The Singularity Cycle 02 Song of the Death God

by William Holloway

  His mind was a storm of thunder without lightning, echo without sound and forms without faces. There were events, there were people, there were places, but no names and no times and no landmarks.

  Renaud cautiously cleared his throat. “Wilhelm? Wilhelm, are you all right?”

  Wilhelm pried his eyes from the canvas and fixed them blankly on Renaud.

  Renaud looked frightened. “Wilhelm, forgive me. I did not know that you were unaware of the upcoming exhibit of your brother’s work.”

  The words filtered in and slowly revealed their meaning to Wilhelm.

  “Your sisters had this shipped at the recommendation of a gallery owner in Munich. His work is far too provocative for such a conservative city. So the gallery owner referred them to me. This arrived yesterday morning. They wished to know what the monetary value was. Naturally, I brought you here to help me consider this. If the rest of his work is of the same quality, then it is my opinion that this is the finest example of dangerous art I’ve ever seen. Frankly, it’s hard to characterize. There is nothing overtly confrontational or transgressive, but it’s truly distressing work!”

  Renaud gave Wilhelm a conciliatory smile that did not reach his eyes. “I think the show would make a lot of money.”

  Renaud brought him a glass of water and waited patiently and expectantly on the couch beside Wilhelm. It took minutes for Wilhelm to emerge from his stunned silence. Renaud was baffled. Wilhelm Ernst sat next to him with a stream of tears flowing from his eyes. Renaud knew that Wilhelm Ernst was at best a misanthrope, and the Galerie d’art Voltaire was not a place for tears. No artistic pretense would allow for this. Something was seriously amiss.

  “Wilhelm, have your sisters attempted to sell these paintings without your consent? Were you supposed to have been notified?”

  Wilhelm nodded tearfully. “They simply have no care for his memory.”

  Renaud gasped. He had no idea that Uli was dead. “Oh, my. I didn’t know, Wilhelm. I had wanted you to deliver a talk on his art and introduce him to buyers. I’m so very sorry!”

  But Wilhelm was too distraught for self-censorship. “I’m losing my mind, Renaud. Greta and Karin wrote that Uli had gone mad, so I went back to Munich to see to him, but… something happened… Uli hanged himself…”

  Renaud had a starry-eyed look. “The tragedy, such a brilliant artist, snuffed out by the madness…”

  Wilhelm was too far gone to take offense. “Renaud, before I went back to Munich, Uli had never produced any works other than self-portraiture… narcissism…”

  Renaud snapped out of his reverie. “Whatever do you mean, Wilhelm? It would take a lifetime to develop this skill!”

  The truth of this argument struck Wilhelm.

  Uli went from an average talent focused on vanity, to a world-class talent directed at existential terror.

  This transformation took place over a year after a fever?

  Frankly, that seemed impossible. And this pointed out the glaring fact of gaps in his own memory. Apart from what his sisters told him… why did he know that Uli’s paintings were profoundly disturbing?

  How could he know this without knowing it?

  He must have seen them during that horrible period missing from his memory and had the unshakeable feeling that it had affected him just as powerfully as it did now.

  Wilhelm fixed Renaud with a haunted gaze. “Renaud… how many of these paintings do you have?”

  Renaud cowered on the far corner of the couch. Wilhelm Ernst was a brute, and now an agitated brute. “Just this one, Wilhelm. It was sent for me to decide if we wished to show his entire catalog.”

  Tears still streaming, Wilhelm smiled triumphantly. “And what do you think? Is it not genius?”

  Renaud shrank further into the corner of the couch. “Yes, Wilhelm, it is!”

  Wilhelm cleared his throat and downed his wine in a single gulp. “Then I think we should send word to the broker in Munich that we will indeed be having a showing!”

  Wilhelm felt the pavement moving beneath his feet and vertigo taking him flying up into the skies of an irrational universe. His breath came in jerky little gasps. He kept his eyes fixed in front of him, no eye contact with anyone, lest they know.

  But despite shocking déjà vu poured on him by his brother’s painting, he felt relieved. Yes, he was mad, and there really was madness afoot, and it wasn’t just his.

