that this sad day was almost here, Isabel lost her voice to a whisper. She backed out of the bedroom door.
“Yes, Senora. I will call Dr. Harmon. Now.”
Thus the rhythm of her terminal days was set: insubstantial meals with naps throughout the day and fitful nights of sleep, short daily visits from Dr. Harmon. Weeks went by and there was no change in this pattern, excepting the increased volume of worried visitors. Her condition worsened as the number of bedside guests grew.
The new painting remained unfinished in her studio, the brushes stuck in the thickening paint of her palette. No one was allowed into her studio. Her gallery owners made several visits, her lawyer, her banker and a few of the few friends she had left. Isabel, hurling Spanish invective on their heartless heads, sent writers from the art magazines away with gusto.
On the fifth week of Brompton’s time in bed, Isabel arrived one morning with a bouquet of wildflowers, obviously picked along the road. She had a conspiratorial smile. “Your second-cousin, Carlos, is here to see you, Senora.”
“Isabel, I don’t have a second cousin.”
“Maybe you don’t remember that your great-aunt’s daughter, Mrs. Barrington, had two children, Carlos and Emilia. She was married to the man from Barcelona.” Isabel enjoyed pronouncing that with a rolled ‘r’ and a long ‘th’ sound. How family charts flowed in the Rodriguez family was very important to Isabel, and to lesser degree family charts in general. Where people fit into the scheme of things mattered to her. The fact that she knew more about the Senora’s family than she herself pleased Isabel enormously.
Brompton said, “That’s nonsense, Isabel. Send him away.”
“But the povrecito has come all the way from España to see you, to help you to get well.”
“So he’s a healer, as well as a cousin. Amazing lad. Isabel, he’s only an imposter.”
“He’s very charming and very handsome, Senora.”
“Oh, very well. Bring him up.” Isabel knew what mattered to the Senora.
In a few minutes, the door opened and Isabel presented Carlos with a proud flourish, as if she had cooked him up in the kitchen herself. She watched as Brompton looked up at the redheaded, brown-eyed young man. He sat down in the bedside chair reserved for visitors, putting his large hands on his knees; his lanky frame rested uneasily in the small, creaking chair. Isabel left and closed the door quietly.
Brompton said, “So you’re my cousin. Indeed.”
“Sorry about that. It’s only a small lie.”
“They are the worst, those small lies. Nations fall because of them.”
“I knew I needed to be family to get past Mrs. Rodriguez and my Spanish is good enough to convince her.”
“Your Spanish must be very good, then. If you’re not a cousin, who are you?”
“I’m here to look after you,” he said.
She laughed quietly and said, “I wish I’d heard those words sixty years ago”.
“I can make your life easier and help you paint. That is, to get back to painting.”
“I’ve never needed help painting. I detest someone else in my studio.”
He was insistent. “But you may need help now.”
“That’s true, alas.” Brompton paused and considered the young man. He appeared to be serious and concerned. What exactly could he do to help? Nobody had ever been able to assist her in the studio, so why now?
She continued to look at him in silence and he showed no outward signs of nervousness or guilt. Brompton set great store in her ability to watch a face and judge character. Carlos did not appear to be a thief or assassin. At worst, he seemed only an opportunist. Appraising her own position, Brompton thought that if she continued staying in bed, she would certainly be dead in a month or two, if only from boredom.
“Carlos, is it?” He nodded. “How did you know I was ill and not painting? Did a bright star appear on the western horizon?”
He smiled. “Your gallery people in New York told me. I was there studying your latest paintings. I’m a beginning painter myself.”
“What makes you think you are competent to assist me in any way? What do you know of my work?” she said. He smiled broadly again and Brompton tried to remember the Spanish words for the adage that the best passport in life is great beauty.
He said, “I’ve looked at your paintings a long time. I spent weeks at the Tate, going back day after day. And the same at the Beaubourg and the Whitney.”
“And what did you find?”
“I see great beauty in Number Three Forty-Seven and Number One Nineteen. Both at the Whitney. I also think it would be a shame for the world if you did not paint more in the vein of Number Four Eighty-Nine, now on display at the Tray Gallery on Madison Avenue. You have more to paint, I am sure.”
Brompton was impressed with this young man. Those numbers, the only titles she ever gave to her work, were among her dozen favorites in her entire oeuvre. She was not sure, herself, why she liked them so much better than the rest. Nowhere were these listed and to nobody had she ever told these foremost choices. He must have come up with these opinions on his own. This young man had said the magic words, and even if he were a scoundrel and a pretender, she would now have to see what he could do.
“Carlos, let’s see how I feel in the morning. I am tired now. Isabel will find you a guest room. We’ll talk more tomorrow.” She closed her eyes and the interview was over. Carlos left quietly.
The next day Isabel noticed a marked improvement in the Senora when she came into the bedroom. Her intuition had told her that there was a good quality in this young man who said he was a cousin but was not a cousin, something good for the Senora. If Isabel did not believe his cocked-up stories in broken Spanish, she did believe in omens and Carlos was a true omen. Isabel asked, “Would Senora take breakfast today?”
“Yes, Isabel. Some strong coffee. Eggs and sliced oranges, like before. And a muffin with the English marmalade.” Afterwards, Brompton spent a minute or two in front of the mirror. The white dress instead of the black one. Her hair, pure white, was long and abundant and still looked right just combed and knotted into a bun. Her face was wrinkled from so many years in the western sun, but her neck was firm and her chin without sags.
She considered with approval her legs, slim and well turned after all the years of standing at the easel. She thought if the deathbed was really calling for Brompton, it was getting an unusually well-preserved specimen. How fortunate death was.
She walked slowly into her studio and, from a chair, looked at the unfinished canvas on the easel. Now, after these many weeks, she saw it with a new eye and judged it a surprisingly good start. The long lines of the composition had life; they had those vibrations that came like voices, sometimes, and never on demand. Could she pick up the moment again and continue?
A great tired cloud overcame her previously excited thoughts. It would be too much work to get the energy level up again, up to a point where the
