Boston
On Christmas Eve, they walk down to Newbury Street. The morning sky is dim, cloud-filled, with a feeling of late afternoon to it. Alexander is grateful for the lights of the shop windows, the coloured bulbs strung over balconies and railings, the mocha-tinged steam that escapes into the chill air from all the coffee shops. Leaving Lauren at a small gallery, he goes to get his last gifts. When at last they meet in Copley Square for lunch, she is radiant, glowing – there is excitement in her face, and the frost has quickened her blood, so that energy and warmth pulsate through her, even through the sheets of cold that beat down from the steel sky. He watches her walking across the paved stones, pleased that she is with him for the holidays, happy to share her liveliness and delighting in the pleasure that shows in her eyes when she recognizes him standing outside the restaurant, muffled up in a yellow cashmere scarf. In moments they are inside, overtaken by dry warmth, talking over the Christmas music, drinking down a small whiskey each. The alcohol curls through him, reaching thin tendrils of heat through his chest and stomach. With a contented sigh he puts down his glass and smiles.
“How were the galleries?”
“Oh, fine.”
He smiles. She is hiding something, suppressing it without much success beneath eyes and a mouth that are conspiring to give her away.
“What are you up to, young lady?”
“Nothing. I’m picking up your present after lunch.”
“Oh good,” he says. “I’m sure it’s huge, I’ll help you carry it.”
“Uh-uh. You’re going home; I’ll collect it and we’ll meet back at the house.”
“Are we opening things tonight or tomorrow?”
She shrugs. “Whatever you want.”
“It is Christmas Eve.”
“Tonight it is, then. After dinner.”
Lauren struggles into the house, swaying slightly under the weight of the parcel. Now, suddenly, as she carries it over the threshold of her uncle’s house, this beautiful, comforting house, she has her first sense of misgiving. Arms aching, she pauses in the hallway and props the present against a wall. It is large, and wound around with an outsized ribbon and bow. In the gallery she had thought the bow a festive, bright touch, but here in the warm darkness of Alexander’s home, and considered in the light of her new uncertainty, the gold ribbon appears garish. She reaches over and tugs at it, but the bow is firm and does not unravel at a touch. She pulls off her gloves and scarf, her lip caught between her teeth as she considers.
“Lauren?”
He is calling, from the kitchen of course. She can hear pots sliding on the stove, and the tap running.
“Coming!”
But he is already in the hall, a blue apron around his waist, and a towel between his hands. She looks round and sees him with her artist’s perception, for she is still in that other space in her mind, and his age shocks her for a moment. Not that he looks any older than he did the day before, or even six months before, but now she notices him as an older man – his silvery hair, still holding the pattern of his comb; his veined, slightly crooked hands, the light spots that run under the grey hair of his forearms. She greets him and glances at her own hand as it touches his shoulder, and she notices the planes of the bones and the flicker of muscle and vein. She feels like drawing it, immediately.
“Is that for me?”
“Of course,” she says.
“Shall I open it now?” he says, playing the excited child, when in reality she knows his small pleasure in unwrapping it will only be enhanced by a period of anticipation.
“After dinner,” she says, and leads him back into the kitchen.
An hour before their meal, she is upstairs, immersed in a hot bath, from which he knows she will not emerge for at least thirty minutes. He thinks with pleasure of the new candles he had thought to scatter around her bathroom, and he knows she will be lying there with every one of them lit. Since there will be only the two of them He has decided to serve beef rather than turkey, and the joint of meat is almost done, it’s savoury juices melting slowly into the pan where the potatoes are crisping. The wine is decanted, and he has the remaining vegetables browning, bubbling or roasting, according to their needs.
When the telephone rings, he considers leaving it, but the bell is persistent, and finally he scoops up the handset and flicks it on.
“Merry Christmas.” He recognises Estelle’s voice at once. He puts the pan he is holding back onto the stove and sits down at the kitchen table.
“And to you. How was California? Did you succumb to a facelift?”
“Are you implying I need one?” she returns.
“Of course not. I was thinking of your postcard, that’s all.”
“I have to say, I think LA has nothing going for it except maybe silicone implants and orange juice. How are you? Melissa told me the deal is probably off.”
He notes the word ‘probably’. Perhaps there is a chance to complete this sale after all. “Yes it is. But it happens. Perhaps it just wasn’t the right fit.”
“That’s too bad.” She sounds unconcerned. “Listen, I wanted to see if you’re free to come over for tea tomorrow. And your niece, if she’d like to.”
Alexander accepts, trying not to sound over-eager. He is pleased to hear from her. He had liked her relaxed tone, her forthrightness, the lack of formality, during their lunch – as he gets older, he has little patience for the careful treading that most new friendships require.
“How did you know Lauren was here?”
“Melissa mentioned it. In one of her few moments of conversation.”
“She’s with you for Christmas?” he asks.
“Yes. Right now she’s at one end of the apartment typing away on a laptop as thin as a wafer,” Estelle continues, “while at the other end, her father is scratching out literary criticism with a fountain pen that looks like something Dickens might have used….”
He smiles at the image, then risks a more intimate remark.
“Sounds lonely for you.”
She hesitates. “I’m used to it.”
His perception has unbalanced her, and he feels at once that the easy tone of the conversation has been lost. Without remaining on the line for much longer, she simply confirms the time for their visit and hangs up the phone.
After dinner they sit in the living room, almost stupefied by the food.
“I can’t believe I ate that much. I can’t move,” Lauren tells him.
