James Emerson Fletcher
State Street
Boston, Massachusetts, USA
June 21, 1809
Miss J. M. Faber
The Pig and Whistle Inn
Boston, Massachusetts
Dear Jacky,
This shall be the last letter I shall send to you. I will conduct the business I must accomplish here in Boston, and then I shall be out of your life forever.
The reason for my change of heart will soon become clear to you. It goes like this:
Having taken lodging at the headquarters of Faber Shipping, I went out into the town to secure a place of business for my patron, and, having found a suitable space on State Street, I put down money, signed the necessary lease papers, and went to the Pig and Whistle for what promised to be an excellent lunch.
Feeling in high spirits on a very fine day, I hobbled back down to my lodging, soaking up the old familiar sights and looking out over the harbor in hopes of spying the returning Nancy B., but alas, that was not to be, and more is the pity. For if I had spotted you down at the docks, all this would not have happened.
As it were, I climbed the stairs to my rooms and was about to enter when I noticed that the door to your studio was ajar, probably left that way by a cleaning woman. Thinking you would not mind, since we soon would be sharing all things in our lives, I went in to look about.
It was a very pleasant, light-filled space, and I can see why you chose it for your workspace. Wandering about, I spied a very nice portrait in progress of a ship’s captain, a large sign laid out proclaiming Wilson Bros. Ships’ Chandlers, and some drawings, which I took to be student work, arranged about on wooden easels. Then I spied a leather tube, which looked a lot like a nautical map case.
Thinking that it might be a chart of your recent travels, which I would find most interesting, I removed the cap.
Indeed, I did find the contents most interesting . . .
It was neither a chart nor a map. No, it was nothing more than the end of all my hopes that you and I might share a life together. How much, just how much, Jacky, can one man take, even a man such as I, who in the past has overlooked and forgiven some of your more outrageous transgressions?
I spread the canvas out on the workbench and it lay there, glowing in the afternoon light pouring through the tall windows. Beneath the reclining nude figure of the girl are these words, La Maja Virginal. Con todo mi amor. Amadeo Romero, 1808.
I do not have much fluency in the Spanish language, but it does not take much to figure out that Con todo mi amor means “With all my love.”
I stood there and steamed in inchoate rage. Yes, I can well imagine what “all my love” meant in this case—all of you, from top to bottom, given up to this damned Amadeo Romero and, yes, to Joseph Jared and Richard Allen and all the rest of your mob of male “friends” whom you have successfully explained away in the past. Oh, yes, you have a glib tongue, Jacky, but I don’t believe it will be able to explain away this one—and no telling where that lying tongue has been.
I slammed my rod down hard on the bench top, the green-eyed Monster of Jealousy in full possession of me. No, Master Kwai Chang, I cannot follow your teachings, I cannot let go of this thing that tears at my mind. I cannot. I am not a worthy student, I know that now. I know that I am merely a beast, driven by my passions, by my rage, and I shall remain forever so. I am sorry, Master, but that is the way of it.
I compliment this Señor Romero on his skill—the resemblance is striking, for it is definitely you lying there, Jacky, mocking me with your smile, no doubt about it. If I had ever once thought that I would rejoice in once again seeing you in your natural state with your Brotherhood tattoo proudly on your hipbone, I was dead wrong.
A great sadness fell over me. I rolled up the painting and put it back in its case. I retreated to my now unhappy room to pen this letter. I will drop it at the Pig and Whistle the day I leave Boston, after I have completed my business here.
I now put you out of my mind, Jacky. Only bitterness remains . . .
In sorrow,
James Fletcher