The Drawing Lesson, the first in the Trilogy of Remembrance

By Mary E. Martin

Magical light creates stunning visions in Alexander Wainwright's landscape paintings. His most recent one, "The Hay Wagon", is a marvelous, moonlit scene, with an old-fashioned hay wagon dominating the foreground. The scene emits a beautiful, unearthly glow.

Yet, at the pinnacle of his career, he is about to lose his muse. Not everyone appreciates his work. Rinaldo, a conceptual artist, mocks Alexander's bourgeois love of beauty, believing that his success proves the chaos and absurdity of the universe.

Determined to humiliate and ultimately destroy his rival, Rinaldo defaces Alex's painting. Alexander brushes off the attack, but soon he has a frightening vision of misshapen, human, troll-like creature which suddenly appear in his art. He is beset by questions. Who are these ugly beings? Has he lost both his light and his art?

The creatures lead Alexander on a journey from London to Venice and from Toronto to New York as he seeks to understand their meaning. Along the way, he meets many people, each with a compelling story to tell.

Meanwhile, Rinaldo waits in New York City, intent on settling the score on the Williamsburg Bridge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mary E. Martin
• Release date: Jun 8, 2011
• ISBN: 9780987761903

Mary E. Martin

Read what you've been missing.Scroll down to see five novels downloadable onto any reading device.I've written "The Osgoode Trilogy" which was inspired by my many years of law practice in Toronto, Canada where I live.Set in the world of law, the protagonist/lawyer, Harry Jenkins, must deal with murder and fraud. If you're looking for suspense thrillers to get your teeth into, try one of these. They can be read in any order.Below, you'll see all three novels in The Osgoode Trilogy listedConduct in QuestionFinal ParadoxA Trial of One.After writing three legal suspense novels, I was ready for a change...a new world. And so, the Trilogy of Remembrance is literary fiction set in the world of art.The Drawing Lesson which asks "Is the universe random and chaotic or does it have a secret, mysterious order?"The question in the next one, The Fate of Pryde, is "How can the very best and very worst thrive in one man's breast?"The third and final novel in The Trilogy of Remembrance was published in 2014 which tells a tale of a love so profound it transcends life and death!If you want to keep up with my characters, subscribe to my blog where the characters of The Trilogy of Remembrance have taken over to tell their own stories in their own voices...their own words. http://maryemartintrilogies.com

Book preview

PROLOGUE

A figure, drenched in the rain, stamped his feet and banged impatiently on the door of my gallery, Helmsworth and Son. When I unlocked it, Britain’s finest landscape artist, Alexander Wainwright, stormed in and towered over me.

I asked as mildly as I could, Where on earth have you been, Alex? I’ve been trying to reach you for days!

Without answering, he tossed off his raincoat, which I caught and hung in the closet.

Poised in the middle of the gallery, he gave a deep and solemn bow. Then a sweet smile broke upon his face. Out—finding beauty and harmony in the world, Jamie!

As an art dealer, I know that artists are very different from you and me. We, who must earn our living in the mundane world of commerce, simply walk through a door and into a room. We can scarcely imagine how—in the mind of a highly creative person—the act of entering a shop can be fraught with so many dramatic possibilities! But I was always charmed by my dear friend’s energy and life.

Alex paused and, taking out a snowy white handkerchief, patted the raindrops from his grizzled face. What can I do for you then? he asked, eyeing the cabinet at the back. A drink, perhaps?

I poured two glasses of scotch. I need your opinion on this new group show for next week—the one before your retrospective gala.

Alex grimaced and then took a long drink.

I have to cut out one of the artists. There’s simply not enough room.

In an instant, Alex’s professional eye scanned the paintings. Those ones. He gestured at my favorites dismissively. They should go.

He slumped into the chair at my desk and fiddled with several pens scattered about.

Jamie, about the retrospective of my work …

I sat down across from him. Yes?

I can’t do it.

What on earth do you mean?

He reached across the desk and touched my sleeve. His eyes gleamed intently. I’m afraid I’m losing my vision!

Because I have heard many artists speak of their vision, I assumed that Alex was referring to his source of inspiration. I was astounded when he described his plight.

Just yesterday, I was walking along the Embankment to my studio and clouds seemed to roll in along the periphery of my vision until everything was almost entirely black. Of course, I was frightened, so I sat down on a bench a waited for it to pass, which it did within about five minutes.

Has it happened again?

He shook his head. But it did several weeks ago.

