by Ann Charney
Meredith’s rants seem not to require a response, giving Nerina ample opportunity to take in the odd assemblage of items that make up her walking outfit: black sneakers flecked with gold paint, tigerstriped leggings, a tightfitting black tank top, an orange denim jacket tied above the waist and a Yankee baseball cap to top it all off. A tall, auburnhaired woman in her sixties, Meredith carries off the look with a regal confidence that reminds Nerina of Helena’s friend Theodora. Like Theodora, Meredith is always accompanied by a large dog — an Afghan hound — named, according to Leo, after her exhusband, Edward.
“She’s had better luck exacting obedience from the dog than she did from his namesake,” Leo said. He and Meredith have known each other for years, and, despite her volatile temper, have managed to remain on friendly terms during most of that time.
Meredith’s tolerance of Nerina’s presence does not extend to Jorge and JeanBatiste, Leo’s assistants, who earned her wrath when they failed to understand her instructions on where to hang a painting they were delivering from Leo’s shop. The two men refer to her as “la loca” and make sure to stay out of her way. Twirling an index finger pointed at the forehead, they warn Nerina to be on her guard.
This morning, however, Meredith startled Nerina by offering her a job in the evenings, after she’s done at Leo’s. The way Meredith described it, the work would consist of covering each canvas in a layer of colour to create a background for her to work on.
“No skill required,” she told Nerina. “You just hold the brush and run it up and down. Really, a monkey could do it.”
Nerina looked at Leo for guidance, but he kept his eyes fixed on his computer screen, leaving her on her own. “I’ll have to think about it,” she told Meredith, hoping Leo would be more forthcoming when they were alone.
“You have until five o’clock to make up your mind. Leo will give you the address, if you decide you’re interested.”
“I could use the extra money,” Nerina says, when Meredith is gone. “And it’s not as if I have anything better to do with my time. But I’m a little scared of her, and half the time I can’t understand what she’s saying.”
“Who does?” Leo says. “It might be worth a try, though. She pays well, and you’re bound to meet some interesting people. Meredith knows everyone in the art world, and she’s pretty fascinating herself — if you can hang on long enough to find out. Meredith tends to go through assistants at a very rapid rate.”
Steeled for the worst, Nerina presents herself at Meredith’s place on 9th Street shortly before five. Meredith greets her with an air of indifference, as if there were never any doubt that Nerina would turn up. Nerina barely notices. She is too fascinated by what Meredith is wearing: a long black dress, draped over invisible coils that circle her body and undulate with every step she takes.
“I’m due at an opening at the Whitney tonight,” she says, catching Nerina staring at her. “Come along. I’ll show you where you’ll be working.”
As Nerina starts to follow Meredith’s bobbing figure, the Afghan saunters in and lunges at her. “That’s just Edward’s way of saying hello,” Meredith says, making no attempt to restrain the dog.
Nerina’s tentative efforts to slide past the dog earn her a look of scorn from Meredith. The dog, meanwhile, getting into the spirit of the game, blocks her way in whichever direction she moves. She tries telling herself there were no Afghans in the roaming packs of dogs in Sarajevo, and Edward’s long, shiny coat suggests pampering, not starvation, but none of it helps. She’s back in the grip of her old childhood terror, unable to move.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Meredith snaps in exasperation. She calls the dog to her side, rewarding its obedience with cooing words and kisses on the snout.
There is no trace of softness in her voice, when she turns back to Nerina. “This is Edward’s home, and you’d better find some way of making friends with him. Otherwise, you won’t be able to work here.”
Just as Nerina is ready to bolt, the dog suddenly loses interest in her and saunters away without a backward glance.
With the path now clear, Nerina follows meekly as Meredith leads the way through the house. When they reach the living room, the sight of a bleeding Christ nailed to an immense cross that covers an entire wall stops Nerina in her tracks. After her humiliating scene with the dog, she doesn’t dare ask questions.
