FLEETING MOMENTS

by Mary E. Martin

With a furious blow of his cane, Alexander Wainwright shattered the globe of his studio light. The naked bulb swung in wild arcs, making his shadow leap like a demon across the  canvas. He had painted a broad river flowing through grassy plains. Dark reflections of trees in the water looked like silent, shadowy boatmen cast aimlessly adrift. The artist seized his paints and brush.

             Squeezing out fat curls of black, yellow and red on his palette, he advanced upon the canvas. Deftly, he painted one tiny black figure beneath a tree, which stared back at him in terror.

He leapt upon a stool and painted another creature on the far bank. It, too, cried out. More desperate beings sprang to life with eyes cast upward to the leaden sky. Finally, he created three naked, trembling figures hidden in shrubbery. Wainwright cocked his head, his lips breaking into a thin smile.

"Who are these creatures?" he asked aloud.

 "They are the trolls," he whispered as exhaustion swept over him. He fell asleep, fully clothed, upon his bed.   

At noon, a banging came at his studio door. Wainwright peered out. "Ah, it's you, my angel! Bringing light into my darkness."  He let in his friend and art dealer, James Helmsworth.  

James stood in the middle of the studio staring at the canvas. "My God, Alex, what have you done?"

"I've had a break through." Rubbing his grizzled chin, he said, "They are the trolls. They've always been there, but I only just found them."

Tears glinted in Helmsworth's eyes.” Why would you desecrate your own work, Alex? Painting such creatures in that lovely setting?"

Wainwright shook his head. "Those pitiful creatures are God's work. My landscapes create serenity and the trolls express their horror at such serene, but abandoned terrain." He peeled the cellophane from a cigar. "So, there it is!" He waved his cigar at the painting. "The collision of two world views. Serenity and horror."

.              Helplessness swept over the dealer. "But Alex, you have a following, a reputation."

"A polite way of saying I'm a cheap, commercial hack?"

"No, of course not! But with this vision, buyers may be difficult to find. Please, Alex, take a break. Let your vision percolate. You may see things differently after a rest or better still, a trip. You could visit your friend in Venice."

Wainwright snorted. "Ah yes! But my friend may not wish to see me."

"I'm sure he will!" Jamie coughed gently. "You've always called him your muse."

 Wainwright sighed. "I suppose Venice might be pleasant this time of year. Good idea, Jamie. I thank you."

Helmsworth was concerned. Wainwright never gave in without a tirade about the creative process.” You’ll take my advice, Alex?"

In the light, the artist's face looked ancient, yet serene. "Yes, don't worry. I will."

"I'm so glad you agree," breathed Jamie. They shook hands. "So you'll get a flight?"

Wainwright shook his head as they walked to the door. "No, dear boy, I 'm going to take the train." His eyes gleamed. "More time to think. I'll get a ticket for the Orient Express to Venice." He clapped his friend on the back. "You're quite right. I'll see you when I'm back in a month or so."

"You're not just saying that?" Jamie asked from part way down the stairs.

"No, I promise. A fine idea of yours. Thank you." Wainwright closed the door and Helmsworth, still suspicious, rushed down into the street.

"Apparently, your assigned luncheon companion is ill." He unfolded his napkin in his lap. "And so," he smiled, "we have the good fortune to meet."

Daphne shifted in her red-plush chair. The man seemed open and friendly. Everything she was not. Gazing out upon the gray equipment sheds flying past, she wondered about her original table companion, Alexander Wainwright, the famous British landscape artist.

"Are you going as far as Venice?" Richard asked politely.

 "Yes, I am." She turned to the window and wondered at the wisdom of her trip.

 Richard could not resist. "Have you been there before?" he asked.

"No. I've been to Rome and Florence, but never to Venice." A shadow, passing over her face, marked that which she left unsaid. Although fair, soft and kindly in appearance, her aloofness frustrated him. Cascades of piano music came from the bar, but when the door slammed shut, their silence was filled with the clack of the wheels on the track.

As green fields and thatched cottages flew by, Daphne tried to study his features, mirrored in the glass. A pleasantly worn man with dark eyes reflecting kindness. After twenty years, she was returning to Venice. In her mind, she saw ancient buildings rising up like golden vapours and the gondola which had carried Adam's body from the dock across black water.

After they ordered wine, Richard continued "Venice is incredibly beautiful. The canals, architecture, the whole  feel of the place."

