Travellers in Magic

by Lisa Goldstein

  I had to speak in her defense. “She doesn’t know,” I said, timidly enough. “Can’t you see that?”

  “Hold your tongue!” he said to me. “Don’t defend her to me. You don’t know what she is.”

  I could not think what to say to this. Before I could answer, however, he left the room, still cursing, to look for his paintbrush.

  I took advantage of his absence to study the woman Jenny. And at that moment the most extraordinary thing happened. She seemed to—to change her shape. She was no longer the woman of his paintings, aloof, cold, cruel, but fragile, thin and pale. She looked like nothing so much as my sister Anna before she died.

  I asked her her name and the name of her family. She seemed not to regard me at first, but gradually I thought she warmed to me; she even tilted her head to the side as Anna used to do when she wanted to concentrate on something.

  I think it is true that she is quite mad. She told me that she had come from the heavens, that when night fell she could point out the very star that is her home. I asked her if she thought she was an angel.

  “An angel!” John said, coming back into the room. I turned to him, startled by his sudden entrance. He laughed. “Where are the other angels, then, all the heavenly host?”

  She shook her head. “Lost,” she said. “All lost, and I have forgotten much—”

  “An angel,” John said, laughing again. “You do not know her, or you would not say such a thing. She is a very devil, a devil from Hell.”

  “She is nothing of the sort,” I said. “She is a poor harmless woman, a lost soul. She deserved better than to be found by you.”

  “Nonsense,” he said. “I rescued her. If I had not taken her to my studio she would have—well, you know what happens to women of her sort. She is lucky to be here.”

  He wiped his face, which was wet with perspiration. We were all terribly hot—the heat blazed from the windows, and the candles and lamps, as I said, still burned around the room. I forced myself to become calm.

  “John, my good friend,” I said, trying to speak in soothing tones. “How can you say she is evil? You know nothing about her, nothing at all, not even her station in life.”

  “She is a temptress,” he said. “She will be the death of me yet.”

  “Come—look at her, see her how she really is. Don’t you think she resembles my sister Anna?”

  He turned to her—we both turned to her. And there, on his divan, was the image of my poor dead sister. How could I have thought her cold, cruel?

  His face changed in an instant. “Dear God,” he said. He wiped his face again on his sleeve. Then he hurried to one of the pieces of paper scattered around the room and began to sketch.

  I looked over his shoulder and saw a drawing of Anna, her large eyes, the pale skin with the two red spots of consumption on her cheeks. As I watched he drew several bold lines, and then several more—wings. He had made Anna an angel.

  I remembered that he had regarded my sister as a saint, especially in the last terrible days of her illness. “I see,” he said, talking as if to himself. “I see it all now. I will capture her yet—she will not escape me.”

  Once again I did not know what to say. I was certain that he was mad, as mad as she—a folie à deux. I turned and left quickly.

  I agree with you that the woman should be placed in a better situation as soon as possible. Your suggestion that she live with us until her family is found seems to me a good one, and good-hearted as well—you are, as always, a charitable man.

  I hope that you are well, and that your father is improving. I would like to have you home again, so that we may do something about this dreadful situation.

  Your loving wife, Kate

  7 July 1858

  Kate—

  I cannot thank you enough for your insight into Jenny’s character. There is a brilliance about her that is hers alone; when I fixed a strand of pearls at her neck they kindled into light, as if they caught fire from her. She is an angel—that explains the innocence I saw in her when I first rescued her. I need her, need that innocence, to start afresh, to be reborn. She makes me see everything in a new light.

  —J

  20 July 1858

  Dearest Henry—

  These past two weeks I have felt the most terrible apprehension for John. I waited anxiously each day for the morning and afternoon post, but nothing arrived from him. My worry grew to such a pitch that I felt I must visit him again, despite your prohibition.

  Accordingly I called on him at his studio today. (You must forgive my shaking handwriting—I am still terribly alarmed by what I saw there.) My dear Henry, I am sorry to tell you that the situation is worse than ever. He is emaciated, his face sunken, his eyes huge. Flies buzz around the remains of his meals, rotting meat and vegetables, and the room has a terrible smell. I do not think he has eaten in several days. And she—she is thinner and paler than ever. My heart goes out to her, poor creature.

  The room was dim, shadowy—all of the lamps were out, and the candles were nearly extinguished, leaving pale clots of wax on the floor. The sun, which had burned so brightly the last time I visited, had gone behind a cloud, and a thin rain fell. Dusty fans and feathers and tin crowns lay scattered about the floor.

  And yet there was a strange light in the room. I hope you will not think me as mad as he is if I tell you that the light seemed to come from her, from her lambent face and skin. She was still pale, still thin, her eyes huge—she seemed to be consuming herself, spending her life, as Anna did. I cannot tell you how horrible it was to see this woman suffering so—it was as if I were condemned to watch Anna die twice.

  When I looked away from her I could see small lights gleam in the shadowy corners. Some of the light came from the facets of the paste gems with which he had draped her, but others—oh, how I longed to leave, to simply turn and run out the door!—I fear some of the other light came from the glint of rats’ eyes in the darkness. They came out to eat the food, and neither John nor Jenny had the strength to chase them away.

