The Center of the World (28 page)

After we had made a relatively quick circuit of the room we started talking about the paintings. We had to lean close together to make out each other’s words. Her hair, I thought, smelled like light.

“I don’t think these are unfinished,” I said. “They just are what they are. Turner was interested in the play of light and
color. He used these canvases to work out his ideas about those interplays. When he had taken the idea to its logical conclusion or to some place where it just couldn’t go any further, he was done. He must have resented the fact that his audience wanted him to put in all those castles and mountains. He had to represent stuff that his audience would recognize as an appropriate subject for art because he had to make a living.”

I went on and on, half amazed that I was making as much sense as I was. I don’t remember half the things I said, but I remember the way she looked at me, as if what I said mattered. She told me she didn’t know much about art, but everything she said seemed really smart.

At last the spell was broken when a museum guard announced that it was closing time. I looked at my watch.

“I had no idea it was so late,” I said.

“Neither did I. I have to get back to my hotel and put together my slides for tomorrow’s meeting.”

We stood together for a few moments on the steps in front of the Tate, watching the low sun break through the clouds. One of the river ferries was pulling off into the Thames.

“It is almost a Turner sunset,” she said.

“Which way is your hotel?” She was staying at the InterContinental near Hyde Park Corner, she said, but she was going to walk even though it was a bit of a hike. “It’s my last day in London and I thought I might as well see some of the street life.”

I told her that my hotel was in that general direction, although it wasn’t true. When I asked if she would mind if I kept her company, she smiled at me and said she would be delighted.

As we walked up Vauxhall Bridge Road we continued talking about Turner. We wondered what he would make of this modern city: the cars, the smog, the jets inscribing white contrails against the sky. At some point the conversation changed gears.

“At first I felt like some character in a bad TV show,” she said. “I’d be sitting in the apartment waiting for him to come home. Then he’d call to say he had to stay late at work. Don’t wait up for me. When he finally got in I thought I could smell some other woman’s perfume on him. It was driving me crazy. In the morning I’d ask him if he’d been with someone else and he’d get angry. He kept saying that if I didn’t trust him I should leave. And so I didn’t leave, and I felt guilty for suspecting him. But then he goofed up on his email, and I got a note that he meant to send to her. All sorts of porn star details; it was gross. He couldn’t deny it; he moved out. We still talk, but it never goes anywhere.”

“He’s a jerk and a fool. You need to make a clean break of it. I don’t know much, but I know he doesn’t deserve you.”

“I’m such an idiot about this stuff.”

“It’s difficult,” I replied. “I think my wife is sleeping with someone else, too. I’m not sure, but I think so. But I don’t want to leave either.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have a cigarette, would you?” she asked.

I was so glad I had bought some. I took out my pack and shook one out for her. I held the match for her and then lit my own. It was like in the movies.

We walked along in silence for half a block. Perhaps I had lost enough weight to make a difference. I almost forgot that I was nearly old enough to be her father. We were both, I thought, bathed in light, and that made all the difference.

She stopped suddenly and grasped my hand. Her touch was soft and cool, but strong and determined.

“I like talking to you, but if we are going to talk, we have to talk about something else. Please.”

I nodded. Of course she was right. I was about to make an ass of myself and she knew it.

“So,” she said, “wouldn’t it be wonderful to own one of those Turners? Just have one in your living room so that you could look at it all day?”

I think I paused for a moment, as a flash of alarm and suspicion crossed my brain, but then I looked at her and was overwhelmed by her smile. “It would be too much for me,” I said. “I think I would disappear.”

“I don’t understand,” she said. She stopped walking and looked up at me.

“I’m too small,” I said. “My life and my heart are not large enough. If one of those canvases could fit into my living room it would take over everything.”

“But they are just pictures,” she protested.

“No,” I said. “I’ve been in London for almost a week. Most days I’ve gone to the Tate or the National Gallery. I’ve spent I don’t know how many hours standing in front of those Turners. I can’t explain it. I feel overwhelmed by the beauty and the light, by the divinity on the canvas. I would disappear.” I was,
of course, talking about
The Center of the World
, not the Turners I had just seen. Looking back, I see that this was the first hint of the true nature of the risk that the painting posed for me.

“You are an odd person,” she said.

“If you knew me in New Jersey, you’d think there was nothing odd about me at all. A typical middle-aged guy, who works at a decent white-collar job. Two Volvos—one wagon, one sedan—with a combined two hundred and fifty thousand miles on them. But there’s something about being here in London, cast off from my moorings, that makes me think about stuff I usually don’t.” I paused and looked at her. Her face was a gift. “I’m sorry. You wanted to talk about Turner and look what I’ve done.”

Her laugh made me smile. “I guess,” I said, “it would be nice to have one of those watercolors. I think I could handle that.”

We managed to chat contentedly as we walked along, avoiding any deep waters. She told me about her work and her colleagues; I did the same.

“Here we are,” she said. “That was a nice walk. I needed to get some air and stretch my legs. But I’m sorry to have bored you with my pathetic troubles. You’re a good listener. Can I buy you a drink in the swanky hotel bar by way of thanks?”

I looked into her eyes and saw a promise of some happiness that was more profound than any I had thought to know in this world. Her eyes were Helen’s, and the skin under her shirt would be as soft and fragrant as a goddess’s. I stood there like an idiot for I don’t know how long.

“I don’t think so,” I said at length. “I have to pack and get organized before my flight tomorrow.”

She took my hand. “You’re probably right. You may be an even better guy than I thought.” She stood up on her toes and planted a kiss on my cheek before I knew what was happening.

