Mirror Maze j-4

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Mirror Maze j-4 Page 17

by William Bayer


  She had delivered it the previous morning, leaving it wrapped with Dakota at the door. She hadn't wanted to be there when Erica first looked at it. She didn't need to hear Erica pontificate again on the subject of female artists defined by male abusers.

  Now, examining the portrait for the first time outside her studio, Gelsey tried to imagine its impact on a viewer. The Leering Man figure, as she thought of him, was there as always, but in this version he was richly embellished with shards of mirrored glass. And there were also painted-over objects glued around his face: the innards of eviscerated watches, coins, keys, bits of smashed wedding bands, overlapping pieces of torn currency, and now the remains of Dietz's money-belt object-all artifacts collected on her forays to the bars.

  There was no chance that any of these objects would be recognized by a mark; if one happened to see the portrait, he would most likely find it strange. But perhaps he might also be attracted to the work by a mysterious magnetism he would not comprehend-the familiarity that exists between a person and his possessions even when those possessions have been broken, ripped, smashed and embedded in thick oil paint.

  She was thinking about this when Erica breezed into the office, sighing the word artist and rolling her eyes to express the difficulty of dealing with such godlike beings image-makers, creators, the blessed and cursed. Then Erica gestured toward Leering Man.

  "Now that," she said, "that's special. It's by far your best, Gelsey.

  I mean it. Best!"

  Gelsey felt a tremor. The Leering Man had been a recurring motif. He had appeared in numerous canvases over the years, usually in the background or hovering half-seen on the edge. But after she left Diana she began to isolate him as her principal subject. And within the past few weeks she had worked through a new approach, constructing and then deconstructing him out of the detritus of her expeditions. It was integral to the power of the portrait, she felt, that it be ornamented with these souvenirs and trophies. The Leering Man was composed of all men now, and would reflect all male viewers. He was singular yet generalized, specific yet abstract. He was also, she felt, beginning to enter the realm of art.

  She explained to Erica that this new portrait was the first in a series by which she hoped to purge herself of her obsession with the leering face.

  "I feel it strongly," Erica responded, eyes meeting Gelsey's. "You have the potential to become an important artist. We've done well with you these last couple of years, but I believe we're going to do far better now. Be bold. Keep doing- what you're doing. Take as long as you like.

  Bring me a room full of paintings as good as that"-Erica gestured again at the portrait-"and I'll have the collectors begging on their knees."

  She hugged Gelsey again. "We'll make them pay. Oh, how we'll make them pay!"

  On her way out, Gelsey paused again to examine Jodie Graves's leather-wrapped mannequins. The sculptures, she thought, mirrored Jodie's sexual fantasies.

  Then she was mad at herself. It was so much easier to see through the pretensions of others than to penetrate one's own. Just then Jodie sidled up.

  "Erica showed me your painting." And? "I didn't like it much." Well, fuck You! "But then it grew on me." Ladi-da. "That's usually a good sign. Means it's powerful. I really felt it. I guess it hit me hard."

  "Gee, Jodi-thanks."

  "Maybe we could have brunch one day and talk?"

  "Brunch? Sure. That would be great." Gelsey smiled and turned away.

  As she rode down in the elevator she felt the fear again that she would run into someone who'd seen her around the Savoy with Dietz. She steeled herself Fear could only crush her. She knew she had to stay out of bars.

  She was an artist, not a doper-girl; Erica Hawkins respected and admired her. She must hold on to that.

  "Up-down! Up-down! Higher! Higher!" The cries of the red-haired, pony tailed aerobics instructor were relentless. "Impact!

  Impact!" she bellowed.

  Gelsey strained to obey. Images of thirty exercising women pranced across the mirrored wall. "Mirror, mirror on the wall/Who's the fairest one of all?" Gelsey thought she might scream if she allowed that phrase to streak one more time across her brain.

  "Higher! Impact!

  Mirrors! Would they never leave her alone? Why was she so drawn to them?

  Most people, brought up around such an obsessive thing, would spend their lives running away from it. Why hadn't she fled? Why did she feel she must live above the maze, the trap her father had built that was now her prison?

