Forgetfulness (18 page)

Thomas? Are you there? I know you're there. Pick up, it's Bern—

Bernhard, Thomas said, his hand on the telephone at last.

—calling from London.

Yes, Bernhard.

Thomas? It's late, I know, Bernhard said. But I'm glad you're still up and about. What are you doing?

Playing billiards, Thomas said.

Who with? Get rid of him.

Nobody. I'm alone.

Playing billiards alone? That makes no sense to me. Billiards is a two-man game.

Not my version, Thomas said.

Bernhard's laugh rumbled down the line and died out.

But I've finished now. I'm going to bed.

I need a minute of your time, Thomas.

Later. In the morning.

This won't take long. And it can't wait.

Morning, Thomas said.

Are you sure you're alone?

Your voice is not clear, Bernhard.

I'm calling on my mobile.

Where are you? And as he asked the question, Thomas knew he had made a mistake, prolonging the conversation. He did not care where Bernhard was. He wanted Bernhard off the phone and now he had to listen to an explanation.

I'm not at home. I'm away for a few days, here and there, the usual. Thomas heard voices and a discreet round of laughter, as if Bernhard were in someone's living room or an after-hours bar. The background language did not seem to be English but it was hard to be certain. Bernhard said, You're sure you're alone?

Thomas said, Victoria's here.

Who's Victoria?

Granger's great-niece. He left her his house. And now she's come to sell it, and she wants my advice as to an asking price. Also, she wants to destroy my portrait of Granger but I won't let her have it. So that's the situation with Victoria Granger. She's from Pennsylvania. Have you ever been to Pennsylvania?

Yes.

So have I. Years ago. I didn't like it. You know what they say about Pennsylvania? No great picture has ever been painted in Pennsylvania. It has to do with the damned light. Eakins is the exception. Goddamned artistic wasteland like the Rocky Mountains. Unless you count Bierstadt, which I would never do.

Thomas?

She's got the house on the market for eight hundred thousand euros, which is a joke. She'll never get it.

Thomas?

She's appalling.

Pauling's in New York.

Well, she's in Pennsylvania.

She's not there, is she?

She was here but she left early. Last month.

So you're alone.

I was happy sitting alone in the dark but now there are trespassers.

Focus for a minute, please.

I'm tired, Thomas said.

I'm going to talk LaBarre. Do you understand?

Thomas sighed. More cloak and dagger.

Jesus, Bernhard. It's late. I don't know what time it is, but it's late and I'm a little drunk. I'm ready to go to bed. No codes at this hour.

It's necessary.

I'm sure it is.

There's a man I want you to meet.

Thomas did not reply. The wind came up once more, whistling in the eaves. He felt a soft breeze, a reminder that the house was not as snug as he thought. Nothing was. He looked at his watch, past midnight; tomorrow had arrived and he had not even noticed. His future was filled with dread, score-settling on Florette's behalf. Just then he thought he heard her voice inside the wind-whistle but the words were swiftly carried away. Bernhard said something but Thomas did not hear what it was, owing to the background noise and the wind in the eaves. Whenever in the past Bernhard had a man he wanted Thomas to meet, trouble always followed. He had been a fool to answer the telephone. What he should be doing was listening to Billie Holiday or Art Hodes but the stereo was at the other end of the room so he had Bernhard Sindelar instead. Thomas tucked the phone between his neck and his shoulder, opened the fridge, fetched the bottle of white wine inside, and poured the last of it into his glass, spilling some, neglecting to notice that it was the two-ounce pony. He threw it back as if it were whiskey and put the glass in the sink.

I want you to make his portrait, Bernhard said. Will you do that?

No, Thomas said.

You wouldn't recognize him, Bernhard said, but he has an unusual head. Bernhard went on to describe the head but in terms Thomas found difficult to grasp. Late at night, Bernhard's descriptive powers often failed. He said, Because of the shape of the head I think you'd like to meet him. Talk with him, get to know him, do his portrait. He's interesting, this man. Not your usual subject. And he has friends, and the friends are also interesting.

I'm not accepting commissions.

Thomas? Pay attention.

It was true his concentration had wandered, Florette's phantom voice, the puddle of wine on the kitchen counter, and his obligation toward Billie Holiday. Swing, brother, swing. Thomas was watching a car wind up the road to St. Michel du Valcabrère and wondering what it was doing at this late hour. People went to bed early in the village, rising at dawn to commence the day's chores. No doubt this was Monsieur Bardèche returning from an assignation.

Did I tell you Granger's niece was here? Grandniece.

Yes. Now listen to me.

