Having heard nothing yet from her email to Jorge, Jenna took fate by the neck and messengered a note over to him at the Hull building the very next morning, and now she awaited some word from him. She and Jorge had been somehow in cahoots, not quite knowing about what, nevertheless often conspiring like disgruntled subjects of the king. It was their bond, and she had broken it, so she expected outrage on that front, as well as on every other one, or maybe he would refuse to respond. Possibly it was dangerous, for him, too. But those labels—she had never exactly figured out what they meant.
As she walked up Madison from 63rd Street, aiming for the hospital at 89th Street, she felt as if on a journey through her past. Most of the shops had just begun to open. She stared in at the textured velvets and brocades at Etro, where she had once spent a month’s salary on a skirt, the mannequins lounging in suggestive, impossible postures. Though the cold cut through her, she kept on, head down, until she passed by the famously elaborate drug store, its window consumed with a doll collection of impressive bling and shine, the very one where once she had picked up Mrs. Hull’s bath oil. On impulse, she went inside, knowing right where to find the stuff. Yes, Huile D’Automne, still there. She hadn’t even smelled it that day, but now she opened the top of the tester and inhaled a vibrant spicy scent, grassy, not sweet at all.
Quickly she bought a bottle and stuck it in her purse—to do what with? It had figured in the first real Hull drama she was forced to witness, Vincent’s wife no doubt crying over his affair, Tasha two-timing her with her husband, if she knew it was in fact Tasha, or just her husband cheating on her, period. Would a Frenchwoman have expected fidelity? She hadn’t seen much of that in France. Having a rich sexual history herself now, she saw these goings-on in the hazy, unfocused way that real life involved. No absolutes, no judgments without knowledge, and even then, sparingly. To herself she planned to be especially kind.
The curator had allotted her a good-sized corner hospital room as a studio, with big windows on each side, and only the nurse’s station stood between her and the library. The woman had provided a lab coat, an easel, a basic restoration kit, a mask, gloves, and a number of scalpels, scrapers, and brushes. Logically, this should be enough. She sat herself down before the Bélange, examining it closely, keeping in mind as best she could the last time she had seen it on the wall at Water Mill, and without warning she teared up. That night, those things she did, they did. How she wished for it all back—the innocence of it, the not knowing what would come.
Jenna had no copy of her art inventory, but she remembered so well the moment when Vincent had run his hand over the thick leather covering on the book when she had handed it to him. What had she written about this painting in the past? Not a particularly valuable piece, but gorgeous then, luscious, sexy, now ironically, just plain wet everywhere. She couldn’t remember a problem like the one she faced, but trying to assess it, she brought out the small digital camera she now used to photograph art, so much less impressive than her Leica but more serviceable. A moderate-sized work, the painting measured five feet by three feet. Photographing it from one side to the other, up on her laptop she could read several shadowy shapes in an underlayer behind the bathing girl, but their outlines had blurred to render them ghostly. Were they meant to be painted out altogether, but now revealed by the failing paint?
With a Q-tip dipped in water, beginning in the lower right-hand corner, she swabbed small bits of dirt and dust off the surface. Beneath this tiny spot she brushed a chemical solvent to reduce the synthetic resin varnish that had been applied. Finally, she came to the paint layer, composed of dry pigment ground, in this case, a linseed medium much like a paste. Bélange was known to grind his own paints and to layer them from “fat to lean,” each new layer a bit oilier than the preceding one. He mixed his media, though, and Jenna thought perhaps he had used cold wax or an unusual resin to get the translucent effects so marvelous in the work she saw before her, even in this, its fallen state.
An oil painting can become dry to the touch anywhere from a day to two weeks and can be varnished in six months to a year. Still, when she thought back to her apprenticeship, she remembered folklore about one work still not considered dry after eighty years on the wall. Maybe she should take it to a tanning salon, Jenna laughed to herself. Had this painting been in the sun? That could help. She remembered that at the Water Mill house, all the Hulls’ art had been carefully placed to avoid direct sunlight, even down to light canvas covers the housekeeper hung over selected works near a window in order to block out the afternoon glare. With good intentions, the hospital staff had instantly hidden this particular work, horrified at what they saw but confused too, as Bélange had told them, before his death two years previously, that they had only to put the thing on the wall and wait. The sun would “cure” it. But it was uncured, sicker, even, as Jenna examined earlier photographs the curator had religiously taken once every three months.
She didn’t want to clean the rest of the painting as that might strip it of whatever remaining pigment it had. Instead, she cut out a large piece of tissue and laid it over the work’s face, attaching it at the side with tape. It didn’t touch the surface but protected it from getting dirt stuck on it when she turned the painting over to inspect its backside. The stretcher appeared normal, as did the actual canvas itself, no tears or defects. And then “Hello,” a quiet voice said. She looked around to see a young black child of six or seven clad in a hospital gown staring solemnly at her.
“Hello,” she smiled.
One hand holding an IV pole, the other outstretched, the boy shook hands solemnly. His fingers felt soft, almost papery in hers. He had a grown-up face, fine-boned, and at last he smiled, a shy little smile, and then looked down. “I’m not supposed to be here, I’m pretty sure. My mom might be looking for me.”
“Should we go back to your room so you don’t worry her?”
“No, they can miss me. It’s good for them.” He grinned. “Can I sit here and see what you’re doing?”
