THE BASHFUL COURTESAN
chapter 9
Vienna 1914
I began my painting of The Bashful Courtesan in earnest the next morning, soon after I woke up. I looked at the painting carefully before I placed the tail end of my brush against the canvas and scraped a line across it. I drew two lines vertically, dividing the painting into six sections. I brought out my paints and solvents, as well as a jar of ammonia I sometimes used, laying them on the worktable close at hand. Then I brought out a dozen bees wax candle stubs and laid them alongside my paint box. I had a small dish with a lit candle underneath, which I broke the candle pieces into, collecting my liquid essence one chunk at a time.
I mixed the colours I wanted. Lighter colours I needed for sea and sky: yellows, blues, and reds. I mixed huge quantities on my paint board, stirring the colours with my spatula and folding it together like a soft meringue. When I was ready, I moved the candle from underneath the dish, waiting for the melted wax to harden. I dripped the wax into the paint, mixing it with my spatula; I smeared the waxy paint across the under-painting. The intricate colour schemes I brought out in the first stages of the painting, I let seep through in places. I brushed the ammonia on, altering the texture and giving the sky both dimension and depth. I cut into the paint with the spatula, added another layer with the brush, and worked my way from the corner of the first section, into the middle. Within three hours, I filled in the entire square I’d sectioned off with blue sky and light clouds.
*
As the day lengthened and the sun began to set, the room darkened. I knew I’d have to light more candles if I wanted to continue. I needed the candles for wax as much as I did for light. There was no way for me to know when George would be coming back with more supplies.
After finishing the second section, I stopped long enough to eat whatever food I had—but the bread was hard and stale from neglect, and the cheese had curled up on itself. I sat on the open windowsill watching the sun slip away as I picked at the sandwich and smoked my only cigarette. The sun left a trail of gold and orange in its wake, staining the sky with a dark rouge as twilight slowly slipped into place. There were cirrus clouds in the distance, light wisps that caught the colours and held them as if they were part of a dream. It was a warm night, with the smell of someone frying food in the distance drifting through the street.
I could hear the city coming to life below me as the night stretched across the sky. There were screaming children outside still at play somewhere, and dray horses still at work. I heard chugging automobiles coughing and sputtering in the distance, and trams knocking on the tracks along the Ringstrasse—all the sounds you never hear because they’ve somehow become a part of your life—like breathing, or the beating of your heart. I watched the city lights lighting up the distance and imagined them as tiny flint-heads striking against the darkness of the sky, glistening little tear drops reflecteting off the surface of the canal as I dropped off into a sound sleep.
*
There was a slight knock coming from somewhere within the confusion of my dreams. It was a light, insistent knock—heart stopping, really, when you consider it—and I looked about the room in a muddle of uncertainty, picking up the last sputtering candle and walking to the door softly. I pressed my ear up against the rough wood. It sounded like scratching and I thought I heard a sob as well.
“Who’s there?” I called out.
“It’s me.”
It was Anna.
I opened the door and found her curled up on the floor, partially perched against the wall. I put the candle down and helped her to her feet. The candle’s flame gutted in the breeze coming up the stairs, throwing our shadows along the hall as if in one of those new moving pictures. I looked down the dark hallway before closing the door, locking, and bolting it shut. The wind from the door blew the candle out.
“My God,” I said, helping her to the divan. “What happened?”
I set up whatever candles I could find on the worktable, lighting them with an unsteady hand. As the flames puckered and grew, I brought one of the candles with me, sitting beside her and holding the light up to her face. She put her hands in front of her face, turning away and losing herself in the shadows.
“I had to get away from him,” she said at last. “I didn’t have anywhere else I could go. I called George at his hotel, but the clerk said he wasn’t there.”
“No. He’s at a rehearsal,” I told her, holding the candle higher and looking at her.
“I left him a message saying I’d be here. I couldn’t think of where else to go. You’re not mad at me, are you?” She lowered her hands enough for me to get a good look at her, and I put the candle on the floor beside the divan.
“Upset?” I tried to sound controlled. She’d been beaten. Badly. “Why would I be upset?”
“I thought you might not want to see me. I thought you might think I’d been avoiding you.”
“Avoiding me?” I laughed. “Nonsense. Now, tell me what happened?”
“I fell,” she said, trying to force a laugh; all it did was bring on a fit of coughing that tore through her body without mercy.