“Spanish,” Meredith says, following Nerina’s gaze. “I found it by the side of the road near Córdoba, and had it shipped here.”
When Nerina manages to tear herself away from the gory Christ, she finds her attention caught again by an equally striking object at the opposite end of the room: a long glass display case, shaped like a coffin. She glances warily inside, prepared for another macabre sight, and finds only a small package wrapped in brown paper, resting on a bed of dried rose petals. Nerina thinks it’s probably an art piece, only it doesn’t resemble any of Meredith’s works.
“That’s a parcel my son sent from India,” Meredith says as they walk past the display. The brief explanation only heightens Nerina’s curiosity. Perhaps Leo will be more forthcoming about the glass box and its contents.
The studio, a long, rectangular room lit by a skylight, is one flight up from the living space. Nerina finds its clutter of canvases, array of art supplies and paintstained floor pleasantly reassuring after what she’s seen of the rest of the house. Nothing ghoulish here to distract her from the work she’s to do.
“Your job for tonight is to cover the canvas on the wall with a single layer of this greyish blue acrylic paint,” Meredith says, pointing to one of the jars lined up on a worktable in the centre of the room. “Just one coat, and don’t worry if it’s uneven. I like irregularity in my backgrounds. Be sure and cover the entire canvas before you leave, so it can dry overnight. Shouldn’t take you too long. And don’t forget to take Edward for a walk. He’ll let you know when he’s ready.”
Before Nerina can protest, Meredith hurries away, the hoops of her skirt trembling in unison.
She tries not to think about the dog while she does a few practise runs with the brush on a piece of cardboard. The bare canvas looms large and intimidating. Listening to music might help, she thinks, and she presses the play button on the CD player. The booming voice of an Italian tenor floods the room. She doesn’t really like opera, but she doesn’t feel she can afford the time to search for something more to her taste. Placing the stepladder in front of the canvas, she climbs to the top and starts to work.
She’s just beginning to enjoy herself, when the slap of paws on the floor alerts her to Edward’s return. Thankfully, the dog is no longer feeling playful, content to stretch out at the foot of the ladder looking as massive and inscrutable as a Sphinx. Maybe he’s an opera fan, or maybe he’s just grateful for the company. As the minutes pass with no startling moves on Edward’s part, Nerina’s anxiety diminishes.
When she’s almost forgotten about the dog, he suddenly bolts up and begins to bark at her. Remembering Meredith’s warning, Nerina guesses it’s time for his walk.
“I hear you buddy,” she tells him, trying to sound confident. “Just hold on a minute.”
The dog seems to understand, and waits patiently as she comes down the ladder and dials Marco’s number. She doesn’t know what else to do. Marco understands her fear of dogs better than anyone.
“You’re in luck,” he says, after hearing a brief description of the problem. “I’m in your area and can be there in a few minutes.”
While they wait, Nerina continues to talk quietly to Edward in an attempt to keep both of them calm. It seems to work. If she didn’t know any better, she would say there is a glint of sympathy in the dog’s eyes as she describes the source of her panic: the fearfilled streets of her childhood, the recurrent nightmares of being chased by a pack of hungry, wild dogs. It feels good to be able to talk about it, even if it’s only to an animal. “You understand, Edward, I’ve got nothing against you personally. I’m just terrified of all
dogs.”
The barking resumes when the doorbell rings and Marco enters, but he soon has the dog eating out of his hand. Literally.
“I always carry a couple of packages of Good Bites,” he says, pulling the snacks out of his pocket. “Grilled steak flavour. Dogs find it irresistible, which makes my job easier. Couriers are like postmen. We have to be prepared for anything.”
While Edward chews on his treats, Marco demonstrates how to attach the leash and how to use it to control the dog by tightening and loosening the collar. “You have to be firm. The important thing is to walk the dog, not to let the dog walk you.”
Once they’re outside, however, Nerina lets Edward take the lead. He knows the route better than she does, and it’s all she can do just to hold on to him. It seems to work. A moment later, he slows down to a more relaxed pace.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” Marco says, getting right to the point.
