The Portrait of Mrs. Charbuque

by Jeffrey Ford

  I discovered that his stern demeanor was an act he put on in the classroom, for he was always a wise and kind gentleman. Most important, he taught me how to see where the arts and literature and science coincided with everyday life. Even his technical lessons involved larger issues of human philosophy.

  Sitting there, staring up at that great work of the imagination, I felt his absence deeply, and through this sense of loss found what struck me as an intense kinship with Mrs. Charbuque.

  THE GALLERY

  SHENZ WAS dizzy with opium, three sheets to the wind, as they say, his eyes more glassy than the fake orbs of Mr. Watkin. We stood with John Sills in front of his entry in the show, a set of miniature portraits of criminals. The fete buzzed and whirled around us, wealthy patrons hobnobbing with artists—some students, some academicians, some reigning masters in their fields.

  “Amazingly well done,” I said to John.

  The police detective bowed slightly and thanked me.

  “This damsel looks familiar,” said Shenz, pointing to the last picture in the row, his entire body tottering as if thrown off balance by the discovery.

  I drew close to the painting, bent down, and squinted. The portrait was of a homely woman wearing a kerchief. I also recognized the subject.

  “Was it an affair of the heart, Shenz?” asked Sills, laughing.

  Shenz did not register the joke but merely said, “No doubt.”

  We chatted some more, and then Sills announced that he needed to see a gallery owner who was interested in representing his work. Before he moved away, he took me by the elbow and leaned in close. “I have to speak to you before you leave tonight,” he said in a whisper.

  I nodded, and then he vanished into the crowd.

  I turned to Shenz, who was still studying the portrait of Wolfe, and said, “You look positively lacquered tonight.”

  “Yes,” he said. “There’s a good reason.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Because I am,” he said, his eyes focusing for the first time since he had entered the gallery.

  “You’ll lose commissions,” I said. I hated to be prudish, but Shenz’s career had taken a precarious turn of late, and I felt he was doing himself a grave disservice.

  “The ship,” he said, changing the subject. “Did you inquire the name of the ship?”

  “The Janus,” I said.

  “A figurehead at both prow and stern, I suppose,” he said. “Did you find out what port it hailed from? What was its destination?”

  “All I could get was the name,” I told him.

  At that moment I looked up and saw, of all people, Mrs. Reed, making her way slowly toward us along the row of paintings. I nodded in her direction, and Shenz turned to look.

  “She may have a derringer in that purse, Piambo,” he said. “Disperse!” He laughed quietly and staggered away toward the champagne.

  I lit out in the opposite direction, keeping my eyes peeled for her husband, who I knew could not be far off. For an hour, I made the rounds, meeting and greeting colleagues and professors, catching up on old times and talking art for art’s sake. It was always a pleasure to hear of the various philosophies and techniques that others were employing in their work. At one point I came upon a former student of mine, standing before what I surmised to be his painting. He was young and wore his hair long in the manner of Whistler.

  “Edward,” I said, greeting him.

  Upon seeing me, he put his hand out and said, “Mr. Piambo, how have you been?”

  We shook hands, and I stepped back, making a great show of taking in his work. His painting was of a historical nature, vibrantly colored, in a clear, realistic style that had been popular back when I first started in the field. The subject was Salome and the beheading of Saint John the Baptist. The executioner’s scimitar had just lopped off the saint’s bearded head, which now lay at the feet of the femme fatale. Sabott’s influence was in strong evidence, and it pleased me to see this young man keeping my mentor’s artistic memory alive.

  “Wonderful brushwork and color,” I told him.

  “Thank you,” he said, bowing his head in embarrassment.

  “But,” I said, “if I may offer a comment…”

  He nodded.

  “There is no blood. This fellow here has just had his head severed from his body, and there is not a drop of blood in sight.” It was true. The end of the saint’s neck still attached to the torso looked for all the world like a healthy ham steak.