  "Impact! Higher!

  The images danced. "Mirror, mirror on the wall..

  Gelsey shut off the refrain. There were many snippets of mirror literature she could call to mind to blot out Snow White. Mirrors had been a literary subject since the first woman had examined her reflection in a pool of water. Her father liked to quote from Shakespeare and the older poets, but Gelsey preferred the moderns. Anne Sexton: "Take my looking-glass and my wounds/and undo them." Simone de Beauvoir: "Captured in the motionless, silvered trap." Sylvia Plath: "I am silver and exact, I have no preconceptions… I am not cruel, only truthful… most of the time, I meditate on the opposite wall."

  Up-down! Impact!

  Maybe Dr. Z was right. Maybe there was a secret down there in the maze, a secret she had been hovering above for years and still had not been able to see. Auden had urged: "O look, look in the mirror/O look in your distress." Dylan Thomas had raged: "Still a world of furies/Burns in many mirrors." Yeats had sung: "I rage at my own image in the glass."

  And Borges had written of hearing "from the depths of mirrors the clatter of weapons."

  Leering Man, Mirror Man, dream-sister… mirrors, maze, mirror maze… mirror madness. God, is there no end?

  The instructor signaled that the session was over. "That's fine, girls.

  Relax!"

  Gelsey, panting, let her arms hang loose. Finally, she thought, the torment is over, at least for a while.

  Tracy, in street clothes, was gesturing to her from the doorway. Gelsey approached through the mob of exhausted, sweaty women.

  "Hi! You missed class."

  "Gotta talk to you." Tracy's tone was urgent.

  "Sure. Just let me take a shower."

  Tracy shook her head. "Please! I've only got a couple minutes."

  Gelsey shrugged. They descended to the snack bar. Gelsey ordered a bottle of mineral water, Tracy a Diet Coke.

  "You look terrible," Gelsey said. "What's the matter?" i racy stared at her. "You did a number down at the Savoy."

  Gelsey stared back, frightened. "You know about that?"

  "Considering what happened there, a lot of people know."

  There was a look of reproach on Tracy's face. "Why don't you stop beating around the bush," Gelsey said.

  "The mark was killed."

  "I know. I saw the story on TV. But it had nothing to do with me, Tracy.

  He didn't OD. He was shot."

  "The bar waiter saw him pick up a redhead. The cops say he was drugged, then shot while he slept. They say there was mirror writing on his body."

  Gelsey cut her off. "How do you know all this?"

  "Diana got it from Thatcher, who got it from his buddies in the cops.

  They're showing around a picture. Take a look."

  She handed Gelsey a photocopy of a sketch. The words "Wanted for Questioning" were printed at the top. Getsev stared at it. It was a crudely drawn frontal view. She didii I I think it looked like her, or much like her dream-sister either.

  "Who's this supposed to be?"

  "Thatcher recognized you."

  Gelsey didn't believe it. She was sure the mirror writing, had tipped Thatcher. "Do you see me in this?"

  "A little. The wig makes you look different, but the eyes are right."

  She stared at Gelsey again. "You really didn't do it?"

  Gelsey met Tracy's stare head-on. "Here's what happened. I did a number and, yeah, I wrote on the mark. But I promise you I left him asleep. I don'
t own a gun. I'm extremely careful with dosages.

  Anyway, do you think I could shoot a person while he slept?"

  Tracy shook her head. "Diana does. She's furious, Gelsey. She says you've ruined the business."

  "She would say that."

  "It's true. We're not going out here now. We've been working hotels in Philly the last few nights. Diana says we may have to move the operation to Baltimore until this thing blows over." Tracy looked away.

  "She wants us to find you. She wants to turn you in."

  "I see." Gelsey nodded. "That's why you're here."

  "No, dummy! You're my friend… even if you won't tell me where you live. Trouble is, Diana knows we're close. She asked me if I still saw you. I said no, but I don't think she believed me. I'm dreading the moment she decides I'm lying." Tracy paused. "You know how she gets. I I "I know.

