The Forgery of Venus by Michael Gruber Read Free Book Online Page A

that knowledge made a poison in this house, a curse, and that sad, ruined woman they just dragged away knew it too and she took it all in, she tried to absorb the poison, she fucking carried it, so that he could still be jaunty C. P. Wilmot, with his little straw hat and his romantic cape, traipsing about her house and chasing cunt. He’s a vampire: perfect manners, charming, beautiful clothes—come innnn, I only vant to suck your bluuuuhd . I can see he’s got his fangs into you too,darling. He’s given you the line about how he needs a woman who understands genius, about how the rules that regular people have to follow don’t apply in his case, how he’ll make you immortal with his brush…”
    And so on and on. She looked at me like I was a traffic accident, one of those mashed-beer-can ones with blood on the glass, where you can imagine what happened to the people inside, but you can’t take your eyes away. She jumped to her feet while I was still yapping away and walked out of the room without another word.
    The strange thing about this little encounter was that while I was talking it came into my mind why I was so reluctant to leave Oyster Bay. Looking at those pictures—it was like a concentrated elixir of my childhood, the beach, the flats, the water, the boats, my mother wrapping me in a sweater on the beach on a cool evening, and Charlie’s hand over mine on the warm tiller of her little sailboat the summer she taught me how to sail. And the smell of low tide, and always the sparkle and play of light on the water; I used to lie facedown on the dock and stare at it like a mystic stares at a mandala, the door to a higher existence. I was born there, I never really lived anywhere else but there and in the city during school, and even then I’d come home every summer.
    After Melanie walked out I went up the back stairs to the widow’s walk, and stood out in the breeze, and looked at the lights on Lloyd Point and Centre Island, and the channel markers, red and green, and beyond the black Sound the glow of Stamford on the Connecticut shore. Charlie and I used to sneak up here at night when we were kids, we’d stand by the railings wrapped in blankets and be pirates and explorers until Mother came up and yelled us back to bed, but not much of a yell because she used to do the same thing when she was a girl, and now Charlie’s entombed andMother’s entombed, rotting alive, and he’s still trotting around like nothing’s wrong, with his new honey, although he’s probably in a deeper tomb than either of them, when you think about it, but not me, I said to myself, I’m not going to be buried alive, not here, not anywhere. It fucking broke my heart, but that day I performed a homectomy on myself, without anesthesia, and left and never lived there again.
     
    I seem to recall you had a car and helped me move out, or maybe it was someone else, and I started living in the ruined factory on Walker Street. I worked like a bastard for five weeks, throwing out a ton of trash, tangles of wires, rusted machinery, then putting down tile on the splintered floors, wiring the place, hauling cabinets up five flights of stairs, plus a stove, a kitchen sink, and the hot-water heater. If I’d known what it would be like, I probably wouldn’t have started. A hot-water heater up five flights of stairs by myself!
    The only thing I had help on was the drywall. The guy on the second floor took pity on me, Denny Bosco, another painter, he saw the ton of drywall stacked on the sidewalk and told me I should hire some guys from the labor exchange on the Bowery to haul it up, and I did: who knew? And he helped me with the drywall too, one thing it’s real hard to do by yourself, you can’t hold a panel up over the baseboard and nail it in unless you have three hands. He was the Oldest Inhabitant around there, been living in the building since SoHo was a decaying industrial neighborhood; you had to have an AIR sign outside the