Ivory and the Horn (37 page)

If your mind is attuned to beauty,

you find beauty in everything.

—Jean Cooke, in an interview in
The Artist’s and Illustrator’s Magazine,
April 1993

All I ask of you

Is that you remember me

As loving you

—traditional Sufi song

Each of us owes God a death.

 
—attributed to Humphrey Osmond

1

Sophie didn’t attend the funeral. She hadn’t met Max yet, couldn’t have known that his lover had died. On the afternoon that Max stood at Peter’s gravesite under a far too cheerful sky, she was in her studio in Old Market, preparing for a new show. It wasn’t until the opening, two months later, that they met. But even then, Coyote was watching.

2

There is a door in my dreams that opens into a desert….

where the light is like a wash of whiskey over my vision;

where the color of the earth ranges through a spectrum of
dusty browns cut with pale ochre tones and siennas;

where distant peaks jut blue-grey from the tide of hills washing up against the ragged line the mountains make at the horizon, peaks that are shadowed now as the sun sets in a geranium and violet glory behind me;

where the tall saguaro rise like sleepy green giants from the desert floor, waving lazy arms to no one in particular, with barrel cacti crouching in their shadows like smaller, shorter cousins;

where clusters of prickly pear and cholla offer a thorny embrace,’ and the landscape is clouded with mesquite and palo verde and smoke trees, their leaves so tiny they don’t seem as much to grow from the gnarly branches as to have been dusted upon them;

where a hawk hangs in the sky high above me, a dark silhouette against the ever deepening blue, gliding effortlessly on outspread wings;

where a lizard darts into a tight crevice, its movement so quick, it only registers in the corner of my eye;

where an owl the size of my palm peers at me from the safety of its hole in a towering saguaro;

where a rattlesnake gives me one warning rattle, then fixes me with its hypnotic stare, poised to strike long after I have backed away;

where the sound of a medicine flute, breathy and soft as a secret, rises up from an arroyo, and for one moment I see the shadow of a hunchbacked man and his instrument cast upon the far wall of the gully, before the night takes the sight away, if not the sound;

where the sky, even at night, overwhelms me with its immensity;

where the stillness seems complete… except for the resonance of my heartbeat that twins the distant-drum of a stag’s hooves upon the dry, hard ground;

except for the incessant soughing cries of the ground-doves that feed in the brushy vegetation all around me;

except for the low sound of the flute which first brought me here.

The sweet scent of a mesquite fire in the middle of a dry wash draws me down from the higher ridges. The ground-doves break like quail with a rushing thrum of their wings as I make my way near. A figure is there by the fire, sitting motionless, head bent in shadow. I stand just beyond the circle of light, uncertain, uneasy. But finally I step forward. I sit across the fire from the figure. In the distance, I can still hear the sound of the flute. My silent companion gives neither it nor my presence any acknowledgment, but I can be patient, too.

And anyway, I’ve nowhere else to go.

3

Given her way in the matter, Sophie would never attend one of her own openings. She was so organized and tidy that she never really thought that she looked like the typical image of what an artist should be, and she always felt awkward trying to make nice with the gallery’s clients. It wasn’t that she didn’t like people, or even that she wasn’t prone to involved conversations. She simply felt uncomfortable around strangers, especially when she was supposed to be promoting herself and her work. But she tried.

So this evening as The Green Man Gallery filled with the guests that Albina had invited to the opening, Sophie concentrated on fulfilling what she saw as her responsibility in making the evening a success. Instead of clustering in a corner with her scruffy friends, who were doing their best not to be too rowdy and only just succeeding, she made an effort to mingle, to be sociable, the approachable artist. Whenever she felt herself gravitating to where Jilly and Wendy and the others were standing, she’d focus on someone she didn’t know, walk over and strike up a conversation.

An hour or so into the opening, she picked a man in his late twenties who had just stopped in front of
Hearts Like Fire, Burning—
a small oil painting of two golden figures holding hands in a blaze of color that she’d meant to represent the fire of their consummated love.

He was tall and slender, a pale, dark-haired Pre-Raphaelite presence dressed in somber clothes: black jeans, black T-shirt, black sportsjacket, even black Nike sneakers. What attracted her to him was how he moved like a shadow through the gallery crowd and seemed completely at odds with both them and the bright, sensual colors of the paintings that made up the show. And yet he seemed more in tune with the paintings than anyone else—perhaps, she thought wryly as she noticed the intensity of his interest in the work, herself included.

Hearts Like Fire, Burning,
in particular, appeared to mesmerize him. He stood longest in front of it, transfixed, his features a curious mixture of deep sadness and joy. When she approached him, he looked slowly away from the painting and smiled at her. The expression turned bittersweet by the time it reached his eyes.

“So what do you think of this piece?” he asked.

Sophie blinked in surprise. “I should probably be asking you that question.”

“How so?”

“I’m the artist.”

He inclined his head slightly in greeting and put out his hand. “Max Hannon,” he said, introducing himself.

“I’m Sophie Etoile,” she said as she took his hand. Then she laughed. “I guess that was obvious.”

He laughed with her, but his laugh, like his smile, held a deep sadness by the time it reached his eyes.

“I find it very peaceful,” he said, turning back to the painting.

“Now that’s a description I’ve never heard of my work.”

“Oh?” He regarded her once more. “How’s it usually described?”

