Chapter 15

 

 

When he came back, she was gone. He froze, looking around the studio, wondering if she'd gone into his bedroom or behind the changing screen, but he knew she hadn't. There was a feeling of vacancy in the room, a sense of emptiness, even though Rico was there, still sound asleep, his long form folded into a worn and overstuffed chair.

No, she was gone. Jonas felt a sharp stab of disappointment; he clutched the tube of color in his hand so tightly the paint bulged. With a sigh he glanced down at it. Vermillion, to put life in the courtesan's skin— the same life that pulsed in Genie's. He wanted to find a way to re-create that soft strength in her soul. To show the spirit in her heart. He ached to try. Now. This morning. So he'd borrowed the color from Byron Sawyer, thinking it would take too much time to go to Goupil's to buy it, and more than that, Jonas was afraid she would leave in the time he was gone.

But still he'd been gone too long, though it had been only minutes. Hadn't it? He glanced at the window, trying to gauge the time, and then gave up and looked back at the chair where he'd left her. Her face burned in his mind, the erotic tranquility of her sleep—Damn, how dare she leave him? How dare she abandon him now, when his entire masterpiece, his entire career, depended on her? With a curse he threw the tube of paint aside. It thudded against the wall.

"Temper, temper." Rico's soft, lazy voice came from the chair.

Jonas turned to see Childs watching him from half- lidded eyes. "Where the hell did she go?"

Rico raised a brow and struggled to sit up, groaning as he did so. He glanced at the chair beside him. "She's left then?" he asked, pushing fine blond strands back from his forehead. "Home, I imagine. How unfortunate. I'd hoped to take her back myself and explain. No doubt Gosney will be furious with her."

"Who gives a damn about Gosney?"

Rico looked faintly surprised. "Why, you should. Especially if you intend to keep the girl close. I can't imagine he'll approve, given your reputation."

Jonas frowned.

"I would expect a visit from him today if I were you," Rico went on, his voice deliberately, annoyingly, casual. "To ask what your intentions are." He slanted a startlingly blue glance at Jonas. "About which I am also quite curious. What are your intentions toward the charming Miss Imogene?"

Jonas felt a surge of irritation; he wasn't sure if it was because of Rico's question or because of the way he used her name. The charming Miss Imogene. Charming. Yes, she was that. Among other things. Many other things.

He glared at Childs. "My intentions are none of your business."

"Come, come," Rico said impatiently. "You forget who you speak to, mon ami. I'm not blind. That was no innocent tête à tête I interrupted last night."

Jonas felt irritation again, pulsing through his blood, igniting his temper. "Get the hell out, Rico."

Childs didn't budge. "You cannot run away from it, Jonas," he said reasonably. "Think about who she is. The goddaughter of your patron, an innocent. She is no Clarisse. You cannot simply seduce her and toss her aside when you're tired of her."

"I have no intention of doing that," Jonas said angrily, though he had no idea if he did or not. He saw Childs's raised eyebrow, his cynical disbelief, and Jonas's irritation grew, a sharp anger that made his skin hot and his temples pound. "Damn you, Rico, leave me alone."

Rico hesitated. Jonas saw the wariness in his friend's eyes and suddenly he knew what was coming, knew the words before Rico said them.

"You are not yourself, Jonas," Childs said, and there it was, the phrase Jonas had expected, the look he'd seen a hundred times before—ah, God, the look. Compassion.

Pity.

"You are not yourself. ..." "Because you must wish you still had it. ..." "This is for the best, son, you must believe me. ..." Rico's words. Genie's words. His father's words. They echoed in his mind, and it was like being in a room from which he couldn't escape, a prison in his brain that hurt—God, it hurt so damn bad. The pain infuriated him, filled him with a fierce, white-hot anger that overwhelmed reason and everything else.

It exploded in him, uncontrollable, undeniable, and before he knew what he was doing, he grabbed an ivory statuette, a Chinese love toy he had treasured but that suddenly meant nothing, and threw it at Rico with all his strength.

He saw the rest with the fuzziness of illusion: the ivory spinning through the air, twisting slowly, one end over the other. Too slow, he thought, watching it turn. He wondered if it would ever reach its destination and then forgot what that destination was. He saw Rico's shock, saw his friend twist away, ducking his golden head. Saw the ivory miss Rico by inches, heard the sharp crack of it against the wall, saw it split and fall in pieces that scattered across the floor.

And all the time Jonas thought, Stop this. You can stop this. But he couldn't. The rage was still there, burning inside him, and when Rico jerked around to face him, Jonas clenched his fist, his whole body felt tight.

"Get the hell out of here," he said, and though he meant to simply speak the words, they came out in a scream—an otherworldly sound that echoed in the studio, that trembled within its walls. "Get the hell out."

