The House on Black Lake (18 page)

“This is my latest project.” He walks to a canvas leaning against the wall behind the kitchen table. The painting is of a raging bull’s head with steam spewing from flared nostrils and stout horns butted forward, with a matador’s feathered sword stuck in its neck and blood spilling out onto mottled hide. On another canvas, a lion with amber eyes glares from behind wheat-colored stalks and seems to track my every move.

“Do you paint from your sketches?” I ask, and turn to look into a herd of charging big-horned wild buffalo emerging from a cloud of dust on the opposite wall.

“I paint in the style of automism—from the school of the surrealist. I start with a blank canvas, put my hand to it and let my subconscious begin to compose. Once my subconscious is finished, I allow my conscious to shape the piece into a cohesive whole. I inform my art and it informs me. When a project is complete it is released, so others benefit from the experience.”

“Your work is very masterful,” I say and circle the room to admire the manner in which he catches the fierce moment between life and death.

“And what is your job?

“I’m a writer. Or I was. I’ve recently been advised it is not a profession.”

“I’ve also been advised art is not a profession, so we have that in common,” he says with an infectious laugh.

“Are you a novelist?”

“I take mythical stories and fairy tales and rewrite them with a contemporary twist.”

“Are they filled with the same bloody horrors as the originals?”

“They’re written for adults and not children, so there’s less violence and bloodshed,” I say, and cast a wry smile.

“With more sex, I hope.”

“There was plenty in the originals.”

“So you are drawn to the world of fantasy and magic?”

“I’m drawn to a different world, that’s all I know.”

“I would like you to draw me into that world,” he responds with an enigmatic grin.

“Would you like some champagne and soup? I have a pot that’s been simmering since early this morning.” Before I have a chance to reply, André retreats to a corner of the room where windows look out onto a terrace lined with flower pots.

“Do you live here most of the time?” I ask, and move to take a closer look at a group of small paintings of naked bodies engaged in lurid sexual acts. It is difficult to tell the gender, or the number of people involved.

“I am here a couple days a week. These are only a few of my paintings. Most are in galleries in Montreal and Quebec City. And you, Alexandra, why are you here in St. Agathe, a single woman, beautiful and alone?”

“I’m visiting friends, Ramey and Ruth Sandeley, on Lac Noir. Do you know them?” I ask, turning to him.

“Everyone knows of them.” A mysterious shadow flits beneath the contours of André’s face as he places a bottle of champagne on a dining table painted with fleur-de-lys and set with a vase of long stemmed calla lilies.

“I plan to do some research on the house where I stayed my first night. It’s an old Victorian on an island.”

“Alexandra, sit down. Let me pour you a glass of champagne. The soup is still simmering.” He hands me a flute and motions me to a damask-covered daybed.

“First of all, the library is not open. Also, you will not find anything pleasant about that house, or of its previous inhabitants.

“Salute,” he says, raising his glass. “To Art, may she never sleep with Commerce.” He sits on the daybed next to me and I join him in the toast.

“Do you like the champagne?”

“Delicious.”

He looks at me with soulful eyes while leaning forward to lift my leg onto his lean thigh and remove my shoe.

“André, what are you doing?”

“I’m making you more comfortable,” he says, using his boyish grin to disarm me while he removes my sandals.

“My grandfather took me there when I was a young boy. We rowed to the shore, but did not disembark. My mother’s father was of the Iroquois tribe. He taught me many of the beliefs and customs of the Iroquois. The island is said to be the gateway to the underground, where the spirits of the dead reside. It was a burial ground for the indigenous people for hundreds of years.”

“What do you know of the man who lived in the house, Egan Schlotter?”

André draws my foot up and takes my big toe in his mouth.

“Stop it.”

“You don’t like?”

“Listen to me. I was rowed out with my son to stay in that horrible old place in the middle of the night. Doesn’t that seem strange?”

He runs his fingers from the arch of my foot along my calf to my inner thigh.

“André...” I remove his hand and adjust my skirt.

“What is wrong?”

