Read Online The Portrait of Mrs Charbuque by Jeffrey Ford - Free Book Online
Authors: Jeffrey Ford
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nothing. Where I had at first been irritated with him for mentioning the incident with Sabott, I was now feeling nothing but gratitude. He had just cor-roborated everything I
knew to be true in my heart.
"If I were you," said Shenz, "I would paint this Mrs. Charbuque with a mind toward getting as much money out of her as possible. If this is how you feel you can free yourself, then take all you can get from her."
"All I need do is come up with a competent portrait," I said.
"No, you must capture her likeness precisely," he said.
"How, though?" I asked. "I'm in doubt about whether her words are meant to help or lead me astray."
"Yes," said Shenz, laughing, "that business with the science of reading snowflakes is rather preposterous. But there are methods of finding your way through that squall."
"Such as?"
"Cheat," he said. "I'm sure we can find out what she looks like. There is no woman I know of with that much money who does not have a past. If there are no photo-graphs, she must exist in someone's memory. A little research should undoubtedly reveal her."
"I never thought of that," I said. "It seems dishonest."
"Unlike the portrait of Mrs. Reed?" said Shenz. "I will even help you."
"I don't know," I said.
"Think of the time free of worry or constraint the ulti-mate sum will buy you," he said.
After our discussion he brought me into his studio and showed me the first rounded sketches he had made of the Hatstell children. "These are not youngsters," he told me, "they are doughnuts on legs." By the time I took my leave, he had me in stitches, describing his feckless attempts to have his new subjects remain still for more than five minutes at a time. "Tomorrow I will bring either a whip or a bag of chocolates," he said. As we parted at the door, he shook my hand and said, as a reminder of his ear-lier offer, "She is out there somewhere. We can find her."
I breathed a sigh of relief once I crossed Seventh Avenue and was heading back toward civilization.
It was very close to midnight, and the streets were uncharacter-istically empty owing to the cold.
My head was in a bit of a fog from having imbibed, secondhand from Shenz, the blue opium mist, which had calmed me but also made me exceedingly weary.
Although my thoughts were slippery, I tried to decide how to proceed with Mrs. Charbuque the next morning. The question I posed to myself was whether I should let her lead me on with her narrative, or force her through a series of rapid inquiries to divulge bits of information she had not intended to part
with. I thought it highly suspi-cious that the first installment of her story had reached a climax at precisely the moment my time had expired. I suppose because I had just visited Shenz, it reminded me of the
Page 24
Arabian Nights entertainment, with Mrs. Char-buque in the role of Scheherazade. As much as I felt I was being led by the nose, I did very much want to know what had become of the child she had brought to life in my mind. Upon reaching Twenty-first and Broadway, I decided that I must take control and turn the tables on her. I would eschew the story about crystalogogistics for a gro-cery list of simple questions.
I was no more than two blocks from my home when I looked up and saw some commotion beneath a street lamp across the way. From their uniforms and their hats, I could identify two of the three men as officers of the law. Even in the poor light, I recognized the man in civi-lian clothes—a derby and topcoat—as John Sills, a Sunday painter, a miniaturist, whom I had been on friendly terms with for a number of years. In addition to being an artist, he was also a detective on the New York City police force. They were gathered around what appeared to be a body on the sidewalk.
I crossed the street and came up behind the trio. As I drew closer, one of the men moved slightly to the side and I had a brief glimpse of a horrific sight. With the light from the lamp above, I was now able to see that they
knew to be true in my heart.
"If I were you," said Shenz, "I would paint this Mrs. Charbuque with a mind toward getting as much money out of her as possible. If this is how you feel you can free yourself, then take all you can get from her."
"All I need do is come up with a competent portrait," I said.
"No, you must capture her likeness precisely," he said.
"How, though?" I asked. "I'm in doubt about whether her words are meant to help or lead me astray."
"Yes," said Shenz, laughing, "that business with the science of reading snowflakes is rather preposterous. But there are methods of finding your way through that squall."
"Such as?"
"Cheat," he said. "I'm sure we can find out what she looks like. There is no woman I know of with that much money who does not have a past. If there are no photo-graphs, she must exist in someone's memory. A little research should undoubtedly reveal her."
"I never thought of that," I said. "It seems dishonest."
"Unlike the portrait of Mrs. Reed?" said Shenz. "I will even help you."
"I don't know," I said.
"Think of the time free of worry or constraint the ulti-mate sum will buy you," he said.
After our discussion he brought me into his studio and showed me the first rounded sketches he had made of the Hatstell children. "These are not youngsters," he told me, "they are doughnuts on legs." By the time I took my leave, he had me in stitches, describing his feckless attempts to have his new subjects remain still for more than five minutes at a time. "Tomorrow I will bring either a whip or a bag of chocolates," he said. As we parted at the door, he shook my hand and said, as a reminder of his ear-lier offer, "She is out there somewhere. We can find her."
I breathed a sigh of relief once I crossed Seventh Avenue and was heading back toward civilization.
It was very close to midnight, and the streets were uncharacter-istically empty owing to the cold.
My head was in a bit of a fog from having imbibed, secondhand from Shenz, the blue opium mist, which had calmed me but also made me exceedingly weary.
Although my thoughts were slippery, I tried to decide how to proceed with Mrs. Charbuque the next morning. The question I posed to myself was whether I should let her lead me on with her narrative, or force her through a series of rapid inquiries to divulge bits of information she had not intended to part
with. I thought it highly suspi-cious that the first installment of her story had reached a climax at precisely the moment my time had expired. I suppose because I had just visited Shenz, it reminded me of the
Page 24
Arabian Nights entertainment, with Mrs. Char-buque in the role of Scheherazade. As much as I felt I was being led by the nose, I did very much want to know what had become of the child she had brought to life in my mind. Upon reaching Twenty-first and Broadway, I decided that I must take control and turn the tables on her. I would eschew the story about crystalogogistics for a gro-cery list of simple questions.
I was no more than two blocks from my home when I looked up and saw some commotion beneath a street lamp across the way. From their uniforms and their hats, I could identify two of the three men as officers of the law. Even in the poor light, I recognized the man in civi-lian clothes—a derby and topcoat—as John Sills, a Sunday painter, a miniaturist, whom I had been on friendly terms with for a number of years. In addition to being an artist, he was also a detective on the New York City police force. They were gathered around what appeared to be a body on the sidewalk.
I crossed the street and came up behind the trio. As I drew closer, one of the men moved slightly to the side and I had a brief glimpse of a horrific sight. With the light from the lamp above, I was now able to see that they
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