“It must’ve been from quite a height.”
I picked the candle up off the floor and went to the small basin near my cot—the candle sputtering with every hobbling step I took—while I poured water into the basin. I found an old rag that I dropped into the bowl, and a bottle of iodine I had hidden away. I took a plate out of the cupboard, and picking everything up at once, returned to her side.
“We have to get you cleaned up,” I said, wringing the rag out into the bowl.
Anna was still hiding in the shadows, and I pulled her hands away from her face. I made room on the worktable, moving the ammonia out of the way. I was careful not to spill the iodine as I poured it onto the plate, but my hands shook all the same. I picked up the rag, wiping the dirt and blood from her face, and picking up the plate of iodine, I used a corner of the rag, touching various scratches and scuff marks on her face. There was blood on her lips, and they were both swollen; a deep cut on her left cheekbone, another along her jaw, and one of her eyes was swollen shut. I could see bruising along the base of her neck.
I put the rag down, helping her take her coat off and followed the bruising on her neck until it melted under her blouse and out of sight. I sat back at a loss for words.
“Why?” I asked.
“It’s my fault.”
“I won’t believe that,” I said, angry that she’d actually think that I’d believe her. “Why—I mean, how—could you possibly think you’re to blame?”
“I should have left him the first time he hit me—but once you get a taste of what life has to offer, it’s hard to give it up and go back to where you were. That’s why I put up with it.”
“And now?”
“And now I won’t. He said he wouldn’t do it again—after the last time, I mean—before tonight. He always tells me he’s sorry and that he won’t hurt me again. I believe him because I want to. But I can’t let myself believe him now. Not after this. He’s hurt me for the last time.”
“You’ve left him for good then?”
She nodded. “You’re not mad at me for coming here, are you?” she asked again. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
“What about George?”
“George doesn’t like him anymore than you do. He pretends he does; he goes out for lunch with him and the Countess—and he does all that violin stuff for his son—but it’s all a big show. George is a performer, remember? He just wants to get close to that woman.”
“Annette?”
“Yes. The Princess.”
“Do I detect a note of jealousy?” I asked, forcing a smile out of her.
“Jealousy?” she said. “She is a Princess. Her husband’s a cousin—or related anyway—to the Habsburg House. I don’t know how exactly. George told me once, but I can’t remember. He’s older than her anyway—a lot older. I think George said she was eighteen or nineteen when she married him. He has children older than her.”
“Why’d she marry him?”
“He’s an old friend of her father’s. The Prince was looking for a wife, and her father wanted to make sure she was taken care of.”
“Like her sister?”
“I’m sure the Countess was grateful to be married to Novak, once,” Anna said with a facetious tone.
“That’s why he has a mistress,” I said, standing up. I put the plate of iodine on the worktable. I’d poured too much out and had to make room so I didn’t spill iodine across the table. I balanced the jar of ammonia on the end of the worktable, wondering where I’d put the lid.
“I don’t think mistress is the right word,” Anna said. “How about whore? Too vulgar? Prostitute, then? How about concubine? Courtesan? That’s what I was. And as far as I’m concerned, I think that’s what every woman is.” She said it with a heavy sigh, and for a moment it sounded as if she were holding the entire weight of the world in her soul. I thought of Millie the Whore downstairs, and the life she must’ve led. Is that the life Anna was destined to live, selling herself to any man on the street willing to pay?
“We’re all whores—even the Princess and her sister. They both whore themselves out to men they don’t love.”
“You don’t believe that.”
“I don’t? I think Novak keeps me around to beat me; he does little else with me. What do you suppose he’s done to his wife over the years? And as for the Princess? Well, I'm not even thirty, and I’ve been whoring for almost twenty years—that’s more than half my life. I would never let myself be sold to a man that old—no matter what he has to offer. George told me he was sixty-three when she married him. She was eighteen. See? She’s no better than I am, is she? And she’s younger than I am. Neither one of them is any better than I am.”
She was silent for a moment; perhaps lost in one of life’s strange reflections, remembering some past incident oddly mirroring this one, a parallel reflection of another incident, until she came to the realization of what her life was all about. I didn’t want to ask; I didn’t want to know. I’ve learned over the years that some things are better left unasked, better left unsaid. It’s taken me years to learn, and even then it’s usually too late.
