‘Here, get her tied up,’ he said, pushing her so that she lost her balance and tumbled down the veranda steps.
‘No, please suh, mah husband is dead, mah little boy’s at school. There’ll be nobody here when he gets home.’
Leroy hesitated but Hays said again, ‘Tie her up, Leroy. Goddam bitch tried to kill me.’
As if the words reminded him of the fact, Hays went down the steps and – just as the woman was getting to her feet – kicked her in the ribs. She fell back down.
‘Get up, nigger bitch,’ said Hays.
Slowly, the sobbing woman got to her feet while Hays stood over her. Then, just as she was finally upright, Hays backhanded her savagely across the cheek. She crumpled and fell to the ground again. Hays got back on his horse, his face bright red.
Leroy had to help her to her feet. Her nose was bleeding but he tied her hands anyway. The blood made a large stain on the front of her dress and splashed into the dust in dry brown patches. He led her over to the coffle, took the looped rope from his saddle and made another noose in it. Then he tightened it round her neck. Leroy stared at her fine breasts beneath the cotton dress. He ran the palm of his hand down her back and over her buttocks, pressing them hard. He could feel himself becoming aroused. He would have a proper look tonight.
6
Gilbert hadn’t paid much attention to Sarah when he’d first seen her. She would say afterwards that she felt that there was something between them almost straight away but, if there was, he hadn’t felt it. Anyway, he’d had too much else on his mind.
He had racked his brains to try to come up with someone, some dignitary or well-known person who could open the exhibition. A famous artist? He knew none. He didn’t even know artists who weren’t famous. A politician? No, that would give the thing a bad smell. So in the end, out of necessity more than anything else, he just opened it himself.
The advertisements had said that the ‘grand opening’ would be at seven o’clock. By seven thirty there wasn’t a soul in the place apart from Gilbert, dressed in his only good suit and Elisabeth, whose job was to have been to take orders, mark paintings as sold and take money while Gilbert circulated. Elisabeth, blonde and pretty, spoke English with a foreign-sounding accent that Gilbert thought men would find attractive.
Eight o’clock came and went and he was just beginning to panic when the first couple arrived. Then, almost as if the people had all been waiting outside, the place began to fill up. Mrs Dana was one of the last to arrive. Gilbert was just about to make his little opening speech when he saw the door open and she came in with another woman. He went across to greet them and Mrs Dana introduced her dark-haired companion as Miss Reynolds. Gilbert took her proffered hand but then had to excuse himself almost straight away to make his speech.
He stood in front of the table which held the wine and food. Then he took a glass and clinked a spoon against it. The murmur of the crowd settled down and became silence.
‘I’d like to thank you all for taking the trouble to come along here tonight. I’m originally from New York – though I hope you won’t hold that against me.’
They laughed.
‘But I’ve been living in your fair city for over a year now and may I say how much I love it here? The city, the people. How blessed you are too, to have such beautiful countryside on your doorstep. I’ve tried to capture some of that beauty in these paintings that we’re showing here tonight. I hope you’ll find something that pleases you. Thank you again for coming and enjoy the rest of the evening.’
Short and sweet. The crowd, gathered in a semi-circle around him, applauded. Gilbert saw Mrs Dana and Miss Reynolds both clapping enthusiastically.
He had decided that he would try and speak to everybody that had come, so in the course of the evening he found Miss Reynolds. She was standing by herself with her back to him, holding a glass of wine and studying one of his paintings. Her hair was tied back into a chignon that sat low on the nape of her neck.
Much later he would remember that, as he stood behind her, a complex burst of thoughts ran through his head. The first one may have been that she was going to be important in his life but the others happened so quickly that afterwards he could never be sure. Who was she? What was it like to be her; to inhabit that body; to move as she moved? What would it have been like to have been there in her room when she had dressed in the royal blue skirt and jacket that she now wore? Was she happy? For some reason he couldn’t imagine her not being happy.
