Theo of Golden: A Novel by Allen Levi - 60

Some days later, Asher received a call from Mr. Ponder, a call that, he supposed at first, was one of condolence. A number of others had already called to check on him and to extend sympathies. But when Mr. Ponder asked that Asher come to his office about “some matters concerning Theo,” he was understandably curious.

“If you’d like, I can come right now, Mr. Ponder. I’m having a hard time getting any work done today anyway.”

Mrs. Gidley was waiting when Asher arrived. She led him upstairs.

On any other occasion, Asher would have been interested in the trappings of the office, as Theo had been when he was there for the first time, but not now.

Asher wanted to hear what Mr. Ponder had to say, and perhaps to unburden his own heart a bit.

The two men exchanged greetings.

“Please Asher, have a seat.” Mr. Ponder nodded to the table. “This is exactly where Theo and I sat when we first met a year ago.” He recounted that meeting in detail.

“Asher, for the past year, I’ve known exactly who he was. I have been his confidant and advisor . . . and friend.” He hesitated. “Theo and I spoke every week, usually several times. Your portraits, as you might imagine, have kept me and Mrs. Gidley quite busy this past year, but we’ve enjoyed being part of the endeavor. Theo was a great fan of you and your work. Very much so. More, I’m sure, than you know.

“When Theo returned to Golden after Christmas, he gave me some items to hold in trust for you. He had met with his lawyers while he was in New York and had made some important decisions that involve you and some of the properties he used to mention. We can discuss all of that later, but for now he instructed me to deliver these papers to you after his death. I don’t think he expected it would be so soon — none of us did, of course — but at eighty-seven, he was thinking ahead.”

Asher remained silent.

Mr. Ponder rose and stepped to his desk. He picked up a large envelope and a small box, returned to the table, and placed the items in front of Asher, then sat.

“Might I make a suggestion?” Mr. Ponder asked.

“Sure.” Asher looked at the envelope and the box, hesitant to touch them.

“Here’s the key to Theo’s apartment.” Mr. Ponder pushed the small object across the table. “Why don’t you go there to open these? You’ll probably want a quiet place. No one will bother you. And stay as long as you’d like. You can return the key tomorrow.”

It was late afternoon when Asher climbed the stairs to the apartment. On the walk there, he called Brooke to tell her about his meeting with Mr. Ponder and to let her know he might be late coming home.

Before entering the apartment, he turned, as Theo had often done, to look at the river. The tender greens of oak and ash bud, the reds of maple, the occasional whites of dogwood, and the golds of forsythia on the far side of the Oxbow would have pleased the old man.

Springtime. An end with a future.

Asher noticed a small bit of light blue eggshell at his feet. It seemed an absurd thing to do at the moment, but he picked it up, placed it like a small hat on the little finger of his right hand, took the jeweler’s loupe from his pocket, and studied the shell’s speckled surface.

Doing so was an acknowledgment, a tribute, to Theo’s gift of sight. A eulogy. It was a gesture to invoke Theo’s presence, maybe even a prayer that, in the next minutes or hours, Asher would be able to see clearly whatever it was he was supposed to see.

He opened the door, stepped inside, and let the uneasy silence have its way with him for a few seconds before walking to the front room. Theo’s absence was a weight on Asher’s chest.

The lamp beside the reading chair was on. A vase of freshly cut flowers, light blue hydrangea, and a glass of water — the thoughtful gestures of Mrs. Gidley — were on the small table beside the chair. Three books were also there, presumably ones that Theo was in the process of reading when he died. There were bookmarks in each of them.

What were the last words his old eyes read ? Asher wondered.

Most prominently, an easel had been set up a short reach in front of the chair, at a spot where slanted rays of sun entered the room through the skylight at that hour of the day.

A blue cloth draped the easel. Asher lifted it gently.

For the next few minutes, he let the painting have way with his thoughts. It was a . . .

Work of art.

Witness to friendship.

Window to a soul.

He had wondered sometimes how it might feel to be the recipient of a portrait. The beneficiary of a bestowal.

Now he knew.

