The Swan Thieves Part 4

the original Impressionists, including one woman--Berthe Mori-sot--who'd first banded together in 1874 to exhibit works in a style that the Paris Salon found too experimental for inclusion. We postmoderns take them for granted, or disdain them, or love them too easily. But they had been the radicals of their day, exploding traditions of brushwork, making subject matter of ordinary life, and bringing painting out of the studio and into the gardens, fields, and seascapes of France.

Now I saw with fresh appreciation the natural light, the soft, subtle color of a scene by Sisley: a woman in a long dress disappearing down the snowy tunnel of a village road. There was something touching and real, or touching because it was real, in the bleakness of the trees along the lane, some of which towered over a high wall. I thought of what an old friend of mine once said, that a painting has to have some mystery to it to be any good. I liked this glimpse of the woman, her slim back turned to me in the twilight, more intriguing to me than Monet's endless haystacks--I was walking along a row of three that showed various stages of daybreak on their pink and yellow slopes. I slipped my jacket on and prepared to leave. I believe in walking out of a museum before the paintings you've seen begin to run together. How else can you carry anything away with you in your mind's eye?

In the lobby downstairs, the black-haired girl had disappeared. Miriam was deep in consultation with a man her own age who seemed to be having trouble reading the museum maps. I walked by, poised to smile if she glanced up, but she didn't see me, so I had to postpone my greeting. Pushing out through the doors, I experienced that mingled relief and disappointment one feels on departure from a great museum--relief at being returned to the familiar, less intense, more manageable world, and disappointment at that world's lack of mystery. There was the ordinary street, without brushwork or the depth of oil on canvas. The traffic was roaring past in the usual Washington chaos, some driver trying to get over in front of another, a near miss, horns leaned on or punched. The

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trees were beautiful, though, heavy with blossoms or new green; I'm always struck by their beauty after the nondescript winter that seems to be the best the mid-Atlantic can muster.

I was thinking about a blend of colors that might express those bright-green and russet leaves against one another when I saw the girl again--the young woman who had been studying Leda ahead of me. She was standing at a bus stop. She looked very different now, not reflective or engaged but defiant, straight and tall, with a canvas bag over her shoulder. Her hair shone in the sun; I hadn't noticed before how much dark gold was mixed with the red. Her arms were folded across her white blouse, and her lips were pressed tightly together. I was seeing her profile again, and already I would have known it anywhere. Yes, she was self-sufficient, almost hostile, but for some reason the word "disconsolate" came to my mind. Perhaps it was just that she seemed thoroughly alone, even deliberately so, and she was of an age to have been standing there with a handsome young husband. I felt a pang, as if I'd seen an acquaintance from a distance without having time to stop and speak; I had a sense of sneaking away before she could notice me.

I went quickly down the steps, and she turned just as I reached the bottom. She saw me, half recognized me (the undistinguished fellow in a navy jacket, no tie). Why was I familiar to her? Was that what she was asking herself, not remembering me from our encounter inside? Then she smiled, as she had in the museum-- a sympathetic, almost embarra.s.sed smile. She was mine for a moment, an old friend after all. I gave what was probably a ridiculous half wave with one hand. Strangers are strange to each other, I thought. Well, I had been stranger than she. I could see the lines around her eyes when she smiled; she might be over thirty after all. I tried to stand tall and straight, like her, as I walked away.

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CHAPTER 8 Marlow.

I got up even earlier than usual the next morning, but not to paint; by seven I was at Goldengrove to use my office computer and have a cup of coffee before most of the day staff arrived. The art encyclopedia at home had revealed little more than I already knew about Gilbert Thomas, although my Cla.s.sical Handbook gave me the story of Leda: She was a mortal woman ravished by Zeus, who visited her in the form of a swan. She had slept with her husband, Tyndareus, king of Sparta, on the same night. This explained her giving birth to two sets of twins at once, two immortal children and two mortal: Castor and Polydeuces (Pollux, the Roman version), and Clytemnestra and Helen, later held responsible for the troubles at Troy. Some versions of the myth, I learned, had Leda's children hatching from eggs, although they seemed to have gotten mixed up even in the sh.e.l.l, since Helen and Polydeuces, as children of Zeus, were divine, while Castor and Clytemnestra were doomed to mortality.

