The Portrait of Mrs. Charbuque

by Jeffrey Ford

  Gerenard remarked that he had balked at painting them, but the buyer insisted, saying, “She must be surrounded by darkness.” One thing that can be said for Charbuque, he wasn’t playing cheap with his victims. The lot had cost him a small fortune. This information was useless, though, for the buyer had given no name or address, paid for them in advance, and picked them up many months earlier. The old artisan could not clearly remember any distinguishing details about him.

  In the few minutes of rest I gave myself each day from my pointless meanderings, I could not help but wonder why Charbuque had infected Shenz. All his other victims were women who seemed to be picked at random. My only conclusions were that it was an attempt to hurt me, or that Shenz, having had experience with the commission and having encouraged me to research outside the bounds of what was readily offered by Mrs. Charbuque, represented a wild card in what both Charbuque and Watkin had termed “the game.”

  I went many nights to the theater, paid, and hid in the back row, simply to see Samantha. There I sat in the shadows, trying to screw up my courage to approach her and beg her forgiveness. I couldn’t even tell you what the play was about, so intent was I upon her every movement, each expression of her face, the sound of her voice. When the performance was over, I took up a position in the alley across the street from the playhouse to spy on her briefly as she got into a hansom cab.

  Then, on the night on which I had assured myself that I would finally make my move and show myself to her, I was standing in my miserable alley, awaiting her exit from the theater, when I felt something cold press against the back of my head.

  “Careful, Piambo, or I’ll put a hole in you,” Charbuque whispered.

  This was the moment I had waited for. So often in the past few days I had told myself that if only I had just one more chance to meet Charbuque, I would throw caution to the wind and wrestle him into submission, perhaps even strangle him with my bare hands. Now the time had come, and I stood there paralyzed, all my imagined courage instantly disintegrating with the first hint of danger. The greatest show of defiance I could muster was to say, “You murderer.”

  “Are you always this clever?” he asked.

  “Why Shenz?” I managed to ask.

  “He was rooting around too much, the meddlesome old goat. It is my habit to make only the ladies cry, but I allowed this one exception.”

  “Very well,” I said, thinking that if his intention were to kill me, he would have done so already. “Why those women?”

  “Revenge, of course,” he said.

  “Upon whom?”

  “My wife. My witch of a wife.”

  “Those women were not your wife,” I said.

  “Where is she? Where has she gone, Piambo? I want her to witness what I am doing,” he said. I could hear his anger building and felt the barrel of the gun wobbling slightly against my scalp.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “You are lying.”

  “I’m telling the truth. She left no word of where she was going. I’ve been prevented from finishing my commission.”

  “If I discover that you know where she is and do not tell me, I’ll see to it that your actress friend cries like a baby.”

  “Why don’t you just confront your wife instead of involving innocent people?”

  “There is a passionate force that binds us. Call it supernatural if you will. It both attracts us to each other and repels us at the same time. The closest we can get is but a distant orbit. From that frustrating perimeter, we commit acts against surrogates, meant to wound each other. I believe this devotion can only be described as love.”

  “What has Luciere done?” I asked.

  “So you call her Luciere, eh? Don’t you know about all the men she has robbed of their creativity through her ruse of that impossible commission? To a man, she has filled them with doubt, made them useless, as she tried to do with me. Which is the more terrible crime, to end a life or to torture the living and leave them empty husks, dried gourds forced to bear witness to their own emptiness?”

  “So you feel somewhat righteous about killing those poor women?” I said, and could not help but laugh out loud at the absurdity of his logic.

  “You’re wrong, Piambo. Those women I killed are her. They are all her. Every last one of them.”

  I felt the gun barrel leave my head, and in that instant made my move. I began to turn in order to seize him, but I did not get even a quarter of the way around before a heavy object smashed against the base of my skull. I staggered forward out of the alley, into the street, waiting to hear the shot that would finish me. I was still conscious when my legs buckled and I landed on my knees. I listed to the side and fell into unconsciousness.

  I woke with blurred vision and an ogre of a headache, aware at first only of the fact that I’d been beaten and spent a lot of time on the street of late. When my vision had partially cleared I managed to look up, and seeing the vague forms hovering above, I realized a crowd of people was standing around me. I was groggy, and when I tried to speak, my words came forth as incoherent grumblings.

  “Is he drunk?” a male voice asked.

  “Help me get him to the cab. I know where he lives,” said a woman. It was Samantha.

  I felt two sets of hands lifting me beneath the arms, pulling me upright. Soon I was moving along, sliding my feet as best I could, but the pain in my head doubled in strength, spreading like a wild-fire, and I passed out again.

  When I next awoke, sunlight was streaming through the lace curtains of my bedroom window. I tried to sit up, but the mere attempt at movement made me dizzy. Shifting my position, I turned onto my side and found Samantha lying next to me. “Perhaps it was all a dream, the whole bizarre thing—Mrs. Charbuque, my betrayal of Samantha, Shenz’s death,” I thought. Then I saw that she was fully dressed and lying atop the covers. I reached my hand out to lightly touch her hair, but when my fingers were no more than an inch away from her head, Samantha’s eyes opened and she sat up. She saw me reaching for her and got out of the bed.

