Tim cleared his throat. "Well, Nikko, it's very…ah, functional. Things look almost Japanese. You're from there?"
She moved close, took his hand, and led him to the table. "No, I am not Japanese," she said, "but my people lived on Hokkaido long, long ago." Her husky tone was weighted with sadness.
"Ainu!" he said, remembering the name from his cultural anthropology class last year, referring to the mysterious Caucasian race that once occupied Japan's northern island.
"Yes, you are right," she said, looking surprised, but indicating for him to sit on a cushion at the black table.
Tim was confused. He thought the Ainu were all gone. In fact, he recalled his professor saying they'd been assimilated by the Japanese, the last full-bloodied Ainu dying thirty years ago. But, before he could ask a question, Nikko had flicked on a light and opened her lacquered box.
"Lesson number one," she said, her tone still serious, but no longer sad. "This is called
sumi
painting, an art form considered to be Japanese or Chinese. We use four things. Rice paper—" She tore a sheet from the pad on her easel, then spread it next to the box on the table. "A sumi brush—" She handed him one of the brushes. "A sumi stick and sumi stones." She indicated the small, dark stick and stone dish. Then she splashed a few drops of water into the dish from a tiny vase. "This stick is quite old, made by a master from secret ingredients. Some say his sticks possess strong magic. But, before the magic can work, you must master technique."
Magic? She must be kidding, he thought, grinning dumbly.
But Nikko didn't appear to be joking. She continued, "We grind the stick to make ink…until it is about this thick—" She dipped her brush, the water and ink slightly oily and very dark. "Now, the beginning strokes, which are all you will need."
Nikko smoothed out the paper with the flat of her hand, then dipped her brush in the ink. "Lines," she said simply, making a thick stroke then narrowing the line pencil-thin by deftly rolling the brush in her fingers, which smoothly changed the plane of the bristles. "Curves." She connected two half moon strokes to make a perfect letter O. "And last beginning stroke is for tone." She made another thick line that faded continuously from black to gray—apparently varying her pressure on the brush as she stroked. "Now, Timo-thy, you try."
He laughed self-consciously. "I don't know if I can." But he attempted to draw a line, varying width. Halfway along the brush slipped from his fingers, making a smeared spot. "Oh, damn it!"
"It is all right," she said sympathetically. "Even the young bear must learn to fish if he has a taste for salmon."
The odd expression tickled something in Tim's memory, but he was too busy to dig it out. He pressed on with the lesson. But soon he grew frustrated with his clumsiness, and finally he threw down the brush. "I'm not really interested in this."
Nikko sat quietly, staring at him with a knowing look.
Tim stared back, feeling himself sinking, as if he were being drawn into a deep well, down, down, down into dark steel-gray water.
Nikko blinked.
Tim felt a strong sense of relief. Then, as if compelled, he blurted out, "The lesson was just a ruse to get to know you better."
She nodded, her face expressionless.
"You're angry?"
Nikko didn't answer. But, after a moment, she took Tim's hand and pulled him to his feet. "I have something I want to show you," she explained, leading him into her bedroom, which was very dark. They stood still, eyes adjusting to the dimness. Then she pointed to the wall above her futon.
It was a painting, a sumi painting of a figure, much more detailed than any of Nikko's portraits.
At first Tim thought the painting was obscured by the room's shadows; then he realized the shadows were part of the painting. Squinting slightly he could easily see that the figure was a naked male, resting on his side. And there was something about the pose, suggesting much more than was actually there, suggesting…that the model had just had sex, that, in fact, he was resting in a state of post-coital lassitude. The erotic nature of the thing almost took his breath away. But there was something wrong about the face, which was more heavily shadowed than the body. Perhaps it was done for anonymity, Tim thought, to protect the identity of the model. No, that wasn't it. The face was heavily shadowed to hide something else. He peered intently for a few moments at the figure's head, but was unable to discover the answer to the mystery. Finally, he turned to Nikko and said, "It's a remarkable piece of work, but the face—?"
She interrupted his question. "It was done sixty years ago, another place, another time."
Sixty. He almost laughed, then realized that she must've screwed up the time in English.
