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Authors: Guy Mankowski
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and I'm inclined to follow it, but something makes me stay. “I can only see in darker shades of grey now,” he whispers, taking my arm. I can smell the sweat on his shirt, the mustiness of his breath. In one precise movement he places the slim book back into the exact slot he drew it from, without even looking up. Even with twenty-twenty vision it would be an impressive act, but in this half-light it really unsettles me. “At first it was just light and dark grey that I saw in. Now it's just various shades of sludge.”
“It must have been devastating, for a painter… ”
“You have no idea. My world revolved around colour, sensation. It was how I guided myself, how I was inspired. I felt my way through colours every day, and in one blinding second I had that centre point taken away from me. Had to stumble through everything, had to find some new niche. I guess what each colour is now, and have to rely on the clumsy compliments of strangers to determine the success of new paintings. Have you ever tried to eat a dish of something that's completely that colour?” I shake my head, guiltily. “Or tried to make love to a woman whose body looks just like clay?” His voice is rising now, slightly more emotional. “My early work was exhibited in Florence, Prague; there was talk of a New York exhibition. Reviewers said I would ‘finish what Paul Klee started'. A cruel fate, isn't it?”
“I can't imagine – ”
“No, you can't.” The sound of Barbara's laughter reverberates through the aisles. It is hideously inappropriate. “And we know whose fault it is, don't we Vincent? That becomes increasingly clear, with every year that passes.”
“Now come on James, you can't blame Carina for your accident.”
“She wasn't in the car. It's not as if we were on some jolly together and she drove me off the road. But it was her that put me in that state of mind Vincent, it was. To be treated like that by a fellow Intimate? And even if you don't think she was to blame for the state of my vision, she must be accountable for more than that?”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh come on Vincent. I was in love with her. Desperately, hideously in love. And for years she strung me along and then rejected me, in the most humiliating way possible. In front of a man who is everything I am not. How damning a verdict upon me. She stripped me of my confidence, my potency. I haven't been in love since Vincent, and I never will again. She took away my sexuality, Carina did, she stole it from me.”
“Is everything alright in here?”
Francoise suddenly appears at the end of the corridor, against a backdrop of bright gold light. She's holding two glasses of champagne, and she smiles kindly but firmly at us. “Ah, the hostess. Here to toast my ruin,” James mutters. Francoise slides her slender arm through mine, and the room seems instantly warmer.
“You two must join the other guests,” she admonishes, propelling the two of us towards the doorway. “I've decided that we are going to play a little party game.”
Barbara is lingering at the entrance to the drawing room. Francoise pushes James towards her, amused perhaps by the potential contrast. “He's like the ghost of Christmas past, that man,” she whispers, drawing close. “You look pale. He does that.”
After the isolation of the library the drawing room is a blaze of colours. The scent of wine escapes everyone's lips; gold liquids bubble from glasses, foaming over slick fingers before being pressed to open, painted mouths. Smiles are flashed from person to person, erupting into laughter and then snapping away. Polished flesh, once carefully concealed, is now exposed and flushed excitedly with wine. Jazz music emanates from the gramophone, prompting the shoulders and feet of the guests to move in time with that urgent, incessant rhythm.
Carina uncoils her long dark hair, looking over as it bobs around her shoulders. Graham pulls off his bowtie, casting it behind him and
“It must have been devastating, for a painter… ”
“You have no idea. My world revolved around colour, sensation. It was how I guided myself, how I was inspired. I felt my way through colours every day, and in one blinding second I had that centre point taken away from me. Had to stumble through everything, had to find some new niche. I guess what each colour is now, and have to rely on the clumsy compliments of strangers to determine the success of new paintings. Have you ever tried to eat a dish of something that's completely that colour?” I shake my head, guiltily. “Or tried to make love to a woman whose body looks just like clay?” His voice is rising now, slightly more emotional. “My early work was exhibited in Florence, Prague; there was talk of a New York exhibition. Reviewers said I would ‘finish what Paul Klee started'. A cruel fate, isn't it?”
“I can't imagine – ”
“No, you can't.” The sound of Barbara's laughter reverberates through the aisles. It is hideously inappropriate. “And we know whose fault it is, don't we Vincent? That becomes increasingly clear, with every year that passes.”
“Now come on James, you can't blame Carina for your accident.”
“She wasn't in the car. It's not as if we were on some jolly together and she drove me off the road. But it was her that put me in that state of mind Vincent, it was. To be treated like that by a fellow Intimate? And even if you don't think she was to blame for the state of my vision, she must be accountable for more than that?”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh come on Vincent. I was in love with her. Desperately, hideously in love. And for years she strung me along and then rejected me, in the most humiliating way possible. In front of a man who is everything I am not. How damning a verdict upon me. She stripped me of my confidence, my potency. I haven't been in love since Vincent, and I never will again. She took away my sexuality, Carina did, she stole it from me.”
“Is everything alright in here?”
Francoise suddenly appears at the end of the corridor, against a backdrop of bright gold light. She's holding two glasses of champagne, and she smiles kindly but firmly at us. “Ah, the hostess. Here to toast my ruin,” James mutters. Francoise slides her slender arm through mine, and the room seems instantly warmer.
“You two must join the other guests,” she admonishes, propelling the two of us towards the doorway. “I've decided that we are going to play a little party game.”
Barbara is lingering at the entrance to the drawing room. Francoise pushes James towards her, amused perhaps by the potential contrast. “He's like the ghost of Christmas past, that man,” she whispers, drawing close. “You look pale. He does that.”
After the isolation of the library the drawing room is a blaze of colours. The scent of wine escapes everyone's lips; gold liquids bubble from glasses, foaming over slick fingers before being pressed to open, painted mouths. Smiles are flashed from person to person, erupting into laughter and then snapping away. Polished flesh, once carefully concealed, is now exposed and flushed excitedly with wine. Jazz music emanates from the gramophone, prompting the shoulders and feet of the guests to move in time with that urgent, incessant rhythm.
Carina uncoils her long dark hair, looking over as it bobs around her shoulders. Graham pulls off his bowtie, casting it behind him and
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