  Right now, he would get really drunk. It would be a celebration of sorts because his puzzle pieces were en route to Paris, courtesy of his degenerate sisters. At the same time, the clouds darkened because with any puzzle like this, the final picture could be horrible indeed.

  Now, all there was to do was wait…

  CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

  Francois Renaud stood in front of the Galerie d’art Voltaire fulminating on his new set of circumstances. Both his wife and his mistress told him this dalliance with Wilhelm Ernst wasn’t worth the risk. But money was money, and Wilhelm Ernst had lots of money. Renaud was solidly middle class, but lived in a world frequented by the very wealthy. His art gallery sold to those who could afford it, although even stocking wine to serve that clientele while they browsed could bankrupt him. But he had to maintain appearances, something the selling of modern art didn’t always subsidize to a profitable degree.

  He closed his eyes and shook his head. Artists! He loved art, but he hated artists with every fiber of his being. Possibly even worse than artists, were authorities on art. They were utterly useless people with no redeeming qualities other than the annoying fact that they steered the currents of thought on art. They could end an artist’s career before it began or elevate them to status beyond their true worth. Renaud had established himself as one such man, and then opened the Galerie d’art Voltaire. Wilhelm Ernst wished to be such a man, but was a violent drunk. Others tolerated him and his pretense only because of his money and the disturbing reality that Wilhelm was rich enough to get away with brutalizing a person for speaking the truth about him.

  Ordinarily, he would never court the likes of Wilhelm Ernst, but frankly, his dead brother Uli’s paintings were sui generis. They were modern, but bore no resemblance to any other modern art. They evoked Bosch and Brughels and Goya, but only as a first point of reference. Those artists were sane; those artists were not haunted by demons. And that was the only way to describe Uli Ernst’s work—haunted.

  And his gallery, the Galerie d’art Voltaire, would be presenting these paintings to the world. Renaud would make more money on this showing than the gallery had ever made before, and Wilhelm had agreed to sponsor the event without a thought. He hadn’t even paused to think about the cost.

  The profits from the sale of the paintings alone would be more than he ever dreamed, and with the overhead paid by Wilhelm Ernst? No amount of Ernst’s stupidity would be too much to ask. Did that make him Ernst’s indentured servant? His slave? Yes, and in the end, Francois Renaud would emerge a richer and more prestigious man for it.

  So far, Wilhelm hadn’t been onerous at all. Renaud was relieved, and surprised. Wilhelm’s requests were very reasonable. He only asked to view the paintings alone and undisturbed before the showing.

  He also asked Renaud to find the painter whose work showed such a frightening affinity to Uli Ernst’s. This was the only area where Wilhelm became tedious. He had shown up every single day for the last two weeks wanting an update on the search.

  Renaud recalled the day the man appeared at the Galerie d’art Voltaire. Ordinarily, Renaud wouldn’t have given the man an appointment. He was known in socialist avant-garde circles, but regarded as unimportant. Renaud only inquired about the man’s reputation after purchasing the one painting.

  The man casually walked through the back doors of the building, through the storeroom and into the gallery where Renaud was working alone. He came up behind Renaud, holding the painting in front of him, and didn’t say a word. When Renaud turned around, he couldn’t deny the power of the painting, despite the
man’s affront. He handed him a pittance and escorted him out, only writing down his name to give him a receipt. Then he had the locks changed so this would never happen again.

  Renaud had a monthly event to introduce the works of new artists. The paintings made little money for the gallery and certainly nothing for the artist. But it allowed artists to gain attention and Renaud to maintain modernist credibility. The first person at these events was Wilhelm Ernst, and he bought anything with any sort of merit. Wilhelm never showed these paintings, but talked about them in a gratingly academic manner when the right people were around. Renaud suspected Ernst never showed them because they contrasted so tellingly with his own very bad art.

  And here was Renaud, standing in front of his gallery, waiting for Wilhelm Ernst. The day before, he sent a message by courier to Wilhelm. The artist had committed suicide. His name was Gilles Lombard. His wife had been found and would talk, provided she was paid.