The painting showed a muddy cart track at sunset with bare trees. The picture was like a hand-colored photograph in that it was almost completely black with just the merest remnants of pink and blue in the sky and their reflections in the puddles along the cart wheel tracks. It was one of the first paintings he had done when he had come to Washington.
She must have become aware of him because she began to turn round. He would swear afterwards that she had begun the sentence and said his name before she could possibly have been aware of who he was, but again that could have just been his memory playing tricks on him.
‘Ah, Mister Owens. I have to say – you’re a talented man.’
‘It’s very kind of you to say so, ma’am. I do my best.’
‘What is this picture called, may I ask? I forgot to pick up a program.’
‘It’s called The Road to Sudley Springs, ma’am. It’s a place out near ––’
‘Oh, I know where it is. I’ve been there before. A beautiful place. I think you have managed to capture its beauty in your painting. It’s remarkably true to life.’
‘Why, thank you, ma’am. You’re most kind. And you ma’am – what do you do?’
‘I’m a doctor, Mister Owens – a homeopathic doctor.’
‘It must be nice to be able to do some good in the world,’ he said.
‘It is, Mister Owens. Just as it must be nice to bring some beauty into the world.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment, ma’am.’
‘And so you should, Mister Owens. So you should.’
Afterwards she would say to him that he had asked her questions and had looked into her eyes. But he had no particular memory that anything he had done that night had been in any way out of the ordinary. All he remembered was thinking that she had a face that he would have loved to have painted, had he the skill.
She was three or four inches shorter than him. He reckoned her to be in her late twenties with blue eyes and dark hair that wasn’t quite black – more a mahogany color. It was parted in the centre and pulled to the back, but more gently and less severely than with most of the women there. She had an unlined face and all the elements – the perfect nose, the pale lips, the smiling eyes seemed to fit together in a way that was completely harmonious. The phrase, ‘a face like an angel’ popped into his head.
‘It’s a beautiful painting,’ he heard her say. ‘Can you tell me if it is sold?’
‘No ma’am, it’s not. If it was, there would be a little piece of red paper stuck to the frame here at the bottom.’
‘And can you tell me the price?’ she asked.
She had such a beautiful smile. It crossed his mind that he should make her a present it, but he thought that would be too forward. The list price was fifty dollars.
‘Twenty dollars,’ he said.
‘My, it seems so little for such a beautiful piece. Are you quite sure?’
‘Oh yes, I’m the artist after all. If I didn’t know?’
‘Well, that is true. I shall take it then.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ he said. ‘Thank you and much appreciated. You just need to pay Elisabeth, the blonde woman over there. You know, of course,’ he said. ‘That you won’t be able to take the picture with you tonight. I’ll need to keep it here until the weekend after next when the exhibition closes.’
‘Oh, I quite understand, Mister Owens. ‘So maybe I could return then and collect it?’
‘Of course, ma’am, or I could have it delivered to you
, if you prefer.’
‘No, I shall come and collect it. It will give me another chance to see your work. And who knows, if there are some paintings still not sold, I may be able to pick up a bargain. Or should that be another bargain, Mister Owens?’
And with that she smiled at him before gliding away in the direction of the little table that Elisabeth occupied.
Later, Gilbert hovered near the door to ensure that he got to thank everybody before they left. There was still quite a crowd when Mrs Dana and Miss Reynolds came up to him. He shook their hands and Miss Reynolds confirmed that she would be back.
Once they were gone, he thought no more about her for the rest of the night. It would be the next day, as he was cleaning up, that the memory of her face would return to him. For a few moments he pictured her – her perfect face and her perfect body and her perfect career, living in her perfect home with a perfect, successful man in her life. But then his musings were interrupted by Elisabeth rushing in to say that Fort Sumter had surrendered. By Monday, Lincoln had published a proclamation calling for the enlistment of seventy five thousand militia for three months and Gilbert had started to wonder if he should join the army.