I had also looked up paintings of Leda and the Swan while I was at it and found quite a tradition, including a copy after a highly erotic Michelangelo, a Correggio, a copy after Leonardo in which the swan appeared to be a kind of household pet, and a Cezanne that showed the swan seizing an apparently unconcerned Leda by the wrist as if begging to be taken out for a walk. Gilbert Thomas had not made it into this august company, but I thought there might be something more on the Web.

I should probably say again here that I don't like to resort to

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the Internet, even now, and was less tolerant of it then--what will we someday do, I always wonder, without the pleasures of turning through books and stumbling on things we never meant to find? That happens during Internet research, of course, but in a more limited way, to my mind. And how could anyone consent to give up that smell of open books, old or new? While I was searching my shelves for the myth of Leda, for example, I learned about a couple of other cla.s.sical figures who don't enter this tale but whom I still think about from time to time. My wife tells me that this propensity to leaf through a volume instead of doing my research efficiently is one of the things that most dates me, but I've noticed that she handles books in the same way sometimes, looking through biographies and museum catalogs with a deep, aimless pleasure.

In any case, I don't claim to be expert at Web searches, but that morning I did learn a little more about Gilbert Thomas in the depths of my office computer. He had been promising, at best, in the early years of his career, and was really known only for the Leda Robert had objected to and for the self-portrait I'd seen next to it. He had also been an acquaintance of many French artists of the day, including Manet; he and his brother, Armand, had jointly owned one of the earliest sale galleries in Paris, second or third in importance to that of the great Paul Durand-Ruel. An interesting figure, Thomas; his business had ultimately gone under and he had died in debt in 1890, after which his brother had sold off most of their remaining stock and retired. Gilbert had painted the landscape for Leda outdoors around 1879, at his retreat near Fecamp in Normandy, finishing it in a Paris studio. The painting had been displayed at the Salon of 1880, to acclaim; it had also drawn criticism for its erotic nature. This had been the first Thomas painting accepted to the Salon, although it had not been the last; the others were lost or undistinguished, and his reputation rested mainly on this masterwork, now on permanent exhibition at the National Gallery.

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When I knew the residents had finished their breakfast, I went down the hall to Robert's room and knocked on the door, which was closed. Robert never answered, of course, so I always had to push it open a little at a time, calling in and trying not to surprise him at any possibly private moment. It was one of the things I found most inconvenient--embarra.s.sing, even--about his silence. That morning was no exception, and I knocked and called and widened the door several times before stepping in.

He was drawing at the counter that served as a desk, his back to me, his easel currently empty. "Good morning, Robert." I had begun to call him by his first name, but politely, this last week or two, pretending that he had invited me to do so. "May I come in for a moment?"

I left the door ajar, as always, and stepped inside. He did not turn, although his hand slowed in its motions on the paper and I saw that he gripped the pencil harder; with him, I had to watch for any possible sign that might take the place of language.

"Thank you so much for the loan of the letters. I've brought back your originals." I laid the envelope gently on the chair where he'd left them for me, but he still didn't turn around.

"I have just a quick question for you," I began again, cheerfully. "How do you go about your research? I'm wondering--do you use the Internet? Or do you spend a lot of time in libraries?"

The pencil stopped for a split second, and then he went on shading something in. I didn't allow myself to move close enough to see what he was drawing. His shoulders, in their old shirt, were forbidding. I could see the beginnings of a bald spot on the crown of his head; there was something touching about that place age had worn away already when the rest of him still seemed so vigorous. "Robert," I tried one more time, "do you do some research on the Web for your paintings?"

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This time the pencil did not swerve. For a moment I wanted him to turn and look at me. I imagined his expression as dark, his eyes wary. In the end, I was glad that he hadn't; I needed to be able to speak to his back, without being observed myself. "I do that, too, once in a while, although I prefer to use books."

Robert did not move, but I felt rather than saw something shift in him: Anger? Curiosity?

"Well, then, I guess that's it." I paused. "Have a good day. Let me know if I can do anything for you." I decided not to tell him that I was having his letters translated--if he could be silent, perhaps I would try a little of the same.

As I left the room, I glanced at the wall above his bed. He had taped up a new drawing, somewhat larger than the others--the dark-haired lady, somber, accusing, where she could watch over him even in his slumber.