He’s right. She has resisted calling him, although she’s often been tempted — particularly on those nights when, wandering the crowded city streets by herself, she’s felt like the loneliest person on the planet. But even then she’s resisted, knowing that starting up again with Marco is not the solution. It would be like moving backwards in time. There’s no way she can say that to him when he’s just rushed to her rescue.
She talks instead about how busy she’s been, describing long, hectic days with Leo and the rush to a second job in the evenings, hiding the fact that she’s only just started working for Meredith.
Marco makes no effort to probe further. “I know,” he says. “It’s this crazy city. It keeps you running all the time.”
“How’s Sarah?” Nerina asks, eager to shift the conversation away from herself. “Things still going well between you?”
“I guess. She’s pretty hard to read most of the time. Back home, you always knew when someone was mad at you. But Sarah holds things in. There’s also the business about food.”
“What do you mean?” Nerina asks, while Edward pauses to sniff the base of a tree lining the sidewalk.
“Sarah’s a vegan,” Marco replies, making a face. “You know what that is?”
“She doesn’t eat meat?”
“No meat, no fish, no eggs, no cheese, not even wine, sugar or honey. Her diet reminds me of what people lived on during the siege of Sarajevo — beans, potatoes, cabbage and bread — if they were lucky.”
“Does she expect you to eat like her?” Edward is on the move again, with Nerina and Marco trotting behind him to keep up. Fortunately, a tantalizing new smell soon slows his pace, while he searches for its source.
“No, but I can tell it disgusts her when I don’t. So I pretend to like the lentil stews she prepares, and make up for it when I’m away from the house. Only it’s not so simple. Sarah says people who eat meat smell differently. This means using lots of deodorant and mouth wash. You’d think I was cheating on her, trying to remove the scent of another woman instead of the smell of a hamburger.”
The look of indignation on Marco’s face makes her laugh. “You can always sneak into the bathroom and chew on a Good Bite when you’ve had your fill of lentils. That grilled steak flavour sounds delicious.”
Marco punches her playfully on the arm, causing Edward to bark in protest.
“Looks like you made a new friend, Nerina.”
She’s amazed how good it makes her feel to hear those words.
XVI
Reunion
FIGURES begin to emerge against the monochrome backgrounds that Nerina prepares according to Meredith’s instructions. Even in sketchy outline, these are people in torment — bodies floating in space, their limbs splayed as if contorted by some invisible force. The dark mood of the paintings gives new meaning to the gory Christ and the glass box every time Nerina walks past them.
Leo has told her that the glass box is a shrine; the package inside it, resting on a bed of dried rose petals, is the last thing Meredith received from her son before his death in India from a drug overdose.
“Her work moved in an entirely new direction after that. All her grief for her son went into her canvases. A review of her work at the time referred to her as ‘the Queen of Misery,’ and the label stuck. Not that it’s done her any harm.”
“When did her son die?”
“Nearly twenty years ago, but there is no shortage of suffering in the world to fuel Meredith’s imagination. By the way, has she asked you about your memories of the war?”
“Meredith barely talks to me, except to give me instructions. Most of the time she just leaves notes telling me what she wants me to do.”
Meredith’s habits change as the date of the show approaches. She’s home most nights now, working from early morning until exhaustion forces her to quit. She’s even given up her morning walks, and it’s fallen to Nerina to ensure that Edward gets his daily exercise. Although Meredith is more distant than ever, the dog greets her appearance with joyful exuberance, trembling with excitement as he waits for her to attach the leash to his collar.
Nerina is amazed to find how much friendlier people are when she’s accompanied by the dog. The sight of Edward loping along beside her in a cloud of golden fleece brings a smile to people’s faces. A few pause to ask questions — what’s his name, how old is he, can I pat him? New Yorkers seem to have a soft spot for dogs, unlike their counterparts in the European cities she’s known.