“It’s a pretty good life if you survive it,” she went on, staring into the emptiness in front of her. “You have to give up certain things. You can give up on marriage, straight away, let me tell you. There’s no hope you’ll ever marry, or have children. Men don’t want their mistresses to give them children. If you should get pregnant, he’ll send you off somewhere, but he won’t bring you back. You’ll probably have to abort at least a dozen children in your life—and regret each one because it always takes a piece of your soul with it. You can never have a child after you’ve had that many abortions. Still, it’s something some of us are willing to give up. Life is full of regrets after all.
“Like I said, two hundred years ago—in another place—and I would’ve been a courtesan, or maybe some king’s concubine. But they’re just other words for whore, aren’t they? When it comes right down to it, I mean. And that’s what I am, someone’s whore; that gives him the right to treat me like a whore.”
“No,” I said. “No one deserves to be beaten.”
*
“Tell me what happened,” I asked.
I was sitting in front of the painting, wrapped in a threadbare blanket that smelled of dust and age. I’d spent the last two hours preparing a bath for Anna, and was wet because of it. I had to waddle down five flights of stairs filling my bucket and an earthen jug with water, spilling a little bit of water with every labouring step on the way back. The tub was elevated, with a coal bin underneath for heating the water. It sat under the sloping ceiling and the dirty skylights where the water stains on the floor circled the tub like rings in a tree. I had to clean it before I could fill it. I filled the coal bin halfway before I brought the coals up to a nice glow. It’s one of the reasons I don’t bathe as often as I might: it takes too long to prepare. I bathe when I have to—at the public bath house around the corner—which is more often than most people do.
I filled the tub as full as I could, and when it was steaming I dipped my hand in and told Anna it was ready. Anna stood up painfully, asking me if I could help her undress. She couldn’t reach the clasps and buttons, undo the stays, or even untie her laces because her body ached with her every move. She sat on the divan so I could reach her collar, and fumbling my way down her back with the buttons I asked her again what had happened. I pushed the blouse forward and began pulling at the laces of the corset she wore.
The room was ill lit. Some of the candles had burned low and sputtered out, but when I saw her peppered flesh, I gasped at the sight of it. She was horribly bruised. He must have punched her repeatedly, I thought. Her arms; her legs; her thighs; her ribs, back, and breasts were all bruised. Some of the bruises would grow to become big, black, and ugly within the next few days, fading to a jaundiced memory within a week or two; while others appeared to be purple welts—as if her flesh had been tweaked. She tried to stop me from looking at her, but she was too weak and tired to fight.
“It looks like our Tin Soldier’s not so steadfast,” I said in a whisper.
“No.” There was a deep sigh in her voice. “He’s not.” I helped her to her feet and continued to undress her.
When I was done, I wrapped the velvet blanket from the back of the divan around her shoulders. She seemed to melt in on herself as if she was one of the candles as she pulled the blanket tight around herself. I could see the glowing coals under the tub, and helped her stand; she drew herself to her full height and looked down at me.
“I can do it myself.” There was firmness in her voice.
“Of course,” I said, and let her go. I walked toward the painting, shivering in the cold. That’s when I found the old blanket and wrapped it around myself, sitting in front of the painting and staring at the canvas in the dying light, wanting to paint, but unable to. I was certain to need more candles after tonight.
I watched Anna lower herself into the tub, sinking back with a sigh.
“Tell me why he beat you so painfully,” I said again.
“Beat me so painfully? You make it sound like there are degrees of being beaten; or that a man should at least know when to stop,” she said, resting her head on the back of the tub. She turned to look at me. “Is it important?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean, does it matter why he did it?” she asked, turning away and looking up at the skylight. “Isn’t it enough that he did it? Or were you thinking that maybe, somehow, I deserved it?” she said, sliding down into the tub and essentially turning her back on me. She folded her arms across herself as she slipped under the water. I didn’t even care that she washed all the iodine off.
“No. No, you’re the one who said no woman deserves to be beaten,” she said, coming up out of the water as if she’d had a dialogue with herself. “Did you mean it?” She turned to look at me again. “My mother told me there’s no forgiving a man once he hits you,” she said in a near whisper, turning and settling herself back in the tub. “I wish I’d understood earlier what she meant by that. You wouldn’t hit anyone would you? I mean, if you were a real man?” she asked a moment later.
I was stunned.
"I am a real man."