Daphne remembered the sad and gentle eyes of the boat captain as he told her of Adam's suicide. But she smiled politely at Richard and banished visions of darkly snaking canals. "I'm sorry, Mr. Carson. Tell me more about Venice."

"As I was saying, Venice is truly beautiful. In the morning, the light is soft and hazy and at noon, the city looks like a golden curtain hanging over the water." He stopped, surprised at his own artistic expression. She speculated upon such sensibility in a man.

"Do you know what happened to Mr. Wainwright?"

"Who is he?"

"The one whose seat you have taken."

"Oh, the assigned table companion," he laughed.

"I hear he's a famous landscape painter."

Gazing at her, Richard thought she might well attract the attention of a painter.

             "Perhaps we'll meet him at dinner." He paused. "Is your trip for pleasure?"

"In a way. But I have some loose ends to tidy up." She remembered Adam's last words to her. Get the fuck out of here! And her final angry response. Grow up! You're just a spoiled brat! She should not have left him.  

"Will you tour Venice alone?"

"Yes," she replied. "I need time to myself."

The waiter took their orders. Her words had imposed such a silence, he dared not intrude further. If he had been too forward, he set it down to lack of social ease after twenty-five years of marriage to Caroline. Suddenly, he missed their easy chat and undemanding silences. Without her, he seemed to stumble at every turn. But he was drawn by the loveliness of the woman seated with him, who seemed vulnerable and exposed like a delicate flower in sunlight. To blot out thoughts of his wife, he looked about the dining car, filled with gray, expectant faces.

Holding back the brocade curtains, Daphne saw only dark layers of cloud. Surely, they must be nearing the sea coast. Twenty years ago, everything lay ahead. Since then, she had drifted like a castaway, scarcely alive. It was time to return. She tore herself from her thoughts.

 "Where do you stay in Venice?" she asked.

"At the Hotel Bellini. Wonderful view of the Grand Canal, at a reasonable price." He felt his attraction grow. Ridiculous to think, to hope so soon after Caroline.

"You're on business?" she asked.

"Yes. I design mostly business software, but virtual reality is the big item. Suddenly, he wanted to talk with her for hours, but he held back. Let her set the pace.

Daphne laughed softly. "I do like that term, Mr. Carson. Virtual reality." She sipped her wine reflectively. "Just think how many realities we carry within ourselves."

Richard frowned. Her question provoked thoughts of his wife whose psychotic episodes had shattered their calm and rational life. Now she was incarcerated in an institution. And some people's realities are true madness.

"And do you work, Ms Bersault?"

"Yes. In advertising."

"Really?" She did not seem the type. "What area?"

"Creative design. I'm the idea person. But," she smiled wanly, "I get a bit tired of playing on people's desires."

Richard laughed. "But isn't seduction the name of the game?"

"Yes, I suppose . . . " she said as a shadow crossed her face, once again marking that which was left unsaid.

Awkwardness overtook him and he fell silent when the waiter arrived with lunch. His calm and reasoned marriage had exploded with Caroline's first psychotic break and now he longed for solace amongst the spires and domes of Venice.

In the light, Richard caught her impenetrable expression of sadness. Immediately, he wished to comfort her, with what he did not know. Nearing fifty-five, he had assumed all desire had passed, especially after Caroline. But he could not account for the stirring within or for the extraordinary thought which came to him. If passion is really gone, what reason is there to be

alive?

An elderly couple stood beside their table waiting to be seated across the aisle. She was a blowsy, florid woman and, in the light, her husband looked thin and gray.

"John!" the old woman said crossly. "Don't let that waiter put us where it's so sunny."

"Sit down, Gloria." His voice was weary with impatience. "We have to take the table assigned to us."

Sighing, the old woman settled into the chair. Her small eyes darted about for other evidence of mistreatment, only to rest upon Richard.

"Did you mention Alexander Wainwright?" She leaned across the aisle. "Didn't you hear? He shot himself in his cabin, just as the train was pulling out of Waterloo Station."

Colour drained from Daphne. Shoving back her chair, she rose swiftly. Richard jumped up and moved aside. As if desperate for air, she rushed up the aisle and flung open the door. Richard tossed down his napkin and was about to follow her. He stopped. Having just met her, he had no right. She was entitled to her privacy, whatever the hell was wrong.

"How very strange," muttered the old woman. "I thought everyone knew about the suicide. You know how fast bad news travels."

"Yes," said the old man, reaching for his newspaper. "And you've just spread it farther." "He was an artist, wasn't he?" she asked.

John grunted.

"Still waters run deep with artists."