But Rico didn't move at all. His stare cut through Jonas. It was too concerned, too caring, and it made Jonas want to lash out, to hurt someone, anyone. He grabbed another statuette from the shelf, readied to throw it.

"Why do you do this to yourself, mon ami?"

Jonas hesitated, and in that hesitation was salvation —he saw it, he tasted it. But it was too far away, too hazy to see clearly, and he struggled for an answer and realized he had no answer to give, no reason except that he couldn't help himself. Ah, Christ, he couldn't help himself.

"Get the hell out," he shouted, throwing the statuette to the floor instead, watching it clatter over the stained boards. "Leave me alone."

And he told himself not to care when he saw the way Rico considered him, saw the way his friend took a deep breath and started to the door. He told himself he had a right to be angry. Rico had no right to tell him what to do, no right to insinuate . . . what?

Christ, he couldn't remember. The only thing left was the anger.

And it was only anger that remained when Rico went out the door. Jonas was suddenly left alone in the mess of his studio, alone with his thoughts and his temper. Alone with his vision.

His vision. Ah, yes, his vision.

He looked at the canvas. At Genie.

Genie.

The thought of her immediately calmed him.

 

 

 

 

It was late. So late there were only a few patrons left in the posh Park Row gambling den known as The Red House. Late enough that Jonas had forgotten his earlier anger, as well as the reasons for it. After six hours of working on the courtesan, he'd been filled with the undeniable urge to socialize, to laugh and talk and play, and to that end he'd searched Rico out again, had brought him a bottle of very expensive French cognac as an apology and begged him—cajoled him—into going out on the town.

And now Jonas felt at peace with the world—more than that. He felt ... in harmony. Yes, that was it. In harmony.

He smiled and sat back in his chair, tapping his fingers restlessly on the table, breathing deeply of the cigar-scented smoke hovering in the room, the musky scent of men's cologne. He glanced at George Teck, who sat opposite him. The man stared at the cards in his hand as if he could somehow divine the world's secrets from their faces.

"Do you think you could make up your mind before the year is out, George?" he asked impatiently.

George glanced up. "Just a moment, just a moment. Stop that infernal tapping, won't you? It's deuced distracting."

Beside Jonas, Childs yawned. "It's getting late," he said. "Let's finish this hand, shall we?"

"All right, all right." George smoothed his heavy brown mustache and threw a voucher into the pile. "Fifty dollars."

William Martinson took another sip of his bourbon and shook his head. "Too rich for my blood, boys," he said, folding his cards. "I'm out."

George looked at Jonas, raising a heavy brow. "Well?"

A rush of adrenaline surged through Jonas, a restless excitement. He didn't bother to look at his cards again, kept them folded on the table, and tossed a voucher into the center of the pile. "I'll raise you fifty."

"Mon dieu." Rico exhaled in surprise. He leaned forward, his voice low and concerned and a trifle wary. "Careful, my love. You were poor as a parson yesterday. Since when did you become Croesus?"

"Don't worry." Jonas waved his friend's concern away. Nothing could go wrong tonight. The world was safe and warm; the men who sat at this table with him were his best friends. He loved them like brothers. Perfect men, as perfect as the fine wine they drank. He thought of buying another bottle—two or three, perhaps. Nothing was too good for his friends. He would give them everything he owned if they only asked for it. He grinned. "Luck is with me tonight."

"It most certainly is not," Childs contradicted. "By my count you've lost over two hundred dollars."

"Let him play if he wants," George protested. "You're not his guardian, Childs."

Jonas watched with amusement, seeing the avariciousness shining from George's eyes, as well as Rico's worry. It made him laugh. "But he is my guardian, George," he said. "My guardian angel. Rico, surely you know it's my turn to win."

"I know it had better be," Rico said dryly. "Or you'll be living out of my pockets for the next month."

Jonas ignored him. He glanced around, at the flickering gaslights illuminating the room, glinting on the rosewood furniture and sparkling off the gilt mirrors. It was too bright in here, too bright and too polished. The reflections in the mirrors showed every face in the room. He saw them all; they filled his consciousness, and for a moment all those reflected faces took on the snouts and ears and eyes of animals, and he imagined he was seeing every man's true nature revealed in his face: wolves and foxes and dogs—like those unpleasant dogs of his father's—two spaniels who traipsed around the property as if they owned it, trampling the gardens and the roses. The image made him think of his mother, as well as an old lover who smelled so strongly of roses it had given him a headache to be with her, and that brought back the memory of his old schoolmaster, who had a rosewood settee in his office —just like the rosewood chair in the corner here. Jonas wondered where rosewood came from. Was it wood from rosebushes? The bushes seemed hardly big enough for a chair, but perhaps they grew that way. He thought he remembered a fairy tale where the rosebushes had covered the castle walls, making it impenetrable. Or were those brambles?

