“Speak,” Death commanded.
****
From his bed, Albion Rector stared past the open door at the blank canvass, a canvass bathed in moonlight that stood stark against the shadows created by the tables and tools of his trade.
“Oh, get up, Boyfriend," Maddie told him as she propped her head with her hand. “You know you want to go to work on another midnight oil." She was seeing through him again with the x-ray vision women buy at yard sales.
He drew the blanket over his eyes. “Close the door."
“The mural isn’t enough, is it?” She pulled the blanket from his eyes. Women can be cruel and kind in the same instant. She was using the same voice she used to tell her nephew that, yes, he would carry the pink satin pillow with the black velvety ring box down the aisle.
“What am I going to do?" he sighed. “I pretend that I paint what’s in my 'self' but I know it isn’t true.”
“Your mural design is wonderful. The 911 Commission wouldn’t have entrusted a national work of art to a phony, and that’s that.”
“I’m a good technician, but my best work—they’re something else. I can’t explain it. Since Persistence, my dream prints scare the hell out me. There, I’ve said it.” He prayed the Girfriend wouldn't deliver an I told you so. He sat up, reached into the nightstand for a forbidden cigarette, and lit up. “This is the third time around and I’m spooked.”
Maddie borrowed the cigarette from his fingers and took a long drag. “What's the dream, this time?” She sounded really interested, but he couldn't be sure. Seeing Maddie smoke, even just one puff, was disconcerting. She might be patronizing him.
“Strange, blurry images of—damn it, Maddie, you’ll think I’m nuts.”
“No one who sees your ghostly pictures thinks you’re crazy. Visited, perhaps.”
“By whom? By what?”
“Well, a god, perhaps.” She sat up and slid next to him, seeking the shelter of his arm. "There's always a grain of truth in myths and legends of ancient peoples.” Did she notice the goose flesh on his barren shoulder where her cheek pressed? “What’s different about this dream?”
“Most of the time I see the whole painting. Like a movie mies en scene. The figures float in and take their places, like transparent actors who know their stage marks. Does that make any sense?”
“Of course. Mozart and Beethoven supposedly heard complete symphonies in their heads before scoring them on paper. They remembered every note of every instrument—you remember brush strokes and color palettes.”
Alby embraced her and gave her a wet kiss on the cheek. “You do love me.”
“I’m going to marry you, aren’t I? You think I would marry a crazy person?”
He settled back into the blankets. “This time there’s just one figure so far—a man who moves about frantically, as though he’s trying to get out of the scene but the canvass is his prison. If I paint him, he’ll be doomed—like the old Twilight Zone episode. You know the one. The Nazi war criminal is chased into the art gallery and prays to escape into his favorite painting. But somebody moved it and in the dark he doesn’t see the idyllic lake's been replaced by a painting of Auschwitz. He’s trapped in his own horror for eternity.”
“Are you afraid of the man in your dream?”
Teacher, Girlfriend, now psychoanalyst. His masculinity rebelled. ”I don’t know who he is.”
Maddie tamped the cigarette into the ashtray, and threw back the blankets. “Come on. Don’t fight it.” She grasped his arm and dragged him to his easel turning on lights that were supposed to scare monsters. “You do art. I’ll do tea.”
Alby sat in front of the easel, and picked up a soft-lead pencil. Maddie filled the kettle with tap water and the tea ball with lose Earl Grey. Quiet domesticity relaxed him, and soon he was sketching the outline of a small, misshapen, translucent lizard creature with pointed ears.
“Nice,” she said. The kettle whistled and she returned with two cups of steaming tea. One she put on Alby’s table, the other she held close to her to ward off the night's chill. Silent, she stood behind him as he sketched. She didn't usually watch him work, but this was fascinating. She was seeing the process of the Dream Paintings that intrigued her and his growing fan base. Ever since the Persistence of Tragedy she sensed a supernatural connection between Alby and the subjects of his paintings. “Another pair of hands” he called it. Artistic inspiration was a puzzle her scientific mind couldn’t begin to understand, but couldn’t abandon either.
She watched Alby sketch a second figure on the canvass, a young man who held the grotesque little figure in his breast. Alby was working quickly now, oblivious to her steady gaze. How long could he keep up the frenetic pace? She glanced at the clock above the mirror to her left, then brought her eyes down to the mirror itself. Her eyes riveted on the reflection of a dark-haired young man in a brilliant red cloak standing to her right, behind Alby.
She froze, believing that if she moved the slightest bit, the vision would disappear. She blinked. He was still there. Perhaps he didn't realize she saw him. Inside, she was screaming at Alby to look to his left to see what she was seeing, but he was enraptured.
The reflection acknowledged her with a ever-so-slight nod, and she begged him to stay with her eyes. The reflection raised his index finger to his lips to signal silence.
I know her, Raphael thought, as their eyes lingered on one another’s gaze, but how?