“I’m leaving. I just met you; I can’t do this.”

“What is the difference if you met me an hour or a year ago? We do not own the past or the future. It is only here, now, this moment that exists for any human being. The rest is illusion.”

“That’s very poetic. But to be honest, you frighten me.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, your tattoo, for one.”

“What frightens you about a tattoo?”

“It’s a poisonous snake. Is that a warning sign?”

“It was my first drawing, a teenage boy’s right of passage. I marked myself to scare away the bullies.”

“And you continue to scare them away with your paintings?”

“You may have a point, but I view it differently.”

“What way is that?”

“Tell me more about your fears.”

“What happened in that house, André?”

“What happened in the house and what is happening inside you is the same thing.”

“Stop talking in circles.”

“What is it that haunts you, inside yourself?”

“What haunts
you
, André?”

He pauses for a moment and his face lights up.

“The Madonna.” A smile flickers across his face and he wears a faraway look. “When I was a young boy I marveled at the art on the walls of the church at mass every Sunday morning. It was always the image of the Madonna that felt most powerful. A woman who is mother, lover, wife, virgin, and seeded by the God of the universe, that is what I am haunted by—the impossibility of her beauty and perfection.” He leans forward and lowers his eyes to my lips.

“Tell me about your fears, what causes you to fear?”

He pulls off his T-shirt and exposes the full image of the snake. Its fierce head juts forward, poised to strike, with jaws spread wide, revealing a long forked tongue and sharp fangs. “I thought you might like to see the entire picture,” he says with a beguiling smile.

“Deep water,” I say, and avert my eyes from the venomous reptile. “And I have claustrophobia, a fear of being closed in and unable to free myself, especially in darkness.”

“My grandfather once told me that behind every fear lies a hidden truth. When you feel fear, it is a signal to take action, but the action is not always to run away. You must first expose the fear and confront it, and then you may decide whether to back away or move forward.

“I wonder how you would feel to kiss,” André says, and lifts a hand to caress my hair as he graces me with his full lips.

“Why are you afraid of water, Alexandra?”

“I can’t swim,” I say, nearly breathless from the erotic charge.

“Why can’t you swim?” he whispers in my ear.

“My mother wouldn’t let me near the water.”

“Why didn’t she take you to the water and teach you how to swim?”

“She was afraid.”

“Well, there you are. Rather than teach you the skills needed to master the forces of nature, you were taught to keep away from them. Have you ever thought about the pleasures your fear has denied you?” His lips trail down to the hollow of my neck. “The body is the temple of God; pleasure is his gift. It is meant to be savored, not feared.” He lowers me back onto the daybed and pins me with the full weight of his body. I can feel his heart beating through his skin; it’s racing. “The door is locked. You cannot move or get away. Are you afraid?”

I’m terrified, but am loath to admit it.

“Do you want me to set you free? You can leave if you desire. I will let you go. Or you can move past your fear and open the door to the unknown.” His hands glide along my body while he moves sensuously against me and his kisses grow more hungry and impassioned.

“Let me go.”

His body stiffens as he abruptly releases me, and sits upright to turn away and reach for his T-shirt. He looks distant, disinterested, and something more—a dark menacing thought seems to lurk beneath. This change in him scares me more than anything else. He is about to throw me out of his house and I cannot bear his rejection—not today, not after this morning’s news.

“André, wait,” I say, and reach out to touch the tail of the serpent. “I have other fears I have never revealed to anyone.”

He sits motionless with his head bent forward, holding his T-shirt in his lap. His hair covers his face, so I cannot see his reaction to what I am compelled to reveal.

“I am afraid the touch of any man will lead to some kind of cruelty. And there’s another gruesome truth. There is something fierce, ugly, powerfully wild and out of control trapped inside me, and I’m terrified of what will happen if it’s set free.”

“A man is made a man by how he treats a woman and the same holds true for the opposite.” He holds my eyes until I am at the split second before relinquishment and then rises.

