Love, or the Witches of Windward Circle

by Carlos Allende

  Thus, our carousing trio found the entryway of the coffeehouse transformed into an artists’ workshop that night. A tub painted with flames stood before the main door, surrounded by a dozen half-finished garbage cans decorated with flowers, faces, abstract landscapes, and even commercial advertisements for local businesses. Paint-stained newspapers covered the portico floor, and here and there one could see abandoned brushes and paint cans. The finished pieces were inside. The tables had been moved to a corner and the sofas piled one on top of the other to make space for the art.

  An old stove wrapped in barbed wire represented a factory; a pile of cardboard boxes scattered around, a town wrenched by capitalism. Next to the stove stood a globe carved like a sorrowful Halloween pumpkin, the installation aptly entitled It’s a sad world. A refrigerator that had lost its door had been transformed into a beatnik dollhouse inhabited by a Barbie doll and a rubber teddy bear as her partner. Female nudity abounded on the walls. Here a topless nymph ran on the beach holding an American flag, a parody of both a pin-up girl and Liberty Leading the People by Delacroix. On the opposite wall, a close-up painting of two sisters comparing the size of their nipples.

  The place was packed with tourists.

  Richard and his two lady friends waddled through the crowd. Josie pointed excitedly at the art pieces. She had never seen so many people there. Lina seemed to share her enthusiasm. She loved the extravagance of the place and its attendants. Richard nodded, squinted his eyes, tilted his head, or snorted with self-important satisfaction, half-guessing at what reactions the girl expected. The combination of smells, fresh paint, smoke, rotten wood and mold, forced him to keep his nose wrinkled.

  “I don’t know shit about modern art,” he confessed to a stranger that he recognized as a fellow visitor from Squaresville.

  Something drew his attention and he was left behind. Josie took the opportunity to introduce Lina to some of the artists.

  “Enchanté,” said Big Daddy, making a playful salute and kissing the hand of the teenager.

  “That means ‘pleased to meet you’ in French,” explained Josie, balancing on one foot and then the other.

  Paul pretended to have a heart attack and Peter raised both arms in the air when they saw her.

  “Where’s your millionaire?” Paul asked cheekily.

  “He’s hers now,” Josie pointed at Lina. “We’ll introduce you if you get us something to drink. I’m drier than a cork leg. Lina’s dry too—Paul’s the playwright…” she explained to her new friend.

  Paul clicked his heels and raised his hand to his brow in a military salute.

  “…and Peter’s the painter.”

  Peter shook hands with Lina.

  “You’re covered in paint,” Lina complained.

  “I am,” Peter responded. “I’m working on that.” He pointed at a huge white canvas at the back of the room, about ten feet long and six wide. “We’re doing live art. Which one of you will be my model?”

  “Do we have to pose nude?” Lina asked.

  Josie covered her mouth, feigning dismay. The twins laughed. Josie laughed too, getting a hold of Peter’s arm so as not to lose her balance. She was still drunk.

  “Should we?” she asked, winking at Lina.

  Peter grabbed Josie by the waist and whispered something suggestive in her ear. His words got lost, however: Russell had just entered the room and our heroine, as all heroines do when their beau enters the scene, got distracted.

  The swelling had receded. Two black marks remained under his eyes but they were almost imperceptible. He was shirtless and barefoot, and his beard had grown thicker. And he looked happy, happy as a little dog, Josie thought. As happy and as handsome as a Labrador pup in summer.

  He stood next to a pile of garbage cans that, following Mr. Lipton’s recommendation, he had transformed into art. It had been one of his pieces, Girl with apple, which caused Richard to stay behind.

  Josie stared at him longingly. She decided to approach and say hello, but then she saw Eva at the other side of the room, smiling at Russell, and he smiling back at her. When Russell’s eyes finally met with Josie’s, Josie turned her head in the other direction and laughed loud and defiantly, as if her friends were the funniest comedians on the planet.

  Russell stared at her in bewilderment.

  “Are you the artist?” the millionaire asked.

  Russell rubbed his chin with the back of his wrist and nodded.

  “Not bad. Not bad at all.” Richard shifted his glance between the young man’s torso and the garbage cans. “You’re not a bad painter.”

  “I just started,” Russell mumbled, putting both hands on his head, flattered by the sudden attention.

  Richard’s nostrils dilated as he attempted to get a whiff of the artist’s armpits. “You’re not a painter?” he asked, savoring the smell in his mouth.

  “Nope,” Russell responded.

  “Well, you should be. How much?” Richard asked.

  “How much? Oh, man, these are not for sale.” Russell dug his hands inside his pants pockets. “They’re not mine.”