“Those that like it call it lively, colorful, vibrant. Those that don’t call it garish, overblown….” Sophie shrugged and let the words trail off.

“And how would you describe it?”

“With this piece, I agree with you. For all its flood of bright color, I find it very peaceful.”

“It reminds me of my lover, Peter,” Max said. “We were in Arizona a few months ago, staying with friends who have a place in the desert. We’d sit and hold hands at this table they had set up behind their house and simply let the light and the sky fill us. It felt just like this painting—full of gold and flames and the fire in our hearts, all mixed up together. When I look at this, it brings it all back.”

“That’s very sweet.”

Max turned back to the painting. “He died a week or so after we got back.”

“I’m so sorry,” Sophie said, laying a hand on his arm.

Max sighed. “It doesn’t hurt to talk about him, but God do I miss him.”

You can say it doesn’t hurt, Sophie thought, but she could see how bright his eyes had become, only just holding back a film of tears. The openness with which he’d shared his feelings with her made her want to do something special in return.

“I want you to have this painting,” she said. “You can come pick it up when the show’s over.”

Max shook his head. “I’d love to buy it,” he said, “but I don’t have that kind of money.”

“Who said anything about you having to pay for it?”

“I couldn’t even think of…” he began.

But Sophie refused to listen. “Look,” she said. “What would be the point of being an artist if you only did it for the money? I always feel weird about selling my work anyway. It’s as though I’m selling off my children. I don’t even know what kind of a home they’re going to—there’s no evaluation process beforehand. Someone could buy this painting just for the investment and for all I know it’ll end up stuck in a closet somewhere and never be seen again. I can’t tell you how good it would make me feel knowing that it was hanging in your home instead, where it would mean so much to you.”

“No, I just couldn’t accept it,” Max told her.

“Then let me give it to Peter,” Sophie said, “and you can keep it for him.”

Max shook his head. “This is so strange. Things like this don’t happen in the real world.”

“Well, pick a world where it could happen,” Sophie said, “and we’ll pretend that we’re there.”

Max gave her a curious look. “Do you do this a lot?”

“What? Give away paintings?”

“No, pick another world to be in when you don’t happen to like the way things are going in this one.”

Now it was Sophie’s turn to be intrigued. “Why, do you?”

“No. It’s just … ever since you came over and started talking to me, I’ve felt as though we’ve met before. But not here. Not in this world. It’s more like we met in a dream____”

This was too strange, Sophie thought. For a moment the gallery and crowd about them seemed to flicker, to grow hazy and two-dimensional, as though only she and Max were real.

Like we met in a dream…

Slowly she shook her head. “Don’t get me started on dreams,” she said.

4

“There are sleeping dreams and waking dreams,” Christina Rossetti says in her poem “A Ballad of Boding,” as though the difference between them is absolute. My dreams aren’t so clearly divided, not from one another, and not from when I’m actually awake either. My sleeping dreams bleed into the real world; actually, the place where they take place seems like a real world, too—it’s just not one that’s as easily accessed by most people.

The experiences I have there aren’t real, of course, or at least not real in the way people normally use the word. What happens when I fall asleep and step into my dreams can’t be measured or weighed—it can only be known—but that doesn’t stop these experiences from influencing my life and leaving me in a state of mild confusion so much of the time.

The confusion stems from the fact that every time I turn around, the rules seem to change. Or maybe it’s that every time I think I have a better understanding of what the night side of my life means, the dreams open up like a Chinese puzzle box, and I find yet another riddle lying inside the one I’ve just figured out. The borders blur, retreating before me, deeper and deeper into the dreamscape, walls becoming doors, and doors opening out into mysteries that often obscure the original question. I don’t even know the original question anymore. I can’t even remember if there ever was one.

I do remember that I went looking for my mother once. I went to a place, marshy and bogled like an old English storybook fen, where I found that she might be a drowned moon, pinned underwater by quicks and other dark creatures until I freed her from her watery tomb. But I came back from that dreamscape without a clear answer as to who she was, or what exactly it was that I had done. What I do know is that I came back with a friend: Jeck Crow, a handsome devil of a man who, I seem to remember, once bore the physical appearance of the black-winged bird that’s his namesake. Is it a true memory? I don’t know, he won’t say, and our relationship has progressed to the point where it doesn’t really matter anymore.

I only see him when I sleep. I close my eyes and step from this world to Mabon, the city that radiates from Mr. Truepenny’s, the bookstore/art gallery I made up when I was a kid. Or at least I thought I’d made it up. It was the place I went when I was waiting for my dad to come home from work, a haven from my loneliness because I didn’t make friends easily in those days. Not having anyone with whom I could share the fruits of my imagination, I put all that energy into making up a place where I was special, or at least had access to special things.

Faerie blood—courtesy of a mother who, Jilly is convinced, was a dream in this world, a moon in her own—is what makes it all real.

5

“Who was that guy you spent half the night talking to?” Jilly wanted to know as she and Sophie were walking home from the restaurant where they’d all gone to celebrate after the opening. Sophie had asked Max to come along, but he’d declined.

“Just this guy.”

Jilly laughed. ” ‘Just this guy.’ Oh, please. He was the best-looking man in the place and he seemed quite smitten with you.”

Sophie had to smile. Only Jilly would use a word like smitten.

“His name’s Max Hannon,” she told Jilly, “and he’s gay.”