The Memory Painter: A Novel (5 page)

“Yes. Go on,” he whispered.

“There’s a painting I’d like to ask you about. Maybe we could meet?”

“Yes.” He wanted her to never stop talking.

“You signed a painting Origenes Adamantius. Isn’t that the priest who watched the woman burn?”

Tension began to coil in his body. “You know that?”

She didn’t say anything.

“How do you know that was his name?” Bryan waited, holding his breath.

“I was going to ask you the same thing. Like I said, we need to meet.”

“When?” He was ready to hang up and go now. Instead, she suggested her place in the morning. He agreed and wrote down the address, his hand shaking. This was why the painting had to be at the opening—he had brought it to the gallery for her.

He hung up and stared at the phone in disbelief. He now had her name, address, and phone number, and he was going to meet her tomorrow. He wouldn’t have to wait until next Friday for their paths to cross again. They were already entwined.

He looked at his turquoise ring and, on impulse, kissed it for luck.

EIGHT

Bach’s Air on the G String blared from the speakers. Linz sat at her dining room table, nursing a third cup of coffee and placing puzzle pieces together. Last night had been her worst sleep in ages. From the moment she had recognized the painting, she had been wired. Then an even stronger anxiety had gripped her after she had spoken with the artist. What had compelled her to suggest her place? A coffeehouse would have been better.

Already nervous, she looked around her immaculate living room but could find nothing to clean. She forced her attention back to the five-thousand-piece puzzle she had begun earlier this morning, now already half-finished, and tried to calm her nerves. The whole thing was probably just a strange coincidence, and no doubt this meeting today was entirely unnecessary. Maybe she should cancel.

She picked up her phone to call him but then hesitated. The clock already read ten minutes past ten. Most likely he wasn’t even coming. It was probably for the best.

*   *   *

Unknown to Linz, Bryan had been standing outside her door for the last ten minutes, unable to ring the bell.

Just ring it, you idiot.
He forced himself to do it.

Seconds later, Linz opened the door. Her “hello” died on her lips when she saw him standing there.

“You!” she exclaimed.

He saw the disbelief on her face, the accusation.

“You’re the artist? Penelope and Derek’s artist?” she demanded, incredulous, her mouth opening and closing like a fish.

“Yes. Bryan Pierce.” He felt a twinge of guilt. At least he’d had some time to get over the shock after recognizing her voice on the phone.

“This is not possible,” she said, her voice rising.

“I’m afraid it is.” He tried to be gentle.

“We randomly meet three times?”

“We only met randomly once,” he said, confessing, “I followed you to the Square.”

“You followed me?” She crossed her arms defensively, blocking the door.

Inwardly, Bryan groaned. Now she thought he was dangerous. “I was intrigued,” he said, settling on a miniature version of the truth. “The third time was your doing,” he reminded her. “You called me about my painting.”

“But that’s still random. I didn’t know who you were,” she argued, not sounding mollified at all.

“Well, I didn’t know who you were either,” he said. “We’re two strangers who happened to play chess together at the park and then you saw my exhibit … a little serendipity at hand, that’s all.”
Like hell
, he thought to himself, but he had to do something to put her at ease. She looked ready to scream and bolt the door. For good measure he added, “I’m perfectly harmless. I promise. You can call Derek and Penelope.”

Hearing those two names seemed to have the desired effect. After a moment she visibly relaxed, most likely convincing herself this wasn’t as improbable as it seemed.

“Serendipity.” She stepped back with a wry smile, offering him entry. “Okay, then. We’ll call it that. Thank you for seeing me.”

Bryan came in and Linz shut the door, standing there for an awkward moment, as if hesitant to join him. Bryan wandered around, pretending to admire the view. Her place was a low-rise on Back Bay with a scenic view of Charles River. With its Zen-like atmosphere, walnut wood floors, skylights, and vaulted ceilings, the space felt serene yet luxurious at the same time.

Near the windows stood the most enormous, serious-looking home telescope he had ever seen. The metal plate said it was an observatory-class Celestron Pro, and it had probably cost a fortune.

“You’re a serious stargazer,” he guessed.