  “You said you were the artist.”

  “I am,” Russell nodded heavily, as if he suddenly realized he was.His smile was so contagious that Lina, who had just walked back toward Richard, felt the urge to reply with another. “But I don’t own the cans. They belong to other people.”

  “Nonsense,” Richard replied. “Buy them new ones. Paint something else. I’ll buy four of these. Which one do you like, Lina? Josie, doll, come over here…”

  “Bah,” Josie responded.

  “What happened to you?” Lina asked Russell.

  Russell touched his face instinctively. “I was in a fight,” he chortled.

  “Did you win?” Lina asked coyly.

  “I lost,” Russell snorted.

  “Of course you did,” Richard laughed, examining him. Hair in all the right places.

  Russell laughed too.

  By then, the twins had recognized Richard and were urging Josie to make the introductions. Grudgingly, she led them closer to the group.

  “What do you think?” Richard asked her, ignoring the two young men behind her. “I’m taking the boat, the girl, the giraffe, and the dancers. Do you like them?”

  “That’s a cat,” responded Josie.

  “A cat? Doris, darling, you’re too drunk. Looks more like a giraffe to me.”

  “It started off as a cat,” Russell explained. “But maybe it is a giraffe now—I don’t remember.” He scratched the back of his head.

  “How much?”

  “The four of them? Those two were four-fifty, plus that one…” Russell tried to add the prices of the materials mentally. “I don’t know, man. Twelve dollars?”

  “I’ll pay ten dollars each.”

  “Ten each?”

  “Forty-five for the four. Round it off, boy, or I’ll go up to fifty. Sixty, that’s my last offer.”

  Josie’s mouth dropped open in surprise. She never knew of any gig that had earned her boyfriend more than a few bucks. Peter panted with excitement.

  “Sixty?” Russell asked, laughing. “Twelve would have been more than enough.”

  “A hundred then. Here you go,” the millionaire said, entertained by the artist’s naiveté. He handed Russell a bunch of ten dollar bills and a card. “Twelve for the cans and eighty-eight more for you to have them sent to me. Postage is expensive. This one looks like you,” he added to an astounded Josie, pointing at one of the cans.

  “It is her,” Russell said. “I just finished it this morning.” He pulled a piece of paper out of his back pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to Richard.

  “Is it?” Richard asked with surprise, recognizing the girl in the drawing. “Do you know each other?”

  “She’s my girl—”

  “We u
sed to go out,” Josie interrupted brusquely. “Long time ago. A million years ago. It’s all over now.” She grabbed the sheet from Richard’s hand and threw it back at its owner.

  “Is it?” asked Richard again, amused by the girl’s reaction.

  “I can hardly remember,” Josie replied. She tried to disguise her annoyance by staring at the artwork hung on an opposite wall. But her whole body wobbled, giving evidence of her inebriation.

  Richard looked from the girl to the artist. Russell’s smile had turned into a frown.

  “I have a request to make,” Richard said. “A portrait of this girl,” he gestured at Lina. “Life-size. My ex-wife is going to love it. I’ll pay you two hundred dollars.”

  Josie scowled at Richard in disbelief.

  Behind her, the twins gasped, also in disbelief.

  “And how much are you going to pay the model?” Lina asked.

  “The model will pose for free.”

  “Fifty,” Lina demanded.

  “Fifty?” Richard raised a brow.

  “That’s a quarter of what you offered the artist,” Lina replied.

  “Well,” Richard chuckled, “the artist does most of the work.”

  “The artist is a promiscuous pothead that barely knows how to draw,” Josie exploded. “That thing doesn’t look at all like me,” she added, pointing at Girl with apple, then glared at Russell. “He’s not buying any of this shit. Give me back his money.”

  Richard laughed again. “Honey, don’t be rude, it’s his money now.”

  “You gave him a hundred dollars! Give it back,” she tried to reach inside Russell’s pockets.

  Richard pulled her back. “Be nice,” the millionaire said, still laughing. “Are you jealous? He can make a painting of you, too.” He turned to Russell. “What’s your name?”

  Russell took a second to respond. He had crossed his arms, and had started sweating, staring at his ex-girlfriend with a mixture of disappointment and fear. “Simpson,” he said, looking up at the ceiling to avoid the millionaire’s eyes.

  “Mr. Simpson, forgive the manners of this horrible brat. You’re such a talented young man. I should take advantage of having met you. If I pay, would you do a painting of these two lovely girls?”

  “Sure,” Russell responded, still avoiding eye contact.

  “But he’s not a painter,” Josie squealed. “He’s a musician. And a terrible one.”

  “I’ve been painting,” Russell responded.