On the following Monday, there was an envelope from Zoe waiting in my mailbox. Before opening it, I forced myself to eat my dinner; I washed my hands, made some tea, and sat down in the living room with a good lamp. Of course, the letters were likely to be mere domesticities, like most old letters, but Zoe had promised some pa.s.sages about painting, and she had left in the French salutation, knowing I would like that.

October 6, 1877 Cher Monsieur: Thank you for your kind note, which it falls to me to answer. We were very glad to see you last night. Your presence cheered my father-in-law, for one thing, and it has been difficult to make him laugh since he came to live with us. I believe he misses his own home, although for several years already it no longer contained the loving presence of his wife. He always says what a good brother you are to him. Yves sends you his best; he is relieved that you have returned to

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Paris. (Life is much improved with an uncle nearby, he says!) I am pleased to have met you myself at last. You will forgive me if I do not write at length, as I have much to attend to this morning. May you travel safely to the Loire and enjoy your stay there, and I trust that all your work will go well. I envy you the landscapes you will surely paint. And I shall read to my father-in-law the essays you left for us.

Respectfully, Beatrice de Clerval Vignot When I'd finished reading it, I sat trying to understand what Robert saw in this letter, what forced him to read it--and others-- over and over in his solitary room. And why he had let me see them at all, if they were so precious to him.

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CHAPTER 9 Marlow.

We don't usually try to interview our patients' ex-spouses, but as I watched that striking face take shape on Robert Oliver's canvases from week to week without being able to get any explanation from him, I felt a kind of moral defeat. Besides, he had said himself that I could talk with Kate.

Robert's ex-wife still lived in Greenhill, and I had spoken with her once during his first days with us. On the phone, she'd had a soft voice, a tired-sounding one, made more tired by my news of his admission to Goldengrove, and there was the noise of children in the background, someone laughing. We had talked just long enough for her to confirm that she knew about the diagnosis he'd previously received and that their divorce had been finalized more than a year earlier. He had lived in Washington during much of that year, she said, and then she added that it was a difficult subject for her to discuss. If her husband--her ex-husband--was not in any actual danger and I had the papers from his psychiatrist in Greenhill, would I please excuse her from talking more?

When I called her a second time, therefore, I was violating both my usual policy and her request. I reluctantly took her number out of Robert's file. Was it right for me to do this? But then, would it be right not to? During my early-morning visit that day, Robert had seemed to me more starkly depressed, and when I'd asked him if he ever thought about the painting called Leda, he had simply stared at me, as if too exhausted even to take offense at my absurd question. Some days he painted or sketched--always the lady's vivid face--and other days, like this one, he lay in bed

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with his jaw clenched, or sat in the armchair I usually used myself when I visited him, holding his letters and looking bleakly out the window. Once, when I came into his room, he opened his eyes, smiled at me for a moment and murmured something, as if seeing someone he loved, then leapt off the bed and briefly raised a fist in my direction. If nothing else, his wife might be able to tell me how he had reacted to his previous medications, and which had been most effective.

At five thirty, I dialed the number--Greenhill, in the western mountains of North Carolina; I'd heard of it from friends who spent summers there. When that same quiet voice answered, this time as if she had just been laughing about something with someone else, I was filled with wonder. I thought I could hear on the other end of the phone the lovely face Robert sketched day after day. Her voice quivered with joy for a moment. "Yes, h.e.l.lo?" it said.

"Mrs. Oliver, this is Dr. Marlow at Goldengrove Residential Center in Washington," I said. "We talked several weeks ago about Robert."

When she spoke again, the joy was gone and it had been replaced by a dull dread. "What is it? Is Robert all right?"

"There's nothing unusual to worry about, Mrs. Oliver. He's about the same." Now I could hear a child's voice laughing, too, and calling in the background, then a crash as if something had fallen to the floor nearby. "That's the problem, however. He does seem quite depressed still and fairly unstable. I want him in much better shape before I can consider discharging him. The most difficult thing is that he won't talk to me at all, or to anyone else."

"Ah," she said, and I heard for a second an irony that could have belonged to those radiant dark eyes, to that amused or angry mouth Robert was constantly sketching. "Well, he didn't talk with me much either, especially during the last year or two we were together. Wait--excuse me." It sounded as if she pulled away from the phone for a moment, and I heard her say, "Oscar? Kids? Go in the other room, please."

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"While Robert was still talking, his first day here, he gave me permission to discuss his case with you." She was silent, but I persisted. "It would be very helpful for me to speak with you about how his condition manifested itself--for example, how he reacted to the earlier medications he was given, and some other issues."

