Other Colors Ch. 01-10

Or I could stand around here all night in Madame's Mondrian dress, and pretend to be one of the paintings.I forced a cheerless half-grin. Resolving to salvage my Saturday and just head home, I returned the ticket for my coat, and was considering where to pick up some cheap Indian takeout when I turned and walked smack dab into the iron sculpture, almost impaling myself on one of its protrusions.

"Oh, for the love of­­­­—"my jacket was snagged.

I tugged hard. A few stitches ripped, but it wouldn't give.

"Mon kalise de tabarnak," I swore, appropriating the rudesacrerof the Québécois.

Overhearing my obscenity, a stout, russet-haired man nearby turned his head to investigate.

Oh God, I realized, my eyes widening.It's Peter.

"Penny?" he squinted.

I nodded unwillingly.

I'd met Peter several weeks ago when Marie brought the muddled remnants of a wrap party back to her place for a few final rounds. Peter had built the set. About twenty minutes into the festivities, Marie Godeaux vanished into her bedroom with a cinematographer whose name escaped me. The party fizzled out, but Peter stayed; and we talked, and drank up the cinematographer's rum, and snickered at the racket they were making into the wee hours of the morning. By the time the sun came up we were friends; and I was both relieved and embarrassed to see him now. He grinned and stepped nearer, gently releasing my coat from its skewer.

"Thanks, Peter," I mumbled, "I'm glad you're here—I think Marie might've bailed on me."

Privately, I wondered if his being at the gallery had anything to do with her cryptic 'surprise'. She loved playing matchmaker; particularly for people with—as she said—crazy compatible zodiacs. And ever since emerging with her paramour that morning to find Peter and me still up, sipping coffee on the sofa, she'd been pestering me with all kinds of obscure and intimate questions about him.

"Well I had to be here," he shrugged, "to make sure no one hari-karies themself on my work."

He nodded to my barbed assailant.

"You did this?" I asked, my eyes widening.

As I'd explained to Marie following several tortuous inquiries, Peter Mulgrave was an authentic artist. At fourteen he'd started welding metal sculptures at his Father's salvage yard in Halifax. But this was the first I'd seen in person. It was impressive. And imposing.

"So...what's it supposed to be?" I baited shyly, asking the question said to plague postmodern sculptors.

"Can't you tell?" he grinned. "It's a coatrack."

I examined the thumb-sized hole in the shoulder of my jacket.

"Pretty lousy coatrack."

"Yeah, sorry about that," he glanced me over for latent injuries. "But holy hell, Pens—look at you."

He stepped back to better appraise me, and I felt my cheeks and chest begin to flush.

"A De Stijl masterpiece," he teased, "escaped from the museum to hobnob with some art that isn't dead?"

"More or less," I shrugged self-consciously.

It was nice not having to pretend around Peter—he knew I wasn't wealthy, or fashionable, or even all that fluent in Quebec French—and in spite of our voguish surroundings, I started to relax. Discreetly, I appraised him back. He wore a charcoal vest and browline glasses; his curly, cinnamon hair was cropped meticulously just above the jaw. He looked dashing, and urbane—like he'd just walked out of a Fitzgerald novel. Peter was obviously in his element.

"Well, let me show you around," he directed me with a jerk of his chin.

I smiled sheepishly, and followed him. We made our way along the edge of a dense throng of people, most of them swilling cocktails or champagne flutes. Peter nodded toward the center.

"That's Claude, the curator."

Marie's friend, I thought. He didn't seem to be missing her too much. He was flanked on both sides by dazzling sandy-haired girls with large, pouting lips. They looked like they might be sisters—maybe twins.

"And the little guy he's talking to," Peter whispered, "is Benoit Boucher. The art columnist forLe Devoir. Kind of a big deal around here."

I actually recognized Boucher from his headshot. Back at the shop, his was the only article I'd stumbled through before flipping to the classifieds.

Peter grinned, "Don't let him catch you staring, Pens—your career will be over before it's started."

I nodded, and we moved on. As we rounded a corner, I realized that the gallery was two, perhaps three times larger than I originally thought. By Mile End standards, it was enormous.

"Pretty wild, eh?" Peter nudged my arm. "Claude really went all out. He's got some serious work here." He turned to look at me, "I was sort of surprised he wanted one of mine."