"Gloria, you know absolutely nothing about the man." John said.

"But they're different. When Peter was growing up, I used to wonder what was going on in his head." Laughing, she raised her eyes and said, "Such a fanciful little boy, he was."

"Fanciful all right! Don't suppose he's got any sort of useful work yet?"

"He's a writer, John. You mark my words. Someday, he'll be famous."

John snorted and returned to his paper.

.           After lunch, everyone disembarked for the ferry across the English Channel. Boarding once again, Richard ordered a vodka martini in the bar. Caroline's madness had sprung from nowhere. Last year in their Paris hotel, he was aghast. Suddenly, she screeched, You've been out fucking that smutty woman!  Howling, she attacked him, until a doctor came and administered drugs. If that snarling beast lives within Caroline, it possesses every soul on earth. Now she was incarcerated at the Macklem Hospital, nestled in the rolling hills of Connecticut, where the idyllic landscape might restore her. No one could have foreseen or prevented her psychosis, he was told. He felt absolved, yet useless.

Back on the train, Daphne tried to warm herself in her salon. Her sense of doom deepened. How could this trip to Venice have begun with another suicide? Countless times over the past twenty years, she had imagined her last angry moments with Adam. Do I stay or leave? Just one tiny decision in the midst of  hundreds made every day. But, of course, she knew it was a different kind of decision. At six-thirty, she began to dress for dinner. After locking her door, she folded her cream-coloured silk blouse and tweed skirt on the chair. The small shower within her compartment was hot and strong. By the age of twenty-seven, Daphne was on Madison Avenue, brimming with creative sales ideas. Advertising is the most powerful form of seduction. Think sex. Think sales. Daphne thought sex better than anyone in the game. Not the cheap, tawdry stuff, although it had its place, but the light, laughing, fun kind that swept through people and infused them with desire for love and passion and of course, the product. In the daytime, creative ideas infested her brain, blotting out the hateful spires and dark canals of Venice. At night, if she wanted, she could easily have a man to ward off Adam's disembodied spirit. As she dressed, she thought of Mr. Carson.           

At eight o'clock, Daphne and Richard were seated for dinner alone at a table for four.

Two violinists played Strauss. In the candlelight, she looked quite lovely to him, her earlier reserve having melted away. Briefly, they chatted about her firm, Mickleberg and Wright and his software company at Fifty Fourth and Lexington. Only once did he lose track of his thoughts, distracted by her gentle smile and the curve of her breast.

She saw his wedding band. "Does your wife work in your business?"

"Wife? No. I'm afraid she's passed away." Somehow it was easier than explaining her psychosis.

"I am sorry, Richard."

"It was a long time ago."

She nodded and for several moments, they occupied themselves with the menus.

"I feel as though I've met you before, Daphne."

She frowned in concentration. "Really? Where?"

"Did you ever go to Columbia University?"

"Yes. I studied Commerce. But years ago."

"My wife taught there." Professor Caroline Henderson."

Daphne smiled broadly. "She taught me my one and only arts course, Renaissance Music."

Richard was surprised at how good it felt to smile.

"She was a wonderful teacher. Everyone loved her."

"Thank you," he nodded.

Moments later, they said in unison 'small world,' then laughed.

The waiter pulled out a chair. A very tall man, dressed in a charcoal suit of Edwardian cut stood beside the table. He wore a shirt of egg shell blue with white collar and cuffs.

In a deep, gravely voice he asked, "Do you mind if I join you?" He seated himself and ordered a scotch. "I am Alexander Wainwright." He smiled and extended his hand.

Daphne almost knocked over her water glass.

"The artist?" asked Richard.

"So some say."

Richard stared as he held out his hand. "Richard Carson."

"You look shocked, Mr. Carson. As if you'd seen a ghost."

"Forgive me, sir, but someone said you were dead."

Wainwright appeared greatly amused. "Really? Then my work has just increased substantially in value. But, as you can see, it is a false rumour." Wainwright gazed at Daphne with glowing eyes.” Please, Richard, introduce me to your lovely wife."

"This is Ms Daphne Bersault, but she's not my wife. He almost added 'unfortunately'. "We've only just met at lunch."

Alexander Wainwright's eyes remained fixed upon Daphne. He inclined his head, then kissed her hand. "Indeed, my dear, a pleasure. I thought I was destined to a lonely dinner, but now I see the gods have favoured me."

Daphne's sense of doom lifted.

Wainwright's scotch was set before him "How did I die?" he asked pleasantly.