Theo had painted his — Asher’s — face.

The portrait captured a hint of a grin.

A tone of thoughtfulness.

Asher took a sip of water and then opened the envelope. It contained three letters. They were all unfolded, in a small stack.

He glanced at each of them before reading .

The first, a lengthy one, was written in Theo’s unmistakable hand.

The second was in a slightly less recognizable script. The stationery was old, a bit yellowed but uncreased and well preserved.

The third was the work of a child.

Asher read them in that order, from top to bottom.

Dear Asher,

If you are reading this, it means — to use Grandmother Whitaker’s lovely phrase — that I have “crossed over.” The heaven that has been my fervent hope is now my evermore reality. My absence, however, means that I will not be here to answer any questions you might have after reading this letter.

I considered going to my grave without telling any of what I am about to share with you. But after much thought and prayer, I’m writing from a sense that, if I were you, I would want to know.

Many years ago, I received a letter from a little boy. The young fellow was hoping to be an artist someday and wanted my advice on how to reach that goal, since I was already an artist myself. I don’t know that my advice helped him at all, but I do know that he has fulfilled his dream most admirably. Through long years of hard work and a laudable commitment to excellence, he has bequeathed a legacy of beauty to the murky entity known as “the art world” and, more notably, has brought gladness to the many subjects and recipients of his work in the real world.

When I wrote a short reply to the little boy, I did so with the wish of meeting him someday, a wish that has been more than fulfilled in recent months. That little boy, named Asher, is the reason I came to Golden. You can hardly know the joy it has brought me — man to man, artist to artist, soul to soul — to finally see his face, his world, and his goodness during this past year.

I hope you will receive this portrait as a token of a colleague’s respect and admiration. I have worked on it with an awareness that, only a short distance away, you too would be in your studio — pencils, pens, and brushes in hand — pursuing the same noble end at which I have aimed . . . art lovingly done.

It is for others to judge which of us surpasses the other in our efforts. For me, there is no doubt about who is the master and who is the student.

The purchase and bestowals of your work in recent months have been some of the greatest pleasures of my life and, without a doubt, the most fulfilling. I daresay it has been the high point of my professional accomplishment. And so, beyond mere praise for your skill as an artist, I owe and gladly give to you my everlasting thanks for the “conspiracies of kindness” that have united us since my arrival in Golden.

This old man will someday leave the world knowing that, at least for one short season, he was an agent for good and that he used art not for his personal fame or advancement but for its highest ends — “to bestow . . . a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.”

Ellen, Kendrick, Katherine, and all the others will never again be quite what they were before they held the jewel of your portraiture in their hands for the first time. I pray that this portrait might be, for you, the same sort of blessing that yours have been to them.

Asher paused, looked up, and took notice of late-afternoon sunbeams entering the room through the high windows. His eyes moved aimlessly from one object or surface to another. They settled once again on the shimmering surface of the portrait. He looked at himself on the canvas.

At the eyes.

Their shape.

Their placement relative to nose and cheekbone. Their color.

How very much like Theo’s.

He had never noticed the subtle similarity before.

After several minutes, he took up the letter and resumed reading.

So much about you reminds me of another, of a girl I met many years ago when I was a young man in Spain. The movement of your hands when you sketch, the intensity of your eyes, and the tilt of your head when you paint all take my thoughts to that girl. Might I tell you about her?

We had both traveled to Madrid for classes at the Prado. I was the instructor, an “artist in residence.” She was a student.

Young, free spirits that we were, and reckless in ways, we studied and traveled together, drew and painted, and read about and shared lofty aspirations and ideals about art. Me, the common boy from the Douro, she the debutante from Golden. We fell glowingly in love with one another, an odd and wonderful pair. A handsome pair, too, if I say so myself.

I was drawn to her not just by her beauty, which was undeniable, but by a temperament, a spirit, a je ne sais quoi that expressed itself in tenderness toward the world around her. I recognized her, at once, as my superior.

I was farther along as an artist.

She was much farther along as a work of art.