A Pennsylvania matron.

Can you get up to Paris tomorrow?

Most unpleasant.

Noon train?

I'm working, Bernhard. I'm working damn hard, day and night. I don't want to go to Paris because Paris will interfere with my work.

You're being selfish, Thomas.

Not now. Maybe later.

—paint his portrait. And the portraits of his friends.

No commissions.

I'm afraid this can't wait, Thomas.

Have to wait, he said. He thought an eternity was about right. He was much happier alone with his ghosts than he was talking to Bernhard Sindelar. He said, Florette was here a second ago but she had to leave. It's late. I'm tired.

What was that about Florette?

Nothing. Forget it.

I'm worried about you, Thomas.

Don't be.

All right. But guess what? Russ is here with me.

Well, tell him hello.

Thomas, Bernhard said. Focus just for a moment.

He watched the car dip over a hill, its headlights lost to view. Country rhythms, Thomas thought, a single car on a lonely road
late at night, destination surmised; and still the hubbub in Bernhard's phone, voices and soft laughter. He said the thing that came to mind and knew at once that he had made a mistake, the conversation prolonged once again. He said, I haven't heard from Russ for a while. How is he?

Not so good, Thomas.

What's wrong?

They're not renewing his contract. They've said bye-bye to Russ. Thanks very much. They're giving him a medal. But on the whole, he'd rather be working. So that's another reason to come to Paris, help out old Russ. He's pretty broken up about it.

I'll be there, Thomas said. But not tomorrow and not next week. He paused, searching for the car that had passed over the hill, surely Monsieur Bardèche's green Peugeot. I'm tired, Bernhard. It's late. I couldn't walk across the street. Give me a number, I'll call you tomorrow. We can make plans tomorrow, meet whoever it is you want me to meet. What did you say his name was?

I didn't.

That's right, you didn't.

His name isn't important.

I don't care who he is anyway. I'm not accepting commissions. Yes, you said that.

Thanks for the call. Give Russ my best. Tell him I'm sorry about his retirement.

Don't hang up, Thomas.

Goodbye, Thomas said and hung up.

He knew he had been abrupt, but Bernhard's conversation made no sense to him, except the part about Russ. Russ should have retired long ago. The idea of Paris filled him with dread, the raw urban chill of January, washed-out Monet skies and bare plane trees, Giacometti women in the Tuileries, a leaden atmosphere of everyone wishing to be somewhere else, a ski resort in the Alps or a beach in Morocco or the Costa del Sol. And he was not accepting commissions. People called you late at night and assumed you were eager for a jolly chat when all you wanted was to go to bed, shove tomorrow a little farther into the distance. Christ, he was drunk, already forgetting what Bernhard had said to him, something to do with a man in Paris, a mysterious man-with-no-name. Thomas lifted the pony glass from the sink and turned out the lights, startled when something brushed against the window and melted into the shadows, a shape darker even than the night. He rapped on the window and looked into the darkness but saw nothing. Through the crack in the window he could smell an alien odor, feral, musky, slightly sweet. He did not think he was imagining it or the dark shape either. Thomas stepped unsteadily to the front door and locked it, something he never did at night. Thomas stood quietly listening but heard nothing. He reached instinctively for the telephone when it rang again, most shrilly.

Russ Conlon said, You shouldn't hang up on Bernhard. He doesn't like it.

Is that right?

Yes.

Well, fuck him.

Thomas, Russ said, a voice of profound disappointment.

What does he want? It's something about Paris, isn't it? He wants me to paint someone, is that it?

No, he doesn't.

That's good. I'm not taking commissions.

Not to paint, Thomas.

That's what he said.

It isn't what he meant.

I'm tired, Thomas said. Also, I'm just the slightest bit drunk. And someone's been prowling around my house. Big bastard. Stinks.

What?

A prowler outside my window.

Russ was silent, his hand evidently over the phone's mouthpiece, for the background noise vanished. When he came back on the line he said, There isn't any prowler, Thomas.

You don't think so?

Trust me.

What do you know about it?

Thomas, you've had a long night. And Bernhard wants to talk to you again. It'll only take a minute.

Not now, Thomas said loudly.

All right, then. Go to bed.

How can I when the phone's always ringing?

Russ laughed at that. He said, We'll call tomorrow.

Thomas said, I understand you're under the weather.

I'm not under the weather.

Bernhard said you weren't so good. Not so good, he said.

I'll tell you about it tomorrow, Russ said, his voice subdued.

Not too early, Thomas said. He was staring into the darkness where the shape had been. The odor of it was still in his nostrils.