7
‘Where are you going?’ asked Gilbert.
He had woken to find the pale light of very early morning seeping into the room through the thin curtains. He needed more whisky. The effect of the previous couple of bottles had worn off sufficiently that he was able to make his way downstairs by clutching onto the banister. Here he found Roberto bustling to and fro carrying things and placing them in a pile in near the back door. Already in the pile were cameras, tripods, several wooden boxes of glass plates, another open box that contained bottles of chemicals, a coffee pot, a grinder, a five pound bag of coffee, a sack of flour, some slab bacon, some canteens for water.
‘I’m going to Gettysburg, boss. Remember I told you?’
Roberto stood muttering to himself and pointing in turn at each item in the pile, as though marking them off a mental checklist.
‘I need to get some whisky,’ said Gilbert.
Roberto acknowledged this with the inevitable ‘sure’ and continued checking the pile.
‘Unless you’d like to go out and get it for me.’
‘Sorry, boss. Too busy.’
‘How are you planning to get there?’ Gilbert asked sullenly.
‘I told you, boss. Now that the wagon is fixed up I just have to pack it.’
‘The wagon is fixed up?’
‘Yessir,’ said Roberto.
‘But there was so much wrong with it.’ Gilbert enumerated the things on his fingers, starting with his index finger. He missed it initially but got it on the second attempt.
‘The wheel, the shaft, the cover – make it light proof, the pigeons’ nest ––’
‘All done, boss.’
Roberto went into the kitchen area and came back with a frying pan that he placed on the pile. Gilbert found himself becoming irritated.
‘How could they be all done?’
‘I gottem done.’
‘What – all of them?’
‘Sure all of them. All the things you say – fix the wagon, fix the cover, disturb the pigeons. Is all done.’
‘But … how?’
Roberto shrugged and pouted as though this was all just the most natural thing in the world.
‘I just go and do them,’ he said.
‘But it was the night. Everything was closed.’
‘Not if you got money, it ain’t.’
The mixture of Americanisms and the foreign accent was really starting to annoy Gilbert.
‘But we don’t … do we have … do you mean you manage to save some of your thirteen dollars a month.’
Roberto smacked his thigh.
‘Don’t be stupid, boss. I can hardly live on thirteen dollars a month.’
‘So how ––?’
Gilbert could feel his anger rising. He needed a drink badly.
‘It was your money, boss.’
‘My money? You took it from my pocket?’
‘Boss, boss, boss. I explain. In Firenze, I have a friend – ‘e’s a banker. ’e say to me, Roberto, ’e say. Never forget – one third, one third, one third.’
‘One third, one third, one third?’
It occurred to Gilbert that these conversations consisted largely of repeating things Roberto had just said.
‘Yessir, that’s right. One third, one third, one third – spend, invest, save. So that’s what I do. Well, sort of anyway. My third isn’t really a third – it’s thirteen dollars a month, you getta third and the third third – well, the rest – goes into the savings.’
‘The savings?’
There he was doing it again. Gilbert promised himself that he would stop.
‘The savings that I keep in the tin box in the darkroom. There’s not much left now, of course because I invest it. In the supplies, to repair the wagon … for the horse ––’
‘You bought a horse?’ Gilbert said, despite himself.
‘Yessir.’
‘Yessir’ seemed to be today’s word.
‘Yessir, I bought a horse. Now I just need to get the chemicals.’
He sounded like he was saying it to himself – a reminder.
‘Gonna get them when the shops open. Go across town to the wholesaler and then Gettysburg here I come.’
Gilbert shook his head. This was all too bizarre.
‘I’m going out for the whisky,’ he said.
‘Sure, boss. I probably be gone when you come back.’
Gilbert didn’t acknowledge this but just began to walk towards the door.
‘Oh, boss?’
There was something peculiar in Roberto’s tone that made Gilbert stop and turn round.
‘One of the carabinieri – how you say, policeman – ’e call in ’ere earlier.’