Treachery
This time there was no doubt he'd been seen if only in reflection. Raphael couldn’t suppress the heat that flushed his face every time he remembered Madison’s eyes, riveted, yet unafraid. Breathless as Credo when they reached the Elysian fields, he slid from the saddle. He felt his lips with his fingertips. Yes. It was true. They curved upward in a smile. After centuries of vacillation between anxiety and stoic calm, his form had connected with his emotions.
By what miracle the lovely maiden recognized him, he could not fathom. All he knew was that he was grateful. Her attention, so swift and silent, so surprising and sincere, was heavenly. He'd been granted a taste of youthful bliss. He felt wanting once more.
He plopped to the ground and removed his shoes, stretched out his legs and wiggled his toes, feeling the tickle of the grass. Curious, Credo ambled over and lowered his massive head to nuzzle a lock of black hair. "Angelico warned me, Boy. Life is nothing but the temptations of a thousand pleasures, small and grand. But she's so lovely." He scratched Credo's soft hairy nose. "How can I give up ambition? Without it, I have nothing but loneliness."
****
The Artists Guild was a mansion—one of many—built on one of the Spirit World’s seven hills. There the Masters of the fine arts came together to perfect their talent, practice new methods, and discuss their protégé’s progress. Here, Messengers conferred with Angels, and the Muses with Maestros. And it was here that Raphael sought the counsel of those he trusted.
Michelangelo was busy with the Vatican restoration workers who labored over repairing the Pieta. Since the attack on the sculpture by Laszo Toth, it had continued to deteriorate, the crack caused by the hammer blow was slowly growing into a crevice. “Resin will do the trick,” Michelangelo was telling Leonardo as Raphael approached, “but the workers suffer from an overproduction of awe and not enough good sense. They tend to forget that every good artist is a technician first—the project may be lost to indecision."
“What haunts you,” Leonardo said, stopping in mid-thought as he scanned Raphael’s troubled face.
“Bianca Constanza was a child when I met her,” Raphael explained after the two Masters swore themselves to secrecy. “I was a self-absorbed young man on a quest for greatness. I admit, I took an interest in her because in her young eyes I saw admiration for my yet unattained renown—and paid her little heed for else. Then, last night, I saw her. Madison—Albion Rector's lover, and yet, it was not she but Bianca. No other could see me unless we know each other. And I could barely look away, she is so beautiful
now that she's a woman....”
“Ahh, perhaps you looked too long. Careful, Raphael, that is the way a Spirit becomes visible.” Leonardo said. “Humans dismiss what the eye perceives only for a second, but given a few minutes, both the eye and the mind combine to name the image. If this woman is Bianca, she is living the life she always wanted to have with you. You mustn’t come between her and your protégé.”
“Tell me,” Raphael implored, “What is the worst that could happen if I become real to Bianca? I could tell her that for hundreds of years, I cherish the memory of her and that she needn’t have pined for me.”
Michelangelo cuffed the younger man on the shoulder. “She has no need to hear such drivel. The worst can happen is that she pines again for whom she cannot have.”
“The damage may already have been done,” Leonardo said. “Disguise yourself, and see if you see yourself in her dreams. If she has forgotten your encounter, visit them no more.”
“Or shadow her,” Michelangelo said. “Remember if you once step into her dreams, you may be tempted to stay. Love was created by the yearning of the Angels for the fair daughters of man—thus the sublime terror of that awesome force. Do not forget La Giaconda, Leonardo. She captured you, though you loved her naught.”
“Or she may not let you go,” Leonardo said. “Listen to us, Raphael, we are all still subject to temptation until we enter Heaven.”
****
Alone in his studio, Raphael tossed his cloak on his favorite chair, put the sword of truth on the mantle, picked up his brushes, and sat before a canvass, the Masters’ words echoing in his head. Within hours he finished The Lady of the Mirror—Bianca immortalized—a work of such exquisite delicacy of color and nuance of expression that when Charles saw it, he knew instantly that the manuscript Salvatore had given him was authentic. The same colors that Raphael’s angelic woman wore were the same colors that adorned the angel in the illumination, and the sweet innocence of her face was the same as the haloed being.
“Inspiration is an enigma. Where does it come from?” Charles said, gazing at the painting with his sardonic smile turned away from the brooding Muse.
Raphael draped the canvass with a cloth, and glared at his guest. “What brings you here uninvited?”
“I come to deliver good news. Your fame resounds through the universe. Everywhere there’s talk of making Raphael, the self-made Muse, a Guardian of the Arts. Naturally, I will endorse your elevation before the Committee.
“I did not seek the honor.” Raphael cleaned his brushes. Charles avoided such mundane tasks, but Raphael loved the tools of his trade as much as any carpenter or saddle maker.
“Of course not, else it would not be bestowed. Hubris means automatic disqualification. You’ve been nominated.”
“By whom?”
“That cannot be known until the decision is made. The temptation is always there to promote one’s cause.”