  Edward’s eyes widened, and he brought his hand to his forehead. “My God,” he said, “I will have to put it back on the easel tomorrow.”

  “Nothing to worry about, it’s a fine piece,” I said. “When you fix it, leave word with the academy to get in touch with me. I am interested in purchasing it.”

  Seeing his smile was worth three times whatever I would end up paying for the painting. “This is quite incredible,” he said. “Just this evening I was also commissioned to do a portrait for a gentleman. My first.”

  I wanted desperately to tell him to forget the portrait. “Portraiture is a trap that will relieve you of all your heart’s inspiration,” I was about to say. Instead, though, I patted his shoulder and congratulated him before moving off.

  Samantha arrived soon after, looking particularly lovely dressed in a blue watered silk gown, her hair done up in intricate braids. We had a glass of champagne together, but I was soon separated from her by a long line of her admirers. It amused me that no matter how revered some of the artists present in the gallery were, they could not compete with the interest generated by a popular actress. Samantha was, as always, gracious, speaking candidly with each of her well-wishers. At one point, while I was still standing at the fringe of her crowd, she looked up and smiled at me, as if to apologize. I nodded and smiled, knowing I would have her to myself later.

  I turned away and was surprised to see Albert Pinkham Ryder. Although he had belonged to the academy for a time, he had always had trouble showing his work. The other members were quite wary of his style and did not know what to make of it. Eventually this had caused him to join a group of others, who had also met with the academy’s intractable stuffiness, and form the Society of American Artists. They held their own juried shows, and of late their rival organization had grown in popularity.

  He stood alone, dressed in a silk jacket, clutching an old-fashioned top hat, staring across the gallery at a sketch of an angel by Saint-Gaudens. I was delighted to see my hero, his presence giving me the same thrill experienced by the students upon meeting me or the other professionals. As I moved toward him, I conjured up a fitting introductory line.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Ryder,” I said. “I wanted to apologize for having nearly run you down on Broadway this past Sunday.”

  He turned and looked at me, focusing his weak eyes. For a moment he just stood there as if recently woken from a dream. Then he smiled. “Piambo,” he said. “Yes, it happened so abruptly, I did not realize it was you until I was halfway down the block.”

  I was elated that he remembered me. “Are you enjoying the show?” I asked. “There are quite a few luminaries represented this year in the catalog.”

  “It’s not the luminaries I come to see,” he said. “I prefer the work of the novices. In their pieces I find sparks of passion that have not yet been doused by the academy.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  “Which brings me to wonder why you have nothing hanging in this show. Call it coincidence, but the other day after I nearly collided with you I was in a gallery uptown, and they were selling one of your earlier works, a painting of Tiresias. You had captured him at the exact moment when he was being transformed into a woman, and the figure showed attributes of both sexes. The sky was torn apart by lightning, and the whole composition, though obviously influenced by Sabott in the subject matter, was raw and wild.”

  “I’d nearly forgotten it,” I said, thinking back to the days when I had painted it. I had a brief mem
ory flash of Sabott nodding before that canvas and saying, “This is the way.”

  “Very inspirational,” said Ryder. “It made me consider going back to the myths. I was thinking of the story of Siegfried, something I’ve toyed with before. I tell you, if I were flush with cash at this juncture, I would have purchased that painting myself.”

  Now it was my turn to bow my head in embarrassment. I felt a surge of energy in me that I had not experienced since my early days, when every technique and notion I learned was the discovery of a new continent of the imagination.

  Before I could reply, John Sills was insinuating himself between Ryder and me. “Excuse me, gentlemen. Please forgive the interruption, but Piambo, I must speak with you.”

  Ryder nodded, smiled, and turned away. I was in a daze as John put his hand on my shoulder and led me out of the gallery.