“I studied a little astronomy in college,” she said. “Do you know anything about astronomy?”

The hint of a smile played on Bryan’s face. “A little.” He left it at that.

Linz eased away from the door. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please. Black,” he said, watching her head into the kitchen. His body sagged with relief as she left the room, and he collapsed onto the couch. Closing his eyes, he put his head in hands and reminded himself:
I am Bryan Pierce. I am here now. I’m here now. I’m here now.
He repeated the mantra for a full minute until he regained control.

By the time Linz returned, he had composed himself and was standing in front of a dramatic framed puzzle that took up the entire back wall. A little plaque underneath it read: “LIFE: The Great Challenge by Royce B. McClure. World’s largest puzzle, twenty-four thousand pieces.” The puzzle was a whimsical composite of an ocean surrounded by wildlife, sailboats, and hot-air balloons, all under the Milky Way. It made him smile.

He took a deep breath and turned around. She handed him his coffee.

Bryan murmured thanks as he tried to hold all of the memories swirling in his mind at bay. He could now recognize Linz from over two dozen dreams and counting. He had never had this happen with any one person before. But even if he could take an eraser and wipe away all those memories, his pulse would still be racing. There was something about her being that electrified him.

He moved on to study the apartment’s one remaining eccentricity, an indoor sand garden that took up one full corner of the living room.

Linz studied him as he stood there in silence.

“You rake patterns in the sand,” he said finally, marveling at the beautiful symbol she had drawn. He resisted the urge to touch it.

She nodded, looking embarrassed. “I got the inspiration for it watching a travel show about a garden in Kyoto. The next weekend I went to Home Depot and bought everything.” She took the rake and erased the design as if it were too private for him to see. “Every grain and pebble had to move with me from California.”

Bryan could hear the nervousness in her voice. She was uncomfortable. Was he really just a stranger to her? He continued his tour around the room, taking the space in, trying to understand her as much as he could. “Puzzles, stars, and sand gardens,” he murmured. “No chessboard?”

“In the closet.”

“And Bach,” he offered. The violin continued to softly fill the room.

“This is my favorite concerto.” She watched him move to finger the puzzle pieces covering the dining table. It was a puzzle of the
Mona Lisa
. “They’re kind of an addiction. Sometimes I frame favorites and hang them on the wall.” She gestured to the living room. “Do you like puzzles?”

She was trying to seem relaxed, but Bryan could hear the stress in her voice. She was regretting this meeting. He looked around the room again and took it all in. Her home was like a fascinating kaleidoscope offering a glimpse of her inner self. And yet it also felt … lonely.
She never has anyone here,
he thought. And yet, she wanted him to come. A rush of emotions filled him. He picked up one puzzle piece from the hundreds spread out on the table and placed it in the correct spot.

Linz gave him a perplexed look. “How did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Know where the piece fit. You hardly looked at it.”

He put his hands in his pockets again. “I looked at it.”

“You have a photographic memory.” She said it like an accusation.

“What makes you say that?”

With a raised eyebrow, she picked up several puzzle pieces from the stack and put them into place. With a little smile, Bryan watched her hands and accepted the challenge. He picked up three pieces from the stack and placed them. She took three more. He took four.

Soon they were hunched over the table, battling over who could connect the pieces faster. Bryan found the task a soothing distraction.

“Why did you sign the painting Origenes Adamantius?” she finally asked.

At first Bryan didn’t answer. “Why do you think Origenes Adamantius was the man’s name?”

Linz gave him a searching look. “Because it was. Wasn’t it?”

“Yes, but how do you know that?” he insisted.

“From a dream I had.”

Bryan glanced up at her. “What was the dream?”

She looked away, focusing on the puzzle, and for a moment she didn’t say anything. Bryan could tell how hard all of this was for her. She seemed very private. But then she began to speak. “I’ve had it over and over since I was a child. It’s always the same. In the dream I am this … woman.…” She said the words in a slow detached fashion. “From ancient Rome. There’s a huge trial, a religious persecution. I was one of thousands who were burned. And it’s just like your painting, every detail … the bird, the child crying, the dress she was wearing, the cross in my hand—her hand. He had given it to her.”