“Good-bye.” I watched her disappear into the hotel.

I put my hand on the place where her lips had touched me. I could still feel the warm pressure and the hint of moisture, and wondered if there was a trace of her lipstick on my face. Who would ever have known? How could I have been so faithless as to turn away from Helen’s gift? Had she taught me nothing?

 
I CANNOT SAY HOW
much time passed with only the four of us in the deserted house. But I do recall the day that Turner told us at dinner that he had no further use for me. It was time, he said, for him to shoulder the work alone. I felt, I confess, some pang of disappointment. I could not tell if it was because I had come to love my shame or if I felt regret that my small part in the great work was now come to an end.

Turner was never a man who paid much regard to appearances, but now he seemed no longer part of our world at all. His conversation, always rough and eccentric, descended to the level of grunts and nods. When we saw him it was at dusk, just as the light was failing. He would leave the house quietly and walk through the park for a while, seeming more like a ghost than a man.

Grant, Egremont, and I ate by ourselves. Do what I could, none of us had much to say. Grant, bless him, would speak of what he had been reading. I would try some observation about the state of the park and ask Egremont about the progress of
his improvements. In the past this was a topic that had always excited his interest, but now he was impatient and short-tempered. Our meals were over quickly. Some evenings he asked me to read to him, some to play the harpsichord, but neither words nor music had the power to keep his attention for long. He had me come up to the bedroom, and we would both toss and turn into the early hours. Sometimes I would wrap myself in my gown and walk the halls of the great house like the spirit of one of Egremont’s ancestors. Sometimes I would find Grant in the library and interrupt his studies. One night when it was warm I stepped out onto the Portico and looked up. I could see the light in Turner’s studio and his shadow on the window as he paced back and forth.

I remember the date—it was October 23, 1830—and that Egremont, Grant, and I had just sat down to our dinner when old John came in and handed His Lordship a note from Turner. He would be most appreciative if we would gather in the breakfast room in the morning at about eight o’clock, when the light was best, so that he could call us up one by one to see what had been accomplished.

The three of us looked at each other. My chest grew tight for a moment as I thought of how my two companions would see me in the morning. Grant and I exchanged a glance, and I knew that similar thoughts were going through his mind.

“We shall see at last,” Egremont said, “what all this fuss is about. Turner has genius, to be sure, but these last days he has carried it with too high a hand. But perhaps the end will justify all. We shall see.”

Our meal was brought out and we all picked at our food. After a few minutes Egremont put down his fork. “I have no relish for my meat. If this is all that comes from Turner’s tricks he shall have hell to pay. You two may continue, but I will take a walk with the dogs.”

In the morning we all gathered in the breakfast room at an early hour. Egremont and I had hardly slept. Grant did not look well rested either. We attempted to make conversation, but the effort failed.

At last old John came in. He bowed and walked a few steps into the room, where he stood stock still, like a character in a play. “My lord,” he said, “Mr. Turner begs your company in the studio.”

Egremont rose quickly and rushed out. An expression of surprise appeared on John’s normally impassive face as he saw his master move so quickly at another man’s behest. He followed Egremont out the door. I looked at Grant. He returned my look. “Our fates,” I said, “are hanging in the balance.”

Hardly ten minutes had gone by before John returned. He seemed frightened and asked me to come upstairs as quickly as I could. Without pausing to ask any questions, I rushed toward the door. I looked back at poor young Grant. His beautiful face looked like death. My mind was full of terrible thoughts. Egremont was of an age where he might have a stroke at any time. I thought that he might be lying on the floor demanding my attendance. As I ran down the corridor toward the studio, I saw Turner walking toward me. He looked thinner and pale, but there was a queer smile on his face. But I did not stop because I
could hear Egremont calling my name with a kind of desperate urgency.

Egremont, a mad gleam in his eyes, was pointing at a canvas propped up on the easel. I feared he was in the midst of some species of fit. “Look at this, damn it, look at this!” he cried.

What I first saw was light. The world and my own mind suddenly grew quiet. All my fears vanished. Petworth House itself, the room I was standing in, the life that had brought me to this place and the moment I was living in all disappeared. There was nothing but the light. I cannot describe it except to say that it seemed I was seeing light itself.

Gradually the images out of which the painting was composed emerged, resolving themselves into something I can remember. I was in the center, but I was not myself. There was a sea beyond, a field below, a room filled with unbearable beauty, and I knew that all of them existed only for me and because of me. Beautiful boats returning from glorious lands dotted the sea, beautiful men struggled on the plain. I could see the sweat on their glistening bodies and the blood that flowed from their wounds. I wanted to weep for the horror and the shame of it, so many beautiful young men, so much suffering and dying. But I could not be sad because I could hear music, simple and sweet, yet like no other music I had ever heard, ringing in the air. I knew that it had been produced by the lyre, the lyre I had flung down and that was leaning against the side of the dressing table. It was such beautiful music! In all the years since I first saw the painting I have only sometimes been able to make out small snatches of it, but in that first moment I could hear it
clearly. And I wondered if it was not the lyre, but the sound of the gods themselves, speaking to each other as they hovered invisibly over the battlefield, that I heard.

I became aware of Egremont saying something and pressing up behind me in a kind of dream. I found myself on the couch on which Turner had had me pose. I could not speak nor take my eyes off the painting. I could feel Egremont fussing with my dress and then with my under things. I lifted myself up for him and he came into me. I saw Grant more beautiful than I had ever hoped to see him, I saw my own smile in the mirror urging me on. I met Egremont’s thrusts and felt the heat of all the love I had ever hoped for and all the love I could remember. I dissolved into the blue of the sea.