who signs his paintings
Piambo,"
he said.
Anything ill to do with the eyes truly upsets me, and it took me a few moments to recover from the sight of his. "Yes," I said.
"Watkin is the name," he said.
"And?" I asked, expecting him to put the touch on me for some change.
"My employer would like to commission you to paint her portrait," he said in a soft voice that held a hint of menace in its precision.
"I'm afraid I'm engaged for months to come," I said, wanting to be on my way.
"It must be now," he said. "She will have no other but you."
"I admire the good woman's taste, but I'm afraid I have given my word on these other projects."
"This is a job like no other," he said. "You can name your price. Take all the other commissions you have given your word on, tally the amount you would have received, and she will triple it."
"Who is your employer?" I asked.
He reached into the pocket of his jacket and retrieved a rose-colored envelope. The manner in which he prof-fered it, not so much to me but to the universe at large, assured me now that he was blind.
I hesitated, sensing that I did not want to become involved with this Mr. Watkin, but there was something in the way he had said "a job like no other" that made me finally reach out and take it.
"I will consider it," I said.
"Good enough, good enough," he said, smiling.
"How did you know to find me here?" I asked.
"Intuition," he said. With this, he angled the walking stick out in front of him, turned to face west, and brushed past me. He intermittently tapped the tip of the stick against the building facades as he went.
"How did you know it was me?" I called after him.
Before he disappeared into the night, I heard him say, "The smell of self-satisfaction; a pervasive aroma of nut-meg and mold."
First Wind of Autumn
According to my pocket watch it was 2:05 A.M. by the time I finally arrived home. The creak of the door closing behind me echoed faintly through the still rooms. I immediately turned on all the lamps in the parlor and the front hallway (electricity had recently come to Gramercy) and set about building a fire in the main fire-place to offset the sudden appearance of autumn. I threw an extra log on as if to cure the chill that had spread through me from the inside out upon hearing that damn Watkin's closing remarks.
The mold part of his assessment I had a vague understanding of, like a ghost creaking floorboards in the attic of my conscience, but nutmeg?
"What in hell does nutmeg have to do with anything?" I said aloud, and shook my head.
I knew that no matter how late the hour, sleep would not readily come. A nervous tension resulting from the incident at Reed's and my subsequent crackpot rumina-tions had left me wide awake, with no recourse but another visit with the demon rum. I picked up a glass, the bottle of whisky, and my cigarettes and retired to my stu-dio, where I always did my best thinking. That Page 6
vast space was also wired for electricity, but I chose to leave the lamps off and instead light a single candle, hoping the shadows might lull me into weariness.
The studio, which was attached to the back of my house, was nearly as large as the living quarters.
Ironically, it was the wealth that resulted from those por-traits I had spent all night disparaging that enabled me to design and have the studio built to my exact specifications. I had included a fireplace to allow me to work there in any season. Three large tables topped with expensive teak-wood, which was hard enough to resist the insults of pen nibs, razors, and pallet knives, were positioned around the room.
One held my painting equipment; another, the materials I sometimes used to make wax models as studies; and the last, which I did not bother with much anymore, the stones and various inks and solutions for lithographs.
My drafting board, its surface composed of the same hardwood as the tabletops, was an outlandishly ornate piece of furniture with lion paws for feet
Piambo,"
he said.
Anything ill to do with the eyes truly upsets me, and it took me a few moments to recover from the sight of his. "Yes," I said.
"Watkin is the name," he said.
"And?" I asked, expecting him to put the touch on me for some change.
"My employer would like to commission you to paint her portrait," he said in a soft voice that held a hint of menace in its precision.
"I'm afraid I'm engaged for months to come," I said, wanting to be on my way.
"It must be now," he said. "She will have no other but you."
"I admire the good woman's taste, but I'm afraid I have given my word on these other projects."
"This is a job like no other," he said. "You can name your price. Take all the other commissions you have given your word on, tally the amount you would have received, and she will triple it."
"Who is your employer?" I asked.
He reached into the pocket of his jacket and retrieved a rose-colored envelope. The manner in which he prof-fered it, not so much to me but to the universe at large, assured me now that he was blind.
I hesitated, sensing that I did not want to become involved with this Mr. Watkin, but there was something in the way he had said "a job like no other" that made me finally reach out and take it.
"I will consider it," I said.
"Good enough, good enough," he said, smiling.
"How did you know to find me here?" I asked.
"Intuition," he said. With this, he angled the walking stick out in front of him, turned to face west, and brushed past me. He intermittently tapped the tip of the stick against the building facades as he went.
"How did you know it was me?" I called after him.
Before he disappeared into the night, I heard him say, "The smell of self-satisfaction; a pervasive aroma of nut-meg and mold."
First Wind of Autumn
According to my pocket watch it was 2:05 A.M. by the time I finally arrived home. The creak of the door closing behind me echoed faintly through the still rooms. I immediately turned on all the lamps in the parlor and the front hallway (electricity had recently come to Gramercy) and set about building a fire in the main fire-place to offset the sudden appearance of autumn. I threw an extra log on as if to cure the chill that had spread through me from the inside out upon hearing that damn Watkin's closing remarks.
The mold part of his assessment I had a vague understanding of, like a ghost creaking floorboards in the attic of my conscience, but nutmeg?
"What in hell does nutmeg have to do with anything?" I said aloud, and shook my head.
I knew that no matter how late the hour, sleep would not readily come. A nervous tension resulting from the incident at Reed's and my subsequent crackpot rumina-tions had left me wide awake, with no recourse but another visit with the demon rum. I picked up a glass, the bottle of whisky, and my cigarettes and retired to my stu-dio, where I always did my best thinking. That Page 6
vast space was also wired for electricity, but I chose to leave the lamps off and instead light a single candle, hoping the shadows might lull me into weariness.
The studio, which was attached to the back of my house, was nearly as large as the living quarters.
Ironically, it was the wealth that resulted from those por-traits I had spent all night disparaging that enabled me to design and have the studio built to my exact specifications. I had included a fireplace to allow me to work there in any season. Three large tables topped with expensive teak-wood, which was hard enough to resist the insults of pen nibs, razors, and pallet knives, were positioned around the room.
One held my painting equipment; another, the materials I sometimes used to make wax models as studies; and the last, which I did not bother with much anymore, the stones and various inks and solutions for lithographs.
My drafting board, its surface composed of the same hardwood as the tabletops, was an outlandishly ornate piece of furniture with lion paws for feet
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