"Here you go, then." George set his cards on the table, fanning them so Jonas could clearly see the two pairs, jacks and sevens.

Jonas laughed and spread his own cards. "They're all red," he said.

Childs leaned over, studying Jonas's hand. He heard Rico's sigh of exasperation. "All red, yes. Hearts and diamonds and nothing. Nothing, mon ami." He looked up. "Did you not look at them, Jonas? You've just lost another hundred dollars."

Jonas shrugged, already forgetting the loss, but the sense of well-being melted away, and suddenly he was too restless to sit still any longer, wanted to leave this place and the upper-class gambling houses of Park Row and go down to the Bowery, to see the outpouring of life the theaters released into the streets, the whores and the gang boys and their little red-booted girls. Life in all its diversity, more honest than the lavish gambling dens here, more honest than the conversations he and Rico had been part of earlier tonight, the ones held over oysters and cheese at the Century Club.

"Let's go," he said, pushing back his chair and getting to his feet. "Come, Rico."

Rico glanced up at him. "It's late, Jonas. Let's go to bed."

"Bed? No, no, no." Jonas laughed. He caught sight of a woman near the door, a lithe, and lovely girl clothed in the colors of burgundy wine. "One moment," he said, heading toward her.

Childs was at his side so quickly Jonas wondered if he'd flown there. He felt the touch of Rico's fingers on his arm, a firm grip that stopped him in his tracks.

"No," Rico said. "Come along. It's late. Almost morning already. You've done enough damage for tonight. Let's go home."

"I'm not sleepy," Jonas argued. He looked again for the girl, but she was gone already, and then someone opened the door and he saw the thin light of dawn, the beginning pearlescence of the sky, and he forgot all about her. The door shut again, and he felt suddenly stifled. The smoke and wine, the scent of gaslights, the muffle of heavy velvet curtains—they felt oppressive, and he wanted to be outside, wanted to feel the air on his face.

"Very well, let's go," he said, not waiting for Rico's answer before he headed for the entrance. He was across the room in moments, wrenching open the door and striding out into the cold quiet of early morning.

"I'll hail a carriage," Rico said, coming up beside him and then stepping down the stairs.

"No." Jonas stopped him with a word. He looked around, at streets where that brief quiet time was just beginning—that time after the gambling halls closed, just before the business of the day started. He saw the men rushing into the streets like flushed rats, settling their hats on their heads, hurrying home to complacent wives or compliant mistresses. "No carriage," he said, breathing deeply of the salt-tinged air. "Let's walk."

Childs sighed heavily. He shook back his golden hair and frowned, glancing down the street. "It's a long walk, mon ami."

"Come with me, Rico. I need your company." Jonas smiled. He started walking.

"You would be happy with any company," Rico noted, following.

"Ah, but you're so pretty I like to look at you."

Childs's grin was wry. "Pretty is as pretty does."

"Pretty is as pretty does." Jonas's mind flew with the phrase, spiraling out in all directions. Pretty doves. Pigeons. Flocks of them that pecked the street, looking for handouts the same way the girls of the Bowery did, those low-class whores masquerading as upper-class women, wearing jeweled dresses that set off their skin and colors that shone in the lamplight like precious stones. Flashing like the few brooches and rings left in the windows of the shops he and Rico walked by tonight. Diamonds and rubies and sapphires, some as fake as a portrait smile, others—others . . .

He saw it as he passed. It caught his eye, flashing a code meant for his eyes alone, a message from God. A brooch in the window, sparkling with pinks and golds and purples, with amethysts that winked in the soft light of dawn. A butterfly.

Jonas jerked to a stop. He turned, pressing his hands against the window, leaning down to look at it, at the delicate filigree, the jewels hung suspended within it. Ah, God, it was just like Genie, just like his vision. The colors that were muted in the dimness, quiet and dull until they caught the light. But then—ah, then— they were vibrant and alive and beautiful.

"Rico," he breathed. "Rico, look at this. Look at this."

He heard Childs step up behind. Rico's shadow fell over the window, throwing the stones into darkness again.

"Look at what?"

"This." Impatiently Jonas stood aside to let back the light, pointed to the brooch.

"A butterfly." Childs shrugged. "A pretty little bauble."

A pretty little bauble. Oh, so much more than that. So much more. Jonas thought of her wearing it, thought of it next to her skin, glittering on a low decolletage, thought of how it would bring out the colors in her hair. Christ, he wanted that brooch, wanted to hold it in his hands, to give it to her and see its sparkle reflect her eyes. The thought was so compelling he hurried to the door.