‘A policeman?’
‘Yessir. He say ’e is our local policeman – that this is ’is beef. And is true. I often see ’im on the street.’
‘His beef?’
Gilbert was puzzled for a moment.
‘Oh, you mean his beat?’
Roberto began to laugh and smacked his thigh.
‘Ah si, si – ’is beat. Beef is a cow, si?’
‘Si’, said Gilbert despite himself.
‘Well, ’e say that you should get out of town for a while.’
‘Me … wha’ … get out of town … why?’
‘Something about selling dirty pictures. Is a problem.’
Roberto said ’is a problem’ in the same way he might have said ‘it’s going to rain’.
‘But … you …,’ Gilbert spluttered. ‘You’re the one who’s selling the dirty pictures.’
‘Well you try to live on thirteen dollars a month, boss. Anyway, is a problem.’
Gilbert stabbed a finger at Roberto.
‘It’s your problem,’ he said.
‘Unfortunately no, boss. Is your problem. He say.’
Gilbert’s voice rose.
‘Why? Why is it my problem?’
‘Because the pictures – they come from your studio, boss. He say that later on today – the police they gonna come and close the place down, consecrate all the equipment.’
‘Confiscate,’ said Gilbert, with mounting anger, ‘confiscate all the equipment.’
‘Whatever,’ said Roberto. ‘Anyway, that’s what they gonna do. So maybe it’s best – ’e say this – that you get outta town for a while.’
Roberto shrugged – with his shoulders, his hands, his eyes. It was as though his whole body shrugged.
Part of Gilbert didn’t care. Part of him just wanted to go out and get a couple of bottles of whisky and carry on drinking. But a tiny piece of him – a tiny spark inside him – railed at this. The studio had been his life for the last three and a half years. It was where he had met Sarah. He had photographed her here. He wasn’t going to give this up. The stupid Italian. What had he done?
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‘You stupid bastard. You got me into this. I’m going to find that guy and tell him the truth. I’m going to tell him what’s really been going on. You’ll go to jail for this.’
‘Okay, boss. Whatever you say.’
Roberto sounded almost bored.
‘You want me to put this stuff back?’ he said, indicating the pile of food, cooking utensils and photographic equipment.
Gilbert hesitated. He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t think straight. He needed a drink. He held up a hand, palm outwards as though to stop traffic.
‘Look, don’t do anything. Just wait here. I’m going to find this guy right now.’
‘Okay, boss. Whatever you say.’
‘And stop saying, “whatever you say”.’
‘Okay, boss.’
Gilbert turned towards the door.
‘Er, boss?’
‘What? What is it now?’ said Gilbert angrily.
‘Boss, you can’t go out like that. You look like a bum. And you stink. Policeman see you like that ’e gonna arrest you, smack you straight in jail. You gonna ’ave to have a wash and change your clothes.’
The running water was in the darkroom. Gilbert boiled some water and washed himself down. It took several changes of water before he felt that the smell was gone. He washed his hair. Then, despite the fact that he had the shakes, he managed to shave off the beard he had grown.
He looked terrible. His black hair was dull like that on a dog that had been dead a couple of days. His face was gaunt and white and he had cut himself so many times with the razor that he looked like he had measles or some kind of plague. Looking down, his body looked pasty and emaciated. He couldn’t remember when he had last eaten a proper meal. He couldn’t look himself in the eye.
Wrapping a towel round his waist he made his way slowly back upstairs. He was sweating and shaking again. He badly needed a drink to stop the shakes. Incredibly there was a clean pair of pants neatly folded in the wardrobe. On top of it was an ironed shirt. He had thought that he had used up all of his clean clothes. That meant that these clothes must have been washed and ironed and put there by Sarah. He touched the folded shirt and drew his hand gently across it. He felt his eyes smarting. He unfolded the shirt and pulled it on, slowly doing up the buttons.
Sunlight (The Four Lights Quartet Book 2) Page 4