Richard shifted uncomfortably. "I'd rather not repeat gossip."

"No, please, it would be of great interest to me," Wainwright said amiably.

Richard realized he was gazing at the artist's long, slender fingers. He was struck by the oddly beautiful emerald ring on his left hand. Daphne also was unable to take her eyes from the artist. "Someone said you had committed suicide just as the train pulled out of Waterloo Station."

Wainwright tossed back his head and laughed. "Now that's drama! If one must be dead, better it be by one's own hand. A last attempt to assert control in a random world." He sipped his scotch reflectively.

 "I understand you have a very fine reputation for landscape painting, Mr. Wainwright," said Daphne.                 

"Indeed I do." The artist sighed deeply. "It's strange how people fawn over the most mundane depiction of a tree or a babbling brook. But," he said brightly, "bucolic scenes have made me an excellent living."

Daphne frowned. "You sound bored with your work."

"Very perceptive of you, my dear. Lately, I've begun painting tiny little figures in my landscapes." With a flourish, the artist drew a figure in the air. "The first one appeared on a river bank. I was unhappy with a reflection of  trees in the water, which looked like boatmen on the way to Hades. So, I tried to create a distraction."

Richard suppressed a smile.

"First one figure slid from the tip of my brush and then another, until the entire canvas was peopled with these strange creatures. A bit like the paintings of the artist Bruegel. You know those dark works of people who all look like village idiots?"

Richard shifted away slightly. "Who were they?"

 Wainwright winked. "They are the trolls. What we poor humans look like to God." He  continued with the zeal, "You see, we are only playthings for God's amusement." The artist shook his head. "Each day, floundering in a random world, we must make a thousand choices with no real knowledge of the consequences, some of which, must be borne for a life time."

Daphne paled, but remained silent.

Wainwright looked into Daphne's eyes and asked, "Have you ever watched a bored school boy torture a cat?"

Daphne recoiled. "Certainly not!"

Wainwright reached out and covered her hand. "If you believe God is that school boy,  everything makes sense. Only that can explain why good people must suffer and rogues and scoundrels win out."

"But Mr. Wainwright, surely you believe in free will?" she asked.

"I believe in the anarchy of meaningless, random events. Unless you have the eyes, ears and heart of God, you cannot understand."

"No saving grace?" Richard asked.

"Indeed, my friend. Raw emotion is our saving grace and binds us together. Guilt, love, joy, malice, jealousy. Need I go on?"

Richard shook his head, but continued to stare at the artist's ring. Something odd emanated from the man. Was he mad or simply eccentric? What if emotion threatens to destroy you? He examined the wine list.

At last Daphne spoke. "Art fascinates me. It takes you into another person's world."

"More's the pity," Wainwright chuckled, then gazed coolly at her. "My world is filled with demented beings."

                      "Everyone has demons." Daphne said quietly.

"Ah yes! But only the artist is compelled to expose his creatures to the world. Everyone else has the good sense to hide theirs."

Richard reflected with perverse satisfaction. What can this man know of real demons, ones that snatch away people you love?  Hoping for an intimate dinner with Daphne, he was unaccustomed to the sense of annoyance building within.

            The three ordered their dinners and then fell silent. Richard sought to put the conversation on a more conventional basis. He turned to Wainwright. "What are your plans for Venice."

"To drink my fill of it once more and then leave, preferably in the middle of the night." His eyes flickered as he said, "And Daphne, what will you do there, my dear?"

"I have some unfinished business," she replied.

"Ah, a woman of mystery?"

Daphne could not help but smile. "Not nearly as exciting as it sounds."

"You have, my dear, if I may be so bold, an enchanting aura of sadness. I hope your business is not too painful."

Daphne looked down, but then smiled tentatively and said, "It's all in the past, but I do have to set certain things right."

Wainwright touched her hand. "It would be my pleasure to show you around, my dear. Venice is a very romantic city." The artist smiled broadly.

In the candle light, Daphne blushed.

Richard cursed himself. He scarcely recognized the bitter flame within as jealousy.

"Have you been there before, Daphne?" Wainwright asked.

"Once, I was." She glanced only briefly at Richard. "But I didn't see the city. An emergency forced me to leave, the moment I arrived."

"What could possibly tear one away from Venice?" Wainwright sipped his scotch.

"A family matter."

The waiter arrived with the salads. Wainwright requested another scotch, then turned to Daphne, "What sort of work do you do, my dear?"

"I'm in the creative end of advertising."