Immediately, I reached for my address book. Don’t fool around with this Alex. I spoke sternly but tried not to let my emotions overtake me. Good God! Beethoven losing his hearing. Wainwright losing his eyesight! A tragedy for both the man and his art!

You must see Dr. Hugh Robinson, an ophthalmologist in Harley Street. I watched my hand tremble only slightly as I wrote down the doctor’s address and phone number. He’s an old school chum. Tell him I sent you—and who you are. I’m sure he’ll see you right away. I half-expected that Alex would smile and make light of my concerns, but he did not. Instead, he nodded and pocketed the note.

After downing his drink, he rose to go. As he put on his coat, he looked strangely at me and said, Another surprise! I got a letter the other day from an old acquaintance back in Toronto. He seemed to shrink into his coat. Apparently—at least according to him—I may have a child.

Really? Shocked, I could think of nothing better to say. Boy or girl?

Alex turned the doorknob. He didn’t say. But I loved the mother very much—many years ago. She was my muse. It was my very best period of drawing.

Will you try to find this child?

He tossed up his hands in frustration. I have nothing to go on, Jamie. And perhaps it’s never wise to go back …

I agreed. After all, what good could come of unearthing the past? But I only said, Don’t forget Dr. Robinson, Alex.

About those paintings for the group show, he said. They’re not so bad, but the painter is still struggling to find what is in his heart. He shrugged amiably, but when he turned away, he sighed, But then, isn’t everyone?

I shook his hand. I’ll see you at the Tate Saturday night for the cocktail party? I smiled grandly. All in your honor—and the others on the short list for the Turner Prize.

But Rinaldo might just win, Jamie. Buttoning up his coat, he shook his head. I can’t say I understand his art, but he interests me greatly. But, honestly, I have never met a man who so effectively repels human sympathy! Then he winked at me and disappeared into the late afternoon gloom.

As I closed up the shop, I reflected that much of Beethoven’s most original and soul-stirring music was written when his deafness was most profound. But how, I wondered, could a painter paint if he could not see?

My story of Alexander Wainwright begins on that day. Because I have been present at only a small number of events, substantial parts of this tale are hearsay. But think of me, James Helmsworth, as a dedicated biographer who has done his best to check all the facts. I have pieced together this account of the past year of his life from a variety of sources—some personal recollections, some media accounts, and some conversations with those who knew him well and those whose lives were deeply affected by him. Of course, Alex himself has, from time to time, been quite helpful, and where there have been blank spots, I have allowed myself a certain artistic license.

What follows is the sum and substance of a remarkable year in a great artist’s life. He was at the pinnacle of his career when his art took a strange turn and I began to fear he had become possessed by some devil. But I was only beginning to understand the power of his passionate and hungry spirit, which nearly devoured him in his search for his new art—and his new life. I leave it to you to judge the value of his find.

LONDON

CHAPTER 1

At the Tate Modern Gallery, women swirling about in their elegant cocktail dresses and men in their tails congregated before Alexander’s most recent painting, The Hay Wagon. Each one of them was arrested by his vision: a huge moon hung low in the sky, illuminating the scene with an unearthly glow. A hay wagon stood before a barn door, which hung on its hinges. Beyond that, an old horse shambled about in the meadow.

Look at the way the light shimmers, whispered one woman, pointing upward with her face aglow. It’s like seeing the beyond.

It almost seems alive and pulsing with life, breathed another. Other guests were silenced, unable to articulate the complexity of emotion that Alexander’s painting evoked.

Along with the luminaries of the art world, my wife, Renee, and I had gathered to raise a glass to the five finalists for the Turner Prize in contemporary art. The high glass ceilings of the immense Turbine Room had darkened in the twilight, and the flickering lights along the riverbank created a dream-like, festive atmosphere.

Renee tugged on my sleeve. Don’t you think there’s something quite odd about Alex’s painting?

What do you mean?

Look! There’s the faintest shadow just to the left of the wagon, and there’s another one near the barn door.

I peered closely at the painting. Yes, I do see what you mean. Strange! They look like shadows cast by very oddly shaped—almost stunted—people, but there’s no one in sight. Puzzled, I shrugged and stepped back.

From across the rotunda, I heard someone calling my name. Geoffrey Yorkton, holding two champagne glasses aloft, shouldered his way from the bar and descended upon me.

James! he nearly shouted in my ear. "ArtNews just hit the stands. Alex’s Hay Wagon is on the cover." Geoffrey was the editor-in-chief of that glossy art magazine.