He offers her a chocolate truffle. “Are you trying to kill me?” she asks.
“Certainly not. I want my present first.”
She struggles up with looks of exaggerated anguish, but refuses his offer of assistance. With difficulty she slides her package into the living room. He comes to where she holds it upright, and glances to her for permission to open it. She nods, an edge of anxiety scoring into her, as she watches him pick at the tape.
“Just rip it open, Uncle Alex. It’s a portrait,” she admits suddenly, unable to wait.
“A portrait of whom?”
She smiles and they continue unwrapping together, leaving curls of gold paper all over the floor. He is about to ask the question again, but now enough strips of paper are removed that what was initially just swathes of textured paint now reveals itself as a white blouse, a neck, a throat…then a chin and a mouth - a familiar mouth. The smile freezes on her face as she sees his watching eyes change from anticipation to shock. Or is it horror?
“Uncle Alex?” she says, taking hold of his hand. She has stopped peeling away the paper, but his free hand reaches up and pulls it loose, an impatient, urgent movement. He must see the rest of it at once. He gasps for air, an alarming sound, for in its shock, his body has forgotten to breathe. Lauren’s hand is on his forehead, stroking, panicking.
“I’m fine,” he whispers.
“Are you sure?”
He does not reply. He is engrossed in the painting. He now realizes that he had forgotten what Katya looked like, how she really was. The shape of her nose, the tilt of her chin, the lines on her forehead. Those details that get blurred in memory after months and years, that you find you can only recall by staring at the two photographs that you came away with, and that only return for sweet, ephemeral moments when the beloved’s face comes unsummoned into dreams or recollections. He feels he might cry if he speaks so he says nothing, and Lauren knows him well enough to wait in silence while they both look at the portrait. He forces himself to focus on the work involved, on Lauren’s achievement, as a way out of the labyrinth of emotion that has suddenly claimed him. His niece, Katya’s niece, has captured her aunt with such vivid clarity and life that he has to remind himself that she has in fact never even met her.
“Was it the wrong thing to do?” she asks finally.
He shakes his head to buy time, though there is a part of himself that is almost resentful of what his niece has done. How she has forced right before his eyes, in unrelenting clarity, the vision of his lost wife. His lost love. She waits, sensing that he is displeased in some way – she watches him biting his lip slightly. Perhaps he is trying to regain some control. Then he speaks, as quietly and calmly as he is able.
“Tell me about it,” he says.
Still gripping his hand, she speaks, slowly, carefully, explaining how she worked from the two pictures that he has, and from a couple of Yuri’s photographs, taken when Katya was a teenager, the Katya that he knew before he left Russia. Her features and facial structure were the same, of course, and gave her different angles and expressions to work from.
“And the eyes?” He looks at Lauren for the first time.
“Are they good?” she asks gently.
He nods. They are exact; so true. They look directly at him while revealing very little themselves. Katya could always have a hint of haughtiness about her, and Lauren had captured that too, but she had also placed in those eyes a fierce intelligence and an infinite sadness.
“When I was thinking about this piece, and how to do it, I went through everything I knew about her, and I realized that basically, that there were two Katyas. One was my father’s. You know Yuri’s stories,” she smiles. “The laughing, clever kid sister who was always leading him a dance and getting him in trouble with their parents. And then I knew your Katya. Or at least your stories of her,” she adds, to qualify any presumption he might feel she is making.
He waits for her to go on. Tell me, Lauren, what she was like, let me try and feel it again, even though you cannot possibly understand it all.
“That was the Katya I wanted to capture. The bold, strong, vulnerable, angry woman who chose to…”
A quick movement of his head catches her eye and causes her to stop.
“Anyway, that’s what I was trying for,” she finishes mildly.
“You’re a genius, Lauren. It’s almost hard to look at.”
“I’m sorry. The last thing I wanted was to hurt you….It’s funny, I was excited all the time I was painting it, varnishing, even framing just today. It was only when I got it home this afternoon that I had my first panic attack. Wondering if I was really doing the right thing. It must make you miss her all over again.”
They are quiet together for a minute or two before he speaks.
“It does,” he says. “I mean, it only sharpens what I’ve felt for the last forty years. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”
“As long as you’re okay with it. I can always take it away.”
“No, no. It was a shock, that’s all. I just need some time.”
He sounds more like himself and she is immeasurably relieved. The self-control, the rationality is back, and she is no longer fearful that she has made a terrible mistake. She leads him back to his chair and pokes at the fire, which has settled down into small, licking flames that curl around the last, luminous log of wood.
“I’ll get some tea,” she tells him. “Camomile?”
“If you’re having some?”
“Yes.”
He watches as she goes out to the kitchen, leaving him with a precious few moments alone. He glances at the fire for comfort, but the logs are too dry and are spitting and hissing, putting out a violent heat that causes him to move his chair back a little. Closing his eyes intensifies his awareness of the canvas looming behind him. With conscious, almost ostentatious calm, he turns in his chair, and looks at it, at her, once more. She is watching him with an expression that is half-smile, half-frown, an expression that perhaps she never even had during life, but which captures her character perfectly. He feels a stab of guilt and swallows, but his mouth is dry. He looks for water, but there is only the remains of their wine. Lauren will come soon with the tea, he reminds himself. In the meantime, Katya is regarding him with that slight smile, without accusation or blame. He has always known that she would never have blamed him for what happened – his own pain and guilt have been punishment enough. But that knowledge has only ever reinforced the sense of exactly how much he lost when she died.