  THE BEHEADING OF SAINT JOHN

  OUTSIDE THE gallery a group of artists stood gathered in conversation, smoking cigars. They nodded to us and said hello as we passed. We walked to the corner of the hallway and turned left. Sills was about to speak, but a couple came into view. It was a man and a young woman, obviously, like ourselves, seeking privacy. To my surprise I saw that it was Reed. The young lady, though, was most definitely not Mrs. Reed. I nodded, but my erstwhile patron looked through me as they passed, pretending I was not there. We continued on to the smaller gallery at the back of the building where I had sat in reverie earlier that evening.

  Once we were alone in the room, Sills asked me what I thought of the opening.

  “Wonderful,” I replied. “And I was pleased to see what progress you have made in your own work.”

  “I nearly didn’t make it here tonight,” he said. “There was a fire at a warehouse on Fulton Street this afternoon. The building burned to the ground, and it was assuredly arson. It’s not my district, but they were short of men and wanted another detective to fill in. I had to pull some strings to get out of the assignment.”

  I wanted to ask him if the burned building was one with a faint white circle painted on it but could guess what his answer would be. “Is this little meeting about the incident we discussed outside my house last week?” I asked.

  He nodded. “I shouldn’t be telling you, of course, but being sworn to secrecy about this matter doesn’t sit right with me,” he said. “I think they’re wrong to keep the public in the dark. Since I’ve already told you what I know, I thought I would keep you apprised and also relieve some of my frustration.”

  “There have been more victims,” I said.

  “Yes,” he said, and his admission came with a look of weariness and shame, as if he were personally responsible for the safety of the entire populace of the city. “Two more since you and I spoke. An anonymous caller tipped us off to the whereabouts of a corpse last Sunday. And another was found in her apartment not too far from your address.”

  “And the newspapers haven’t caught wind of this yet?” I asked.

  “Oh, they have, but the mayor has requested that they keep it quiet until more is known. They have agreed, but barely. The editors said that if one more body is discovered, it will be on the front page.”

  “Does the Department of Health know any more about how the parasite is transmitted and where it came from?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Earlier tonight I heard that they think they might have discovered a common denominator, but nothing more.”

  I considered telling him that it was I who had found the woman on Sunday, but decided against it. There were enough mysteries circling about in my head to nearly split it open. I did not want to declare ownership of this one as well.

  “I’m sure,” said John, “that we’ll soon be reading about it in the World. It’s definitely some kind of exotic parasite, but it’s odd that up to this point it has only affected women. If I were you I would find a way to warn Samantha to be careful, and especially to stay away from the waterfront.”

  I couldn’t lie. “I’ve already told her,” I said.

  I thought he would be angry, but instead he smiled and said, “Good.”

  As we walked back to the main gallery, I asked Sills if he had made an arrangement with the gallery owner he had sought out earlier. He told me nothing had come of it as yet. The hallways were empty now, and as we approached the exhibition hall, I was struck by the unnatural silence. It was as if the party within had folded up and slipped away.

  “Awfully quiet,” said John as he pulled back the door to enter the gallery. “Perhaps the judges are about to announce their decisions.”

  We stepped inside and were met with a scene that could easily have been an illustration from a pulp story. The crowd had backed away to the perimeter of the large room, and in the middle, next to the table that held the champagne, stood Mrs. Reed, a small gun, perhaps a derringer, in her hand. Her arm was trembling as she aimed across a space of twelve yards at her husband, who was backed up against young Edward’s Beheading of Saint John the Baptist.

  I should have been more surprised, but with the manner in which my life had recently been swamped with synchronistic happenstance, I wondered why I hadn’t seen it coming. “Did I really have to call for blood on that canvas?” I asked myself.

  It probably wasn’t that long, but it seemed as if whole plump minutes passed in silence as everyone waited for the shot to sound. Reed was pale, slumped forward slightly, covering his face with one hand and—this would have been amusing if the man’s life were not at stake—his groin with the other. “It’s really you I love,” he said, but his usually ingratiating voice now sounded more like a piece of rusty mill machinery on its last job.