Before she and I met, I had begun to be acclaimed among the critics, taken seriously, and publicized and honored as an up-and-coming artist. It happened quickly and unexpectedly, long before I was ready to handle so much attention. I will not trouble you with the story of my regrettable ascendancy other than to say that I was never more cursed than when I bowed down to the enslaving idol of fame.

The higher I rose in prominence — so quickly, so visibly — the farther the girl fell behind. I know now she had no desire to follow me, no interest in the “supremely interesting man” — one critic’s description — that I had become.

We were both committed to pursue ideals of beauty and truth in our vocation.

Or so we both said.

Her commitment was sincere, real, and unshakable. Mine, at the first whisper of fame and celebrity, quivered and fell. Being the self-obsessed young man that I was, I would have been very pleased if every spotlight in the universe had been fixed on me. My arrogance, though disguised, must have been an ugly, hideous presence to one of her sensitive, selfless heart.

The girl from Golden continued to draw and paint, working harder and harder to improve her skills, and more and more happily it seemed, even without the notice of others. There was love in her art, in the motive, in the pursuit, and in the final result. It was a love that allowed her to be content with the little, the nameless, the unremembered.

At some point, her refusal to be impressed by my greatness became a sore spot, but only in me. I grew resentful. She grew weary. She never ceased to love me — she adored me — but I wanted more; I wanted her to worship me. She would never have dreamt of such a thing. Doing so, I now realize, would have required her not to love me. She was too substantial for such a blasphemy. She was anchored to something immovable. I was adrift on fickle waves of ambition.

And then, out of the blue, without warning, she was gone.

The last time we were together, we shared a night at our favorite place beside the sea. She sat quietly as I went on and on about my great success, my great plans, my rising star. How I must have grieved her. We had a meal for the gods and music and romance. We slept that night to the sound of the Mediterranean. When she cried at the beauty of it, I was not alarmed. Her eyes were often tearful at such moments.

I know now, though, she was telling me goodbye.

A week later, without a word, she left. It was the last time I ever saw her, though her face has been in my mind ever since.

When I learned that she had returned to her home in Golden, I wrote, desperate to hear from her. I was certain she would return to me. And why wouldn’t she? Who would not want to walk in the shadow of the meteoric Zila?

This was long before all the ways that we communicate now. I was hostage somewhat to the slow movement of handwritten letters across the ocean. I wrote to her and then waited and waited for a reply.

Her silence was maddening.

When my patience was exhausted, I began making plans to visit her — unannounced — in Golden.

My agent, in an effort to be protective of my interests, hired a consultant in Golden, a Mr. Ponder, to learn more about the girl and her family before I traveled there.

He reported to me that, not long after returning home from Madrid, she had eloped with an old boyfriend. And also that she was the mother of a little boy .

I was stunned, crushed, angry. How could it be? I had so many questions. What should I do?

At the urging of my agent, who saw my very career in jeopardy, I canceled my trip, threw myself into my work, and tried to put her out of my mind.

I never could.

I never have.

To this day, I don’t believe I ever finished a painting or drawing without hoping she would see it.

Hers, above all others, was the only applause I ever really wanted.

And she (along with my dear Tita), she alone has remained the love of my life.

When I first saw Minnette’s portrait at the Chalice, and then met her in person at the very first bestowal, I saw again the eyes of the girl from Golden.

Minette’s grandmother. Gammy.

Your mother.

For several years, I wondered about the little boy. Could he possibly be my son? Would she not want me to know?

But again, there was plenty in my life and work to distract my mind from those questions. And two facts kept me in my place: She was married, and I was famous.

Still, a thousand times I considered reaching out to her.

Imagine my complete surprise when, years later, I received a letter from her little boy.

Actually, there were two letters, one from him and one from her. My head spun when I recognized who they were from, and my hopes leapt at the prospect of being reunited with her somehow. Maybe something had happened in her marriage? A death? A divorce?

But there was no such news.

In fact, she told me she was “a happy mother, a cared-for wife, and a blessed woman.” There were few details. She stated that she had married “a very good and gracious man” within weeks of returning home from Madrid.

