By the time I was finished, the sun was almost down. It would be my last sunset here. The ghosts of summer lingered in the air.
With my few treasures in the back of my car, I walked out of the house for the last time. I got in my car and retreated down the driveway, abandoning it like a defeated fort. Its loss would take years to truly sink in. It was, after all, my home. Rooms I knew so well would appear unbidden in my dreams, come to mind in idle conversation, or be reflected in the morning light if it shone in a certain way. I was now unmoored, a ship without a port. I was prepared to be asked, “Didn’t you used to have a place out there?” I would answer vaguely in the affirmative. We can only have one place of innocence, and this was mine.
There was one more visit to make, one more last good-bye. I drove farther east as darkness descended, down country roads that hinted at a disappearing rural past, adding time to my return trip to the city. Half an hour later, I stopped by a low split-rail fence and turned left.
I had only been there before in daytime. My headlights reflected off the gravestones. Fallen leaves lay on the ground. The air was still, silent. There was a smell of woodsmoke from someone’s house to keep out the cold. A light in the distance. Otherwise it was black. From inside the car, I couldn’t see stars, but I knew they were there.
Many artists and writers have been buried here. Pollock, Krasner, Liebling, his wife. More recently, Paolo and Esther. Also local families; working men and their wives; children who lived only a few years interred beneath humble, untended graves. In the corner was a large plot surrounding a dark marble monolith with a Star of David, and the name BAUM carved deeply in the midsection. Around it were several smaller stones. I stopped the engine but left the lights on so that they shone on the graves. I knew where I was going.
The biggest stone had the names Isidore Baum and Ruth Baum inscribed on it. Next to that was a smaller stone with Aurelio’s name and the dates of his short life. It was hard to believe how many years had passed since his death. A brief epitaph: AMB L’AMOR DE LA SEVA FAMÍLIA. With love from his family.
There was one other grave, this one more recent. Cesca’s.
SHE HAD BEEN AS GOOD AS HER WORD. SHE HAD GONE where the need was greatest. Several months after I saw her in Barcelona, she had volunteered to go to Rwanda. In one of her last letters, she had written:
The people here are desperate. Not only is AIDS running unchecked here but there’s a terrible civil war too. Thousands of people are dying every day. Men, women, children. They have almost no one to help them. You wouldn’t believe the conditions even if I told you. It’s a nightmare and we live in a constant state of fear. But something needs to be done. There are only a few NGOs willing to help. If we don’t do it, then the human misery will be even higher. The group I’m with is one of the best, though. We have a strong international reputation, a huge donor network, first-rate logistics, and dedicated doctors. Every day we manage to save lives, but there are so many we can’t. It’s heartbreaking but I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else or doing anything else. I hope you don’t think that sounds too crazy. Here I have a purpose. I don’t know if you pray, Tricky Wylie, but if you do, don’t pray for me. I already feel God’s love. Pray for the souls of those who need His help more.
I had heard about the slaughters there. Seen photographs in the Times of the hundreds of bloated bodies littering the shores of Lake Kivu. I couldn’t imagine the horror of the place. But like a fireman, she was intent on running toward the conflagration, not away from it.
She had been killed two months after arriving in Rwanda. There had been a mortar attack on the village where she worked and lived. It wasn’t clear at first which side was responsible.
Kate had called me with the news. She had been at home, the television on in the background. She thought she’d heard a familiar name and ran into the room. A reporter in a flak jacket with a British accent was standing in front of a smoldering building. “The attack took place before dawn . . .” It had been a massacre, a dozen or so villagers killed, several Western aid workers. One of them American. Francesca Bonet. A blurry image from her wilder days appeared briefly on screen. Kate quickly dialed the phone.
It was all over the news for several days. The Times published several sober background pieces on the civil war, and the peril faced by doctors and aid workers in that part of the world. There was also a small obituary that focused mainly on Izzy and Cosmo, and Cesca’s relationship to them. It was not enough that she had died. There had to be something notable about her. It was not enough simply to have been killed thousands of miles from one’s home, helping people incapable of helping themselves. The black-and-white photograph they ran of her was perfect though. It had been taken in her twenties on the beach in Amagansett; a slight strand of loose hair blown across her cheek, she looked simple, natural, sweet as a girl. Kitty had given it to them. People were asked in lieu of flowers to send money to several different charities. A memorial would be held at an unspecified date in the future.
The tabloids, predictably, ran titillating headlines such as TRAGIC HEIRESS and MILLIONAIRE MARTYR. I could barely read the words. It was like a review of an opera that focused only on the first act. There were several photos of Cesca taken at various parties. One was at Studio 54 sitting between Andy Warhol and Truman Capote. In each she looked radiant, the cynosure of all eyes. Those articles too mentioned Izzy, Cosmo, the family’s wealth and support of the arts, and, briefly, referred to Aurelio’s death. Several people were cited in the story, claiming to be “old friends” and saying how Cesca was trying to “turn her life around,” but I had never heard of any of them.