"Yes. I’ve seen it and read the article. Why was the interviewer so hostile?"

Geoffrey’s eyebrows shot up. You do know Maxwell’s a conceptual art man. He’s pulling for Rinaldo.

Then why have him do the interview?

Yorkton grinned. Controversy always sells magazines, Jamie. That’s my job! He patted my arm and winked. Besides, the buzz is good for Alex. Then drawing me aside, he spoke more seriously. I know Alex is the front-runner, but if he gets too cocksure, the committee won’t like it. And the entire conceptual art crowd is furious that he’s even in the running for their prize.

Why? The prize is for contemporary—not conceptual—art.

Yorkton just winked and was off into the crowd. Briefly, I glanced heavenward and went to find Alex.

The crowd began to part and murmurs rippled through the gallery. There stood Alex, tall and handsome in formal attire, thoughtfully caressing his neat goatee. Sauntering in, he stood in the center of the room. Within a moment, someone presented him with a glass of champagne, and people gathered around.

From behind, a hand fluttered on Alex’s shoulder. He turned to see the scarred, pinched face of Rinaldo gleaming up at him. Rinaldo never seemed to blink, and his laser-like gaze sought to pin Alex, his latest victim, like a butterfly under glass.

Alexander set his champagne down on a passing tray. Ah! There you are Rinaldo! Alex held out his hand, which the little man ignored.

Waiters lit tall candles in the corners of the room. Light danced upon the fluted columns and made the stone floor gleam, giving the room the appearance of an ancient, medieval castle.

Smirking, Rinaldo stuffed his fists into his crimson cummerbund and bowed deeply to the smattering of dignitaries now drifting closer. I am honored to be shortlisted with an artist of such renown. But Alex, haven’t you thought of expanding your work beyond the representation of bucolic scenes?

Alexander frowned and turned away. Grasping Alex’s sleeve, Rinaldo continued in lilting tones, It must be a heavy burden for one artist. He shook his head and sighed deeply. To maintain such certainty of vision in a world of constant change. Then his eyes glittered with mirth. Perhaps we should collaborate someday!

A few nervous titters arose from the group now congregating about them. Wainwright swung around. Your art installation greatly intrigues me. The ditch or trench—whatever you call it—in the main hall perfectly captures the state of art in the present day.

The little man twirled his moustache between his fingers. And what state is that, sir?

Irreparable division! Alexander was referring to the bulging, heaving crack constructed by Rinaldo and laid over-top the length of the Turbine Room floor. A barbwire fence ran down the centre of his creation, with implements of war heaped on either side. Alexander retrieved another glass of champagne from a waiter. You’ve outdone yourself, this time, Rinaldo. Struggling to suppress a small smile, he continued, Your work fairly teams with complex, intellectual concepts.

"I must say, your painting is very pretty."

Anger flashed in Alex’s eyes. He snorted. It is a sincere effort to create the warmth of the human spirit. Agreed, it is not clever enough for your cerebral contortions.

By now, most of the committee had gathered about the men. The chairman, Gus Grosvenor, sought to intervene. Gentleman, please, lively controversy about art is wonderful, but this is a party. Please … Neither artist paid the man any heed.

Like a cat upon a mouse, Rinaldo pounced. Your art was revolutionary two centuries ago. But how is it relevant today? We see an old cart, some bales of hay, and a dilapidated barn in the background. In a distant field, we see an old, broken-down horse. He nibbled his lip reflectively then gave a dismissive wave. Does such a scene even exist in this twenty-first century—anywhere on this earth—except in the sentimental, bourgeois imagination?

Standing apart from the group, Alexander leaned against a wall and stared at The Hay Wagon. I witnessed a fleeting expression on his face that I had never seen before. He was not in retreat, but his pale blue eyes seemed to contain a certain hesitancy—even doubt—the depths of which I could not judge. I frowned, wondering if I had seen the tiniest splintering in the façade of a great artist.

With a fawning smile, Rinaldo turned to a young, female docent and said, Tell me, my dear, what do you see?

The docent, who was very pretty herself said, It has a certain quality, sir, rarely seen in landscapes. It has the numinous light suffusing it, as if God were everywhere in the landscape and the world.

That’s it exactly! someone in the crowd said. Others murmured their agreement.

Rinaldo’s lip curled. God or just a trick of light, young lady?