She turned to look at me, staring at me over the lip of the tub as the moonlight came in through the skylight above. The few remaining candles still burning caught her swollen face, shimmering in her wet hair. She didn’t turn away from me though; she wasn’t embarrassed by what she’d said. She stared at me with certain defiance, showing me more of what she was like than anything she might have said.
“You’re more of a man than any of them,” she said slowly. “But you’re as much a victim of their world as I am. You’re trapped on the outside and they won’t let you in. But they’re shallow; they’re vain, and vindictive. Anyone who doesn’t meet their expectations is looked down at, and ridiculed. We weren’t born into that world and they’re quick to remind us about it, aren’t they? They treat their wives and mothers with disdain rather than anything that resembles love. They marry for all the wrong reasons.” She looked at me in silence for a moment longer. “Are you any of those things?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head slowly, thoughtfully. I might be ugly, and misshapen to look at, I thought, but right then—at that moment—I felt that I was more beautiful in her eyes than any number of them.
“Do you still want me to tell you what happened?” she asked of a sudden, and I looked up at her. “The water really is quite warm,” she said after a moment. She was staring up at the sloped ceiling, laying back and looking at the moon through the skylight.
“Are you still cold?”
“Cold?”
“Because of your wet clothes?”
“I have my blanket.”
“If you come and keep me company, I'll tell you what happened.”
*
There was only one candle left and I brought it with me. I dripped wax on the floor and secured it firmly, climbing into the tub awkwardly. There was just no getting comfortable for me—dirty, naked, exposed—I was sensitive about everything; my hump, my twisted body, even my clubbed foot. I tried to hide my privates. I tried not to look at her as I settled down in front of her. But the moon was shining down on her and she seemed to glow in the soft light.
“What do you think your life would have been like if you were born a real man?” she asked, and I felt her foot slide up my leg slowly.
“I’d probably be as famous as anyone else,” I said, trying to turn away from her foot.
“As famous as George?” she smiled.
“I can’t even imagine that kind of fame.”
“I didn’t realize just how famous he was until he got me into the chorus at the Opera House,” she said, sitting up in front of me. I tried not looking at her breasts—reminding myself that I’d been painting those same breasts for weeks now—but somehow everything had changed.
“Can you sing?” I asked.
“You don’t have to know how to sing to be in the chorus, silly,” she said, splashing water at me. “There’re over a hundred singers in the chorus at any one time. Maybe only half of them can sing—probably more. Herr Strauss told us not to sing any louder than the person beside us if we thought we couldn’t sing. And then he gave us the score. When I looked at it, I knew I was in the wrong place and wanted to leave. He stopped me though, asking me to sing for him. I told him I didn’t know any opera songs. He told me they call the arias, and to sing something I knew. So I sang that American song: Camptown Races. You know? Doo-da? Doo-da?”
I still laugh at the thought of her standing in front of the great Richard Strauss, singing Camptown Races, clapping and stomping her foot along with oh-da-doo-da-day. She said he laughed and told her the job was hers because she’d made him laugh. He told her not to worry about it too much because she’d learn the words soon enough, and that she shouldn’t be afraid to sing later either, because he liked the sound of her voice.
“I like singing. It reminds me of when I used to sing in the Church choir as a little girl, but I don’t like all that opera stuff. I don’t understand it. Some of the girls tried explaining it to me. They were just like me. I mean, they were kept women as well,” she smiled.
“They were a little more refined in public, but I think that’s because they were older. It all comes with experience. I don’t think they were into the idea of singing opera any more than I was, though. They liked to drink whiskey, absinthe, and smoke tobacco. They were not above smoking opium once in a while either.”
She looked at me in the soft light, a smile touching the corner of her swollen lips. I wondered if she thought I might be upset, and I smiled to myself as I looked at her.
“What?” she asked.
“Are you trying to shock me, Anna?”
“Shock you? Why do you say that?”
“There’s nothing you can say that will shock me now,” I laughed. “I’m sitting in the tub with you. I’m naked. You rubbed your foot up my leg as soon as I sat down. My God, you touched my privates with your hand—and I think it was on purpose!”
“It wasn’t!” she laughed lightly. “I just wanted to know.”
“To know what?”
“If you were a real man.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
“On the contrary,” she laughed.
“No matter. Now you tell me you’ve smoked opium? I think I understand. These women told you to try it, and you did it because you trusted them. They influenced you! They led you astray.”