  “I’m a painter, too!” Peter offered.

  This last comment inspired an idea in Josie. “Peter will do a painting of us both,” she said, pulling her friend forward. “He’s ready an’ all,” she added, pointing at the canvas on the other side of the room. “He can do it tonight. For a hundred dollars. And a hundred for Lina and me to pose. Each.”

  A hundred dollars would pay for a powerful potion to use against Eva, she thought.

  “Three hundred dollars!” Richard exclaimed. “My, Josie, do you think I’m rich? Taking you two for dinner is more expensive than raising a child. I’ll give you ten each,” Richard said, offering a bill to each girl. “And sixty, I promise, to this good-looking gentleman wearing a shirt,” he added, extending a hand to Peter, “if he executes a fine work. Please to meet you, sir. My name is Richard Wehr.”

  “Peter McFadden,” the painter shook his hand.

  “Ten? I won’t do it for less than twenty,” Lina puckered her nose.

  “You bloodsucking Jew,” Richard responded, handing his fiancée a second bill and then another one to Josie. “One more for you too, doll,” he explained, with a wink, “so you won’t be jealous.”

  Josie held the money with a clenched fist. She leered briefly in the direction she had last seen Eva and put the money inside her bra.

  “I’m a screenwriter…” Paul ventured behind her, offering his hand to Richard.

  “Well, too bad I’m not a movie producer,” Richard said, now vexed. But after a second look at Paul, his hazel eyes, and the dark hair peeking out from the neck of his shirt, he added, “I’ll give you my card, nonetheless; you never know what we philanthropists will do for our next venture. I have a thing for those who want to achieve immortality. What is your name?”

  “Paul Kesef,” the young man extended a hand.

  “Oy vey!” Richard exclaimed, recognizing the Jewish origin of Paul’s last name. “I hope you didn’t take offense at my joke.”

  “None taken.”

  “I often say the most horrible things. My name is Richard Wehr. Or just Rich, for my friends…there you go,” he giggled, “It is my name that gets me in trouble. Nice to meet you, Mr. Kesef. It’s hot in here, isn’t it? Just got a flash. Is there anything I could order to drink? I need something strong, I’m so thirsty.”

  “We can get you wine,” Peter responded.

  “Sparkling wine? I’m afraid these girls won’t drink anything that’s not fizzy. I’m a bit choosy, too,” Richard tittered. “Champagne will do. Do you like champagne, Mr. Kesef?”

  “It’s either red wine or coffee,” Paul lamented.

  “What type of dive have you brought me to, Medea?” Richard demanded of Josie. “Just kidding, boy. Red wine will do,” he said, patting Paul’s arm. “My, your typewriter must be so heavy—I’ll pay for the wine, let’s get a full barrel! Get cracking, you silly girls.” He turned back to Josie and Lina. “Take the artist with you. I want to see what I’m spending my money on.”

  Russell stepped aside. Josie grabbed Lina by one hand and offered her free arm to Peter, who led the giggling pair to the other side of the room. Once there, the artist grabbed two chairs and offered them to the girls, who sat behind the big canvas. He sighed, lamenting that the material was going to be wasted on the two women. He had planned a group portrait of the crowd at the Gas House Café. Something more colorful. But then sixty dollars could pay for a lot of canvases. He started painting.

  “I’m excited, Paul,” Richard continued talking to his new friend. “My ex-wife will be furious. Are you married, Paul? Is it alright if I call you Paul? Engaged? Dating someone? If I’m going to read your scripts, and believe me, Paul Kesef, I’m an avid reader—I can read one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels in just a couple days—I want to know the source of your inspiration. Who is she? For there is a she, I suppose. Or are you one of those mauvais anges, one of those tortured souls living in the shadows? Rimbaud, you know, is my favorite writer. Yet my all time favorite book is The Wizard of Oz, of course. Are you perchance a friend of Dorothy’s?”

  Lina’s original expression of amusement became, after a few minutes, one of meditative boredom. She sat with a hunched back, her chin resting on her hand, her elbow resting on her knees, feet spread apart. Whenever Peter looked at her and demanded a straighter pose and a smile with a raised eyebrow, she grinned briefly, but she couldn’t hide the fact that she was tired of the game already. The look, nonetheless, became her. Lina had beautiful teeth, but she was one of those rare beauties who look better serious.

  Josie, on the other hand, had kept her pose. She sat with a straight back, knees bent together to one side, head slightly tilted, her eyes lost in the crowd. She simpered with the stiff mien of self-righteousness that only a nun in religious ecstasy or a highly intoxicated person can attain naturally.