Gus Grosvenor stepped forward and, drawing Rinaldo aside, whispered in his ear. This is a social event to be enjoyed by all. The committee frowns on such grandstanding. The final vote is this Tuesday. He glanced significantly at the little man. I’m sure you get my drift, sir.

The artist clicked his heels together sharply and bowed. Certainly, my good man! The last thing we want is controversy at a party.

Wainwright’s voice boomed from the far side of the rotunda. Ladies and gentlemen, let’s go back to the main hall and view my friend’s work. I’m sure he’d like to explain it to us. Without waiting, he sauntered back to the Turbine Room. He turned to face the group.

As a conceptual artist, Rinaldo was fond of creating installations. The guests gazed upon his work entitled The Destiny of War. On both sides of this trench, with its barbwire fence, were flung piles old clothing and children’s toys—guns, model tanks, knives, and swords—all spattered with red paint. No doubt, he intended to create the effect of a bloodbath. I found one dismembered doll to be a particularly tasteless touch. In my opinion, the message of this so-called piece of conceptual art was both obvious and trite. But then I, as a dealer in representational painting, had to admit my bias.

Alexander began. We know that conceptual art is not judged by the usual aesthetic values. Beauty is but an offensive, bourgeois conceit. Only the originality and validity of the concept itself is significant. Smiling benignly, he turned to Rinaldo. Sir? Is it fair to say your concept is that hatred divides our world and results in war, death, and devastation?

The gathering fell silent as Rinaldo squeezed to the front of the crowd. Yes, that is fair comment, although very limited in scope.

What else does it say?

Unless we change our fundamental attitudes, we are on a hellish course of self-destruction. Rinaldo had difficulty keeping a defensive tone from his voice. This is a revolutionary concept …

And?

By its very nature, mankind is doomed to destroy.

Ah! So there is no hope. How have you conveyed that? Might we not conclude we can mend our ways because that ability is also part of human nature?

Grinning, Rinaldo glanced about nervously. That is the whole point of conceptual art—to stir debate, controversy, different points of view.

Wainwright strolled the whole length of Rinaldo’s trench, pausing occasionally to examine a doll or a gun. The room was silent until he returned.

Ladies and gentleman, if conceptual art places the idea first and foremost, let us judge such a work in its own terms. Is Rinaldo’s idea original, novel, controversial, or at least interesting? Who does not know that hatred is part of human nature and leads to the most destructive forms of warfare? Where is the new idea? The artist bowed deeply and concluded, Rinaldo should enlighten us. Why is his concept original or thought provoking? With a flourish of his arm, he stepped aside. I give my friend the floor.

Rinaldo, now the palest white, hung back for only a moment. "My friend, the great Wainwright, speaks from centuries back. The little man’s face twisted into a cartoon of fury. He fails to see that the world has changed beyond his understanding and he clings to his old verities. Caught in his time warp, he can only paint bucolic scenes from his halcyon days."

Wainwright relaxed against a fluted column. Ladies and gentlemen! His softly whispered voice rebounded eerily in the great hall. Rinaldo has not answered my question.

No one had ever seen Rinaldo at a loss for words. He spun on his heel. With a slight, hitching gait, he marched as rapidly as possible toward the main entrance. Glancing behind only once, he fled through the spinning doors. For a long moment, the group was silent. Then gentle murmurs and occasional soft chuckles filled the hall as everyone drifted back to the bar.

I approached Alex and said, You certainly won that round, old man.

Wainwright looked at me oddly. You never win with Rinaldo, Jamie. And he does have some interesting points.

Such as?

Anxiety and confusion spread over Alex’s face. He stared into my eyes and whispered, What if he is right that my art is dead? Then his shoulders slumped and he muttered, This is just the beginning. He and I shall never be done. He brightened for a moment. By the way, did you see Peter Cummings here tonight?

I shook my head. I think he’s out of town, Alex.

Alexander sighed heavily.

Did you reach Hugh Robinson? I asked.

He frowned, as if trying to recollect.

The ophthalmologist.

Oh yes. I see him next week.

I said goodnight and stepped outside the main doors. On the opposite side of the Thames, Saint Paul’s Cathedral, gloriously lit against the night sky, rose up in an incredible celebration of harmony and beauty. I smiled. What would its architect, Christopher Wren, laboring in the eighteenth century make of the irreparable division in the art world today?

CHAPTER 2

Despite my telephone messages, all of which remained unanswered, I did not see Alexander for almost a week after the Tate reception. Congratulations were certainly in order, as he did win the Turner Prize, beating out Rinaldo.