“Come with me.” He takes my hand and leads me across the house to enter a dimly lit room. It is centered with an imposing bed dressed with sheer fabric and covered with messy sheets. He guides me into the room, sits me down on the bed, and turns on a music player on a side table covered with his sketches. The room fills with the plaintive cries of a woman.

“Do you understand French?”

“A little...”

“Listen carefully; I will return,” he says, and walks out of the room.

I sit on the edge of the bed and listen intently, lost in the words of the tormented soul.

“What do you think?” André asks. He reenters the room with a tray filled with fruit, cheese, and bowls of fragrant soup. “Did you understand the words?” He sits down next to me. “The soup is very hot. Open.” He dips a chunk of French bread into the soup, brushes it against my lips and sets it on my tongue.

I close my eyes and savor the tangy flavor. “Asparagus, it tastes like lemon and asparagus.”

“These come from the vines outside,” he says, placing a large grape in my mouth.

“Could you interpret the song?”

“From what I understand, of my translation, the woman spends all day cleaning her house and organizing closets. When she’s finished, she tears it all apart and starts over again. Her children are naughty, her husband has bad breath, and she yearns to live in a loft, drink wine, and eat oysters all day.”

“I felt you might appreciate her frustration, although your French is not so hot,” he says, with a chuckle. “The woman is stuck in the same routine, the same way of doing things, and although she knows she is not making progress, she continues the activity nonetheless. One day she walks out the door, never to return. In the last line of the song she sings:
’L’indiviual doit être su est premièrement pour peut il être vêtu ou peut être accessoirisé.’
It means the self must first be known and loved before it can be clothed or accessorized.... So, first we must remove your clothes.” He looks into my eyes for a sign to continue.

“Will you trust me?” he asks, breaking the long silence. “If you do not trust, you cannot seek answers from those who wish to help.”

“You have my trust, André.”

“Are you certain? Is this what you want?”

“My intuition tells me it is.”

“You are in good hands. It is your guardian angel,” he says, and dusts his silky hair across my skin, as he gently undresses me.

“Take off your earrings, so you don’t lose them.”

“Yes. They’re fragile, a gift, and said to be charmed.”

“They must have magic; they brought you to me.”

“André, would you please close the curtains.”

“They
are
closed.”

“I mean all the way. There is light coming from the window.”

“The human body is not meant to be clothed in darkness.” He drapes my clothing on a chest at the foot of the bed. “Why are you pulling the sheets up around you? There is nothing to be ashamed of, your body is divine.”

“I’d like a little more champagne.”

“Here, finish it off...” he says with a knowing smile. He fills my glass and moves to light a candle on a pedestal near the foot of the bed.

Standing before me, in the flickering light of the flame, with eyes intensely focused on mine, he unzips his jeans and slowly draws them down. He holds my gaze for a moment, giving me time to take in his stunning physical beauty. With smooth luminescent skin and silky black hair spilling down to his shoulders, he looks like a gorgeous dark angel.

He lowers himself onto the bed next to me. “Close your eyes and tell me what color comes to mind when I touch you.” He bites my lip softly and makes a sound like he’s bitten into a succulent piece of fruit.

“Yellow.”

His kisses travel down my neck to my chest.

“What color now?”

“Blue to orange.”

He places his hand on the place where my heart beats rapidly. “What do you feel there?”

“Black.”

He sits up and looks at me with a quizzical expression. “Why do you feel black in an instrument of life, the seat of love? The energy emanating from this source should be bright red. The heart is life; it feeds all of the organs of the body. Even your brain is fed by the heart.”

“Mine is black.”

“Why do you feel this way about yourself?”

“I’m unlovable.”

“Any man would want to love you.”

“I mean genuine love, the kind that doesn’t devour.”

“That is fright talking.”

“Most men will make love to anything.”

“Well, not anything...” he says playfully, then moves to adjust the music player until a soft instrumental melody fills the room. “I want to dance with you,” he says, and reaches out his hand.

Beneath his voice I hear the sound of children’s laughter come from outside the window. The giggles of delight bring back memories of my former life, and I cover my face with my hands and begin to weep.