  Despite the odd light he continued to paint, pausing only once to coil a chain of gold around her arm. “She is ill,” I said. “She must be seen by a doctor.”

  At first he did not seem to hear me. He moved away from her, overturning the gargoyle candelabrum at his foot, and studied his model. Then he said, “She is not ill, though she may seem that way to you.”

  “How can you say that? She—”

  “She is changing, becoming something new. Haven’t you noticed?—she appears in a new light from day to day.” He lit a match; the light flared up briefly in the darkness. The smell of sulfur lingered for a moment in the room. He bent and lifted a candle, lit it.

  “What do you mean?”

  “She was remote, a queen of antiquity,” he said. He began to pace. The candle lit his face from beneath, made his eyes into hollows, his eyebrows into spread wings. “Then she became carnal, a fleshy woman. And an evil sorceress, and an angel … I don’t know how she does it, but she—she responds to me somehow. And to you as well—to everyone. You changed her into Anna, didn’t you? Your husband thought she resembled you.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked again, backing away. Nothing I had seen in this room had prepared me for this lunacy.

  “But what is she?” he asked. His pacing grew agitated. “She is mystery, an unknowable mystery. You feel it too, you must. She blazes like a fire, but what will happen if she begins to fade, to gutter out like a candle? I must discover the answer before she dies, before we both die. And I will discover it—I will burn her down to her core.”

  “You’re mad,” I said, and turned and fled.

  My dearest Henry, I have thought of nothing but that poor woman since I left John’s studio. I pray that your father regains his health soon, and that you return to me, and that together we may take Jenny from him and place her in our care.

  Sometimes—sometimes I wake in the night, and see the stars from our bedroom window, and I wonder i
f John could be right. What if we each see in this woman what we want to see? It’s true that she appeared to me as my sister, and to you as me, and to John, it seems, as every woman he has ever desired.

  What if she did come from the sky, as she told me? What better way to ensure her safety among us than to appear as the thing we most love? But then who is she, what is her true appearance? What will happen if John does as he threatens and burns her down to her core?

  Your loving wife, Kate

  27 July 1858

  Dearest Henry—

  I am sending you the last letter I received from John. I became alarmed even before I read it, and if you but glance at it you will see why. The handwriting is chaotic, unruly—as he says he wrote the last part completely in the dark.

  After I read the letter I hurried to his studio. I found him motionless and dazed, but—God be thanked!—still alive. All his candles had gone out, and only a fitful light came in through the window. Heaps of things lay scattered across the room—in the dim light they were no more than shadows. There was no sign of Jenny.

  I brought him home with me, not caring what the neighbors might think, and I fed him. After a little while he responded to my ministrations. He refuses to speak of Jenny—all I know comes from the letter I enclose.

  Your loving wife, Kate

  K.—

  I have no more food. I have no more candles. For our old friendship’s sake I beg you to come to my studio and give me what you can.

  And yet I am not in the dark, for the light that comes from her is strong enough to guide me, grows stronger as I watch. I do not know what she is. I know she is changing one last time, and that I am changing as well. Perhaps this last change is death.

  Look!—She is—she is shedding everything, all the costumes and jewelry I gave her, all her disguises. She is shedding her skin as well, she is emerging—

  And I see—I see Her. She flares, she shines! I know—I understand—But she is gone.

  How can I tell you what I saw? I understand now that she was not unknown, but unknowable. She never changed at all, in all the time I knew her—it was I who changed in my efforts to understand her. She was everything, illumination. And my mind could not grasp what she was, and so I put a familiar face on it, called her Jenny, as you called her Anna.

  Her light has gone out, extinguished like a candle. But it is enough for me to have understood her for a single second, for her to have illuminated the entire world for me. It is enough to know that for a moment I partook of mystery. Because I am truly in the dark now, with only my pictures and my memories.

  —J.

  AFTERWORD

  The Woman in the Painting” grew out of an interest in the Pre-Raphaelites. In the first draft the characters were actual painters and hangers-on; by the second draft I realized that my story was saying rather terrible things about a group of people who hadn’t really been all that bad. If there are libel laws in the afterlife my historical novels have already given me far too much to answer for, so I changed these people to fictional characters.

  DAILY VOICES

  “Continue driving until you see the freeway entrance, and then push the button.”

  Vivian tried not to feel depressed. It looked like she was going to work today. She had been hoping for a shopping trip, though she knew she had nothing to shop for. “Continue driving until you see the freeway entrance, and then push the button,” the voice said again. The freeway, only a mile from her apartment, came up on the right. She pushed the large button on the dashboard of the car. “Get on the freeway and drive until you see the Elm Street exit, then push the button.”

  Dammit, she thought. There would be no surprises today. She was going to work. Dammit, dammit, dammit. She wondered if she should risk saying something out loud. There was no evidence the voice could hear anything she said. But cowardice held her as always. She knew she would say nothing. And what difference would it make if she did?