I wasn't. Like Peter's sculpture, a lot of the pieces were stark, edgy, and intense. I thought about my little stack of watercolors sitting back in Marie's apartment. By comparison, mine were little more than finger paints. I followed Peter clockwise around the gallery's perimeter, as he pointed out his favorites, and filled me in on the artists—many of whom he seemed to know personally. And I was enjoying myself, but at the same time it was difficult not to think about how lost I felt. Each series we passed seemed so sure of itself; so comfortable in its own skin.

"So've you started that masterpiece yet?" Peter stuffed his hands into his pockets. "I remember you said you wanted to do somethingbig."

I frowned. I'd confided in Peter under the twin influences of sleep deprivation and alcohol that I wanted my first serious piece to be large-scale—a big, beautiful, blank canvas; something with enough room for me to explore.

"No," I confessed. "Still waiting."

"Waiting for what?" he squinted.

"You know—" I dropped my eyes shyly, "the right moment. The idea, or inspiration, or muse. Or whatever. Lightning. Something that'll hit me, and tell me exactly what to do."

"Aha," he nodded sardonically. "Got news for you, Foster—there's no such thing. All you can do is work. The details fill themselves in along the way. Art's like any other job, Pens."

I frowned again. I knew I was naïve and inexperienced, but I didn't much care for Peter extracting all the magic from the process. I wanted my first work to be strange, and special. Like losing your virginity, I wanted it to shift, however slightly, something inside me, and the way I saw the world.Alright. So maybe I'mreallynaïve.

"Hey, I didn't make the rules," he shrugged. "I just follow them."

I was silent.

Peter looked up at the rafters, "You know, I actually just started something pretty huge of my own—biggest piece I've ever attempted." He shifted his weight, "You should come by the studio sometime. I'd really like to get some input from someone like you."

"Someone like who?" I asked, still a little miffed by his scolding.

"You know, an...art nerd."

I snorted, "Didn't realize I came off that way."

"No, no. I just mean like—someone who knows the classics. I've never tried anything like this before," there was a nervous excitement in his voice; he was almost stammering, "Its—intimidating."

I cocked my head.He's out on a limb, I thought.But—why me?I wondered what kind of undertaking could possibly make him think thatIcould help.

"Yeah," I nodded cautiously. "Yeah, I think I'd like that."

Peter smiled, and put his number into my phone as we continued our circuit. It was a little strange for me to be in a building full of paintings about which I knew absolutely nothing; and moreover to be lectured on them by someone my own age. Around the works of the Renaissance, the Impressionists, the Neo-Classicists, Academicists, Naturalists, Expressionists, Realists, Surrealists and the Romanticists, I often reverted to my preteen self—a precocious and insufferable know-it-all. Had we been across the Parc du Mont-Royal at the fine arts museum, I might have rendered Peter whole, annotated volumes of commentary before we passed the ticket counter.

But he was a great tour guide—kind, and funny. And it actually felt nice to take the passenger seat for a while, and just let him lead me. He handed back my phone just as it buzzed.

*seen anything you like, babe?*

It was Marie.

She must've spotted me with Peter, I thought, spinning to surveill the room again. Even in my heels I couldn't see much. Evidently, Amazonian supermodels were a key demographic in Montreal's contemporary art scene.

*where r u?* I typed.

Several seconds passed, and her reply popped up.

*on my way. swear!*

I stared at the message, rereading it.

Weird.Guess she'snothere. I knitted my brow. Marie could be such a space cadet. Peter was waiting patiently nearby, examining the rafters again, his hands stuffed back in his pockets.

"Something up?" he asked.

I shrugged, "Guess not."

I knew it was obsessive, and square, but whenever this happened I couldn't help dreading for Marie. For the next several minutes, my mind wasn't really with me at the gallery—it was busy imagining her getting kidnapped and stuffed into the trunk of some deranged ballet fan's car. I shook my head, trying to clear it.

And when I looked up, I saw something so bizarre and so beautiful that I forgot all about Marie, about Peter, and about myself. Above a cluster of murmuring people hung a huge, dark, almost tenebrist oil painting a female nude. And it was definitely anude. Though her only coverings consisted of a crystal choker and some crimson drapery over the thigh, there was nothing 'naked' about her. She was prostrate. And proud. Her hair had the glittering red color of hot coals. In the background, I could make out the shadowy figures of people passing by behind her; either disregarding her—inconceivable—or, more likely, utterly unaware of her. But the thing that really caught me up was her face.

