The Black Painting. Neil Olson
room was also empty, the table covered in a white tarp. Teresa enjoyed the game, but she was a poor player. Audrey was the pool shark. Hustling Kenny for his summer allowance while James and Teresa played chess in the corner. For a moment, she saw the ghosts of their younger selves scattered around the room. There and gone.
The corridor to the kitchen beckoned, but she was stopped short by something she had never seen before. The door to her grandfather’s study stood open. In all of Teresa’s time here that door had been a virtual wall. Locked when the old man was not inside, closed even when he was. Always closed. Now, just the glimpse of afternoon light falling across an ornate desk and a blue-and-red oriental carpet, thrilled her with fear and wonder. She took a deep breath and forced herself to walk through the door.
It was a smaller room than expected, but otherwise exactly as she had envisioned it. Bookcases lined the walls, though there was space enough for one painting directly behind the desk. Did she only imagine the faint square where the cream paint seemed brighter? It had hung there a long time before some brave soul seized it. She looked away, as if even this outline might retain a lethal potency. A set of casement windows let in the mellow autumn light. The fireplace stood like an open black maw. Was that the same iron poker the thieves had used to clout Ilsa, or did Grandpa replace the set?
On the near wall was a cracked leather sofa, and on it sat a man.
Not sat, but sprawled, in a position that must surely be uncomfortable. One slipper dangled off the pale left foot. His dressing gown—dusky gold with red Chinese dragons—was badly rumpled. Teresa knew that dressing gown. Indeed, she would have said the man was her grandfather, except for his awful stillness. And the expression of abject terror which twisted his features. The dead blues eyes were fixed on the empty space across the room.
“Teresa?”
Audrey’s voice from the back stairs broke the spell. Teresa shuddered with an animal revulsion, then backpedaled. Until she struck a bookcase and fell to her knees. There had been a noise. A deep, guttural moan whose source she could not identify. The man? Had he groaned? Then she understood that she herself had made the noise. She tried to speak, but no words would come.
“Was that you?” Audrey asked, rushing into the room. “Did you hurt yourself? What is the... Oh. Oh, man.”
Teresa could not even look at her cousin. As much as she wished to, she could not take her eyes from the hideous gray face.
“Okay,” said Audrey between deep breaths. “Okay, Teresa? Look at me. Don’t look at him, look at me.”
She tried to obey, but could not move her head. She could not even close her eyes. She would be looking at that face for the rest of her life. Then something intervened. Audrey’s white T-shirt. Then her face. Those blue eyes. Like their grandfather’s, though bright and full of life.
“Audie,” Teresa whispered. A frightened four-year-old girl again.
“I know, sweetheart. It’s all right, let’s get you out of this room. No, don’t.” The voice went from compassion to anger in a moment, or maybe it was only panic. “Don’t you dare have one of your fits right now. Stay with me, Teresa.”
It was no use. The hard edges of the world fractured into prismatic color. Her senses closed down, and she saw into the heart of the universe. For a bare moment she understood everything. Then a blinding light absorbed her. She felt her body go slack, go liquid, vanish. She gave herself up to the light.
“Teresa. Teresa.”
For madness, no one could top Goya. Drunks, murderers, victims of violence. Lunatics beset by demons or witches summoning them. Gods destroying their children. The Spaniard had seen it all, in the war-torn landscape of his country or in his own troubled mind, and captured it on canvas. Including at least one thing he should not have caught.
Francisco José de Goya. Teresa had known the name always. It was synonymous with fear. She was as easily scared as any sensitive girl who read too much, and the scariest things were those left to your imagination. Her grandfather, usually kind, was stern and absolute in one matter. Stay out of the study. Never go in for any reason. The fear could not be explained away as Teresa grew older because it was so obviously shared by her mother and uncles. They had also known of the painting all their lives, although only the eldest, Philip, had actually seen it. And he never spoke to his brother or sister about what he saw. Of course the old man saw it every day, and he was neither struck dead nor driven mad. There was a trick to it, or there was a type of person able to withstand the portrait’s awful gaze. More than withstand it, but learn and prosper from the contact. This was explained to Teresa by her father, Ramón, who counted himself among those so gifted. For he had seen the painting many times. Whether and how it had damaged him was anyone’s guess.
There were many reasons Teresa could invent for her obsession with art. Because it was something she shared with her father and grandfather, who took her to all the best museums in New York and Boston. Because her impulse toward the mystical and curiosity about her Spanish heritage found their perfect union and expression in the artists she adored: El Greco, Zurbarán, Goya. Because she was so bad at the hard sciences that a humanities degree was her only choice. But she knew very well that the obsession had its roots in that first terror and fascination of childhood. The haunted self-portrait by Goya from his solitary days in the Quinta del Sordo. A painting that had left one man dead in Teresa’s lifetime, and carried the rumor of death and insanity in a long train behind it. A painting she had never seen, and never would.
* * *
The ambulance made its slow way around the drive and out of sight. No lights or siren. There was no need. A police cruiser escorted it, but the nondescript brown sedan that arrived later was still parked out there. The detective must be somewhere talking to Audrey, yet the house was quiet. Teresa was in the sitting room. She had been lying down, recovering from her migraine. But the settee was too hard, made for perching, not reclining. She was sitting up now, sipping from a glass of water Audrey had left for her. Everything that had happened since finding the dead man was vague and disjointed.
She was ashamed of her uselessness. She should be calling people, starting with her mother. She should be speaking to the sad-faced detective—it was she who had found the body, after all. Mostly she should not be falling to pieces like a fragile girl, leaving Audrey to handle everything. Audrey, who had been praising Teresa’s toughness only an hour ago. Who had kept her cool in the presence of death. Whatever her faults, the woman clearly had strengths which Teresa had been slow to perceive. Slow or unwilling. Her sense of Audrey as a person was trapped in the past, in a wounded child’s perceptions.
Voices approached down the hall, and Teresa stood. She was unsteady, but did not want to seem meek or ill. Audrey’s voice rose sharply just outside of the room, then fell silent. One set of footsteps retreated, and a moment later the detective appeared in the door.
He was tall and lean, though his face was puffy. Dark hair retreated from his forehead, and his hound dog eyes made you want to comfort him. It was a face you trusted, which must be useful for a detective.
“Miss Marías. How are you?”
“Fine,” she said, pleased by the firmness of her voice. “Call me Teresa.”
“I’m Detective Waldron.”
“You introduced yourself before,” she remembered.
“Right, I wasn’t sure if you, ah...”
“Was in my right mind?” she supplied, forcing a smile. “I really am okay now. Won’t you sit down?”
Won’t you sit down! Who was she, a society hostess? This wasn’t even her house. But he did sit, and she did, too, which was a relief.
“This shouldn’t take long,” he said, flipping through a small notepad. “Ms. Morse has filled me in pretty thoroughly. I wonder if you could run through your arrival here, and the um, the discovery