"Doctor... Marlow?" she said slowly, and beyond the trembling of her voice I heard again the child noise, laughter, and a pounding, thumping sound. "I have my hands full, to say the least. I've already talked with the police and two psychiatrists. I have two children and no husband. Robert's mother and I are planning to pay some of his inst.i.tutional bills when his insurance runs out-- that's coming out of his inheritance and mine, mostly his, but I'm helping a little. As you probably know." I hadn't known. She seemed to be taking a deep breath. "If you want me to spend time talking about the disaster of my life, you'll just have to come down here yourself. And now I'm trying to make dinner. I'm sorry." That tremble was the sound of a woman unused to telling people to go to h.e.l.l, a woman usually polite but cornered now by circ.u.mstance.

"I apologize," I said. "I'm sure your situation is a difficult one. I do need to help your husband, your former husband, if I possibly can. I'm his doctor and I'm responsible for his safety and well-being at the moment. I'll call you another day to see if there's an easier time for you to talk."

"If you must," she said. But then she added, "Good-bye," and hung up gently.

That evening I went home to my apartment and lay down on the sofa in my green-and-gold living room. It had been an exhausting day, beginning with Robert Oliver and his usual refusal to talk with me. His eyes had been bloodshot, almost desperate, and I wondered if I needed to put a night watch on him. Would I come in one morning to find he'd swallowed all his oil paints--my gifts

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to him--or cut his wrists somehow? Should I return him to John Garcia for a more secure hospital stay? I could call John and tell him this case wasn't right for me after all; I was spending too much time on it, with no real hope of results. We had cleared Robert of acute risk, but I still worried. I wondered if I could tell John, also, that something about the way I was behaving made me uneasy--the way my heart had jumped at the sound of Kate Oliver's voice on the phone. Had I been reluctant to call her or actually eager?

I felt too tired to fill my water bottle and go out for a run, my normal activity at this hour. Instead I lay there with eyes half closed, looking at the painting I'd done to hang over the fireplace. You shouldn't hang oils over a fireplace, of course, but I seldom lit a fire and the s.p.a.ce had cried out for something when I'd first moved in. This was perhaps what it felt like to be Robert Oliver, or any patient depressed to the point of exhaustion; I slitted my eyes nearly shut and rolled my head listlessly, experimentally, on the arm of the sofa.

When I opened them, there was the painting again. As I've said, I like to paint portraits, but the oil over my fireplace is a landscape seen through a window. And I usually paint landscapes from life, especially out in Northern Virginia, where those blue hills in the distance are so tempting. This one is different, a fantasy inspired by some of Vuillard's canvases but also by memories of the view from my childhood bedroom in Connecticut: the green windowsill and frame all around the edges, the heavy tree-tops, the roofs of the old houses, the very tall white spire of the Congregational church rising out of the trees, the lavender and gold of the spring sunset. I had put everything I remembered into it, with rough strokes, everything except for the boy leaning out the window and soaking it all in.

I lay on the sofa, wondering, not for the first time, if I should have moved the church spire farther to the right; it really had been exactly in the center of my view from that boyhood window, just

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as I'd painted it, but the painting was too balanced that way, too symmetrical for comfort. d.a.m.n Robert Oliver--d.a.m.n, most of all, his self-sabotaging refusal to speak. Why would anyone choose to be more of a victim when his own brain chemistry was hurting him enough? But that was always the question, the problem of how our chemistry shapes our will. He had once had two little children and a soft-voiced wife. He was still a man with a great facility in his eyes and fingers, a deftness with the brush that made something hurt in my head. Why wouldn't he talk to me?

When I was too hungry to lie there any longer, I got up and changed into my pajamas and opened a can of tomato soup, garnishing it with parsley and sour cream and cutting a big slice of bread to go with it. I read the paper and then part of a mystery novel, R D. James, a really good one. I didn't go into my studio.

The next afternoon I phoned Mrs. Oliver once more just before I left work. This time she answered in a serious voice.

"Mrs. Oliver, this is Dr. Marlow, calling from Washington. Forgive me for disturbing you again." She was silent, so I went on. "This is unusual, I know, but it seems to me that we both care about your husband's condition, and I'm wondering if you would let me take you up on your offer." Silence, still. "I'd like to come to North Carolina to talk with you about him."