  Had the artist had the talent of an impressionist, he could have produced a magnificent composition of the two faces: indifference and contentment. Had he had the sensibility of a Monet or a Dégas, if not the skills, he could have produced a piece that might have given him some fame and glory; one that might have survived the foibles of a millionaire’s night out; one that, a generation later, might have made us wonder, “What crossed their minds?” Alas, Peter was less interested in light and fine detail than in shape and color. Josie’s brown face became a red circle. No eyes, no mouth, and no emotion. Lina’s pale
regard, a greenish triangle.

  “My dear Paul,” Richard whispered into his friend’s ear, a little too close for what is normally considered comfortable. “What on earth am I going to do with that? I can’t let that horrid thing in my house; my ex-wife will kill me. You’ll have to help me get rid of it. Please promise.”

  “You don’t want to pay for it anymore?” Paul asked in surprise.

  “Oh, no, I’ll pay, of course. I gave my word and I don’t want to hurt your friend’s sensibility.”

  “Then just tell him to keep it, Mr. Wehr. He won’t be hurt.”

  “Call me Rich,” the millionaire patted Paul’s shoulder. “You think he won’t? I’m not fond of modern art. I’m embarrassed, but I just don’t have the taste for it. That’s one of my many eccentricities—and I must confess, I am quite the eccentric. What’s your opinion on eccentric people, Paul? I should have guessed when I shook hands with your friend that he was not up to the task. Such a strong grip. You cannot ask a man with such big hands to do a fair portrait of femininity, can you? Those are the hands of a brute. I can think of many things a man can do with those hands, but none of them is a painting. Your hands, however, they seem much finer and handsome. Do you paint? I bet you type fast. Let me see your fingers—what a surprise, you have big hands too!”

  Standing next to them, Russell had been all but forgotten.

  Except by the red circle.

  I still love you; but you will never hear it from me again. That’s what the coy smile and the eyes focused on nothing were saying. It was a coded message, for no one but him to understand.

  Same as the artist doing the portrait, the audience failed to take notice of our heroine’s pain. Those paying attention found her expression endearing.

  Yet, there was true pain in her acrimony.

  That’s what makes retaliation so attractive, the confirmation that by striking a last mortal blow, you will be losing your sting and die. And as many a young person knows, there is no sweeter revenge than the one that makes of oneself a martyr. She would die a spinster, Josie decided, forgetting about the money in her bra and the evil she had planned to do with it. She would fade away, displaced, overlooked, unremembered, consigned to oblivion; no memories of her left behind but tonight’s painting. Then, one day, when Russell’s wife had turned fat and wrinkled, after his children had grown to be ungrateful, odious brats, and he had turned into an old, bitter man, wishing for death to come and release him from a meaningless existence, he would run into the painting at a museum, perhaps in New York, or better, in Paris, and he would think, “We could have been so happy.” Or, maybe she would marry a rich man. Someone like Richard, who would have fallen in love with her portrait and asked to meet her. Italian maybe? She would travel the world with him; her photos would appear in all the newspapers whenever she attended all those charity balls for poor children. Everyone would think of her as being carefree and gay, married to a millionaire, unwitting of the thorn so deeply buried inside her heart. Then one day, one good day, she and Russell would run into each other. He would look older. Most of his hair would be gray by then, he would have some wrinkles around the eyes, but still look handsome. An office man. He would be wearing a suit. “You haven’t aged a day,” Russell would say, and he would try to hold her hand and ask for forgiveness… No, that would be a little too vulgar. He wouldn’t dare to talk to her at first; he would be too embarrassed. Maybe he would simply stare at her, from a distance, yearning for all the years lost, breathing profoundly in an attempt to catch the scent of her perfume. She would look back. But she would have a husband now, a man she never really loved, not the way you should love a man, but for whom she cared deeply, for he would be her dearest friend and protector. They would have a son and two daughters. “It is too late for us,” she would say, when Russell finally dared to approach her. Or better yet: he would be the one to have a wife—and four children. He would be the one famous, rich, and powerful. He would live in a mansion in the Hollywood Hills and he would have a boat and expensive cars. She would stay an ordinary girl. A secretary, if she ever learned to type, with a nine-to-five job, earning just enough to make a living in a tiny apartment with paper thin walls she would share with another girl and two cats. “One word,” he would say that afternoon when the two met casually outside a theater. “One word and I’ll leave all this. One word and I will run away with you. I don’t care about my wife; I don’t care about my children, my company, or my future. Just say that you still love me the way I still love you, Josie, and I will leave it all!” But she would reject him. It wouldn’t be the right thing. It would be too late for them. It would be too late to forgive him. Too late to start again. Too late to think of being happy…