?

  Russ laughed at that. He said, We’ll call tomorrow.

  Thomas said, I understand you’re under the weather.

  I’m not under the weather.

  Bernhard said you weren’t so good. Not so good, he said.

  I’ll tell you about it tomorrow, Russ said, his voice subdued.

  Not too early, Thomas said. He was staring into the darkness where the shape had been. The odor of it was still in his nostrils.

  Noon, Russ said. Please be home.

  Thomas tried to recollect the day of the week. He thought today was Wednesday. No, Thursday, because midnight had come and gone. Tomorrow was at hand. He had no plans for Thursday so he said, Fine.

  Noon then, Russ said.

  I don’t like prowlers.

  A nuisance, Russ agreed.

  God knows who they are.

  Sleep well, Thomas. Tomorrow noon.

  I’m not taking commissions, Thomas said and hung up for good.

  By eleven Thomas was drinking coffee in his kitchen, sorting through the mail, putting the American newspaper to one side; it was the paper that had gotten him into such trouble yesterday. He carefully stacked the bills in one pile and the gallery invitations in another. There were three invitations to openings in Paris, none of them very interesting judging from the reproductions on the invitations. It was a terrible thing being a young French artist, Matisse always at your elbow; it was like a tyrant routinely judged to the standards of Genghis Khan. That left a letter from his New York dealer, Arthur Malan, announcing that a museum in Holland was interested in one of his Karen portraits. Negotiations would commence at once and it was reasonable to expect a satisfactory outcome. Arthur inquired after his health and hoped he was getting along all right and working well. Thomas read the letter twice, pleased at the news. It had been some time since a museum had come to call. Milwaukee was the first, twenty years before. Then the Art Institute of Chicago bought one. One to MOMA, Francisco to Madrid, another to Centre Pompidou, but that had been five years ago and there had been nothing since.