However, in less than a fortnight, we had to mount a retrospective of his work at my gallery, Helmsworth and Son, in London’s Chelsea district. I am the son; Father has been gone almost twenty years. Although he was not unkindly, sometimes, in moments of stress, I still hear the rap of Father’s cane on his desk and his dismissive growls at any of my proposed innovations.

Although Alex had insisted on choosing each painting for the show, he remained unavailable for any consultation. I must say, I was rather put out by his indifferent attitude, but I have, throughout my career, learned much about working with temperamental artists—Alex in particular.

Mounting any show can be a Herculean task. Movers must be hired and walls need to be painted—to say nothing of arranging for caterers and placing advertisements. Just try to get knowledgeable reviewers from the press out at a moment’s notice! But Alex’s work is so wondrous that I feel petty admitting to such comparatively trivial frustrations. The business side of art is most certainly mundane, and promoters are really only bystanders looking through a murky glass at the marvellous but dimly perceived process of creation.

And so I found myself at Alex’s door pulling on the bell Saturday at noon. Knowing he was a deep sleeper, I waited between rings as patiently as I could. After five minutes, still there was no answer. Across the street, I leaned against the Embankment wall. From there, I saw a shadow cross his window three stories up. Muttering about the nonchalance of artists, I returned to ring the bell again. At last, I saw him through the glass, lumbering downstairs. When he opened the door, he squinted in the noonday sun. Unshaven, he looked worn and haggard.

Congratulations on your win, Alex!

He merely grunted and started back up the stairs. I followed, almost bumping into him at the top.

He closed the door. What do you want?

Taking a deep breath, I replied, We have to decide which paintings are going into the show, remember?

Show? But I said I don’t want to exhibit again, Jamie.

It was worse than I expected. That damned Rinaldo had succeeded in undermining Alex, even though he had won the prize. I settled heavily into his chesterfield and withdrew a cigarette. Where to start?

I spoke patiently. Alex, the invitations went out last week. I’ve hired everyone we need, and Walshingham of the Post has agreed to come. He always gives you wonderful reviews.

Cancel it! Tell them I’ve come down with … He shrugged. Something serious—maybe deadly—a death of the spirit, if you will.

Don’t be ridiculous! I did my best to keep panic from my voice.

Alex slumped on a nearby stool. I can’t do it.

"You must! I saw my hand tremble as I lit my cigarette. It’s that damned Rinaldo isn’t it? How could you let him get under your skin? You certainly showed him up for a fool at the Tate."

Wainwright’s eyes were moist. He’s right, though, he said softly.

What? I can’t believe this! I could not help but jump up and pace. Look at these canvases. They’re your very best work.

Alex chuckled. "Rinaldo drove straight to the heart of the matter. He asked whether the scene of The Hay Wagon exists anywhere on the face of the earth in this twenty-first century."

Of course it does. Anyway, why should that matter?

Pretty scenes, Alex muttered as he gazed out his windows upon the Thames.

I was losing any semblance of composure. Pretty scenes? Good God, Alex, look at them. You’ve captured something no one else ever has in landscape.

And what might that be?

I stared at him and then at the four or five canvases arranged around the room. I remembered what the docent at the Tate had said. Numinosity did shine through. She was right! In that moment, I had a tiny glimpse of what lay beyond or behind the phenomenal world. Until that moment, I had not really experienced that quality in his work. Somehow, Alex had captured the essence of the world.

Was I too caught up in the details of the business—the mounting of shows, the advertising and caterers—to see how truly wonderful his work was? With a broad grin, I embraced my friend. Then holding him at arm’s length, I said, Alex, God is in your work, just as the docent said.

My friend simply shrugged. Yes, but the light has gone out, Jamie.

What on earth do you mean?

My muse has gone … left me in the lurch.

But that happens with all artists, I began. Inspiration always returns. Listen! Let me choose the paintings for the show. I’ll have them crated up this afternoon. All you need to do is show up on Saturday night.

Alex seemed to hesitate, but then he said softly, All right. Do that for me, dear boy. He turned and smiled bravely. I must do my best to find her again.

As if dealing with the loss of a child’s imaginary friend, I said cheerfully, I know you will find her soon. Muses always return. But the sadness in his expression touched me and I realized my glibness. Oh dear! Alex, do you mean the mother of this child you mentioned?

He nodded sorrowfully. I used to call her Maggie. I think she’s probably dead.

But there are all sorts of ways of finding somebody. A detective … public records.

At the door, he gave me an odd, rather helpless shrug.