Most of all, I think she wanted me to know about you.

Her letter is enclosed.

As you will see when you read it, your mother implored me, in the strongest possible words (but not unkindly), never to write or pursue her.

I honored her request until the day of her death, though I have doubted, even grieved over, that decision many times.

I never replied to her letter.

I did, of course, reply to yours.

I have often wondered, why did she write to me at all? What did she expect of me?

I will never know the answer to those questions, but I am forever grateful that her letter, the very few words she sent me, brought me as an old man to Golden to spend part of my final years with you.

Asher took a deep breath as he processed the truth of what he was reading.

Theo. His father?

He gazed at the portrait of himself and then lifted his eyes to the glass doors overlooking Broadway. Through them, he could see the oaks of the Promenade and sense the long shadows of the dying day.

He resumed reading.

Asher, when I first visited your studio, we talked about one of the paintings in your entrance hallway, the one you once described to me as your mother’s favorite, the framed landscape of the tree on the hillside with the person standing at the easel.

You told me that you have always wondered about that painting. I will tell you the story .

It depicts a field near a cottage in Biscopo, a small town on the coast of Spain.

Shortly after your mother and I met at the Prado, another artist-in-residence, a Spaniard, took us to Biscopo, us and a dozen others, to study seascape and sky. He was from the old school of realism. He assured us we would never see a place like it. “It will crush you as artists. It will tempt you to burn your brushes, slice your canvasses, and declare yourself defeated. It will show you how paltry your art is, how meager your talent. It will be the pinnacle to which you will aspire for the rest of your creative lives.”

He was a bit melodramatic, perhaps, but his description of the place was not overstated in the least.

It was there and then, in Biscopo, that your mother and I first talked at length, painted together, and fell in love. Months later, one holiday, she and I returned, rented a small cottage on the cliffs, and painted in the open air during the daylight hours. At night we would walk to the field with the tree, spread out our red blanket, and sleep beneath the stars.

We returned there a number of times.

It was our Elysian Field. I did a painting of it — “Me, Painting You, Painting,” the one in your studio — and gave it to her as a birthday gift.

I also gave her an opal necklace on a gold chain, a necklace my mother and grandmother had worn. The heart-shaped opal, we agreed, was the Mediterranean night in miniature — ocean, sky, stars, moonlight, seashore. We called that piece of jewelry the “Evening of Biscopo.” It was my pledge to marry her someday.

And yes, as I painted her standing in that field, she painted me, facing her, the vast ocean and open sky at my back.

I close .

As strange as it might sound, Asher, especially at this, my happiest season of life, I long for heaven. It might still be many years away, but I think of it often as the low sun and long shadows lengthen over my days. Some laugh, of course, at the notion — many of my artistic peers, and yours, find my hope positively naive and fanciful — but beauty, throughout my life, has always seemed to hint at something more. I long, as one has said, not just to see it but to verily become part of it. Enough of this standing on the outside looking in. Soon, if the Grand Artist has spoken truthfully, soon enough, the door will open for me.

Funny how this old hand, once so strong and capable and steady, begins to tremor in these dwindling years. It has covered ten thousand canvasses that stretch around the world. It has served me well. But never has its work been more impossible, and more important, than in writing these words of my affection for you.

I am forever thankful for these days, when a chalice light and broad filled my soul with a peace and joy I never dreamt possible.

I am a grateful old man.

A proud father.

Press on, dear boy.

Seek truth.

Make beauty.

Live well.

I love you, my son.

Till heaven, Theo

Asher slumped, lowered the letter to his lap, rested his head on the back of the chair, and closed his eyes. He sat in the early evening dark as a convergence of grief, regret, confusion, and love ran through him. He had no idea how long he had been there when he finally picked up the second letter. He wiped his eyes to read.

Three pages of cream-colored stationery, thin with age and slightly faded, bore the small, precise handwriting of Asher’s mother.

My dear Zila,

I am hesitant to send this letter, fearful that it might prompt a reply, but I do so with confidence that you will favor its receipt with the tenderness that drew me to you when we first met.

