The Painting

by Nina Schuyler

  She’s probably one of the best shooters out there, says Jorgen.

  She’s doing better than we are, that’s for sure, says Svensk. Paris is miserable.

  She’s got the right temperament for it.

  It’s become so depressing here, says Svensk. Everyone is starving. You can’t find a decent meal, even if you have money. The women? They are complaining and whining about everything.

  Jorgen looks longingly toward the front door; he wants to leave right now. To the battlefield. To the 160th battalion. He’ll send her the money; Pierre will never do it.

  Have you fed them? asks Svensk.

  For the first time this morning, Jorgen hears the pigeons calling loudly. Jorgen rushes toward the back door. They are squawking and flinging themselves against the cages. As he prepares the seed, Jorgen folds the letter and slides it into his pants pocket. He hears in the distance the gunfire ring out and feels a wave of exhaustion. He has not slept well in days, and as he reaches his hand into the feed bag, he remembers how tired he was on the battlefield, the edges a foggy blur, his thoughts smeared. But he pushes those memories away, stuffing them into the stack of things he’d rather not recall—the burning hunger, weakness in places he’d never felt, an elbow, the back of his knees.

  He stands beside Svensk, leaning his heavy weight into the crutch. The birds are calm again, and the smell of gunpowder wafts in the chilly morning air.

  NATALIA SEES A PRUSSIAN soldier. He is walking within her range, dressed almost as she is, with a dark blue coat and a red and blue cap, though he wears gray trousers. The French soldier beside her has fallen asleep, snoring lightly, drunk on wine to ease the pain of an inflamed cut on his upper arm. If she wakes him, he might make too much noise and the Prussian will shoot. The Prussian is now unscrewing the cap from his canteen, tipping his head back to drink. White lines crisscross his dirty neck. She watches his Adam’s apple dance. She raises her gun. I am preparing to kill someone, she thinks. I am going to end someone’s life. Against God’s commandments. Outside of God’s rules. How did she ever think she could do this? Every other time she has aimed and fired her rifle, she has been too far away to see whom she hit, if anyone at all. Now the Prussian looks straight at her. She exhales, pulls the trigger. He crumples, a loose collection of limbs. She stares at the spot where he stood. Empty space. The soldier lying next to her rouses from his sleep, looks at her blackened hands, the man folded on the ground, and congratulates her. She presses her dirty hands to her face.

  The soldier pats her on the shoulder. You did a good job, he says.

  She begins to cry.

  Oh, now, don’t do that. That was your first one, wasn’t it? It’ll get easier. A hell of a lot easier.

  She hears the wind in the tree branches and underneath that, stillness. Who is she? She has stepped outside of herself; her reference points have vanished. Not long ago, she thought life was precious, and now she has killed a man. The dead man is lying on his back, his face turned up to the sky, as if in desperate prayer. The French soldier hands her a bottle of wine, and she gulps it down. She’s no better than this drunk soldier who is belching and wiping his dirty palm against his beard.

  I’ve got some chocolate, he says.

  How long has it been since she’s eaten? She can’t remember. Her mouth waters and she tightens her lips.

  Do you want some?

  She reaches out her hand.

  What do you got in return? he asks.

  For the first time she looks at him. He’s a large man, his bowl-shaped face yellow pale. His eyes are dark and flashing. She withdraws her hand.

  What do you mean? she asks, her voice barely audible.

  Got any money?

  She feels a sudden spasmodic shudder run through her. How can she feel hungry after killing a man. A young man. But she is no longer herself, and her mind seizes on the sweet, as if it’s an answer to an unknown but pressing question. The chocolate, she must have it. But she has no money. Where could she get money?

  You don’t, do you? Don’t got any money, he says, smiling harshly, his face hardening, and his eyes, coy and cool. But I know you want some.

  She doesn’t move, just stares at the soldier’s front pocket where she thinks she spots the sweet.

  I haven’t been with a woman for a while. How about a trade? How about it?

  He pulls out the chocolate from his breast pocket. A royal blue wrapper conceals the long, flat bar; a shiny thin foil lies underneath. She smells the rich sweet fragrance of mocha—how long has it been—and now the saliva pools at the back of her throat. She closes her eyes and breathes it in. He unpeels part of the wrapper and breaks off a square, slowly puts it into his mouth, lets it melt there, never taking his eyes off of her.