The dog seems to be having a good influence on her as well, she notices. The dreams of running from a pack of wild dogs that keeps gaining on her are becoming less frequent. It’s possible she’s sleeping better due to the exhaustion from working two jobs, but she prefers to give Edward the credit.
“That dog’s better than a shrink,” Marco exclaims, when Nerina tries out her theory on him during one of their telephone conversations. Now that Nerina has acquired a cell phone, they talk frequently. “And much cheaper, too. Dogs in America are definitely smarter than the ones we have back home.”
“Laugh if you want. All I know is that I’m no longer waking up in the middle of the night with my heart pounding.”
As Meredith becomes increasingly absorbed in her work, rarely leaving her studio, it falls to Nerina to make sure there’s food in the house and a steady supply of the Château Margaux Meredith requires to fortify herself while she paints. She is also subject to sudden cravings — small rewards to ease the strain she is under — sending Nerina and Edward off on hunts to satisfy her desire of the moment: crystallized ginger, mango ice cream, kimchee, soy nuts dipped in wasabi — anything at either extreme of the sweetsalty taste spectrum.
During these expeditions, Nerina can’t help noticing how much cell phone consultation goes on in the stores she frequents. It’s true that the choices are staggering, but it seems strange to her that so many shoppers — men more often than women — require lengthy soundings before making a choice between different brands of mustard or different types of cereal.
There are no such distractions back at the house. Nerina is kept busy sorting through the letters, emails and telephone messages that accumulate each day “like fleas on a dog,” according to Meredith. Requests for permission to reproduce her work in books, in magazines, on websites, even on CD covers and wine labels are set aside for Meredith’s consideration when she takes a break from her work.
Looking as wan and pained as the creatures on her canvases, Meredith greets each new appeal with deep sighs of exhaustion, making Nerina feel she’s adding to Meredith’s burden. It doesn’t help that Meredith snaps with irritation whenever Nerina stumbles over the pronunciation of an unfamiliar word or name.
“Don’t let her get to you,” Leo tells her. “If all the attention she complains about dried up tomorrow, she’d be far more miserable. Just think of your time with her as valuable experience. It will open doors when you’re ready to move on.”
Heeding Leo’s advice, Nerina agrees to come in on weekends as well as after work. Apart from Nerina, the only people Meredit
h still sees are her masseur and her gallery dealer. Even Edward has taken the hint to stay out of Meredith’s way, and sticks close to Nerina’s side.
Working seven days a week, Nerina has no time to fuss with her appearance, and considers herself lucky just to find clean clothes to put on in the mornings. Occasionally, she tries to sneak in a few of her most pressing errands while taking care of those assigned to her by Meredith. The most urgent item on her list this morning is finding a pair of shoes. All the walking with Edward has been hard on her footwear, and even harder on her feet. She’s not ready yet for the chunky running shoes she sees on the feet of many New York women scurrying about town, but a pair of sturdy looking sandals in the window of a shoe store on 6th Avenue seems like an acceptable alternative.
She’s about to enter the store when she hears someone call her name. She turns around and sees a man waving at her as he cuts through traffic to reach her side of the road.
She recognizes him at once. It’s Christophe, Helena’s Canadian protégé.
He embraces her as if they’re old friends. “What a wonderful surprise,” he says, beaming with pleasure. “The last time I saw you was in Venice, at the reception the Ohstroms gave following my exhibition.”
Nerina’s mind flashes back to the night of her transformation from housemaid to Cinderella. It seems so long ago. She can’t believe Christophe has recognized her after all that time. Dressed in jeans and a cotton blouse, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, she bears little resemblance to the girl in the shimmering dress at the party.
Christophe looks the same, however. He’s even wearing the same leather jacket he wore in Venice. “I had no idea you were in New York,” he says. “When did you get here?”
“The day Michael Jackson died. Before that I was upstate.”
“Helena told me you’d married an American. Does he come from up there?”