"It is long past time to do another," she whispered huskily, her tone heavy with resignation. She took both of his hands in hers. "Would you like to pose for me, Timo-thy?"
He understood all of what she implied, but he was unable to respond, afraid he'd shatter the moment. Finally, he managed a nod.
"You are sure? There will be a great cost to you."
"Yes," he said, finding his voice, "I don't care about the repercussions."
She led him to the foot of the futon, stopped, then slipped her blouse over her head.
Tim stared at her partial nakedness, her breasts small but with large, dark aureoles and pronounced nipples. With no hesitation or false shyness, she slipped from her jeans. She wore no underpants, her exposed pubic triangle a dark brown thatch.
He quickly shucked his clothes, only minimally concerned about his almost fully aroused state.
Without another word, Nikko pushed him down on the futon, kneeled, took him in hand, and caressed him with her tongue briefly until he was fully erect. Then, with no other foreplay, she mounted him easily, quite ready herself. She leaned forward, her arms stretched out, palms pressing against his shoulders, as if pinning him in place, knees supporting most of her weight, and she made love to him roughly.
Tim was caught up in the basic, frantic sex, reaching climax quickly, unable to stifle a loud groan of pleasure.
She blinked, her eyes bright and shiny like a young child's, and she murmured huskily, "That was good, Timo-thy, but it will get better."
Before he could respond, she was up, scooping up a kimono from the foot of the futon, and headed into the other room.
Covered with sweat, completely spent, Tim thought wryly: Better? Hey, I've just been ridden hard and put away wet. It don't get any better.
Nikko was back with her art materials, setting up and beginning to paint.
Curious, Tim tried to watch, but he couldn't keep his eyes open, and he felt himself dropping off to sleep. Soon, he was dreaming, and in the dream he saw a bear, a bear with a beautiful mahogany coat and two white markings, a small patch on its head, a spot over its right eye…
He awoke with a start, the bear at the foot of the futon. But it was only Nikko hunched over her painting, her kimono the exact color of the bear's coat. "Jesus," he whispered.
She looked up. "Ah, Timo-thy, I am using something very special for your painting, very old." The sumi stick she showed him resembled the others. He took it and examined the chop of the maker, turning it over and almost gasping when he saw the tiny stylized figure of the bear—
Then he remembered from last year, his cultural anthropology class, the professor talking about the Ainu shaman, a
tusu
, always female, and the mystical bear cult, the source of her magical power. He swallowed hard, wondering if Nikko was a tusu.
She was slipping back under the covers, kissing him wetly. Tim soon forgot about cultural anthropology.
***
Early the next afternoon Tim awoke and discovered he was alone in the apartment. He checked his watch, realizing he must've slept at least twelve hours, and he still felt tired, drained. Jesus. What the hell was happening? And what about Carolyn? She'd be frantic. Despite his fatigue, he got up and went to the phone. What could he say? He was too drained to even think up a good story. Maybe he should just leave, go home…But he didn't really want to do that. He was spellbound, trapped by his own foolish desire. And Nikko had been right, the lovemaking was getting better. He had to stay the course.
At the foot of the futon, the painting was on the easel. Curious, he took a look. The body was nearly finished, but the face lacked any detail at all, which seemed strange. It reminded him of the other work on the wall behind him.
He turned, studying the shadowed face. Squinting he could make out a little detail…wrinkles, crow's feet at the corners of the eyes—
That was it!
The face seemed too old for the body of the model. Why would she paint it like that? He shook his head, more confused than ever.
Sucking in a breath, Tim walked into the other room, glancing about as if searching for an explanation, his gaze settling on the cabinet where Nikko stored her materials. On impulse he went to the cabinet, took out the bear sumi stick and broke off a piece. Then he returned to his clothes by the futon and slipped the chunk of ink stick into his shirt pocket, thinking he would show it to his friend, a T.A. for the cultural anthropology professor—
Tim heard the front door open.
Nikko walked in with a full bag. She beckoned him into the tiny kitchen. "Look," she said, unpacking containers of take-out. "Are you hungry?"
Smelling the food, he realized he was famished.