  I guess you don’t want any, he says, grinning at her. He reaches over and pushes his fingers into her cheek.

  She looks over at the dead Prussian. What does this life matter, anyway? She has killed a man, and she feels nothing. Even with his dirty hand on her cheek, she doesn’t jerk away, doesn’t slap it away, or even flinch. The only thing she feels is a pressure in her chest. He reaches over and undoes her top button. His breath smells of chocolate. When she doesn’t stop him, he keeps going, until her shirt is open, the cold air raising goosebumps on her skin. He clamps a hand on her back and pulls her to him, undoing her bra. His mouth finds her breast while his other hand undoes her trousers. She closes her eyes, and when she doesn’t push him away, he climbs on top of her. When he is done, he rolls off of her and hands her the chocolate bar.

  I’ll let you know when my brother sends more, he says, narrowing his eyes and laughing heartily.

  She buttons her trousers and her shirt, rips off the wrapper, shoves the bar of chocolate into her mouth.

  Dear Natalia,

  I’m glad you are doing so well.

  Jorgen balls up the paper and begins again.

  Dear Natalia,

  I received your letter. A good rifle is crucial.

  He throws this one away too. What he wants to say is tangled up inside, not ready to be boxed into words. And if he could unravel the mess? What would the stream of words say? He puts his pen down, rises, and pulls open the top drawer, where he keeps his money. Sitting down again, he stares at the blank paper. He would like to say he feels responsible for her; he taught her how to shoot, gave her confidence and enough prowess that the French army snatched her up. What else? That he cares for her, yes, he does, though he is not sure how that happened, and he wishes he could be there to protect her, to shield her from the danger that is certainly all around her. How could a month of training be enough?

  He pulls out her letter again. She is fine, he thinks. She writes that she is fine, even though he feels the pull of doubt.

  Dear Natalia,

  Here is some money. Hopefully this helps. From the tone of your letter, you sound well. Soon I will have enough money for a new leg and I will join you.

  Jorgen

  This, too, is pathetic, he thinks, but she needs the money and he doesn’t want to dally any longer, for there is this sense—why can’t he dismiss it—that not everything is right. He gives the envelope to one of Pierre’s clerks to deliver to army headquarters. Upstairs in his room, he pulls out the doctor’s business card. Dr. Whitbread, he says, turning the card over and over. Dr. Whitbread.

  OH, YOU ARE A godsend. Come in! Come in!

  Daniel opens the door wide for Jorgen. Stubbed cigarette butts mark the front porch landing, and the small plant in the flowerpot has withered and died.

  Jorgen steps into the entranceway. The air smells musty and stale.

  Oh, you’re wonderful. You’re Hermes bearing good news.

  Jorgen lugs along a big bag strapped on his back and hauls a second one, pressed against his chest. They stand in the darkened hallway. Daniel tells him he ran out of his last bottle of good wine two days ago, he’s down to his last block of cheese, and he’s dying for a good steak.

  Your frie
nd Svensk is not with you?

  No, too busy, says Jorgen, though he didn’t tell Svensk he was planning this trip. He can’t afford to give Svensk any proceeds from this sale. This must be the last one. He must be on his way.

  Under the harsh hallway light, Jorgen sees that Daniel’s face is heavily lined and pale. His tall frame stooped. He wears a white shirt with small yellow stains near the pocket.

  What has happened? Jorgen wonders, but doesn’t ask, not wanting to be the vessel for Daniel’s story. Daniel is clinging to his arm, pulling at it, as if he can’t wait to tell. Jorgen pretends he dropped a coin so he is released from Daniel’s desperate grip.

  I’ve got one of everything for you, says Jorgen, slowly rising, postponing another view of Daniel’s face.

  Wonderful, says Daniel. Can you sit a minute?

  Jorgen clenches his hands. For a moment. Then I must get back.

  They walk down the long hallway and into Daniel’s office. Daniel’s heavy demeanor has stained everything in the house. Even the flowery wallpaper along the hallway walls, the large daisies mixed with roses, seems to be drooping and fading. The smell is the odor of sickness. In the office, a fine layer of dust coats the top of tables. A cigarette mark punctures the green velvet chair; cigarette ashes are everywhere on the rug.