  Indeed, Gelsey thought, there was no resisting Diana; if she decided to put on the pressure, Tracy would be forced to talk. That meant they couldn't see each other anymore. The thought made Gelsey sad. She'd never had many friends; now Tracy was the only one. It would hurt to lose her. She'd be more isolated than ever. But if she really was a murder suspect and Diana wanted to turn her in, then, she knew, she would have to sacrifice the friendship. The important thing was not to panic.

  "Okay," she said, "here's what we'll do. If Diana starts in on you, don't fight it. Tell her we used to meet here for workouts, then a couple of months ago we had a big fight and you haven't seen me since.

  Don't worry, I'll start going to another gym." She picked up a napkin.

  "Give me a pencil. I want to give you my number. I want us to stay in touch."

  Tracy shook her head. "I think it would be better if I didn't have it."

  "Sure, I understand. Thing is, I don't want to lose you." Gelsey thought a moment. "There's a supermarket across the street. They've got a community bulletin board near the salad bar. We can leave messages there. Put up a notice you have kittens for sale, then write what you want to tell me on the back. I'll do the same." She paused.

  "I want you to know I didn't shoot the guy and I don't know who did."

  "I believe you," Tracy said, standing, "but someone did and the cops think it's you. Better stay out of the bars, Gelsey. And stay away from Diana. The way she sees it, you've fucked up her business. You know what that means?"

  Gelsey knew: It meant Diana would just as soon see her dead.

  Driving back to Richmond Park, she thought about Diana, her coldness, cruelty, exploitation of her girls and total devotion to "the game."

  There was also a nurturing side that had attracted Gelsey at first, a kind of parallel to the nurturing she now received from Erica. Except that with Diana there could be no act of generosity that would not immediately rebound to her advantage, while with Erica, the quality of an artist's work was always more important than the profits gained from its sale.

  Gelsey smiled as she remembered Diana's organized outings to the Museum of Modern Art, where she would point out important paintings and make sure each girl could properly pronounce the artists' names:

  "The man who painted this was named Henri Matisse Come on, girls! Let's hear you say it: '-ri Matisse." To that the group would respond in unison, imitating Diana's phony pronunciation, after which Diana would continue the cultural lesson:

  "Now, remember, girls-Mr. Matisse is famous for his bright colors, strong designs and love of flowers and the God! What a hoot!

  But the sketch Tracy had given her wasn't funny. It was even more frightening than the TV report that Dietz had been killed. They had a good idea of what she looked like. Maybe she should turn herself in.

  But then what would happen? If she went to the detective with the searching eyes and told him her story, would he believe her? And even if he did, wouldn't he arrest her for robbing Dietz?

  Down in the maze, Gelsey held the police sketch to the glass and compared it with the mirror image of her face. Tracy had said the eyes were right, but Gelsey could see no similarity. The sketch seemed to be of an entirely different person. She wondered: Could this be how I really, look?

  She thought back over Dr. Z's advice-that when looking into a mirror she should ask herself what she was really looking for. His suggestion puzzled her. It struck her like the Zen nonsense question: "What is the sound of one hand clapping?"

  But come to think of it, Dr. Z had been sounding more and more like a Zen master lately. That morning he had also suggested that the key to her behavior lay not in the obvious parallel to her father's abuse, but in something bidden in the maze, some secret of which even she might not be aware. What was he talking about? A secret room? A chamber that might house a monster, a Minotaur? She had no idea, except that what he'd said had seemed right. It was as if there were something down in the maze and also vibrating deep within herself that resisted all her efforts to bring it to the surface.

  Did Dr. Z have something specific in mind? She would have to wait until their next session to find out.

  That night, lying in bed, staring up at her ceiling fan, she thought of something her father had told her when, after had spoken to her about his relation to the maze:

  "This is my life's work. I've poured everything into it, all my money, all my sorrow. It's been my fortress and my prison, Gelsey. Someday it will belong to you. Remember: Somewhere in here lies the answer to a riddle. I'm not sure what the riddle is, except that it had to do with the way the mirrors catch the light and make something out of it, something you can't touch, but that's real it never existed before.