  That is when Shenz, as nonchalantly as if he were crossing the street, stepped out of the crowd and stood between Mrs. Reed and her husband. “Madam,” he said, “it would be a shame to waste that bullet.” He smiled and began slowly walking toward her.

  “Get out of the way,” she screamed, her face turning bright red.

  Shenz continued to advance. “I have a feeling your children will be waiting up for you this evening,” he said. “And what’s this?” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled forth a small paper bag. “I have brought some candy for them.”

  Mrs. Reed groaned, hesitated for another second, and then lowered the gun to her side. Shenz stepped up and put his arm around her. With his free hand, he relieved her of the weapon. She put her face down on his shoulder and wept.

  John had already moved into action and was at Shenz’s side, confiscating the gun. The crowd broke out in a round of applause for my friend’s heroism, while the reporters, who were plentiful, wasted no time in descending upon Reed like a flock of vultures. Many of his business associates were present that evening, and between their eyewitness accounts and what would appear in the papers the following day, he would be altogether finished.

  Sills ushered Mrs. Reed out of the gallery, no doubt taking her uptown to police headquarters. As he passed me he said, “Let me know if I get a ribbon.” Meanwhile, Samantha had poured Shenz a glass of champagne. There were a few moments in which the crowd, en masse, tried to decide if what had happened was tragic enough to halt the opening or if they felt resilient enough to continue with the merriment. A confused half minute passed, and then there was a collective shrug, a sign that as much as said “Oh, the hell with it,” and the patrons and artists moved in from the perimeter of the gallery, the conversation resuming as if someone had flipped an electric switch.

  When I saw Shenz dodge his new admirers and make his way out the door, I followed. I did not have to go far to catch up to him. He was sitting on the steps outside, smoking a cigarette in the cold night air. I sat down and lit one of my own.

  “Well, she did have a derringer after all, but it wasn’t meant for you,” he said to me, shaking his head.

  “Was that a derringer?” I asked. “You have become as prescient as Mrs. Charbuque.”

  He smiled. “I think it was the bag of candy that made her reconsider,
” he said. “I’ve been carrying that candy around with me for the past two weeks.”

  “A very foolish stunt,” I said.

  “I know. It’s a sin. I should have let her shoot him. I’ll never forgive myself.”

  “Please,” I said, “another Reed would pop up as soon as they buried that one. They turn them out ready-made these days. Besides, you probably saved her from going to prison or worse. Women who shoot men do not fare as well as the reverse.”

  “True enough,” he said.

  “What made you do it, though?” I asked.

  “Well,” he said, and puffed on his cigarette, “I looked around that room and thought to myself, ‘Who of everyone present has the least to lose?’ I won hands down.”

  “That drug is warping your mind.”

  “No,” he said, staring across the street into the darkness. “All those fresh-faced youths with their brilliant works. All the established artists with their careers. I am like a snowman sitting in the sun. My talent drips off me and streams away in rivulets, my desire to paint evaporates more with each hour, my heart is cold to the whole endeavor.”

  “You’ve got to pull yourself together and work your way back to your old form,” I said.

  “Easier said than done,” he told me.

  “You are giving up?”

  “Not quite yet. I have to help you flush Mrs. Charbuque from her blind. After that, we shall see.”

  CLAWS OF OBSESSION

  AFTER THE opening, Samantha and I walked back to my place. Even though the episode with the Reeds was the spectacle of the evening, and my dialogue with Shenz on the steps had been somewhat upsetting, being the unrelenting egotist that I am, all I could think about were Ryder’s words of praise for my preportrait work. How I longed to relate the entire conversation to Samantha, but propriety would not allow it. She would smile and say, “How wonderful,” but it was impossible for me not to come off sounding like a self-absorbed novice. Mrs. Charbuque had not cornered the market on lurking behind screens.