  Through the window, there’s the dormant garden, and the spindly tree, now leafless. Isn’t she beautiful? says Daniel, following his gaze. An apple tree. She is my joy. My one true joy. I think I must have the only fruit tree left in the entire city. In the spring, if all goes well, it will bear red apples the size of a man’s fist.

  They stand side by side at the window, admiring the one living thing in his yard, and Jorgen wonders if the tree in the painting—if there is such a tree in the Orient—is now shorn of its leaves.

  Jorgen opens the bag and retrieves a bottle of wine, canned corn and meat, a garnet bracelet, cheese, and special truffles. He sets them out on the desktop in neat lines, hoping all the colorful and shiny objects will distract Daniel from his sad, lugubrious mood.

  Daniel fondles the bottle of red wine. Shall we have a drink? Celebrate that we are still alive? And before Jorgen can protest, Daniel scurries off to the kitchen and returns with glasses. Jorgen stands by the window, watching Daniel pour the wine, Daniel’s lips puckering. No, he won’t sell the painting to Daniel. He’ll triple the price for everything else.

  Daniel sinks into his chair behind the desk and swirls the wine round and round, watching the dark red liquid ripple down the sides. They drink and Daniel closes his eyes, savoring the flavor.

  It’s been so long, says Daniel.

  I’m offering a good price, says Jorgen. Now that Daniel has settled in, he can see the story coming. It’s tucked in Daniel’s eyes, and his pallor is coming back. He clears his throat.

  Sit with me.

  Jorgen hesitates, then takes the chair across from him.

  Something horrible has happened, says Daniel, pulling on his bottom lip with his top teeth. Just this morning, I got word that a very dear friend was killed in the war. He was so young, like you. He loved the opera. A pleasant fellow. Daniel shakes his head. A whole life in front of him. Now he’s gone.

  There is a long silence. Fix yourself something, says Jorgen. It feels worse when you are famished.

  Daniel takes out his pocketknife and slices off a big chunk of cheddar cheese. He closes his eyes and chews. Daniel opens his eyes and looks at Jorgen with a steady gaze. My dear, dear friend is gone, murmurs Daniel. So young. One moment alive, the next, gone. We are sparks so easily extinguished.

  Jorgen coughs.

  Daniel stares at his row of books on the shelf. What happens to the heart when it doesn’t feel safe?

  I must leave, thinks Jorgen. Must get out of Daniel’s home. He feels his throat tighten, as if hands are choking him. He must leave this house, and not just here, but Paris, and if he sells the painting, he’s certain to have enough money, more than enough to buy himself a new gun and whatever other provisions he will need. And he won’t have the painting to stir up his feelings. He’ll sell it, along with everything else.

  How can you stand Paris? Daniel asks. But where would you go? Surely not Denmark, where it gets dark so early in the winter and that endless snow. The horrible pickled herring. And what do Danes have in terms of romance? That tale of the mermaid who loses her lovely voice and tail for love. That’s the beautiful part, but the prince marries someone else, and she dies.

  No, says Jorgen. She lives.

  But something happens to her.

  She can’t speak and turns into thin air.

  How morbid.

  It’s just a children’s story, says Jorgen. We hear it when we’re young and then we forget it.

  Well, I could see why a young man like you would come to France. To the great city of Paris. What kind of tale of romance is that mermaid? Here there are lovely French women. But now Paris is dreary and sad. My good friend. He was only twenty-two, he sighs, letting out a flood of grief. A brilliant lad. Dead. This city is no longer home for me, but where do I go? What do I do?

  I should get back, says Jorgen. I’m sorry to be in a rush. He can’t sell the painting, he thinks. To leave it in Daniel’s hands, to let them touch it seems obscene.

  Daniel steps to his safe, turns the knob, and pulls out his wallet. Jorgen stands near the desk and watches the colorful bills come out of the leather fold. He gathers the money with shy haste.

  No, the wine is twice that price, says Jorgen quickly.

  Oh, my, says Daniel. We must be fair.

  More money comes out of Daniel’s wallet, and still it isn’t enough. Natalia said a new leg costs twice that amount.

  The canned meat, I’m sorry, says Jorgen. I’m sorry, I’ve had to raise the price for that.

  My dear Dane. You are cleaning me out.