Even more irritating was how inaccurately they depicted Cesca, as though she was not a real woman but a stereotypical poor little rich girl. Someone with more money than sense, whose self-destruction was brought about by self-indulgence. What they missed was her humor, her intelligence, her sensitivity, her appetite for life, her humanity, her nobility. She had ceased being a person and become a cautionary tale. Of all that was unfair about her death, this might have been the most unfair of all.
There was, finally, a more moving tribute, thoughtfully written several months after her death, appearing in a small Catholic magazine. It paid homage to the sacrifice Cesca had made, recognizing the spirit of compassion that had driven her to reject her former life and embrace the suffering of unknown others. The author had obviously done her research and had spoken to a number of people who had known her. Kitty was quoted. Cosmo. A few of those she had worked with in Barcelona and, finally, in the little village outside Kigali where she had died. One of them, a Dutch nun, said: “When she first arrived, we had no idea who she was, or where she came from. It was obvious that she was extremely lovely, but she gave no indication whatsoever of vanity. She never complained. We only found out that she was rich after she died. She was there to work, to heal. I could see she was a tortured soul, though. She had found God in the end. There’s great comfort in that, bless her.”
During this time, I could barely function. I stumbled through my days, feeling sick to my stomach. The surreal shock of hearing Cesca’s name mentioned on television, seeing her face stare up at me from the newsstand. Even though we had parted ways for what I had assumed was the last time, a part of me still died with her. Waking up in a cold sweat, feeling like an amputee, automatically reaching for a phantom limb, only to remember it is gone and will never be there again. For many nights, after Kate had gone to bed, I sat up in the living room, unable to sleep.
Kate and I attended the memorial held at a Catholic church downtown. It was crowded, drawing not only those mourners who knew Cesca or the family but also the ghoulishly curious. I saw a number of people I recognized but hung back, seeking to blend in with the crowd, and found a seat at the rear of the church.
Lio. Cesca. Death had come too early and too often to this family, as though they were forced to pay a grim levy for the excess of their gifts. I prayed for them all, adding an extra pray
er that I would not have to mourn for this family again for a while. That they had given enough.
In the front pew I spotted Kitty, looking shattered. I could only imagine her grief, having to bury another of her children. And such children. Such beauty. Such unrealized promise. How could that happen? It was cruel. Shocking. What would she do? Roam from room to room in the darkness like a madwoman? Lock herself in Cesca’s room, weeping over the detritus of her daughter’s life? Curse God? Or would she have been sedated by a friendly doctor? The human brain can only absorb so much pain before it begins to shut itself down. I wanted to reach out to her. To offer myself as a vehicle on which she could pour out her tears, her anger, her agony. I felt I owed that much to Cesca, to the whole family.
But I also didn’t want to intrude, to disturb them in their bereavement, the minor family friend unwelcomely breaking the silence with a finger on the doorbell or a call on the phone. And, in their eyes, who was I to share their pain, after all? Did I even have the right? The privilege to mourn Cesca as they did? It would be like commiserating with the thief who burgled you.
Cesca would have laughed at my situation, would have felt no such compunction. She was never afraid to show her emotions. She would have marched right up and said what she had to say, always finding the right words, the right tone. She was like an animal who ate when she was hungry and slept when she was tired. Her needs and wants were straightforward, vital, uncomplicated. Come on, hombre, she would say to me. I need to fuck now. And we would.
Several weeks after the memorial, I received a letter from a law firm. It informed me that their client Ms. Francesca Bonet had left me a small bequest. A painting. If I would contact them and give my address they would send it to me. I replied, asking that it be delivered to my office. The painting arrived via registered mail rolled in a large cardboard tube. I signed the receipt and closed the door. There were no instructions, no note.
But I had a suspicion of what the painting might be. Was there any other canvas she would leave me? Among her many talents, painting was not one of them, so I doubted it would be anything of her own creation. Nor was it likely to be something random. A simple objet d’art or memento. No, there could be only one explanation. I tore off the tape that sealed the tube and eagerly shook the canvas out, tantalized by the rough, unpainted surface of the verso side. A few glimpses of color daubed at the edges. But I knew immediately I had been right.
It was Aurelio’s nude. Cesca en la llum de la lluna. I had not seen it for years, but it had always stayed with me, since that first time in his studio on the Barrio Chino, years before. How proud of it he had been. How dazzled I had been. There she lay, Cesca in the glory of her youth, bold, provocative, as stirring as an ode, as desirable as love. I remembered those breasts, those thighs, they were as familiar to me as my own body. I felt my breath catch, my pulse tremble. The memories it brought back. The emotions. The never-ending sadness at her loss.
