“Good luck,” she replied.
They drove the rest of the way without any further exchange between them, his passive presence on the passenger seat beside her making her uneasy. She kept thinking of Taylor’s story and expecting him to start talking, unleashing a stream of lunacies. It wasn’t until she announced that they’d arrived at the studio that she realized he’d fallen asleep. She stared at him awhile: at the smooth dome of his forehead and the delicate configuration of his lips. It was still in her to dote on him, no question of that. But what lay that way? Disappointment and frustrated rage. Despite Clem’s words of encouragement she was almost certain it was a lost cause.
She shook him awake and asked him if she could use his bathroom before going on her way. The punch was heavy in her bladder. He was hesitant, which surprised her. The suspicion dawned that he’d already moved a female companion into the studio, some seasonal bird to be stuffed for Christmas and dumped by New Year. Curiosity made her press to be allowed in. Reluctant as he was, he could scarcely say no, of course, and she traipsed up the stairs after him, wondering as she went what the conquest was going to look like, only to find that the studio was empty. His sole companion was the painting that had so filthied his hands. He seemed genuinely upset that she’d set eyes on it and ushered her to the bathroom, more discomfited than if her first suspicions had been correct and one of his conquests had indeed been disporting herself on the thread- bare couch. Poor Gentle. He was getting stranger by the day.
She relieved herself and emerged from the toilet to find the painting covered with a stained sheet and him looking furtive and fidgety, clearly eager to have her out of the place. She saw no reason not to be plain with him, and said, “Working on something new?”
“Nothing much,” he said.
“I’d like to see.”
“It’s not finished.”
“It doesn’t matter to me if it’s a fake,” she said. “I know what you and Klein get up to.”
“It’s not a fake,” he said, a fierceness in his voice and face she’d not seen so far tonight. “It’s mine.”
“An original Zacharias?” she remarked. “This I have to see.”
She reached for the sheet, before he could stop her, and flipped it up over the top of the canvas. She’d only had a glimpse of the picture as she’d entered, and from some distance. Up close, it was clear he’d worked on the canvas with no little ferocity. There were places where it had been punctured, as though he’d stabbed it with his palette knife or brush; other places where the paint was laid on with glutinous abandon, then thumbed and fingered to drive it before his will. All this to achieve the likeness of what? Two people, it seemed, standing face to face against a brutal sky, their flesh white, but shot through with jabs of livid color.
“Who are they?” she said.
“They?” he said, sounding almost surprised that she’d read the image thusly, then covering his response with a shrug. “Nobody,” he said, “just an experiment,” and pulled the sheet back down over the painting.
“Is it a commission?”
“I’d prefer not to discuss it,” he said.
His discomfort was oddly charming. He was like a child who’d been caught about some secret ritual. “You’re full of surprises,” she said, smiling.
“Nan, not me.”
Though the painting was out of sight he continued to look ill at ease, and she realized there was going to be no further discussion of the picture or its import.
“I’ll be off, then,” she said.
“Thanks for the lift,” he replied, escorting her to the door.
“Do you still want to have that drink?” she said.
“You’re not going back to New York?”
“Not immediately. I’ll call you in a couple of days. Don’t forget Taylor.”
“What are you, my conscience?” he said, with too small a trace of humor to soften the weight of the reply. “I won’t forget.”
“You leave marks on people, Gentle. That’s a responsibility you can’t just shrug off.”