  Wilhelm didn’t look good, but Renaud hadn’t expected him to. He had taken Uli’s death very hard, but something far heavier seemed to be weighing the man down. Renaud didn’t know, and didn’t want to know, about Wilhelm’s familial drama, but obviously it was wretched. Wilhelm’s sisters had tried to sell Uli’s paintings and pocket the cash. It hadn’t even occurred to them their brother might find out. But Renaud knew this had nothing to do with money for Wilhelm. He suspected Wilhelm’s obsession over the content of Uli’s painting, and the painting by this Gilles Lombard, was how Wilhelm hoped to resolve his grief. And with the amount of money at stake, Renaud was willing to be Wilhelm’s confidant.

  Renaud grabbed Wilhelm’s hand and held it for a meaningful moment. “Wilhelm, I’m so glad to see you, my friend. Were you able to sleep after receiving my message?”

  Wilhelm shook his head. “No… I had hoped to find him. I had hoped he could help me understand. And he’s dead, too.”

  Renaud nodded sagely, full of warmth. “Wilhelm, sometimes life deals us the harshest blows. Sometimes it can never make sense. Just know that we will be giving Uli the kind of showing that truly speaks to his genius.”

  Wilhelm didn’t say anything; he just looked at the pavement and shook his head.

  “Wilhelm, what your sisters attempted to do was so very wrong of them. But there’s more to it than just the money. There is already quite a bit of talk about the ‘mystery exhibition’ of Renaud and Ernst…”

  Again, Wilhelm just shook his head and looked at the ground. It was clear there were things he wasn’t telling, but why wasn’t something Renaud was curious enough to pry about.

  “How many days until Uli’s paintings arrive, Renaud?”

  “I think no more than three days, Wilhelm. That will give us ample time to prepare for the exhibition.”

  Wilhelm nodded and exhaled. “Then let’s go see the artist’s widow.”

  ***

  Marie Lombard was a pretty woman once, but grief and her work had broken her. Others had their husband or wife to come home to after working their fingers to the bone. She did not.

  She agreed to meet them at a quiet brasserie where workers gathered after the whistles blew at the mammoth factories that defined Paris. Renaud wasn’t comfortable in these establishments. Although the art sold in the Gallerie d’Arte Voltaire was inspired by la revolution, it was sold to those more likely to lose their heads in those circumstances.

  Wilhelm wasn’t concerned by this at all.

  “Marie, I want you to know that we were so very sorry to hear of your husband’s passing. I sold one of his pieces; it was extraordinary. Mr. Ernst acquired it and had asked that we locate the painter to see if any more were available.”

  Marie chewed her steak frites mechanically and sadly nodded her head. A single tear fell from her cheek. “It was the painting of the boy in the alley. He sold it to be able to buy more canvasses. It was entitled ‘Munich.’ After that was when he…”

  Wilhelm gasped. “Munich? Good Lord, what is happening…?”

  Then he buried his face in his hands and cried.

  Marie continued eating, a half smile crossing her face. “We are socialists, Mr. Renaud. This evil that consumed Gilles is a product of the capitalist bourgeoisie mode of production. Nothing more. Gilles understood that until his superstition led him to a séance. From there, he went mad.”

  Renaud was aghast. Here he was in a brasserie of the real proletariat and Wilhelm Ernst was bawling like a toddler.

  Marie said, “I take it your crying friend is from Munich and this is somehow significant?”

  Renaud said, “I apologize for Mr. Ernst. We are trying to figure some things out…”

  Renaud trailed off because he wasn’t actually sure what Wilhelm was trying to figure out and what exactly it had to do with this obscure Parisian artist.

  He continued, “How many paintings do you have of your husband’s, Madam Lombard?”

  “They aren’t for sale to your class, Mr. Renaud.”

  Wilhelm looked up. “When did your husband’s style of painting change, Marie? Was it sudden? How dramatic was the change?”

  Marie exhaled hard and sat back in her chair. A small sobbing came over her. “It happened right after the damn fool spent hard-earned money to go see the psychic medium. The Gypsy whore. Her name was Angellika.”

  Wilhelm looked desperate. “Were you there, Marie?”

  She shook her head. “No, it was him and his fools from the workers’ circle at the factory. One of the wives said they went because she was some kind of impossible beauty. Her beauty so dazzled men that they thought her able to do magic. Gypsy whore!”