And then I had to laugh. Admiring her playfulness, her sense of humor. It was just the sort of thing she would do. She had hit me an unreturnable shot. Who’s tricky now, Tricky Wylie? I could almost hear her say. The crooked smile, the wink that was as inclusive as a shared secret, the sweep of her life. Do not forget me, she was saying. I won’t let you forget me.
As if I ever could. She was still always in my mind, my default daydream. I would see her on street corners, in crowds, the head that just turned, the person who had just left the room. She was still everywhere to me. If I closed my eyes, I could still hear her voice, feel her touch.
But it was too much. I knew I couldn’t keep the painting in my office, and my apartment was out of the question. I felt like a bank robber who was sitting on a fortune but couldn’t spend a nickel of it for fear of being caught. The thought of it hanging anywhere else, where it might be seen by strangers, was abhorrent. I had a horror of it winding up over a bar or in the den of some aging playboy or even in the hands of one of my descendants. What was Uncle Wylie thinking? He must have been quite a dog in his day.
No, Cesca had given it to me for a reason: It was to be a reminder, but I was also supposed to protect it. So I had placed it in the attic of my father’s house, burying it like a pot of gold, placing it like an ark behind a curtain, never thinking I would need to move it until long after it had ceased to matter. Knowing that one day I might destroy it, but not yet. Maybe, when I was old and the memory of my youth had begun to fade, I would take out the portrait and look at it, and remind myself that some loves are not meant to be, no matter how badly you might want them.
I PLACED MY HAND ON THE COLD STONE. I WAS DRAINED from saying good-bye. Lio, Paolo, Esther, my father, my house, Cesca. The ones whom I loved most, who had shaped me for good or ill, were gone. A new man stood there beside her grave. The last lines had been cut. The barque was moving out into the open water in search of an unknown shore. I wasn’t too old, not yet. There would be new shoals, new hazards, new lands to explore, but the old ones were gone forever.
Silently, I offered up a prayer for Cesca, thanking her for all she had given me and all I had taken from her. Remembering her as a child, a girl, a woman. The swell of her. The sounds she made when she slept. Laughter. The unprovoked kindnesses. The knot in my stomach whenever I saw her. The shock of her beauty. The first time I had gazed upon her naked body. On the beach. That summer many years ago now. In the moonlight. She was never mine, but I would always be hers.
In the end she achieved greatness, the only kind that really matters.
When I returned home late that night, Kate was waiting. Our son asleep in his room. “Are you all right?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, kissing her on the cheek, thankful for her presence. “Never better.”
All that remains is a sacred memory.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I AM FORTUNATE THAT SO MANY OF THE PEOPLE WHO SUPPORTED and encouraged the writing of my first novel, Indiscretion, were there for this book too. First and foremost was my editor Henry Ferris. Like all great editors, he combined the traits of an indulgent parent, a skeptical teacher, a boon companion, a skilled boxer, and a learned physician. He knew when to coax, when to question, when to laugh, when to knock me to the mat, and, most important, when to make things better. I have now had the privilege of writing two books for him and know always to trust him because he is always right. Thank you, Henry.
I am very grateful not only to work with Henry but also with the rest of the team at William Morrow/HarperCollins, in particular Sharyn Rosenblum, public relations diva extraordinaire.
I also want to single out a few people who read the various versions of the manuscript and thank them for their patience and enthusiasm. Chief among them is Liz Warner, who loved every version and actually took the time to read each one. My old boss at Forbes.com, David Churbuck, was, as always, generous with his time and overgenerous with his praise.
Further, I want to thank my new agent, Jennifer Joel at ICM, for her shrewd insight and refusal to settle for anything but the best.
Last, I would like to thank my family for their love and support. My children, William and Lally; my mother, Isabella; my stepmother, Barbara; and my beautiful wife, Melinda.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
© Tanya Malott
CHARLES DUBOW is the author of the novel Indiscretion, a founding editor of Forbes.com, and was an editor at Businessweek.com. He was educated at Wesleyan University and New York University, and has worked as a roustabout, a lumberjack, a sheepherder in New Zealand, and a congressional aide. He lives in Connecticut with his wife, Melinda, and children, William and Isabella.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
ALSO BY CHARLES DUBOW
Indiscretion
CREDITS
Cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa
Cover painting: Full Moon, Pichilemu, Chile, 1958 (oil on board), Garcia, Horacio G. (1878-1942) / Private Collection / Photo © The Maas Gallery, London / Bridgeman Images
COPYRIGHT
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
GIRL IN THE MOONLIGHT. Copyright © 2015 by Charles Dubow. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
EPub Edition April 2015 ISBN 9780062358349
ISBN 978-0-06-235832-5
15 16 17 18 19 OV/RRD 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers Australia Pty. Ltd.
Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street
Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia
www.harpercollins.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Canada
Girl in the Moonlight Page 31