  The voice came on again with the same instructions. The voice came on every thirty seconds, and the voice’s instructions lasted about ten seconds. She had timed it on the dashboard clock. The drive to Elm Street took over ten minutes, so she would have to hear the same instructions twenty times. She wanted to scream. She wanted to press the ugly black button on the dashboard again and again, beating it with her fists. But she didn’t dare.

  Instead she stared at the clock on the dashboard, watching the second hand glide slowly around the clock-face. Eight more minutes. Seven. She wondered why she had a clock in her car, wondered if everyone had one or if it was unique to her. She had never really needed it except for timing things. And what about the other things on the dashboard: the mileage counter (at 02360.5), the pointer that showed her how fast she was going, the red lights labeled “battery” and “oil”? Did other people have those things too? She liked it when the red lights came on, because then the voice would direct her to a service station and she would get to take the bus home. The bus trip was the only time she got to hear other people and to pick up the clues she would spend hours trying to piece together.

  She turned down Elm Street and pushed the button. The voice directed her to 820 Elm Street, #206. She parked the car and climbed the steps to the second story office. As she put her key in the door she could hear the voice inside the office start up immediately: “Turn on the lights and push the button.”

  Number 206 was a small windowless room with only a desk, a chair, a typewriter, a filing cabinet and a fan that was on all year, winter and summer. The fluorescent lights overhead stuttered as she flicked the switch and then stayed on. She went to the desk and pushed the large black button on the right hand side.

  “Alphabetize the papers on the desk and file them in the filing cabinet, then push the button,” the voice said. She relaxed a little. Alphabetizing wasn’t too bad, was almost fun if you didn’t mind the voice in the background coming on once every thirty seconds. It gave you time to think. She hated typing, because her back hurt her after an hour, and she hated tearing apart carbons because her hands got covered with the black carbon, but alphabetizing was all right. She sat down and started putting the papers in stacks.

  The voice was the only thing she could remember. On her good days she thought there must have been a life before the voice, but on bad days she wondered if the voice had started when she was born and had never let her go. She could remember back only about a year, but there was really no evidence that the year before, or the year before that, or the year before that had been any different. Certainly she could not imagine what her childhood would have been like if the voice hadn’t been there.

  Sometimes she thought that somewhere along the line she must have made a bad bargain, and that this was the consequence. Whenever she thought that she would try and try to remember what that bargain had been, because if she could remember it she might be able to get free of it. But she could remember nothing before her one room apartment, her car, her work, and the voice connecting them all like beads on a string.

  At other times she thought that everyone had a voice in her car, her home, her office, that that was just the way life was. The woman at the checkstand in the supermarket probably had one, and the man who fixed her car, and some of the people on the bus, the ones who seemed barely alive. Maybe, she sometimes thought, everyone forgets their life overnight. Maybe something went wrong and I’m the only one who remembers. That would explain the overelaborate instructions, the ones that go on and on until I’m ready to scream. If people really didn’t remember they’d need instructions like that to get them through the day.

  But as always the explanation failed to satisfy her. It didn’t explain the others, the woman she had seen dancing (dancing!) in the street, the teenage boys with the loud radios, the couples arguing with each other or quietly holding hands, the woman she had once seen in her rear-view mirror crying quietly inside her car. And the coffee shops and movie theaters where people seemed to go, the billboards for vacations in Rio or Paris
, parties in the apartment above hers, the fireworks she had once seen flower over the city like a blessing. And anyway, most people seemed to have a radio in their cars instead of a black button; she had looked.

  She wondered what it would be like to go to a movie, to take a vacation. Sometimes when she put her key in the door of her apartment and heard the voice start up inside she wanted to run away and never come back. Sometimes when she saw couples kissing in the street she felt happiness and yearning and desire and loneliness, and other feelings she had no words for. She wondered if other people felt these things or if she was unique, or if they felt them more than she did, if their lives were a riot of sensations.

  She felt a sharp pang of envy and put her head on the desk for a moment. Her life, the only one she had, was being wasted. “Alphabetize the papers on the desk and file them in the filing cabinet, then push the button,” the voice said. She had almost forgotten it. It didn’t do to become depressed, she knew, though she had moments of black depression several times a day. She hurried to finish and pushed the button. “Go to the cafeteria on the corner for lunch,” the voice said, “come back and push the button.”

  She wondered what the voice would have said if she’d finished before lunch, if that would have made any difference. She wondered what would happen if she were to go somewhere else for lunch, but as far as she knew the cafeteria was the only place to eat in the neighborhood. She left the office—the door locked behind her—and went to the corner. “A tuna fish sandwich, please,” she said to the woman behind the counter at the cafeteria. They were the first words she had spoken all day.

  In the afternoon she typed itemized lists of things the company was shipping—auto parts, it looked like, though the last time she had typed a list it had been furniture. When she finished the voice directed her to her car and then to a gas station where she filled up her tank.

  “Turn on to Second Street and then push the button,” the voice said when she started the car. The voice was taking her to the freeway and then home. For once she didn’t mind the instructions. She was tired and hungry and incapable of thought, and wanted only to go home.