grilled cheese sandwiches in the world, according to Ray. The bread was thick-cut from a French stick, and buttered on both sides before it was browned on the grill. The smooth, nutty Gruyère oozed out the sides as it melted. And the fries were cut thick like the bread, done crisp on the outside and moist and firm on the inside. Ray was right. It was the best grilled cheese in the world.
“What’s in that thing?” Ray asked as she started to undo the leather straps and locks.
“I don’t really know,” she answered. “Peter left it to me in his will. I looked through it quickly before I left, but I’m not sure why he wanted me to have it. There are some old books and paintings, and I think I saw a bundle of letters.”
“That’s weird,” said Ray. “Do you think they’re valuable?”
“Might be, but he didn’t have them in the store, so maybe they aren’t. Unless the books are first editions or something.” She lifted the lid and they looked inside. She started handing Ray things and he spread them out on the floor around them.
“Edward Sutcliffe Moresby,” he said, reading the spine on one of the books. “Collected Stories. Who’s he? I’ve never heard of him.”
“I’ve heard of him,” Maris said. “I think we read one of his stories in school. He was British but he travelled all over the world, starting before the First World War, I think. Especially to the Far East. I think he wrote some novels, too.”
“Yeah,” said Ray. “Looks like they’re here, too.”
Maris looked over his shoulder. “Are they first editions?”
Ray scanned the title page of one of the books. “Could be,” he said. “This one’s copyrighted and printed in 1921. It’s in pretty good condition. Maybe Peter wanted to look after you in your old age.”
Maris smiled. “It wouldn’t surprise me,” she said. “He would do something like that.”
“What about the paintings?” asked Ray.
There were several small canvases, each wrapped in brown paper. Maris carefully unwrapped the first one. It was a framed watercolour, about eight inches by ten inches, and covered with glass. The painting was of a young Chinese woman, heavily made up, staring with vacant eyes at something outside and to the left of the frame. There was something very moving about the image. It looked like the woman was gazing into her own past and seeing nothing there. Both Maris and Ray stared at the picture. Neither spoke.
Then Maris said, “Wow. I wonder who the artist is.”
“Is it signed?” asked Ray.
Maris examined the bottom of the painting. “It looks like there’s something in the corner here, but it’s kind of faint. Do you have a magnifying glass?”
“Do I have a magnifying glass?” said Ray. “I’m a photographer. Remember?”
“Just get it, smartass. You can give me your résumé later.”
Ray was already on the other side of the room rummaging through the stuff on his work table. “Got it,” he said.
Maris turned on a lamp and looked at the signature through the magnifying glass. The initials AS had been inscribed with the tip of a fine brush.
Who was AS? she wondered.
“I wonder who it was,” said Ray.
“Don’t know. I wonder if they’re all by the same person.” They unwrapped the rest of the pictures.
“Yup,” said Ray. “Looks like it.”
“Yes,” said Maris, gazing at each of the paintings. “And they’re all portraits of Chinese women. How interesting. I wonder who he or she was.”
“If we knew the name, we could Google it,” Ray said.
“What about Edward Sutcliffe Moresby? Let’s Google him,” she said.
Ray went over and opened his laptop. “Oh yeah. Plenty about him. Born 1887, died 1965. Hey,” he said, “the year you were born. Synchronicity. Cool.”
“What else?” she said, reading over his shoulder.
“There’s a list of his books. Wow. They’re still available on Amazon. That’s amazing.”
“Great,” said Maris. “I can see if any of them are first editions.”
They went through the pile of books, checking each one on the Internet. Every one of them was a first edition.
“Amazing,” said Ray. “I wonder what they’re worth. Must be fifteen or sixteen of them.”
“Twenty-five, actually,” said Maris.
“Even better.”
“Maybe Peter wanted me to read them,” she said.
“Maybe. Did he leave any instructions? Like in his will or a letter?”
“No,” said Maris. “But his death was sudden and probably a lot sooner than he expected. Maybe he would have done something like that later.”
“Yeah,” said Ray. “It must have been really horrible. Being with him at the time, and all that.”
“It was the most terrifying, sad, depressing experience of my life. I don’t think I’ll ever get over it.”
“No, probably not. I’m the last person to suggest this, but what about counselling? Have you thought about it?”
“I’ve thought about it but I don’t think I could do it.”
“You mean you don’t want to do it.”
“I mean I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to talk about it with a stranger. I don’t even want to talk about it with a friend. I’m afraid that if I start, I don’t know where it will end.”
“You’re afraid it might make you ‘normal.’”
“Yeah, something like that. I don’t want to mess too much with my psyche. I don’t want to over-analyze myself, you know what I mean? If I start explaining what I’m about, maybe all the stuff that I need to do my art will get sanitized.” She laughed. “Like your sleeping bag.”
“Better to keep all that garbage inside,” said Ray. “That what you mean?”
“Yeah, in a way. If I start putting it ‘out there,’ then it will be objectified. It won’t be my shit anymore. It’ll just be a bunch of sentences.”
Ray laughed. “Believe it or not, I know what you mean. If you untie all the knots, all that will be left is a piece of string. How boring is that?”
“Exactly,” she said. “Maybe I can work it out through my art. At least, that’s what I keep hoping.”
“Yeah,” said Ray. “Keep that myth alive: the tortured artist.