“Led me astray?” She laughed again. “How? They knew I liked foreign music—the Music Hall stuff. They said they knew a few places in the city that a certain class of people seldom went to. I knew they meant Novak and his kind. I asked them what type of clubs they were, and they said the Sisters of Sappho. Do you know who they are?”
I shook me head.
“Homosexuals.”
“Did you know that before you went?”
“I had an idea,” she said, and there was that half smile again as she leaned back against the tub.
“So you went anyway?”
“Of course!” she said quickly. “I feel stifled in the life I lead now. Novak expects me to be available for him whenever he wants me—and I usually am. But what about the times when he’s on duty with his silly Guards? What am I supposed to do then? That’s why I asked him if he would ask George to try and get me into the chorus."
"George knew you were bored?"
“I don't know if I’d call it bored,” she said.
“Then stifled?”
“Maybe adventurous? I mean, I’ve always wanted to be on the stage, but was afraid. I’d talk to George about it whenever we left here. I asked him how he could stand up on stage and play his violin in front of all those people. He said he didn’t notice them; the music swept him into some other place.”
“And what place was that?”
“He couldn’t explain.”
“And so he said you should try it yourself?”
“In a way, yes.”
“But why ask Novak to ask George? You could have simply asked him yourself.”
“Better to let the Count think he was doing it for me. That way, he’d think I would always be in his debt.”
“And the first time you sang on stage? Did you like it?”
“It was exhilarating,” she laughed gently, putting each foot up on the sides of the tub. “Can you imagine standing on a stage and looking out at all those empty seats? It’s heady stuff. I was petrified. I didn’t want to see what they looked like full.”
“You said it was exhilarating.”
“It was. After that first night out on stage, I was more than willing to let myself be taken anywhere, because I’d conquered my worst fear. What could be more intimidating than that?”
“So when these women said they knew of a place?”
“I went,” she said.
“And this club? Where was it?”
“It was on the waterfront, in an old warehouse. It wasn’t a part of the city I’d be likely to frequent,” she smiled. “But I felt safe enough because I was with friends. And they had friends—men mostly—who were steady patrons of the place.”
“Homosexuals?”
“They were nice to me,” she explained.
“But homosexuals?”
“You disapprove?” she asked with a curious knit of her brow. “You? Of all people? I thought you’d be tolerant of anyone who was different.”
“I thought I would be too,” I said slowly.
That someone can hate me because of my appearance I can understand—I can even accept it in some strange way—but to think that I couldn’t accept, or tolerate someone, because of a sexual preference I didn’t understand, was beyond me. I wondered if my discomfort for even discussing homosexuals made me a real man—more like the others around me, I mean. A part of me wondered if that what it meant to be normal?
“You don’t understand,” she said, and I thought, There’s irony. But maybe she was right? I mean, had anyone ever taken the time to understand me aside from her?
“You’re probably right,” I said.
“While we were there, people kept coming in. I didn’t know there were as many people like that in the city, and I even said that. They laughed. They said I was being naïve; not everyone was a homosexual. Many people came out of curiosity. Like me. I asked them how they could tell the difference. One of the men said, he knew.
“It was the strangest place I’d ever been to,” she said after a moment. “Men were dancing with men, and women were dancing with women. I saw men fondling each other, and women as well—one woman was holding another woman’s breast right out in the open while they danced. It was strange, and exciting. A woman approached me—several women did, actually—and asked me to dance. My friends told me I should. They said no one knew me here, and that I’d be safe. I didn’t want to dance with her, but told myself I would. I’d force myself. I wasn’t attracted to her—I’m not like that. I told myself, I was being adventurous. I wanted to believe I could be, too,” she added thoughtfully.
I sat back in the tub.
“Well, you’ve done it,” I said with a half laugh.
“Done what?”
“You’ve managed to shock me,” I smiled.
“It gets better,” she said dryly, and sat up again, putting her feet back into the water. “While I was dancing, the woman tried pulling me closer. I fought her, pushing her away and making a small scene. She stumbled backwards, and fell. I helped her up right away, and I apologized, realizing I’d embarrassed my friends more than I’d embarrassed myself.
“But it was too late, because when I stood up, I looked across the dance floor and saw Novak. He didn’t see what happened. He was locked in an embrace—I saw it—and I stared at him for several moments. I know that, because my heart pounded in my ears at the sight of him. But he looked up because of the distraction, and saw me. He looked right into my eyes. My knees went weak. I bolted from the dance floor and left as soon as I could.”