  “What happened to you last night?” she asked.

  “I was pistol-whipped on the back of the head by Mrs. Charbuque’s husband.”

  “Serves you right,” she said. “And why did it happen in front of the theater I just happened to be performing in? It was embarrassing having to, first, admit that I know you and, second, cart you off the street and bring you here. If Shenz hadn’t just died, I would have left you where you lay.”

  “I was hiding in the alley across the street, hoping to get a glimpse of you, and he sneaked up on me,” I said.

  “Were you at the show?”

  “I have been at every show for the past five nights,” I said.

  “Why don’t you just leave me alone?” she said. “I don’t want you anymore.”

  “Yes, but I want you. Look, I know I was wrong to have gone along with you when I thought you were Mrs. Charbuque. I was weak. A weak moment. But I swear I’ve not betrayed you with her. You know as well as I do—I can’t lie to you.”

  “You also told me that she meant nothing to you.”

  “I was caught up in the commission. I was confused, and my nerves were frayed.”

  “Your nerves,” she spat, and turned away in disgust.

  “I thought you would come when Shenz died,” I said.

  She was silent for a time, her back to me. “I wanted to,” she finally said, “but I couldn’t see you.”

  “My life is so incredibly lonely without you,” I said. “All I do is walk up and down Broadway and hide in the shadows to catch glimpses of you.”

  She again turned to look down on me. “I am lonely too, Piambo.”

  “Forgive me,” I said.

  “Are you feeling better?”

  “I’ll live.”

  “What’s happening to you?” she whispered, and I saw tears in her eyes.

  I told her as quickly as I could all that had happened since I’d last seen her. She’d read about the murders
in the papers.

  She stood up, smoothing her sleep-wrinkled dress. “I’m leaving now,” she said.

  “And about us?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  I watched her walk out of the room, but when I tried to get up to follow her the pain in my head returned, bringing with it a grave weariness. The last thing I heard before falling asleep was my parlor door closing.

  NIGHT TRAIN TO BABYLON

  I BELIEVE I have read somewhere that it is dangerous to sleep with a concussion because of the possibility of slipping into a coma, but sleep I did. In fact, I did not wake until the afternoon of the following day. When I finally got out of bed, the lump at the back of my head was tender, but the internal headache was gone and my vision was clear. I dressed and went out to find something to eat, for I was ravenous.

  On the way home from Billy Mould’s Delicatessen, I decided to forgo my search for Charbuque for that day. I was filled with a kind of hope: Samantha had said she would think about our getting back together. Her demeanor had been rather bellicose, and her statement was far from a resounding affirmation of our relationship, but even the slim possibility that all was not lost afforded me the only ray of sunlight I had had in weeks. I wanted to relax and revel in that possibility for a few hours.

  At home I rummaged around the studio, trying to recall my career before Mrs. Charbuque had interrupted my life. It had only been a matter of weeks, and yet my life as a painter-for-hire seemed far away. It would take some doing to get back to work, since I had reneged on several important commissions. Although it had been only a few weeks, I had been absent from the social scene and left without patrons who would recommend me to their wealthy friends.

  From the studio, where I was relocating my lost self and conjuring fitting literary allusions, I heard a knock at my front door. As you can imagine, I was hesitant to answer it. I had had all the beatings I really needed for the time being, and as I said, I wanted nothing to do with the Charbuque case for the day. Still, I thought perhaps it might be Samantha, so I went to answer it.

  What I found was not a visitor, desired or otherwise, but an ultramarine-tinted envelope lying on the top step, secured against the autumn wind by a large rock. I hesitated, remembering Samantha’s forgery. Of course, eventually I picked it up and brought it inside. Standing in my parlor, I slit open the envelope.

  Dear Piambo,

  I have not forgotten our arrangement. Please forgive me for temporarily abandoning you, but the sudden reappearance of my husband caused me to flee the city. I hope you will understand. Take the Long Island Railroad to Babylon station. Once there, arrange conveyance to the La Grange Inn. I have reserved a room for you. Further instructions await you at the inn. If you do not check in within the next few days, I will cancel the reservation—and the commission. I look forward to completing our work together.

  Fondly,

  Luciere

  I had no doubt that this missive had been penned by the real Mrs. Charbuque. Only someone as unhinged as she could address me in the tone of a bank manager proffering a loan after all I had suffered at her hands. Now I had a decision to make—tear the letter to shreds, ignore it, and try to reassemble my old life, or as Shenz had requested, plunk my five thousand down at Hanover, so to speak, and “finish it.”

  When my suitcases were packed and I had assembled the painting supplies I would need to execute the portrait, I wrote a letter to Sills, asking him to keep a close eye on Samantha. I gave no hint of where I was headed. My supposition was that the minute I made a move, Moret Charbuque would learn of it and follow me. I planned to go quickly so that he would be unable to work his evil beforehand. In this manner I hoped to put as much distance as possible between him and Samantha.

