Cosmocopia Read Free Page B

Fulgencio had said nothing about its properties if taken internally, but only its suitability as a pigment. Yet what further significant harm could Lazorg do to his raddled body? If he died after finishing even one more painting, then so be it. The achievement would be worth the cost. Nothing could be worse than this pointless death-in-life, without the art that had granted his existence meaning.
    But he must proceed sensibly and slowly. Learn his limits, and the limit of the powder. Overdosing on the very next trial would be an ironic and futile fate.
    Thus began a week of nocturnal experimentation. Flake by flake, grain by grain, mole by mole, Lazorg applied the fragrant, aluminal, cochineal-colored substance to his tongue. He discovered the various grades of increased mental discernment and bodily strength that the drug could bring, their duration and repeatability and terminal stages.
    Once he pushed a little too far and entered a realm of metallic paranoia. He became convinced that Fulgencio intended him harm with this malign gift. Old memories seemed to sharpen. Had he truly rescued the ancient curandero from thugs, or had he, Frank Lazorg, actually been one of the party of drunken revelers who had taunted and accosted and roughed up an elderly stranger in the town square as a cruel lark? Was this the foreigner’s revenge? But surely Fulgencio’s friendly note had spoken of gratitude and favors …?
    Lazorg tore his studio half-apart, looking for the square of coarse paper that had accompanied the brick. But it had vanished, never to be found.
    (Contrariwise, the brick of powder seemed almost self-replenishing to some degree, diminishing in bulk, yes, but not commensurately with Lazorg’s intake.)
    At last the derangement passed, and Lazorg managed to recover by morning. Now he knew his upper bar with the organic drug.
    By day he remained his old doddering self. None of his staff suspected his nightly experiments, he was certain.
    But by night he rehearsed his return to potency, bolstered by the ingestion of the scarab crumbs. He cleaned brushes and unstoppered caked-shut paint tubes, stood with dry palette and brush in hand before the Origin of the World canvas, trying to feel the kinesthetics of the masterpiece lying in wait at the interface of man and medium.
    At last he arrived at a point of confidence where he felt equal to contacting Velina Malaspina.
    That night, his voice strengthened by the drug, his nerves emboldened, Lazorg punched up the entry for Malaspina in his cell-phone and triggered the call, knowing that he would in all likelihood get her voicemail. Often quite busy socializing, Velina disdained accepting calls directly, preferring to compose her reactions ahead of time before responding to any importunings.
    As expected, Malaspina’s husky digitized voice recited merely her name before the chime. But even that tinny mechanical reproduction of her voice almost unnerved him. After some stuttering, he got his request across.
    “Velly, my sweet, my forever girl. I need to see you. For both our sakes, for the art we made between us, please come to my home. You know the way. Tomorrow night, if you can—if I ever meant anything to you.”
    Lazorg terminated the call before he got maudlin, or more so.
    He strode boldly to the easel holding his final canvas and unconcealed it. Under the influence of the drug, the mere penciled lines grew luminous and summoned up the tactile sensations of caressing Malaspina’s curves.
    She would come. Tomorrow. He knew it with certitude, before all certitude drained away for another day.
    The next evening, Lazorg began consuming the drug as soon as Mrs. Compton had shut the door behind her. He knew now, he thought, how to pace himself for the optimal effect. But desirous of attaining the ultimate edge of his performance, he added a grain or two beyond the previous trials.
    The extra jolt had him pacing irritably through the forequarters of the big house for hours,