“You saw Novak?”
“Yes.”
“And for that he beat you?”
“Yes. He beat me with his walking stick. I think he would’ve killed me if he’d had half a chance,” she whispered.
*
I spent the next morning draining the tub. I had a hose with a small stopper and hung one end out of the window, attaching the other end to the drain. It took almost an hour to drain the tub, and as the water gurgled down the outside wall, I cleaned the tub with ammonia. I scraped what wax I could off the floor and put it into the small dish on my worktable. I started a fire in the stove and in no time at all the room was warm. I tried cleaning wax off the worktable, but some of it had curled under the plate of iodine, so I left it where it was. I was thinking I could use the iodine as a tint for the darker shadows. I lit the tiny candle under the dish and put the jar of ammonia back on the worktable, still wondering where I’d put the lid.
I waited for the wax to melt, trying not to look at Anna, or even think about last night. When I thought I had a big enough puddle of wax, I mixed it in with the paint. Anna stood off to the side watching me, ever the curious onlooker.
I wanted to paint. I needed the freedom it afforded me. Besides, I had to think about something other than Anna. I was confused. My mind was re-enacting scenarios that just a day before would’ve never been a part of my imaginings. We spent the night in each other’s arms after the bath, and it felt like there was an awkward tension because of it—but it was me who was feeling awkward, and tense.
After the bath, I helped her to the cot, pulling the dirty sheets down for her. I took my blanket and lay on the divan across the room. I lay looking up at the moonlight coming in through the skylight. The moon cast an eerie glow about the room, which made it difficult for me to sleep.
“I want you to sleep with me,” Anna said into the half darkness.
“What?”
“I want you to hold me; I’m too afraid to sleep.”
I slid off the divan, preparing to pull my pants on, but she said she wanted to feel my skin against hers. I pulled the blanket around myself, hearing my feet padding across the rough wooden floor. It was easy to see her in the moonlight from where I stood at the foot of the tiny bed. I watched her pull the blanket back, waiting for me, as her naked flesh caught the light. I sat on the bed, looking down at the floor nervously.
“I just want you to hold me,” she explained, and I turned to look at her, my blanket still wrapped around my twisted shoulders. Everything she told me that night, everything she’d done, seemed to add to my confusion. She pulled at the blanket softly and I let it go reluctantly.
“I promise I won’t hurt you," she said, and I heard the laughter in her voice, the trace of a smile playing across her swollen lips.
I climbed into the cot and she wrapped her arms around me. I felt my erection grow as she pressed herself against me, and I turned my head away, embarrassed. I was certain she’d be upset, or angry with me, but she said nothing. She moved herself against me. I could feel the softness of her flesh as I lay unmoving in her arms, telling myself that it meant nothing to her—that I meant nothing to her.
In time, I heard the steady rhythm of her breathing; she’d drifted off to sleep. I lay in silence watching the moonlight, still unable to understand anything that had happened. I’d never lain with a woman before. I'm an ugly, misshapen, twisted, dwarf; my eyes don't line up; my jaw's too large, and so is my forehead. I have a flat nose and a wide bridge; my lips are fat, and my teeth—what few I have—are spaced wide apart.
But Anna wasn’t just any woman. She’d actually taken the time to get to know me, to try and understand me, which was why laying with her in my arms didn’t make any sense to me. She said it was easy to confide in me. I remembered how she’d said something earlier about the intimacy of the Chinese screen, and how it made Confession come easy. I thought about everything that happened and felt helpless. And even as I asked myself what I could do to help, I knew at that moment I’d do anything for her.
*
George arrived later in the afternoon. I’d been painting for several hours and was grateful for the distraction. He brought food, which was a pleasant surprise, and he put it on the table as Anna hid herself behind the Chinese screen. As George moved away from the table, Anna set about preparing a meal. George said he was sorry for being late, but hadn’t receive Anna’s message until just an hour before. He’d spent the morning with the Countess and her son—Novak was preparing to go the Serajevo with the Arch Duke, and so wasn’t home—so it was just George, the Countess, and her sister.
When he saw Anna for the first time, he stopped in mid sentence.
“Did he do that to you?” he asked.
Anna nodded.
“This isn’t good,” George said to himself, pulling his soft gloves off. He dropped his bowler on the divan with his gloves, sitting down heavily.