If theMona Lisa's smile was a subtle, sphinxian riddle, then this woman's expression was the Gordian knot—an impossible tangle of temptress and ingénue, passion and passivity; desire and fear.Like an O-face, I thought blasphemously,for the immaculate conception.I stepped closer, and, my eyes widening, noticed that her wrists were bound with strips of brown cording.

Is she Andromeda? I inched my way into the crowd, standing up on my tiptoes, and read the card beside the canvas—'The Old Master / Emily Brennan.' I bit my lip.Not Andromeda?

With a little gasp, I realized that the man over whose tweedy shoulder I was peering was none other than the eminent art critic, Benoit Boucher. He was speaking to a lithe, lovely woman with dark eyes and an adorable black pixie-cut. I lowered myself off my toes and listened.

"Magnifique, Miss Brennan. C'est différance incarnée. But by your title, I am stumped—you must tell me which of the Old Masters inspired this—Titian? Correggio? Rubens, peut-être?"

"Alle und keinen," she smirked, pushing a sable thread of hair from her eye. "I was thinking of Auden'sMusee des Beaux Arts."

"Ah, je vois, je vois." Boucher nodded wisely.

Oh wow—it's her.I stared at the girl, swelling with equal parts envy and admiration. Her voice had a tragically pretty lilt.Is she Irish? She must be.No one else sounds so poetic and so plain at the same time.And her painting—it was graceful, and terrible, and shocking—and as I had with only a handful of other artworks in my life, I could feel myself falling in love with it.

Emily Brennan. I watched her for as long as I could, only half-aware of how awkward my staring would seem if she noticed me. She was so lovely—so demure and pretty and poised.And so talented.I turned back to her painting, and then back to her.

Oh...My lips parted a little as I realized that, apart from the color and length of the hair—and, of course, the nudity—the girl in the painting was the spitting image of Miss Brennan herself.Christ. I knew artists had a long tradition of using their own forms as subjects. But to do a nude; to have that kind of audacity and confidence and exhibitionism—I couldn't even imagine it.

I blushed on her behalf, and lowering my eyes, backed away quickly. Quick enough, in fact, that I backed right into a man's chest, and caused a little splash of his champagne to spatter across the floor.

"Careful, li'l lamb," he grumbled.

"Oh God, I'm so sorry," I stammered.

He gazed down at the effervescing puddle by his shoes; then looked up. I stifled a gasp—he was blind his right eye. The iris was pale as an eggshell, and a little scar bisected the brow above. From experience, I knew how rude it was to stare. But if I couldn't look him in the face, I wasn't sure where to turn my eyes. He grinned at me unevenly.

"A bloke could get the wrong idea," he set his glass down, "you throwing yourself at 'em like that."

"I really am sorry," I repeated quietly. "I was just—caught up," I gestured over my shoulder to the nude.

He nodded, "Pretty l'il thing, isn't it?"

"Yes," I agreed, "She's incredible."

"It," he retorted coolly.

"Pardon?"

"Itis incredible."

"Oh, um," I stuttered, thinking he'd misheard me. "I mean the girl. Emily Brennan."

"An' I don't?" he answered wryly.

I squinted. Now I thoughtImust have misheard him.

"She's just a painting," again he grinned. "An' most things of beauty are just that, aren't they?"

"Um—just what?"

I glanced around nervously for Peter. Both this man's words and the way he looked at me were making me very uneasy.

"Things," he plucked a new glass of champagne from a tray as it passed. "That's why we're here tonight, 'innit? To find pretty things—buy them, take 'em home with us. Keep them locked away where no one else can enjoy them?"

I hated the way he stared at me. It was like I was the butt of some mean-spirited joke that I didn't understand.

"I should find my friend," I tried to excuse myself.

"Tell me, li'l lamb," he ignored me. "How does it make youfeel?"

Again, he nodded to the nude, and once more I looked upon it.

"Uncomfortable," I answered softly, but then confessed, "but also—I don't know—curious, I guess?"

"Are you askingmehow it makes you feel?" he half-sneered, half-simpered. "Would you like me to tell you?"

I blushed, shaking my head; completely flustered, and a little annoyed.

"It was nice meeting you, Mr.—" I paused, momentarily horrified by my social faux pas. "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't get your name."

"I didn't give one, li'l lamb," he sipped his champagne. "Watch your step tonight. There arewolvesabout."

I turned away quickly, hiding my shudder, and wove my way out of the crowd as fast as I could. I wanted to find Peter—but even more so I wanted to get away from him.Fast. Whoever he was, he creeped me right the fuck out. Peter stood at the crowd's periphery. He frowned when he saw me.

