Monterey Bay(6)

She listened again. He was not someone who interested her, especially in an aesthetic sense. For some reason, though, a more definitive assessment now seemed long overdue, so she retrieved her pencil and began to draw. She worked for thirty minutes, maybe forty, and when she was done, she held the sketchbook out at arm’s length, almost entirely certain of what she’d find. The image, however, shocked her: features as precise as they were handsome, a cool, cunning glint in the eyes, the subtle execution of which seemed far beyond what she had always assumed were the limitations of her talent.

A shadow across the page. She looked up. He was standing there, watching her. She closed the sketchbook and pushed it beneath the blanket.

“A bit too late for modesty, don’t you think? I’ve already seen everything you’ve got.”

Since he’d left the room, something about him had changed. His attention now seemed reluctant and divided, his tone blunt and low and almost suggestive. A large glass jug was in his hand, its label reading “FORMALDEHYDE” in unambiguous script. His face was nowhere near as open and flushed as before. Instead, a gloom had settled behind his eyes, which made his hair appear even darker, his skin paler, his body even more agile and kinetic. What’s more, music had begun to play without her having realized it: a string quartet from the phonograph in the other room, its melody unrushed and familiar.

She looked out the window. Midnight. Or later.

“Shame is almost as useless as pride,” he warned.

“I’m not ashamed.”

“Then why did you hide your drawing?”

“Because you interrupted me. Before I could finish.”

“Unfinished work makes you anxious?”

“Very.”

“Toil away, then.”

“Don’t move.”

“Not a muscle.”

But it didn’t matter if he moved or not, because she didn’t even have to look at him. Everything she wanted to add to or subtract from the sketch was already outlined in her head, so she drew for a few minutes longer while he stood beside the bed, swaying and humming atonally to the music.

“I thought I told you to hold still,” she said.

“You didn’t tell me to be quiet, though.”

“Be quiet.”

“Fine. I’ll try. But I’m afraid it’s like the Patiria miniata. Cut off one arm at just the right angle to the central disk and two arms grow back in its place.”

He took a long drink from the jug of formaldehyde. She looked down at her sketch. Yet again, the sight of it was alarming, transcendent. Her father always claimed that certain industries were built for his manipulations, even if they seemed nonmanipulable on the surface, and now, for the first time, she fully understood what he meant.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Are you all right?”

“I changed my mind about the beer.”

“Oh. It’s too late, I’m afraid. The last bottle was dispensed with hours ago. But I can certainly offer you some of this.”

He brandished the formaldehyde. She took it from him and put it to her lips. The liquid hissed down her throat like a snake.

“I could have sworn you had better sense.” He laughed. “But then again, it’s always the ones who look so well-adjusted . . .”

“What’s in there?” she sputtered, wiping her eyes.

“Very expensive tequila. I keep it in the formaldehyde jug to fool the others.”

The song ended, its final chord just a step shy of resolution. A brief pause. And then another song began, its tempo and motifs almost indistinguishable from the first. When he reclaimed his seat beside her on the bed, it was without permission.

“Much better,” he said, indicating the sketchbook on her lap. “I look a bit less like General Sherman.”

“You should be flattered. Sherman was ruthless.”

“Come work for me.” His voice was clear and even, totally absent of its earlier, sullen depth. “I need some drawings for my catalog.”

She looked out the window at the deepening night.

“That’s not the kind of work I do,” she replied.

“Of course it is!”

“No, it’s not. To call myself an artist would be like you calling yourself a . . .”

“A what?”

She felt a redness rising. She put her hands over her face.

“Quick! Have another drink!”

Her second taste was less like a snake and more like a trail of determined ants. This time, she didn’t cough. Instead, she remained motionless as the tequila reached her belly, as the warmth erupted and then fizzled, a sorrow claiming her that had nothing to do with tears.

“I know that look,” he said. “You’re either homesick or in love.”

“Wrong on both counts.”

“Then what’s this?”

When he picked up the sketchbook she was appalled, at first, to think he was referring to his own portrait. But then he flipped back to one of the earliest sketches: her and her father’s former residence, all balustrades and terra-cotta, the Spaniards and their elaborate leavings.

“I had to practice on something,” she grumbled. “Didn’t matter what.”

“What happened here? Not so very long ago, but so very far away?”