“Why?” he asked, looking up at her.
“It was a difference of opinion,” I said, looking over at Anna.
“He does these things sometimes,” she said softly, as if that would explain it to him.
“I had no idea,” George said, shaking his head. “I mean, no, I did. I did have an idea,” he said, looking up at Anna, his words tumbling out in quick order. “I’d heard the Countess say something to her sister once. She seemed to accept it as a matter of course; not what I anticipated overhearing, considering how she’s rather headstrong. Quite capable, actually. But this? If this is an example of what she’s had to put up with.”
“I guess that’s why he has a mistress,” I said with a hint of bitterness directed at George.
“And you think all men are like him?” George asked me.
“Just the ones I’ve come across.”
There was an abrupt commotion at the door—a rattling within the sudden silence of the room—and I turned to look at Anna. A loud banging followed it, and I called out for whoever it was, to wait. I looked at Anna and she stepped back behind the screen. I asked George to help me move the screen against the wall. Anna slunk down to the floor covering her face with her hands.
“Who is it?” I called out again, reaching for the smock I keep near the door.
“Count Milan Novak. Let me in.”
“Let me prepare myself,” I called out.
“I don’t give a damn about any of that. Just open the door, and let me in.”
“Settle down,” George called out.
“George? Is that you? What are you doing here?” Novak asked as I opened the door. I straightened my smock as he pushed his way passed me with his walking stick.
“I’ve come to check on your commission,” George explained. “And to get a list of supplies he may need."
“Never mind with that. He doesn’t have to finish it,” Novak said tersely, looking about the room slowly. “I’m not buying it. I’ll pay you for your time and whatever work you’ve done so far,” he added, turning to look at me.
“But it’s more than half done,” I explained, pointing at it. “See for yourself,” I said.
“That?” Novak aimed his walking stick at it. I walked him to the other side of the canvas, carefully moving my worktable out of the way. Novak stood looking at it in silence.
“This isn’t what I had in mind,” he said at last.
“You wanted a portrait,” I reminded him. “You told me I had the freedom to do what I wanted. It was too big for a portrait. I’ve told you that all along.”
“But you’ve put me in it! And Annette? Why would you put her in it?” he asked, looking down at me angrily.
“George wanted her in it,” I said, feeling a coward in front of his anger.
“How do you expect me to show something like this in my home? What do I tell my wife?” Novak asked, levelling a cold look at George.
“You don’t have to tell her anything,” George said in that affable tone I realized was little more than a disguise for how he truly felt.
“But she'll see it!”
“And what of it?” George laughed. “I bought the painting that has me in the orchestra chair. Tell her it’s a coincidence. Life’s full of them."
“And do you think she’ll believe such an obvious lie?”
“Of course! She all ready thinks Anna’s my lover. Why tell her any different? By the way, should I thank you for that?” George laughed, and then went on. “When she sees it, tell her the artist put you in because you were there when he was making a study of me.”
“Destroy the painting,” Novak said after some thought.
“Destroy it?” I asked. “Why?”
“Doesn’t Anna have anything to say about this?” George asked, and I could see the trace of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Anna’s no longer a part of my life. We’ve had a parting of ways.”
“You can’t ask me to destroy it,” I said.
“I commissioned it. As far as I’m concerned, it’s mine. And I say destroy it,” he said, looking down at me again.
“I can’t,” I said, pulling the smock off slowly. He looked down at me warily. I could see the horror and revulsion in his eyes.
“It’s the best thing I’ve done in years,” I said.
“Do you think I care about that?”
“What if I change it?” I asked, pleading.
“Change what?”
“Whatever you like. Do you want me to take Anna out? She’s out. Or your sister-in-law? Maybe you? George, please?” I asked, looking to George for support.
“Me? I don’t want it destroyed,” George said. “I may never be remembered for being a great violinist, but I may be remembered as being part of a great work of art,” he smiled.
“No,” the Count said quickly. “Destroy it. Cut it up and burn it if you have to, but destroy it. I don’t want to be reminded of her every time I see it. I don’t want it coming back and haunting me later, either.”
“You can’t ask me to do that,” I pleaded.
“Shall I do it?” he asked, and without another word swung his walking stick at the canvas. If he expected to make a tear, or a hole in the canvas, he was shocked. With all the succeeding layers of paint and wax built up on top of each other, the paint had hardened. He fumbled in his pocket and came out with a small knife he fought to open. I watched him as he stabbed the point into the canvas.