  Late that afternoon, I left the house looking like a pack mule, toting my bags, a few rolled-up canvases, my paint box and easel. I went directly to Crenshaw’s and asked Mrs. Crenshaw to have a messenger deliver my letter to John. The old woman may have been nosy, but she was devoted to her regular customers, and I could be assured that my message would arrive, even if she had to take it to him herself. Then I caught a hansom cab and pleased the driver with the prospect of a grand fare by requesting that he take me to the Flatbush depot. We traversed the Brooklyn Bridge as the sun was setting, casting a golden glow upon that marvel of engineering. I could not help but contemplate some far future in which the remnants of New York would be unearthed like those of Carthage, and what silver lamps full of horror and wonder it might yield.

  I caught the late train to Babylon. There was a change of trains at Jamaica, where most of my fellow riders disembarked, after which I settled back and closed my eyes. My head still ached, but my conscience was at ease; I had decided to act. My thoughts turned to Sabott, and my memories of him followed me into sleep and mingled with my dreams.

  I sat with my mentor in his studio at night, two candles lighting the scene. Each of us held a glass of claret. Sabott smoked his Dutch pipe and I a cigarette. I felt comfortable, at ease. The master scratched his beard and yawned. Outside, a horse and carriage rattled by on the cobblestones. Somewhere a cricket chirrupped. I closed my eyes for a moment, and when I opened them Sabott was smiling at me. He took his pipe stem from his lips and whispered something.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but what was that?” I asked.

  He laughed to himself, whispered again, and then glanced over each shoulder as if searching for spies in the shadows.

  I knew that he was trying to tell me a secret. I put my wine-glass down, stubbed out my cigarette, and leaned across to him. He motioned for me to come yet closer, so I got out of my chair and kneeled before him. After taking a great draw on his pipe, he leaned forward, and I could feel him blowing the smoke into my ear. As it passed into my head, I heard but one word, “Idiosyncratic.” Then he sat back, and I rose to my feet.

  When next I looked at him, to my horror, he had melted into a puddle of colors, a swirling cataract of paint. His transformation frightened me, and I tried to call his name, but all that issued from my mouth was a long stream of smoke. I knew it was the smoke he had put into my head. Before my eyes the misty blue exhalation took shape in midair, finally coalescing into the image of Mrs. Charbuque, naked, standing behind her screen. But now I was behind it with her. I meant to regain what I had believed was irretrievably lost, and lunged for it. I slammed my chin against the train seat in front of mine and came awake just in time to hear the conductor yell, “Next stop, Babylon.”

  It was late when I disembarked from the train. The only ride I could get to the inn was an open horse-drawn wagon with wooden benches lining its sides. The young man who piloted the rig was pleasant, though, helping me store my things on board. I was to be his only passenger for the trip. Early November was not exactly tourist time at the Long Island shore. He gave me a blanket in which to wrap myself against the cold night, and we set off. The moon was full, and the stars were clearly visible. What a relief to be out of the city. I breathed deeply, savoring the fresh air tinged with the scents of acre upon acre of farmland and wood.

  I had visited this area a few years earlier for a party at the Willet estate. The Willet family had been the original owners of most of this land, and I had done a portrait of the clan’s patriarch the previous summer. There were many large estates in the vicinity, owned by such families as the Udalls, the Gereks, the Magowans, and the Vanderbilts. A bit farther east was the Gardiner estate. What interested me most about the southern shore was the proximity to the bay and, beyond it, the ocean.

  Eventually the driver ran out of things to say, and we rolled along in silence. I stared up at the moon, blue-white in the night sky, and its hue reminded me of the phantom Mrs. Charbuque who had returned to me in my dream of Sabott. I concentrated on recovering the image, almost afraid that I would not be able to find it in my thoughts. To my utter joy, it reappeared in my mind, as clear as the portrait Charbuque had destroyed. I decided then and there that this was th
e figure I would paint for my patron. As delusional as it might sound, admittedly no less unbelievable than Luciere’s advice from the Twins, I was certain that Sabott had come to me in my dream to say, “Trust yourself.” Although he had never spoken those words in life, it struck me that they defined the spirit that animated every lesson he had ever taught.

  THE HOUSE ON THE DUNES

  WHILE EATING breakfast the next morning in the La Grange dining room, I was approached by the desk clerk and handed a peacock blue envelope.

  “Sir, I am to give this to you from the gentleman who arranged for your room,” he said.

  I thanked him, and once he was gone, I opened the letter. One thing I could say for Mrs. Charbuque, her stationery was first-rate even if her choice of husband was not. The message was written in her familiar looping script: a set of directions to her summerhouse. Apparently I was to travel by water whether I liked it or not. Her place was halfway across the Great South Bay, on Captree Island. I was to take the ferry from Babylon, disembark at the island’s boat basin, and then strike out eastward over the dunes until I came into view of a two-story yellow wooden house with white trim.

  I determined on the spot to make the trip that day. There was just one other matter I had to deal with. The room at the inn was lovely, but it was rather small and would not serve as a studio. I needed to rent a place in which to paint. If the weather had not been so frigid I could have made do outdoors, but as it was, my paints would freeze in the late-season temperatures of morning—and I liked to begin work early in the day.