"Open up!" he called, pounding his fist on the wood, rattling it so the sound echoed in the quiet streets. "Hey there, open up!"

Rico was at his side in an instant. "Mon dieu, Jonas," he said in a harsh whisper. He grabbed Jonas's hand, stilling it. "What do you suppose you're doing?"

"Buying the bauble." Jonas laughed, yanking his hand away. He pounded again, called louder. "You inside! Come out! You've paying customers!"

He felt Rico pawing his sleeve, heard his friend's careful, soothing voice. "Let's go, shall we, mon ami? The bauble is hardly worth the trouble. It is not you. And it's barely dawn."

"But it is dawn, my friend, and stores should be open for business." Jonas didn't stop. "Hey there! Is anyone home?"

"What do you propose to buy it with? The rent?"

"You scold like an old woman." Jonas said. "And it doesn't matter. I must have it. Genie must have it."

"Genie?" Rico stepped back, frowning. "You can't be serious. It is—" He grabbed Jonas's hand. "It's inappropriate for her. Come along now. Let's go home."

Childs's words irritated Jonas, along with his friend's calming, humoring tone—the kind one would use with a child. But it didn't anger him as much as Childs's hold on his wrist. Annoyed, Jonas wrenched away. "Don't touch me again, Rico," he warned. "I want the goddamned brooch."

"You can buy it later. This evening."

Cajoling now. And there was that familiar veiled look in Rico's eyes, that look from this morning, the amusement that twisted into concern, into worry. That look he'd seen on the faces of his family a hundred times, the suspicious musing, the silent questioning: "Are you mad?"

It put a sick lump in his stomach and irritated him at the same time. Of the two he preferred fury, and he grabbed it now, felt the hot flush of it rush into his face. Without hesitation, he turned away from Childs and pounded on the door, yelling at the top of his lungs.

He was yelling so loudly he didn't hear the footsteps behind the door. He saw the rattling of the knob and thought it was from his pounding until the door was wrenched open before him, and he was suddenly staring into the sleep-drawn, angry face of the shopkeeper —and a leveled shotgun.

"Mon dieu." Rico's voice was a shocked whisper.

"What the hell's goin' on here?" the man asked. He looked from Jonas to Rico and back again.

Jonas started toward him.

"Don't move," the man said, "or I'll blow you straight to perdition."

"We're sorry to wake you, monsieur," Rico said quietly. "My friend here has had a bit much to drink, I'm afraid. I was taking him home."

The man looked at Jonas. "Drunk, eh?"

"In ways you only dream about, old man," Jonas said. He nodded toward the window. "I want the brooch—the butterfly. How much?"

"We're not open."

"You are now. How much?"

"I said—"

"I don't give a damn what you said." Jonas felt his irritation rising again, and the restraining hand Rico put on his arm only made it worse. "Sell me the damn brooch."

The man glanced at Rico. Jonas felt his friend shrug.

"Sell it to him, monsieur, if you will," Rico said. "I'm afraid there'll be no denying him this morning."

The storekeeper hesitated, considering, and then finally he relented. He lowered the gun and opened the door to let them in, and Jonas was swept with a relief so intoxicating he wanted to laugh out loud, an elation so swift and complete it was all he could do not to run singing into the streets while Rico and the shopkeeper haggled over the price.

He was barely aware of paying, had no idea how much the piece cost him. All he knew as the clerk handed him the small package was that it was his. His now, and then hers. Soon he would see it glittering on her breast, glowing against pink satin—or, no, not pink satin. Not pinks or lavenders or pale blues. None of the sickly pastels she wore now. No, he would make sure she had velvets by then. Winter colors of dark greens and bronzes and deep, passionate yellows. Midnight blues and rusts and golds to match her hair and warm her eyes.

Ah, yes, he could imagine it. Imagined her hair down, imagined her wrapped in velvet while she lay against the bed and posed for him. The vision was so strong his fingers itched. He thought of the canvas, waiting at the studio, and it beckoned him, a siren song that burned in his blood. God, he wanted to get back to it. Wanted to paint. . .

He shoved the wrapped butterfly in his frock coat pocket and started off, out of the shop without even a good-bye, back to the street where the sunlight was growing stronger and stronger. He was halfway down the block before Rico caught up with him again and grabbed his sleeve and said, "No more, my love. We're hailing a coach."

He looked at Rico in surprise. "Of course," he said, smiling. "Of course, of course. And we should sing too, Rico. Sing to the dawn. That old hymn, you remember? That beautiful old song. What was it called? —I hardly remember." He looped his arm through Rico's, pulling his friend down the street, feeling as if his grin might split his face. He laughed out loud; the sound echoed in the eaves, rose up to heaven. "Ah, the world is good, don't you think, my friend? The world is very good indeed."