Raphael walked to the water pump and drew an ewer. There was a pounding in his chest that imitated a heart-beat so closely, he feared Charles would hear. The honor meant official recognition of his chosen mission as worthy. It meant making him a permanent member of the Artists’ Guild. It meant the power to walk with the living. “On what work will the Committee make its determination? Certainly not the Corridor Resurrection. No one has seen it except Death and Judas." His questions would soon annoy his unwanted guest, he was sure.
“Its power cannot be disputed, though its beauty may never be verified. But, it is one of my contribution to men’s nature that what is hidden is often that which is most seductive—suggestion invites the imagination to create its own paradise. Women know if they display all their charms too soon, we soon tire of them. And their incessant need for conversation.”
When Raphael returned to his brushes, Charles had fled. What remained was silence except for the persistent rhythm he felt beating inside his body.
****
Alby hadn’t wanted to leave without her, but Maddie insisted he fly to New York. “I may have a real job,” she said, “But you artsy types feed off acclaim—no fame, no eat. I’ll be there for the opening ceremonies at the Memorial, I promise. You just charm the matrons at the cocktail parties and get another commission.” She added a cell phone photo of the half-finished third dream painting to his portfolio, and drove him to the airport.
As she drove to their Kensington apartment, she calculated five days to sort things out. Feeling guilty for not having told Alby about the apparition, she'd make it up to him with more information. Or so she told herself.
For three years she'd chafed at his artistic distance from her. Many late-night discussions about how he shut her out despite his assertions of love ended in impersonal discussions about the nature of relationships. “Real love lies in the sharing the inner self, not just bills and laundry duty,” she'd argued as logically as she could make herself sound. Alby had reluctantly agreed, and she'd moved in.
Now she had an eerie feeling that Alby had been right all along. There was a part of every person that was forever closed to others, and maybe it was a good thing.
She went to the mirror, telling herself she simply wanted to recreate the circumstances of that night to see if it would jog her memory. Maybe the apparition was just the product of her own activated imagination. After all, scientists were trained to question every phenomenon and experience in the light of the scientific method: gather only objective data, analyze it, and—most importantly—rid one's self of bias. Yet, could she deny what her eyes had seen simply because another had not seen it? All of science was on trial here.
Nonsense, her practical side said as she turned away from the mirror. She didn't want data but a date with a ghost—or whatever he was. And whoever he was, he was extraordinarily handsome. Extraordinary people, like extraordinary events, thrill us all. How else to explain the infatuation with royalty and movie stars?
Twenty minutes later she was back at the mirror, but saw only herself, her auburn hair unbrushed, and her soft-ball tee shirt hanging off her shoulder. “A vision, you ain’t,” she said out loud, heading to the shower. “But you clean up well,” she said, again passing the mirror on the way to the front door, and then dialed the department secretary to say she wouldn’t be teaching her classes. “I need a personal day to take care of some business.”
The business was staring at Alby's dream painting holding a warm cup of tea. In the picture, the young man with the imp emblazoned on his breast was now standing before another man who was seated at a large worktable, perusing a manuscript.
****
“What do you make of this, Charles?” Death examined the document closely, seeing for himself the elaborate art work surrounding the simple scrawled lines. “It’s Raphael’s illumination alright, but did he write this love note, or copy it as so many artists of the times did for patrons?”
“The words probably didn’t matter to anyone, so overshadowed were they by the grandeur of the illumination. The dedication is in the first letter of each line: B-I-A-N-C-A.
Before the ‘een I saw thee
In a garden at your work
And you plucked a fair rose
Not white but
Crimson
And I knew youth’s innocence was put aside.
This is the proof of his knowing indifference, Dreaded One, if we take the poem to be based on an actual event. He ridicules her by rejecting her passion, by painting her as an angel—a rebuke of earthly desire. It is enough to prove he is not the self-proclaimed hero of justice he pretends to be, methinks. But, surely, you remember the case."
“No.” Death said.
“Is Bianca in your Book of the Dead, or not?”
“My ledger records a visit. That is all. No facts. No final entry. And your records?”
“I have none either. That means she lingers between two worlds. Did love conquer Death?” Charles teased. “Twice deceived by this pair of young lovers. How deliciously ironic. No good deed goes unpunishe
d, and here is ultimate proof that Raphael can now come between the damsel that swayed you to pity, and his innocent protégé who knows not who she really is.”
“Indeed, there is a chance of the destruction of three spirits because I was moved to mercy. Time is crueler than either of us. How long she waited to avenge my dereliction of duty,” Death said bitterly.
“It’s just, and justice is a hard task master. You knew that.”
Now in his Fortress of Forever, Death pondered the centuries-in-the-making conundrum he faced. He sat in his ermine lined chair before the half-story hearth where an inferno raged, the opened Book of the Dead resting on his knees. It is true he let Bianca go, purposely looking the other way as her body failed and her spirit escaped. But, what of the man who brought Charles the damning manuscript? Fate must have verified the authenticity of the bearer of the instrument as well as the authenticity of the instrument itself—or not. Perhaps his joy of having a chance to make sport of Raphael overcame wise reflection.
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