Monterey Bay(5)

“Margot.”

“You’re French.”

“And Swedish.”

“Ah, yes. Form and function, all in one.”

Her legs went stiff again, causing the blanket above them to shiver.

“Why don’t you explain it, then?” he continued. “Tell me how wrong I am.”

“I’m in business with my father. Or at least I used to be.”

“They say he’s got the sardine game in his sights. I hope he isn’t too upset when he finds out most of them are already in cans.”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“A rift between you, then. Was it ugly?”

Too much talking, too many questions. He was her captor, she wanted to remind him, not her confidant.

“And does he see the value in your art?” he continued, undeterred. “Beyond the commercial, that is?”

“Excuse me?”

“The sketchbook. In the satchel. It fell out when you took your tumble, but I was too much of a gentleman to open it without asking permission first.”

“I don’t think—”

“If you’re too shy, I understand completely.” He gestured at his walls. “As you can see, I have some dreadfully high standards.”

She retrieved the satchel from the bedside table, withdrew the sketchbook, and tossed it to him.

“Mine are higher.”

“That’s more like it!” he crowed.

And when he opened the book, she was surprised at her nervousness. He’s no one, she told herself. He likes Renoir. But her pulse disagreed, her heart hammering as he thumbed the pages with the same intense, almost hyperactive concentration he had lavished on the typewritten manuscript, lingering on each image for several seconds longer than seemed necessary. Many of the earliest sketches didn’t warrant the scrutiny: a fly-haloed bowl of pancit, the head and torso of an emaciated water buffalo, the bloodied corpse of a fighting cock. Then there were a handful of which she was actually proud: a shiny-skinned lechón spinning on its milk-doused spit, trash fires burning in the alleyways, their well-contained heaps dotting the city with distant flares of orange heat. Her best work, however, took the form of two recent portraits, both of which had been completed on her last day in the Philippines. There was her father standing alone within the loamy wasteland of what should have been his tobacco fields. Then, on the very next page, there was one of Luzon’s millions of rural poor, a girl no older than herself, a newborn twin baby at each nipple, breasts swollen to the point of hard, shiny pain, the look on the young mother’s face that of suffering and startled ecstasy.

She glanced up from the sketchbook. He was frowning at the image, just as he had frowned at her in the seconds before her accident.

“I’m sorry if it’s beneath your expectations,” she muttered.

“Quite the contrary. It vastly exceeds them.”

She didn’t know what to say.

“After Sargent?” he asked.

“That was the idea. Yes.”

“Can I have it?”

“What do you mean?”

“For my collection.”

She looked at the wall. “I don’t think there’s room.”

“Then we’ll send one packing. Your choice.”

“One of the Renoirs.”

“Which one?”

She pointed.

“I thought you’d say that.”

Smiling, he tore the page carefully from her sketchbook and stood. He unpinned the Renoir from the wall, shoved it in his pocket, and secured the nursing mother in its place, after which he didn’t return to the crate. Instead, he sat alongside her on the bed, his hands behind his head, his legs just inches from hers. He was admiring the sketch as proudly as if he had drawn it himself.

“The Philippines?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Hmmm. A fellow from the bureau of fisheries was here a few months ago, direct from Manila. The way he talked about it made me want to do something irresponsible. Close up the lab. Scare up the steamship fare. Go over there for a while to collect.”

She nodded, lips between her teeth.

“Did you ever see one of those horse fights?” he asked, eyes sparkling. “Rumor has it they’re downright ghastly.”

“No.” She thought he would accuse her of lying again, but he didn’t.

“Well, I’m sure you—”

“Doc! Doc!” Arthur’s voice, coming from somewhere beneath them.

“Oh, for God’s sake . . .”

“Doc!”

“Coming!”

He swung himself off the bed, rope mattress whining. At the doorway, he stopped and looked over his shoulder.

“How much do you want to bet there’s nothing actually the matter?”

She began to speak.

“No, no!” he interrupted. “You’ll suggest something I won’t be able to afford.”

When he had gone, she watched the doorway and listened. This time, however, there were no hints—no footsteps, no running water—so she picked up the sketchbook, counted the remaining blank pages, and slapped it shut. Nine more drawings and then it would be over, at least temporarily, the book eased into a fire, rising into smoke, settling down into ash. She had done it twice now, and each time it had been an absolution born of pure, puzzling impulse: the blistering cardboard, the papers thin and orange. Now, however, she was reconsidering. His interest had been sudden and more than a little suspicious, but affirming nonetheless, which made her wonder. Had there been something in those first few books worth keeping?