I know that my departure was sudden, perhaps unkindly so, but I saw no other way to leave than to disappear as I did. I have often wondered if I did the right thing, and I will never know how I mustered the strength to board the flight from Madrid to Golden.

I arrived home confused, heartbroken, afraid, and desperate.

I felt that I had no choice but to marry as quickly as I could. He was — is — a dear friend, a very good and gracious man who had loved me since childhood. He was the closest thing I had to a boyfriend in high school, and he often teased me that he would marry me someday. We eloped shortly after I returned home.

I am still amazed that he took me in as he did, that he was willing to help hide my secret and even be the scapegoat for my scandal.

He married me knowing everything. Knowing that I was pregnant.

And that the little boy was yours.

The child is now six years old and gives every indication that he will be an artist. He brings such joy and is just beginning to write words .

For all these years, I have wanted you to know of him but did not know how or why I should tell you. I also feared what might happen if we communicated with each other. I still do. From all I read about you in the newspapers and magazines, you are making a lasting mark in the art world. And I have the simple joys of being a happy mother, a cared-for wife, and a blessed woman. It would be reckless beyond words, and pointless, to put either of our good fortunes in jeopardy, much less the hearts of the ones we love. And so I ask, indeed beg, that you not write or call.

Please, Zila, never. And forgive me that I have taken a liberty that I deny to you. As heartless as my request might seem, and as hard as it is to make, I trust you see the wisdom in it, especially after all these years.

I hope it will not trouble you to know that, even now, you are thought of often and fondly.

Be assured I will not trouble you again.

But also be assured that I will love the boy with the affection of two hearts.

I enclose, too, the Evening of Biscopo. I have not worn it since coming home but have sometimes looked at it, held it up to the light, traveled in my imagination where it took me. Please assume no bitterness on my part in its return. Your dear grandmother and mother would be heartsick to know that such beauty is being deprived the light of day in a far-away jewelry box. Surely there is, or will be, someone in your life who will wear it fittingly someday.

Every blessing in your well-deserved success. With it, I pray comes much happiness and peace.

Another piece of the cream-colored paper, bearing the large, irregular lettering of a child’s hand, followed.

Dear Mr. Zila, I am six. You draw nice. I like to draw. When I grow up, I want to draw. From, Asher

The reply to that little boy’s letter, Asher knew, was in a frame in the hallway on the wall of his studio, signed simply, “Zila.”

Asher would read the letters again when his head was clearer. But not that night. He knew enough for the moment. And true to Theo’s prediction, he had a host of questions that would never be answered.

Asher rose from the chair, stepped out onto the balcony, drew a deep breath, and stood with a weary gaze over the Promenade.

There was, and would be, much to think about.

Much to cherish.

Much to lament.

A whisper, something about good sadness and great love, passed through Asher’s mind.

He walked back indoors, gazed at the portrait, gathered up the letters, and was putting them in the envelope when he remembered the small box.

He sat down and opened it.

A necklace, just as Theo had described it, opal on a gold chain, in the shape of a heart, was in the box with a simple note.

It was my pledge .

Before turning off the lamp, Asher leaned forward, elbows on knees, toward the portrait of himself, as if nearness to it would somehow place him close to Theo again. Every brush stroke and line, after all, had been the work of the old man’s fingers, some perhaps very recently.

Only then did Asher realize that a second canvas had been placed beneath his portrait .

He carefully removed “himself” from the easel and placed it on the floor.

The second canvas was eighteen inches square. It was an oceanside scene. The bulk of the painting was sky and sea in various shades of blue and aquamarine with wisps of cloud and a seagull.

In the foreground, occupying the bottom third of the canvas, was a field in lush green and ochre. It appeared to end at a cliff that overlooked the sea.

No beach was visible.

In the field stood an easel.

At the easel stood a painter, largely obscured from view. Legs and portions of one arm were visible but no face or torso.

Asher, to confirm a hunch, looked at the back of the canvas. It said:

Me painting you painting me. I love you.

He turned off the light and walked home.