Noon, Russ said. Please be home.

Thomas tried to recollect the day of the week. He thought today was Wednesday. No, Thursday, because midnight had come and gone. Tomorrow was at hand. He had no plans for Thursday so he said, Fine.

Noon then, Russ said.

I don't like prowlers.

A nuisance, Russ agreed.

God knows who they are.

Sleep well, Thomas. Tomorrow noon.

I'm not taking commissions, Thomas said and hung up for good.

By eleven Thomas was drinking coffee in his kitchen, sorting through the mail, putting the American newspaper to one side; it was the paper that had gotten him into such trouble yesterday. He carefully stacked the bills in one pile and the gallery invitations in another. There were three invitations to openings in Paris, none of them very interesting judging from the reproductions on the invitations. It was a terrible thing being a young French artist, Matisse always at your elbow; it was like a tyrant routinely judged to the standards of Genghis Khan. That left a letter from his New York dealer, Arthur Malan, announcing that a museum in Holland was interested
in one of his Karen portraits. Negotiations would commence at once and it was reasonable to expect a satisfactory outcome. Arthur inquired after his health and hoped he was getting along all right and working well. Thomas read the letter twice, pleased at the news. It had been some time since a museum had come to call. Milwaukee was the first, twenty years before. Then the Art Institute of Chicago bought one. One to
MOMA,
Francisco to Madrid, another to Centre Pompidou, but that had been five years ago and there had been nothing since.

The stirrings of a renaissance, perhaps.

Holland was a strange place to begin, but why not?

Maybe it was time for another show.

What do you think about that, Florette?

But Florette was silent.

He remained in the kitchen, idly making line drawings of St. John Granger's farmhouse across the way. The day was fine, warmish with brilliant sunshine. He had opened the kitchen window an inch and everywhere he heard the tick-tock of melting water, the drip of icicles from the roof, the slushy sound of shifting snowdrifts in the fields. Also melting were the deer tracks outside the kitchen window, something that had significance for him but he could not remember what the significance was. It was a good day for a drive, perhaps a visit to one of the churches in the west. The roads were clear and at the end of the day he could walk into a café and stand the regulars to a marc, courtesy of the museum in Holland. He looked up to see a pair of blackbirds wheeling in the bright sky, a good omen.

Thomas told himself he was under no obligation to wait for Bernhard's telephone call. Bernhard with his bluster, his certainties, and his insistence on score-settling, and not only his scores but your scores, too. Someone once called Bernhard Sindelar a godless son of a bitch, a judgment that Thomas thought a bit harsh but now he wasn't so sure. Still, they had been friends for sixty years and would go on being friends because they knew so much about each other and Thomas was in his debt, not that Bernhard knew or cared. That
was the rub of it, Bernhard's fascination with the patients in the doctor's waiting room, and his inquisitive eye for the patient in most distress. Bernhard had seen something that Thomas had not seen, and thereafter that which had been most familiar became strange yet fraught with meaning. His father's waiting room became a stage set. The low ceiling, the dark walls, the narrow windows that admitted little light, the functional chairs, the tables with their burden of thumbed magazines, the settee by the window that his father designated the smokers corner, a standup metal ashtray on either side of the settee, the sort of ashtray found in men's clubs. A few years later
The Waiting Room
became Thomas's first attempt at ensemble portraiture, realism in the manner of Georges de La Tour, though his art instructor at the time thought the piece owed more to Norman Rockwell—admitting reluctantly that Rockwell would not have used such somber colors, nor given the room such a shabby appearance, and surely a Rockwell would have had the doctor's kindly face appear at the door of the examining room, summoning the next patient. The doctor was not present in Thomas's waiting room, only the patients, in attitudes of anticipation or dread. He gave his father's likeness to the middle-aged man on the settee, a cigarette in his fingers, nonchalantly turning the pages of
Time
magazine. Bernhard Sindelar was the boy in the wing chair, a bandage on his forehead, a sullen expression on his mouth. The woman next to Bernhard was Thomas's mother, her face turned so that her features could not be seen. Her body was a blur of dark wool, her purse in her lap. Her purse caught the eye of the viewer, perhaps because her fingers were tight on its handle, as if it contained not only her worldly goods but her soul as well. And all the time Thomas was painting the picture he was imagining his father behind the closed door; the force of the picture was the closed door. So he owed Bernhard Sindelar his attention, and when the call came he would answer it. Of course the message would have to do with Florette, some "break" in "the case" that would bring "closure." But no break in this or any other case could bring her back to him, so what was the point?