I clapped him on the arm. When I said, If you like, I’ll try to help you, Alex seemed to brighten. I started down the stairs. Turning on the landing, I called back to him. I’ll be back with the workman around two.

In retrospect, I wish I had given his concerns more serious consideration. This was the man whose work I had just finally grasped—the one who conveyed a sense of the beyond to those who would see. Walking hastily along the Victoria Embankment, I suddenly stopped. Something about the light dancing upon the rough, rippled water of the Thames arrested me. I have always thought I had a pretty well-trained eye for painting and, as a born and bred Londoner, I had gazed upon the Thames countless times. As a businessman, I’ve always considered myself pragmatic, so I’ve had little experience with visions. In fact, always suspicious of those laying claim to otherworldly experiences, I likely thought such people were half-mad or, worse still, poseurs.

The sharpness of the breeze seemed to enliven my senses. In that moment, my eyes saw anew the scene before me. Glistening water beneath a surly sky fused with my vision of Westminster Bridge. Its creeping traffic blended with the Parliament buildings and Big Ben beyond. A sharp beam of sunlight broke through leaden clouds and spread out upon the river. For the first time, I saw that some unseen entity held the scene together before my eyes and yet, without distinction, made me a living, breathing part of it.

Every day, Wainwright saw the world like this. It was his truth, his reality that emanated from every canvas he had ever painted. Of course, sometimes it shone through better than others, but it was always there. The artist himself was always in his painting. I must have stood there for half an hour simply gazing upon my city, seeing it really for the very first time.

Lost in thought, I turned away. As a landscape artist, Alex rarely painted the human figure. But he had shown me one work of a sorrowful woman in a long skirt. She entered the gate of a walled garden, lush with flowers, vines, and trellises. Adding several brushstrokes, he said to me, The garden is there for all who will enter. But then he sighed deeply. Although I can paint light in the landscape, I cannot illuminate the human form. No matter how I try, it remains sodden.

On the Embankment, I tore my eyes from my vision of the Thames, hurried back to the gallery, and rang up the workmen.

CHAPTER 3

A single light cast an intense glow over Rinaldo’s workbench and illuminated his face, which was pinched with pain. Few people knew of Rinaldo’s farm accident in childhood. In fact, he did his best to hide his rural roots, which he regarded as lowly. His left leg, crushed by a horse in three places, had healed poorly, leaving him with a limp and a life of chronic pain—to say nothing of a hatred of four-legged creatures. But I am being unkind.

Alex had it right. The man was a genius at repelling human sympathy, seeming to prefer the outer reaches of society. Someone once suggested that because great artists channel all their energies into the act of creation, they are often very sorry excuses for human beings. But I cannot conceive of Rinaldo as a great artist.

Tiny pieces of a cell phone and parts of an old-fashioned alarm clock were strewn across the bench. He worked steadily, packing the pieces together into a gold-painted box approximately six inches square with a depth of eight inches. An old video camera on a nearby stool whirred and recorded him at his work. For Rinaldo, the act of creating a bomb was no less important than the bomb itself, so such a creative act had to be recorded.

Lola—his live-in girlfriend—came down the cellar steps. Tea, darling? she asked, sliding next to him on the bench.

Rinaldo did not answer.

Lola did not normally dare interrupt him in his workspace, but it was late and she wanted to say goodnight. At dinner, he had been in a foul mood—something about the Turner Prize, which he had not won. He had cursed Wainwright throughout the meal, then disappeared downstairs for the evening. If she showed no concern whatsoever about his moods, she would eventually pay. Mesmerized by his deft handiwork, she finally asked, What are you doing?

I’m making a bomb, he said flatly.

At first she laughed, almost a short gasp of disbelief. No way!

Ferret-like, he grinned up at her. You don’t believe me? Well, take a look! Not that you would understand.

She reached out to touch the box.

Stop!

Many thought Lola was a beautiful woman. In the days when Rinaldo had painted, she often sat for him. Since he no longer painted, she had no particular use to him, except in bed and when he wanted someone to hurt.

She pushed a strand of her limp hair from her cheek and stared at him. Is it real?

Is it real? What a stupid, ignorant question! Of course it’s real. You see it sitting in front of you, don’t you? Do you doubt your senses? He jumped up from the bench and grabbed the camera. Focusing it closely upon her face, he said, What a stupid cow you are! Pick up the box and shake it. See what happens.

Lola drew back. No … not if it’s real … Her voice trailed