"You alright, Pens? You're looking a little pale."

"Yeah," I shook my head. "Yeah, let's just move on."

He raised his eyebrows.

"As you wish, m'lady," he bowed theatrically.

I put on a smile, and he offered me his arm. We resumed the tour, wandering slowly toward the far wall. I was gladder than ever he was there with me, and before long he had me laughing again. He could be irresistibly charming when he wanted to be. But I still kept one eye over my shoulder.

"Brace yourself. We're coming up on the back end. They always stick the weirdos near the washroom."

I nodded, gazing up at him.

"Now, this guy says he's deconstructing the New England lighthouse portrait. I think he's just got some big, Freudian hang-ups."

I giggled nervously. Theywereawfully phallic.

"You're one to talk, Mr. Mulgrave," I ribbed quietly, recalling Peter's iron obelisk—the one that tried to impale me.

"Funny, Foster," he rolled his eyes. "Oh,thisis special," he pointed, "This lady from New Zealand—she does tā moko tattoos on flash dehydrated pig skin."

I wrinkled my nose. They were really intricate, but still pretty gross.

"Most expensive pork rinds on the market," Peter adjusted his glasses in mock scrutiny.

I snickered, covering my mouth with my hand. I felt a little guilty laughing at the expense of these artists—they were real people after all; people probably really struggling to express themselves. But at the same time, Peter's knew exactly how to make me laugh. I laughed in spite of myself.

We neared the far corner of the gallery, where seven small pieces were strung up right beside the washroom door.

"Andthese—" he pointed toward them, paused, and cocked his head. "These I don't recognize."

I smirked at him. Bewilderment suited him. He'd been so cocky all night; it was nice to see that he didn'treallyknow every artist in the city. He took a few steps closer toward the wall, and adjusted his glasses. My eyes trailed him listlessly to the paintings.

I froze. I froze with my mouth open, and my eyes wide. To me, at least, these oneswerefamiliar. Too familiar. There—dangling like hanged men on their cords—were the clumsy red watercolors I'd painted of the chapelle Notre-Dame-de-Bon-Secours. The card mounted beside them displayed the text:Penelope Foster / Cardinal Sin #1; Cardinal Sin #2—all the way up, inexorably, to seven.

Chapter 3

"Huh," Peter turned back to me, his eyebrows raised.

I remained planted in place, unable to separate my eyes from the wall.

"Huh," he repeated, "—why uh, why didn't you say you had some stuff in the show?"

His tone was embarrassed and penitent. I knew he'd very narrowly missed making some caustic remark about them before reading the card.

"I, um—I didn't know..." I murmured, taking a step back.

Gradually, I put together the pieces.Marie.

Sothiswas her surprise. My face, chest, and arms all flushed.When I see her, I thought acidly,I am going to choke her.

Peter scratched his head.

"You know, they're actually not half bad, Penny."

It was hardly a glowing compliment, but at least he was trying.

"The color's kind of—unique."

I shook my head, hoping to wake myself up.How? How on earth did she manage this? Andwhy? God knows I didn't ask her to...

"They were just supposed to be studies," I stammered. "Doodles, really. Marie must've found them, and—" my voice trailed off in a fluster.

"Yeah," he took off his glasses and wiped them at the base of his vest. "Studies. That makes sense."

Replacing them, he squinted again at the paintings. Every inch of my skin felt molten hot.What the hell did she do? What was she thinking?I felt like I was on the verge of a panic attack.Could she really have not known how terrible these are?

"Damn her," I snarled quietly. "She wouldn't know art if she sat on theDavid's face."

"Hey," Peter put his hand on my left shoulder, and I jerked away reflexively. "Jesus, chill out, Penny."

I felt a cold, sinking sensation in my stomach. I needed to calm down. But it was shocking how violated I felt: to find something of mine—something personal—exposed suddenly and without my permission, for anyone's eyes to see and judge. I don't think I could have been more mortified if they were photos of me in the bathtub at age fourteen; braces, acne, and all.

"Listen," Peter pushed his hands into his pockets, "maybe this isn't your best work. But do you realize how many people would literallykillto have their stuff in this gallery?" He looked up at me earnestly, "If you're really serious about your work, then you need to thank Marie. I don't think I want to know how she got Claude to throw these in tonight, but this could behugefor you. I mean—" he shifted his weight nervously, "stranger shit has happened. It's a strange business, Pens. Sometimes you just go with the flow."