“No!” I cried out, pushing at him with all I had. He stumbled back; keeping his balance and swinging his walking stick, he brought it down on my hump.
I heard Anna scream and saw her crawl out from behind the Chinese screen.
“You!” Novak screamed at her, and marched over to her with his walking stick, raising it as if to strike her.
“Novak!” George called out, leaping to his feet to intercept him.
“Stay out of this George,” Novak said with a hiss.
“What? And let you beat her?” he said as he stood in front of her. “Again?”
“It’s none of your business what I do.”
“Do you think I’m going to stand by and do nothing?”
“And what’re you going to do George? Are you going to stop me?” he said with a scornful laugh. He brought the walking stick down on one of my paintings and I watched the hardened paint flake off in large clumps.
“What are you doing?” I screamed, and ran at him. Novak brought the walking stick down on me again.
“Stop it!” Anna screamed, crawling out from behind George to help me.
Novak brought the walking stick around in an attempt to hit her, and caught the worktable with the Imperial Eagle on the end of his stick. I watched the paint, melted wax, ammonia, and plate of iodine spill over Anna as she fell beside me, her hands clutching her face as she screamed.
I scrambled to her side, pulling her hands away from her eyes as she writhed about in pain. George was holding her hands as I tried wiping the ammonia and iodine out of her eyes. She screamed in agony. Her face was streaked with paint, the liquid wax seeping out of the corners of her eyes as if hardened tears.
“Get some water!” I screamed at Novak. “She’ll go blind if we don’t wash her eyes out!” I could see the iodine, and smell the ammonia on her.
“And where would I find water in a place like this?” Novak asked coldly, a malevolent tone in his voice.
“There! The pitcher!” George said, pointing at it.
“Do you mean this one?” Novak asked, pointing with his walking stick and slowly pushing the pitcher toward the edge of the small washbasin. George and I screamed as Novak pushed the pitcher over. It landed with a crash, the water puddling on the floor and spreading like a bloodstain.
“When I come back from Serajevo,” Novak said steadily, “I’ll be back to collect the pieces of my painting. I can see you’re both a little busy right now, so I’ll let myself out,” he said with a smile.
*
Three days later, Arch-Duke Franz Ferdinand and his wife Sofie were assassinated and the world fell into madness—stumbled into it is more like it—but pitched headlong into it all the same. All in the name of honor I heard someone say later; I don’t think I’ll ever understand that word. I mean, what is it about honor, or people with their too human frailties, that allows someone to pick up the so-called thrown gauntlet and, in effect, destroy everything Humanity itself stands for? I find it ironic how someone can be more determined to destroy life than he is to restore it. They go by official names and titles though, don’t they—like Prince, and Duke; or else King, Kaiser, Tsar and Emperor—and they tell us that our national pride is at stake; that everything they’ve asked of us is an ordinance handed down to them by God, and it’s our duty to follow that mandate. And so we did, blindly, searching for the lost honour they told had been insulted.
But, the War finally ended, as wars eventually do; it was four years of madness all the same. Since that time—since coming to Paris—we’ve tried to forget as much of what’s happened to us, as the world has tried to forgive itself and move forward, licking its wounds and picking up the shattered remains of its lost honour. But you can never forget something like that, can you, even if you tell yourself you can forgive those who’ve trespassed against you? There’s no forgiving what happened as a result of the Great War. Everything that happened will always be there, in the darkest recesses of your mind, standing in the shadows—like Novak’s ghost. Anna said she could forgive Novak for what he did now that he was out of our lives; but why would she want to I used to ask myself? I could never forget what happened that day. Even if the world tells me to forgive, there’s a part of me that will never forget, and finding out that he wasn’t dead simply brought all those memories back into the light.
George was forced to leave the country because he was English. He was told to leave with the diplomats once war was officially declared a month later. The city became a wartime capital, with Generals and their adjutants rumbling through the streets in their too loud automobiles. There were young soldiers strutting through the streets everyday, with music playing, and flags fluttering. They even brought out the old soldiers from the Austro-Prussia war—veterans with missing arms and legs—as encouragement for the younger generation. I think someone forgot to tell them it was a war they lost.
I've often wondered if those old men ever learned to forgive.