  Guard the maze carefully. Explore it. And maybe you'll be the one to understand. As for me, I'm only the maze-maker. Sure, I know how to find my way around. But sometimes I think I have no idea what's here.

  No idea at all.. female form. Please repeat that for us, Tracy… playtime, he had held her in his arms in the Great Hall and Kirstn By the time Janek dressed and made his way down to the street, a patrol car and fire engine had arrived. Over the next ten minutes numerous special units poured in, the block was cut off, police barricades were erected, bystanders were herded away, traffic was rerouted and the night air was cut by the beeps and echoes of emergency communications gear.

  As he approached the smoldering remains of his car, surrounded by vehicles flaunting revolving red lights, he breathed a thick, acrid aroma of cordite, scorched metal, burning rubber, burned-off gasoline.

  His front seat, blown out of the frame along with the sunroof, lay upside down in the middle of the street. Staring at the smoking vinyl, he imagined himself flying along with it through the air. He thought:

  I'd be just a puddle on the asphalt.

  The bomb squad, grave young men with lean faces and haunted eyes, were busy gathering up pieces of wreckage. He watched them as they took measurements, shot photographs, talked quietly among themselves. They reminded him of Navy Seals: a small, efficient elite unit, polite but otherwise impenetrable.

  "Hell of a mess."

  Janek turned. The chief bomb squad investigator, a short, stout, serious, mustachioed detective named Stone, had appeared noiselessly at his side. Janek recalled meeting him a couple of times. He remembered that everyone called him Stoney. :'Saabs are pretty solid. What year was yours?" '81," Janek said.

  "Good shape?"

  "It ran."

  "Blue Book value-maybe eight, eight-fifty."

  "My deductible's a grand."

  "Too bad." Stoney shook his head. "Any idea what happened?"

  "You mean technically?" Stoney scratched his cheek. "Yeah, we got a few."

  Janek waited for Stoney to continue, but the investigator went silent.

  Maybe they call him Stoney because he stonewalls, Janek thought.

  "I want you to forget you're a cop," Stoney said. "Tonight you're a victim. That'll require adjustment."

  "I'll manage."

  "Good." Stoney smiled. "So, tell me, Frank-who do you know wants to blow you up?"

  Janek shrugged.
"Only person I can think of is my ex-wife."

  Stoney wasn't amused. "Some kid could've been walking by. The blast could've taken a chunk out of his neck. This time you were lucky. Next time you probably won't be. So I want you to think carefully about who might've done this. Bombs are tools of terrorists and assassins. I'll want the names of anyone who'd want to terrorize and/or assassinate you."

  By the time Janek turned to him again, Stoney had slipped away, leaving his questions hanging in the smoky air. Janek wondered what names he could give. The answer depended on the bomber's intentions. Had the explosion been a message or a serious attempt on his life? If someone really wanted to kill me, he thought, there're so many easier ways.

  While he stared at the wreckage, thinking about what it would feel like to be blown up, a patrolman approached. "Chief Kopta's here, Lieutenant."

  Janek turned, saw Kit, dressed in a set of NYPD sweats, exchanging banter with several of the men. From their reactions he could tell how highly they esteemed her. Their regard went way beyond respect. It was eleven-thirty, one of her people was in jeopardy, so the tiny woman with the sharp Greek features and the gray frosted hair had pulled on her sweats and come out. Even Janek had to love her for that.

  "Frank," she said, spotting him. "Let's take a walk."

  She waited until they passed the barricades set up at Amsterdam Avenue, then asked him what he'd said to Stoney.

  "Nothing yet," Janek said. "I didn't know how much to tell him." They were walking between a row of storefronts and a stack of black garbage bags piled by the curb.

  "You saw Dakin and Timmy?" Janek nodded. "How did they react?" "Like loony tunes," Janek said. "Dakin can't understand why Timmy hasn't been arrested. He went on about pulling the ' snake' out of the well."

  Kit shook her head. "Timmy?" "He said if I happened to get close to ' real heart of the thing," something bad might '' me, and how '' that would make him feel."

  "He threatened you?" Janek shrugged. She glanced at him and frowned.

 

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