this noise. ..." Peter shook his head at the memory. "It didn't take long before two or three others came racing up the stairs. They all seemed to know what was happening; they were throwing themselves at the door until someone finally found a key, and then we all went inside."
He paused, and Imogene felt inexplicably nervous as she waited for him to continue. But Peter seemed lost in his thoughts, and finally she had to prompt him.
"Go on," she said in a low voice.
"It was like nothing I've ever seen." Peter's gaze was distant. "There were empty bottles everywhere, and one of the walls had been . . . smeared . . . with black paint. It was like a big dark cloud on the wall ... It was on the floor—big black footprints . . . and five or six paintings that were all the same. They all had a single pattern on them—it was like a ... a tornado, I guess. I don't know what else to call it. Nothing but blacks and browns. So . . . bleak." Peter swallowed. "But the worse part was that he was there. He'd been inside the entire time, just sitting in a chair, staring out the window. When we came in he barely moved—it was like he didn't even see us. He was just sitting there. . . . Then he looked at Childs, and he said, 'The madness is waiting for me, Rico. Should I give in to it?' That was all, just 'Should I give in to it?' as if he would if Childs said the word."
The horror of the moment reverberated in Peter's voice; Imogene heard it as clearly as if she'd been there in the room with him, as if she too had heard Whitaker's voice, that deep, melodious voice, flat and deadened with pain. She squeezed her eyes shut.
"How awful," she whispered, though the words were inadequate and she knew it.
"The worst part is that I keep hearing his voice. You know, I can't forget the way it sounded. It was . . . eerie, almost. Otherworldly." He shivered, shaking his head as if trying to lose the disturbing image. "He was like that for two weeks," he said. "Class was canceled. Then, suddenly, we got the message that he was back. That was all—just a note telling us to be in class the next day. And when we came back, he was like a different person. He was just ... I can't explain it. It's the only time I've ever really liked him. It was inspiring to be around him. He was like a shooting star, I guess, I don't know. So brilliant it was hard to look at him. . . ." He trailed off as if the admission embarrassed him.
They were nearly to the brougham, and he stopped and turned to look at her. "I wouldn't stay with him except for those moments. He is . . . quite mad."
The words surprised her, disturbed her, but not for the reasons Peter gave her. Jonas Whitaker was insane. Imogene wondered why the thought didn't frighten her. She should be frightened. She should be horrified at the idea of studying under a madman.
But instead all she felt was the same surge of recognition she'd had the day she'd discovered he had a false hand, the same sense that he was like her, that there was weakness inside of him, and pain.
She thought of Peter's story, of Whitaker's words— "The madness is waiting for me, Rico. Should I give in to it?" —and she understood them better than she wanted to. She could make no claim to madness, or to the kind of passion Jonas Whitaker felt, but she understood those words. She understood the feeling of helplessness, the intangibility of will. She knew what it felt like to lose yourself, to search so hard for an anchor that any certainty at all was enough.
She had felt that way before. When Chloe died. When Nicholas left . . .
Imogene swallowed, pushing away the memories and the pain that came with them. Oh, yes, she understood. And there was something else she understood too, something that gave her strength, that made her want to rush back to the studio, to see Jonas Whitaker again, to talk to him. Jonas Whitaker had turned pain into genius, had dredged inspiration and redemption from suffering, and she wanted to know how,
He paused, and Imogene felt inexplicably nervous as she waited for him to continue. But Peter seemed lost in his thoughts, and finally she had to prompt him.
"Go on," she said in a low voice.
"It was like nothing I've ever seen." Peter's gaze was distant. "There were empty bottles everywhere, and one of the walls had been . . . smeared . . . with black paint. It was like a big dark cloud on the wall ... It was on the floor—big black footprints . . . and five or six paintings that were all the same. They all had a single pattern on them—it was like a ... a tornado, I guess. I don't know what else to call it. Nothing but blacks and browns. So . . . bleak." Peter swallowed. "But the worse part was that he was there. He'd been inside the entire time, just sitting in a chair, staring out the window. When we came in he barely moved—it was like he didn't even see us. He was just sitting there. . . . Then he looked at Childs, and he said, 'The madness is waiting for me, Rico. Should I give in to it?' That was all, just 'Should I give in to it?' as if he would if Childs said the word."
The horror of the moment reverberated in Peter's voice; Imogene heard it as clearly as if she'd been there in the room with him, as if she too had heard Whitaker's voice, that deep, melodious voice, flat and deadened with pain. She squeezed her eyes shut.
"How awful," she whispered, though the words were inadequate and she knew it.
"The worst part is that I keep hearing his voice. You know, I can't forget the way it sounded. It was . . . eerie, almost. Otherworldly." He shivered, shaking his head as if trying to lose the disturbing image. "He was like that for two weeks," he said. "Class was canceled. Then, suddenly, we got the message that he was back. That was all—just a note telling us to be in class the next day. And when we came back, he was like a different person. He was just ... I can't explain it. It's the only time I've ever really liked him. It was inspiring to be around him. He was like a shooting star, I guess, I don't know. So brilliant it was hard to look at him. . . ." He trailed off as if the admission embarrassed him.
They were nearly to the brougham, and he stopped and turned to look at her. "I wouldn't stay with him except for those moments. He is . . . quite mad."
The words surprised her, disturbed her, but not for the reasons Peter gave her. Jonas Whitaker was insane. Imogene wondered why the thought didn't frighten her. She should be frightened. She should be horrified at the idea of studying under a madman.
But instead all she felt was the same surge of recognition she'd had the day she'd discovered he had a false hand, the same sense that he was like her, that there was weakness inside of him, and pain.
She thought of Peter's story, of Whitaker's words— "The madness is waiting for me, Rico. Should I give in to it?" —and she understood them better than she wanted to. She could make no claim to madness, or to the kind of passion Jonas Whitaker felt, but she understood those words. She understood the feeling of helplessness, the intangibility of will. She knew what it felt like to lose yourself, to search so hard for an anchor that any certainty at all was enough.
She had felt that way before. When Chloe died. When Nicholas left . . .
Imogene swallowed, pushing away the memories and the pain that came with them. Oh, yes, she understood. And there was something else she understood too, something that gave her strength, that made her want to rush back to the studio, to see Jonas Whitaker again, to talk to him. Jonas Whitaker had turned pain into genius, had dredged inspiration and redemption from suffering, and she wanted to know how,
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