“Sure.” She pulled up a small stool for the boy. “I’m Cate.”
“Hello, Cate. I’m Amon.” He sat himself down gently, gathering his hospital gown around his thin little legs.
During the next hour the boy sat silent, watching her every move, a ghostly little presence, intense. Jenna didn’t speak, but as she got out a magnifying glass and scanned the face of the painting inch by inch, the little boy crept closer. At last she handed the glass to him and positioned it in his delicate hand. For a child so young, he had the concentration of a much older person, looking up after a moment and shaking his head. “Dripping, looks like. Everything’s mushed.”
“That’s what I think, too.” Just then the door opened behind them and a heavyset white woman in blue jeans stood there with her hands on her hips. She had a fine head of curly light brown hair that flew out in all directions and a liveliness that scattered out all the somber quietness Jenna and the boy had created.
“So this is where you are, mister. We were really worried.”
“Mom!”
“I’m very sorry,” Jenna said. “He came by, and he and I got involved in working on the painting.”
The woman looked harried, talking and scrolling through her calls on a cell phone all the while. The boy went up and put his arms around her ample waist, and they made an incongruous pair. She patted him on the head, distracted, and pulled him toward the door. “Bye. . . .” He turned toward Jenna. “See you soon, I hope.”
“Oh, no you don’t, mister,” but the big woman stuck out her hand to Jenna. “I’m Lori, Amon’s mother,” she said emphatically as if expecting someone to deny it.
“He’s no trouble.” But then Jenna worried, would he become so, would he hang about too much? It wasn’t really that large a room, and he was sick, worse than that, she now saw that fixing the painting would take a lot of time, more time than she probably even had, so she might have to give up the commission, but the mother and son were gone before she could say anything.
The young boy reappeared later that same afternoon. When Jenna entered the library, she spotted the small, recognizable face holding an oversized art book up in his hands, reading, supposedly, but glancing around, waiting for her. He lit up when she came through the door. No longer encumbered by the IV, he dropped the book and scooted over. “I’m here to help.”
“Does your mother know about this?”
“She’s not here. She won’t be here for hours.”
“What about the nurses?”
“Oh, they trust me. They let me do what I want.”
Jenna wasn’t so sure about this but didn’t have the heart to turn him away. “Okay, but we’ll have to let someone know you’re here.”
“No, no,” he wailed. “It’s so boring in my room.”
Yes, it would be. She had tried not to look too closely at the children, but the inevitable glance proved they were bored witless, lying in bed all day watching television, that is, when they were not crying or screaming or trying to run away from some gruesome procedure, and run they did. She wished she could help every single one of them escape, so rather than call a nurse, she motioned Amon to follow her, and together they examined the painting once again. It looked even worse now, and she felt sure she would have to test every oil layer to see what was really going on. “You can hand me some of these vials, if you want, Amon.” He perched himself on the stool again, gently picking one up each time she pointed toward another. He didn’t say a word, though occasionally he bent forward to watch what she was doing, never getting in her way.
Jenna liked his delicate little hands, so gentle with everything. She wondered what was wrong with him, but of course could think of no way to ask. He seemed so grown up. Wasn’t that always the way with sick children, old beyond their years, suffering what they never should have to and never knowing the reason why? Or perhaps blaming a malevolent being who, for reasons unknown, wanted them unwell, or worse. Disease made philosophers of them all.
The two worked like this for almost an hour. Amon said very little, only murmuring now and again when Jenna appeared particularly interested in something, so they were startled when the curator appeared, apparently shocked at the young boy’s presence. “Back to the ward, young man. They probably think you’re lost!”
Amon slowly moved from the stool and trotted out but waved to Jenna behind the older woman’s back and stuck out his tongue.
“He’s such a cutie. Why is he here?”
“Oh, we’re not allowed to give out any information like that, but it must be serious. He’s been here for weeks, from the Midwest, I think. What’s the status of the picture? Any diagnosis on your end?”
“I feel almost sure it’s inherent vice.”
“You mentioned that before.”
“Yes, corruption of the medium. Painters who work in oil strive for extreme effects in terms of depth and richness, the real world laid out flat on a canvas but round, three-dimensional. This is very difficult to do. Someone like Leonardo da Vinci experimented all the time with strange substances to enhance his colors, even while he had to get the thick oil paint to stick to the canvas, which actually he didn’t always manage to do. Restoring the painting will take time and a lot of work. You might have to face that it can’t be fixed at all.”
The woman sighed, gripping her hands together tightly. “I wonder what I should tell the donors—or maybe we should give it back? No, that wouldn’t be right. They’d be horribly offended. The Hulls aren’t exactly the friendliest people in the world.”
Jenna blushed at the name. Hearing it out loud set her heart racing, as if every piece of privileged knowledge would show on her face. “Yes, so I’ve heard.” She looked down at the floor.
Before she left the hospital that day, it had started to rain, and now as she emerged into the open air, she put out her hand to catch the droplets. Just hearing “Hull,” especially from the lips of someone ignorant of its significance for her, scared her. She didn’t belong anywhere near them, but they had demanded it, why? To fix this painting? Any number of art restorers in New York would love to do it for them. Her phone pinged, but she didn’t recognize the number. “Yes?” she said out into the void.
“Tonight, seven thirty, Columbiana restaurant, Astoria, Queens.” It was Jorge.