Panchali had waited a month before she invaded Michael’s inner sanctum under the ruse of bringing him lunch. After seeing the disastrous state of his studio, she wished she had let him starve. Michael needed order and silence to paint. Why was he playing this loud music? And why Edith Piaf? Panchali could have handled the passionate romance of “La Vie en Rose,” but “Je Ne Regrette Rien?” Piaf’s pounding march against regret made Panchali’s head throb.
“Can you turn that down? Michael? For the love of…”
She set the kale salad on a table between two weirdly tribal images, neither of which fit with Michael’s vibrant abstracts or even the detailed snapshots he penciled in his leather journal. The new paintings were raw and pagan and decidedly unnerving.
The studio was worse. Broken pastels and spilled paint had mixed with crumpled sheets of used drawing paper to form a papier-mâché crust over the exquisitely polished wood floor. Soggy art paper stuck to the tops and sides of cabinets. Canvases of varying sizes were stacked along the wall, one against the other, with no concern for the wetness of the oils. The Michael she knew would have freaked if his work space had been so defiled.
She pried apart two of the canvases to see what he had painted. It was as if his abstracts had come to life: swirling skirts, swinging beads, glistening limbs, and faces caught in the throes of erotic passion. Both paintings contained startling images of dancing women, wild animals, and bare-chested men in grimy white pants who gripped the barrels of African drums between their legs. It was both disturbing and compelling.
She glanced around at the other paintings. They all featured a blazing bonfire and at least one apparition observing the scene. Neither of these elements should have appeared in the work of a pyro-phobic supernatural cynic.
She cut off the music, took a moment to savor the silence, then went to Michael. Since he never allowed her to see a painting in progress, she fought a pang of guilt as she positioned herself behind him. The sour odor of his sweat made her eyes water. When she brushed away the tears, she saw his wretched creation.
The painting was of him; not the Michael she knew, full of strength and vitality, but a hunched and ragged abomination. Stringy hair hung in clumps over hooded eyes that stared out in anguish. The image frightened her.
She took a calming breath and cleared her throat, not only to draw his attention, but to find her voice. “You trying a new style?”
Michael groaned and leaned in closer with the brush.
“What do you call it? Neo-Voodoo-Realism?”
She waited for one of his habitual quips. None came, as if he didn’t know she was there. The more she watched him, the more certain she became that he didn’t know he was there. He seemed completely immersed in what he was painting—a tiny figure beyond a wall of flames, kneeling on a four poster bed.
Panchali gasped. “Is that her?”
With a few quick strokes from his brush, her dark hair sprang to life, thick and heavy.
“Michael?”
He dipped his brush in an ugly shade of gloom and deepened the torment of his own image.
She snatched the brush from his hand, grabbed his arm, and yanked. “Hey. Look at me.” She clapped her hands in front of his face. “Can you see me? Say something.”
After a long frozen moment, Michael’s eyes widened in surprise. “Panchali?”
“Oh, thank God.”
“What are you doing here?” He looked around in shock. “What the hell happened to my studio?” He picked his foot off the sticky, paint-covered floor. “What’s that smell?” He sniffed around and finally checked his own armpits. “Is that me?” He pulled his shirt closer to his nose, took a whiff, then cringed. “What’s going on?”
She nodded toward the easel. “You tell me.”
He looked, shuddered, and began to sway.
Panchali steadied him. “You okay?”
“This is…disturbing.”
Demented would have been closer to the truth.
She tried not to look at the horror he had made of his own face and pointed to the woman in the background. “Is that her? The woman from Brazil?”
He nodded without looking.
She pointed to the other paintings. “What’s up with these?”
He scanned the room and shook his head, slowly at first then progressively faster as he grew more agitated.
She touched his arm. “It’s time, Michael.”
“For what?”
“You know what.”
He looked away. “I can’t.”
“It’s not like you haven’t done it before.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“Yes, it is. And it won’t be the first time.”
He sagged onto a stool. “I can’t believe you’re going there.”
She knelt in front of him. “You’ve avoided this long enough. You have a gift. Why are you so afraid to use it?”
He ground his thumbs into his temples. “It’s not a gift, Panchali, it’s a curse. I’m not afraid. I’m terrified.”
“Of what? Your parents’ disapproval? You’re a grown man, not a frightened little boy.”
“It’s not that.” He looked as if he might scream. Instead, he clenched his teeth and growled. “I’m not what you think.”
“What could you possibly think you are that’s so horrible you couldn’t tell me?”
He opened his mouth to answer then snapped it shut.
It broke her heart to see him this distressed, but he needed to face the truth.
“I know you don’t want to admit it, but you’ve channeled spirits since you were a child. You can’t block them out any longer. They’ve taken over your art. If you don’t listen to them, they’ll take over your life.”