Via Dolorosa(41)

Turning, he looked around. She was pointing. A few photographs were tacked to the walls here, as well, but there was a clean sweep of wall on the right side of the bed. He saw, too, that there were already four large pins pushed into the drywall.

“You certainly make yourself at home,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Sure,” he said, carrying the canvas over to the bed and pinning it against the wall. Returning back to the desk, he retrieved his tubs of paint from the nylon case, setting them upright like shells on the desktop. Yes, he’d noticed he’d done this before—he noticed much about the war having crept into his everyday life. The worst part of it, he’d come to learn, was the way he never saw any of it coming, that it was like a conspiracy against him, an ambush, and there was nothing he could do about any of it.

Assembling his paints, collecting them and bringing them over to the nightstand beside where he’d hung the canvas, he was too conscious of Isabella watching his every move from the bed. “What?” he said to her at one point, as her gaze was so heavy on him it practically demanded he respond.

“What, what?” she said.

“You’re watching me like I’m doing something wrong.”

“Are you?”

“I haven’t started yet.”

“I’ll wait then,” she said.

In preparation, he automatically yanked up his sleeves. Then he became suddenly aware of his ruined right hand and the ugly Frankenstein scar cabling up the arm. Quickly, he pulled his sleeves back down. Still, he could feel Isabella’s eyes on him. He did not have to turn and look at her to know that the awkwardness had registered with her, and that she had glimpsed his vulnerability and discomfort.

Whatever, he thought. Just—whatever.

The lights went out.

“What the hell—?” he said.

“You are such a child. Sometimes a man,” she said, “sometimes a child. Now, right now, you are a child.”

“I can’t paint with the lights off.”

“Have you ever tried?”

“I can’t see what I’m doing.”

“What does that matter? What do you need to see? What you’re painting is coming straight from your brain, down through your hand, and out onto the canvas. What do you need eyes for?”

“I can’t see what I’m—”

“What do you need eyes for?” she repeated.

He stood, not moving and just breathing, his hands now on his hips, his head hanging down. The wall opposite him supported two wide windows, but the curtains were pulled and, he was certain, Isabella had undoubtedly covered the glass up with something to prevent the interference of any outside light. It was dark and he could see nothing.

“How can I paint you,” he said, “if I can’t see you? I have to look at you, see what you look like, in order to paint you.”

“You child,” she practically scolded. “Haven’t you seen me before? What do I look like? What color is my hair?”

“Black,” he said.

“My eyes?”

“Black, too.”

“Yes? What about my skin, my body?”

“What about it?”

“What color is it?”

He thought for a moment—for too long, perhaps; Isabella became impatient and asked the question again. This time, after a slighter pause, he said, “Like sand. Wet, dark sand.”

“So paint it.”

“But I can’t see the paint, any of the colors…”

“Paint it, anyway, my Nicholas.”

“How can I—?”

“What the hell are you so afraid of, goddamn you?”

Speechless, he said nothing.

“You have the paints on the table right there, Nicholas. Open them. Feel for them and open them. Pick up a brush, any brush, whatever brush, some brush, and put the brush in the paint. You know where the wall is, too, so you turn and you hold out the brush and you paint.”

Amazingly, he found himself already doing it: he was already unscrewing the cap on one of the tubs of paint, unknowledgeable of the color, deliberately stupid to the whole process, and picking up a brush and dipping it in the tub and pausing, holding it outright, holding it directly in front of him (aware of his ruined arm, his sore and wounded and ruined arm) and then he began to paint…

Blind, he painted.

“See?” she said at one point. “There is nothing to be afraid of.”

“I’m not afraid,” he said.

“Tell me,” she said, “what you are afraid of.”

“Nothing,” he said. “I’m not afraid.”

“Are you afraid of the war?”

“No.”

“Are you afraid of what happened in the war?”

“No,” he repeated.

“Are you afraid, Nicholas,” she said, “of the person you found yourself to be while in the war?”

Again, he said, “I am not afraid of anything.”

“Liar,” she said—and she was abruptly very close to him, hovering somewhere very near in the darkness. How had she gotten this close without making a sound, sneaking up like a lioness in the underbrush? “Liar-liar-liar.”

“You’re a lot of talk.”