“The priest. Origenes.” Bryan watched her thumb absently trace a pattern on her index finger, knowing that if she did it long enough the circle would change into a figure eight.

Linz nodded. Her voice wavered. “The guards tied her to a post and set her on fire. The priest was forced to stand there and watch as punishment. I can tell he wanted to save her, but he couldn’t.” Her words trailed into a whisper, “Just before I wake up, I feel my feet burning.”

Bryan fought back a surge of grief. He couldn’t speak.

She misinterpreted his silence as disbelief and added, “I know it sounds crazy. My father took me to therapist after therapist. By the time I was a teenager, the dream had become less frequent and eventually went away. Then I saw your painting.”

Instead of responding, Bryan began to place the remaining puzzle pieces with unbelievable speed.

Linz watched his hands work with a rapt expression on her face and prompted him again, “Where did you come up with the idea for the painting? Did Penelope mention it to you?”

“No.” He placed several more pieces.

Linz waited, asking him again. “Why did you sign the painting Origenes Adamantius?” She tried to lighten the mood by adding, “And don’t you dare say serendipity.”

Bryan wasn’t sure how to respond. Right now, she wouldn’t believe any explanation he could offer. So he settled for, “It’s complicated.”

Linz put the final piece into the corner of Mona Lisa’s mouth and sat back, folding her arms. “I like complicated.”

They held each other’s gaze, and a current passed between them.

“Sorry, I have to go.” He stood up abruptly. “Thanks for the puzzle.”

He reached out with his finger and touched her hand on the table. It was the smallest stroke, the slightest caress. By the time Linz registered what he had done, his hand was gone and Bryan was almost to the door.

He held his breath, terrified that a vision might take hold of him any minute. He had stayed longer than he should have, and could feel a recall bearing down on his consciousness like a wave. Only minutes remained before it crashed.

“Wait!” Linz stood up, looking flustered. “Derek said the painting was the only one that wasn’t for sale. I’d be willing to pay double what you’d want. Money isn’t a problem.”

Bryan tried to focus on her but his vision was beginning to blur. He shook his head and backed away in a blind daze. In two steps, he was out the door.

He hurried outside and staggered toward his car. Fumbling for his keys, he got into his SUV, locked the doors, and lay down in the back. The last thing he remembered thinking was that he was glad he had bought a car with tinted windows.

A low moan escaped his mouth as his mind dilated, allowing in another time and place.

NINE

FEBRUARY 8, 1982

Michael Backer’s eyes fluttered as he regained consciousness. He was lying on a padded table in a dim laboratory chamber filled with cutting-edge technology. Electronic equipment hummed in the background and a helmet-like device with electrodes attached to it covered his head, busy recording all the neural oscillations and electrical activity going on in his brain.

Three scientists observed him through a glass wall. Finn Rigby, the youngest of the trio, watched the EEG monitor and checked his watch for the tenth time, while fellow team member Diana Backer hovered next to him, reading several printouts. She looked tired. “Someone want to remind me why we’re doing this?”

“Because your husband is crazy,” answered the third member of the group. Conrad Jacobs took off his horn-rimmed eyeglasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was an East Coast intellectual who was perpetually disheveled, with food-stained clothes and a case of serious bed head. “People, I’m fried. This is going nowhere. I suggest we go home, get some sleep, and get back to real science tomorrow.” He stood up to leave just as Michael began to speak from inside the chamber.

Everyone strained to listen. “What’s he saying?” Diana motioned to the volume control for the laboratory’s microphone. “Turn it up.”

Finn turned a knob on the instrument panel and brought Michael’s voice into the room. The EEG reading went ballistic as Michael’s brainwave patterns spiked.

Diana closed her eyes to hear the words better. “What the hell is he speaking, Latin?”

Conrad sat back down. He wasn’t going anywhere now. “No. Greek.”

Finn looked over at them. “Mike knows Greek?”

Diana shook her head.

Conrad snapped his fingers twice. “Hey, Dixie, you recording this?”