  Jorgen wipes the sweat from his forehead. Daniel pulls out more money, and still, Jorgen counts, it is not enough. To have the new leg and the rifle and some extra for a new life. He must do it or lose his chance. And this is his opportunity to leave this house, leave Pierre, Paris, to leave all of it.

  There is one more thing, he says.

  I don’t know, says Daniel. You’ve taken just about everything.

  Jorgen slides the painting from his leather satchel. He lays it out on the desktop. The two men stand side by side. Neither one says a word, and in the growing stillness, Jorgen grips the edge of the desk as he falls into the painting. I will never see it again, he thinks, sinking farther into the smooth skin of the woman’s face, her hands, and the blue dots are both flowers and tears, not one or the other, but intermingled, sadness and beauty all at once. What else hasn’t he seen? He touches the edge of the paper. What is this paper? This paper, like skin.

  I’ve never seen anything like it, stutters Daniel. It’s simply exquisite.

  Jorgen clasps his shaking hands together and swallows hard. Daniel gently picks up the painting and walks slowly over to the window to the light. Jorgen follows behind him unable to let it leave his sight. Daniel puts his face next to the image as Jorgen has done so many times.

  How much? Daniel asks after a long while.

  Nothing stirs. The house tilts and settles. The air vibrates, as if more life entered the room. Daniel’s breathing turns rapid and short.

  How much?

  Jorgen gazes at the bare tree outside. He knows what to say, how much he needs, and he’s about to speak, but can’t. His chest tightens and his throat feels wrapped in taut wire. He pulls a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and tries to relieve his throat with coughing. With a bowed head, he looks only at the painting. He’ll always see it, always be able to imagine it. If he must, he could visit Daniel, couldn’t he? But why must he lose everything? What is the meaning of so much loss? To have something of beauty. Isn’t that what everyone should have? But he can’t. If he wants to leave Paris. … He drops his gaze to the floor and pushes down whatever rose up. Without loo
king at Daniel, he gives his price. Daniel walks to the safe, fiddles with the combination, and removes a black tin box. He wordlessly inserts a key into the lock, takes a wad of cash, and sets it on the table. Jorgen snatches up the money and shoves it in his pocket. He feels sick. Gathering his empty bags, he turns to the hallway.

  Daniel walks him to the front door. It’s simply astonishing, he says.

  Yes, says Jorgen, pulling on his coat sleeve. He turns and leaves without saying another word.

  JAPAN

  WHERE IS HIS FAVORITE? Hayashi wonders, staring at the swirling fish. The fish seem dull, as if the water leached their colors. There, over at the edge, the younger ones are crowding him out. He walks over to his old friend and tosses him a handful of food.

  Something doesn’t look right. The old fish’s eyes are coated with a white film, a spot of dark green on its side. Hayashi crouches down, but the discovery is the same. The fish is sick. It’s never been ill. He should go to town and buy special food, but when he thinks of town, there is the rice shopkeeper, weeping on the steps of his store. How could he have rushed by without helping the poor man? And still, he hasn’t found the nerve to speak to the monk about the meeting and how badly it went.

  In the distance, he hears the hammer. The teahouse is nearly complete, but the monk cautioned him the final touches take the longest. Please don’t rush, he told the monk, and the monk smiled in a way that reminded Hayashi of the cherry-bark man, as if his whole being lit up from within.

  He stays down by the lake a while longer, hoping by the time he walks up the hill she will have left the studio. Perhaps this morning she will join him for breakfast. If he had the courage, he’d tell the maid not to bring her meal to the studio, but insist that she come inside.

  A WHOOPER SWAN RISES and engulfs the whole painting. The bird’s black eye, the lacy edge of its wing, the yellow and black beak, its perfectly white body, its rubbery feet. She smiles, a tentative, hopeful smile. The swans’ nesting grounds were not far from where she used to meet Urashi. Suddenly the hammering begins. She won’t look up. Not yet. It is nothing, she whispers to her painting, trying to coax Urashi out from behind the bird. The monk means nothing to me. But as she listens to herself, she hears betrayal. The monk will leave soon, like the wind, she thinks, and what stain does the wind leave? She holds her brush poised for Urashi’s face. It never would have happened if you’d come for me, she pleads. So lonely, why haven’t you come?