They ate in silence, both wolfing down the food, gulping hot tea. Soon Nikko was finished, and after wiping her mouth, she said kind of dramatically, "One more session, and it will be
over
."
Tim was through eating, and the Chinese food felt like a hard lump in his stomach, something about the finality in her tone causing his abdominals to tighten with dread. Over?
But a few minutes later, Nikko's enticing nakedness drove all thoughts of apprehension from his mind.
***
In the dream the bear had changed, growing younger, its coat solid mahogany, the white markings gone…
Tim awakened very slowly, a sense of wrongness pulling him out of an almost drugged stupor. He pushed up on an elbow, feeling definitely different. He could see bright sunlight streaming down through the skylight in the big room, morning sunlight. "Jesus! It must be Monday morning." He got up, pulled on his shirt and pants. Then he shuffled about barefoot, checking out the apartment.
Both paintings were gone, most of the materials, including the bear sumi stick.
"Nikko," he said weakly, not expecting an answer. Of course she was gone, too.
He felt bad, almost hungover.
He made his way into the bathroom and washed his face, dried it with an old towel left behind, then looked into the mirror and gasped with shock.
After a moment of stunned disbelief, Tim fingered the wrinkles on his forehead, the crow's feet, the slackness at the sides of his mouth; and he combed fingers through gray-streaked hair.
He had aged thirty, maybe forty years…Nikko was indeed a
tusu
, and she had magically transformed him, claimed his youth.
He stood in place for a long time, too shocked to move. What could he do? He shook his head, at a loss. And Carolyn, med school? His wife probably wouldn't even recognize him; and an old man getting into med school? No, that was all gone, too.
The life he knew was over—
Then he remembered the piece of sumi stick in his shirt pocket; and his thoughts drifted back to the painting lesson, which seemed in the distant past now. She'd said
magic
. And Tim recalled Nikko's admonition:
But, before the magic can work, you must master technique
. Maybe there was hope…
"
Funkytown is the bizarre bazaar,
with weird things to see and buy;
but it's the people make Funkytown
weirder than a deep emerald sky.
Like an artist you may meet,
some say he's sixty if a day,
who paints portraits on the street,
true likenesses in a wonderful way.
But the oddest thing, he accepts no pay
for his unique and beautiful deed;
and if pressed he just mutters softly,
'No, no, it's only the practice I need.
'"
—Anonymous street musician
(A thanks to Beth for technical assistance)
This story has been mentioned above. It is well traveled, printed in France's best genre magazine at the time and reprinted numerous times here in the States. It would have fit well in Charles Grant's SHADOW series, which I had in mind when I wrote it. Alas, Charlie never picked up any of my work
.
300 S. Montgomery
Moving stiffly, the heavy mist like a fallen cloud: light distorted, images blurred, sounds sharp but dislocated. Strange…surreal, yet not really frightening; almost comforting, like a cloak of gauze, soft, protective. Slowly the stiffness eases from limbs, movement smoothing to an effortless glide—Then suddenly, far ahead in the mist, a doorway of light framing a woman, her face clear and distinct, highlighted by a silvery beam. Features: a cascade of black hair with a silvery dab in front, high cheekbones polished rose pink, and full lips forming a wide smile. And her hand: the long, graceful fingers making a beckoning gesture—But the door swinging shut. Run! Faster, faster. Hurry, the outstretched hand. Heart pounding, lungs gasping. Just another step now—The light blinks out. At the closed door…pounding furiously, pounding the cold numbers: 300…No, no, Kay, Kay….
"Kay…" Neal McCarthy awakened from his dream, his head throbbing with pain. He reached across the bed, his fingers frantically clawing the crumpled sheet. Numbly he stared at the empty half-bed, the undented pillow. "Kay…" Then he groaned as the reality dawned: his wife was
gone
, killed in the car accident five months ago, coming home from the Christmas party. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, overcome by his guilt. But she wasn't really gone. No, Neal felt her presence, so near, always so near. If only there were a way to reach her—"Jesus!" he whispered hoarsely. "Let it go, man, let go." It was only a damn dream. Kay and the numbers…she was
gone
…and he was so sick.