  Renaud furrowed his brow. “So he went to a séance and then he went mad?

  Marie nodded angrily. “The madness began then, yes. Gypsy whore mesmerism. His painting changed.” She stopped and shook her head, her face a mixture of rage and sadness. “She singled him out in the crowd. Gullible. Weak. She said that he was a great artist and that he must build a ‘meditation device’, some kind of object to help him channel knowledge from the angels. Superstitious nonsense, but he did, and his painting changed. He changed.”

  Renaud looked from Wilhelm to Marie. “I’m very confused. Are you saying the psychic medium told him to construct some device to channel knowledge from angels?”

  She nodded. “Gypsy whore mesmerism, drivel.”

  Wilhelm frowned. “John Dee, the English occultist, said a similar thing. It was a crystal ball. Was that what this was?”

  Marie laughed. “No, it was an ugly, jagged piece of wrought iron with three asymmetrical angles. It hung precariously in a frame, and rotated in the slightest of breezes, but did not fall out. It was genius really. It looked like a piece of machinery, a gear or a cog. He said it created a tear in the curtain between this world and the other. All it did was make him go mad, staring at the shadow it cast in the candlelight.”

  Renaud asked, “Is it a zoetrope?”

  Marie said, “No, but it is similar in principle.”

  Wilhelm exhaled excitedly. “Did the psychic medium tell him how to do this?”

  Marie shook her head. “No, she just told him he would know how to do it. He built it at the forge the next week out of iron castings. Then he began to sit and watch it rotate, looking at the shadows it cast while painting.”

  A light came on inside Renaud’s head. “Marie, are all of his later paintings in the style of ‘Munich’?”

  She looked at him with contempt. “Gilles Lombard was a painter of the revolution, of the working class. The only reason I do not burn his later paintings is out of respect for his memory. Now you tell me, why does this interest you? Is it merely greed?”

  Wilhelm looked Marie straight in the eye. “Something very similar happened to another painter, my own brother Uli.”

  Marie’s expression softened. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Ernst. Your brother was an artist?”

  Renaud nodded. “Brilliant. Perhaps the greatest modernist of our time. I say ‘modern’ only because
there is no other point of comparison.”

  Wilhelm shook his head. “Yes and no. He went mad and became great. Before that, he wasn’t even worth mentioning.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence, but Wilhelm had to break it. “Marie, was your husband a great painter before the madness?”

  She answered by not answering. “He was dedicated to his politics. For us, art was the medium of the class struggle.”

  Wilhelm smiled and nodded. “All Uli ever managed to paint was paintings of himself painting… and then he got the fever, then the madness, then he hung himself.”

  Marie asked, “What do his later works look like?”

  Wilhelm’s face grew pensive. “They look like Gilles’s painting; the same style, the same themes, yet obviously painted by a different hand. I don’t understand how it’s possible, but it is. The little boy in the alley is… my brother Carsten.”

  Renaud chuckled nervously. “Little boys, they all look the same, no?”

  Wilhelm shook his head. “No, they don’t. I think some of Uli’s may be of Carsten as well. When the rest of his paintings arrive, you’ll see. Don’t ask me how I know, but I do. I don’t understand it myself.”

  Marie sat back against her seat and eyed them with a new kind of suspicion.

  Renaud couldn’t hide his curious expression either. “Wilhelm, whatever do you mean?”

  He covered his eyes with his hands for a moment. He was no longer crying but clearly uncomfortable with this part of the story. “I have amnesia. I know in a general way what Uli’s paintings look like. I knew they were haunting and hypnotic, like Gilles Lombard’s. But it wasn’t until I saw his painting in the gallery that I knew.”

  Marie looked at Wilhelm like he was mad. She got up from the table and curtsied in an exaggerated and sarcastic way. Then she walked away.

  ***

  Renaud was furious. He’d been warned not to put any trust or responsibility in the hands of Wilhelm Ernst, but ignored those admonishments. Because of this, he may have just lost the opportunity to acquire Gilles Lombard’s paintings and sell them to the highest fucking bidder.