"Ah! The most seductive of all professions." He leaned back in his chair to appraise her. "Tell us the secrets of your trade, Ms Bersault."

In the flickering candle light, Daphne hesitated only a moment. "You have to find out what people yearn for. Everyone wants love but few ever find it. In my business, we capitalize on the ache for what's missing in life. So, we design the pitch to trigger that desire and subtlety suggest the product will bring them their dream."

"Ah yes, what we really want!" Wainwright laughed in his low, gravely voice.  

"And what might that be?" asked Richard.

"Adventure, chaos, freedom from dreary obligation. Need I go on?" Wainwright replied.

The waiter arrived to pour more wine. Daphne turned to the plate before her. Richard sat in silence, consumed with envy.

Daphne suddenly asked, "How does this fit with your troll theory, Mr. Wainwright?"

The artist frowned. "Need there be a connection?"

"Yes. If we are mere playthings of God, with no free will, how can we manipulate and seduce?"

Wainwright looked upon Daphne with great admiration, then said, "How extremely clever of you, my dear. I must give that some thought. We shall discuss it over a nightcap in the bar."

Richard's anger mounted. He's sweeping her away before my eyes.

The door flew open and the elderly couple, John and Gloria, entered. The violinists started to play the Anniversary Waltz. Memories of Caroline set Richard's teeth on edge.

John's thin neck protruded from a navy silk cravat, tucked neatly into his white collar. In her blowsy, floral dress, Gloria wheezed with every step down the aisle. The maitre d' rushed to assist them with their seating.

Wainwright touched the waiter's sleeve. "A celebration for the couple?"

"Mais oui, Monsieur. An anniversary."

The old woman spoke in short gasps. "Just think, John, forty-five years ago tonight, we were off on our honeymoon."

"Mmmmmhh," said John.

"And then," she laughed, "Peter came along quite quickly. Such a lovely little boy. Just like a gift."

John grimaced and signalled the waiter for a beer. "Never wanted to make something of himself."

Gloria's mouth hung open. "He has made something of himself. Two books published. He writes about things other people don't even think of." They fell silent.

After sipping her wine, she spoke again, "Peter said he would likely be staying at the Bologna in Venice."

John set down his paper. "So you've been talking to him?"

"No. But he did send a note a few weeks back. We could at least have dinner together."

"Maybe." John poured more beer. "But I don't want to meet up with any of his friends. They've no respect for convention or social graces."

Suddenly, Gloria asked, "Did you ask Robert about the cat?"

"What about the cat?"

"You mean you forgot to ask him to put food and water out for Tammy?"

"Of course, I didn't forget. Do you think I'm so stupid I can't look after a cat?"

Gloria pursed her lips. "Not stupid, John, but perhaps a tiny bit forgetful."

Wainwright winked at Daphne and murmured, "Forty-five years of marital bliss."

Richard shook his head. "Must be hell on earth to constantly bicker."

"They're driven by the killer instinct, but they know exactly how far they can go with their game," Wainwright replied.

"You're big on games, aren't you?" Richard said suddenly, prompted by malice.

Wainwright smiled benignly.

"I can't imagine living like that. My wife and I always dealt with things calmly and rationally." Even to himself, Richard sounded slightly stuffy.
"And where is your wife now?" asked Alexander.

Richard paused. "Actually, she's passed away."

"Sorry to hear that. Recently?"

"Almost a year now."

"Were you happy together?"

Richard looked startled. "Yes. We had the life we wanted."

Wainwright leaned across the aisle and addressed the elderly couple. "Congratulations!" He held out his hand and said, "I am Alexander Wainwright. What a delight to meet such a happy couple after forty-five years of marriage."

Pleasure spread across Gloria's face. "Mr. Wainwright? I'm so happy you're not  . . . "

"Dead?"

"Well, yes . . . "

"Since you are celebrating such a grand occasion, tell us how you met?"

Gloria's hand hovered over the bread basket.” Why, Mr. Wainwright, it was definitely destiny. A series of amazing co-incidences.

John pursed his lips.

Gloria's eyes misted with recollection. "I'd scarcely noticed him  in town before, but one day, I ran into him four times. Then suddenly, he tripped on a step and landed right at my feet. What could I do but help him up? So we got to chatting and we were married within the year." Triumph passed over her face and then she confided, "It was meant to be."

Wainwright turned to John. "What an intriguing story! Is that how you remember it, sir?"

John smiled a ghostly smile. "It's true . But I've never seen any great coincidences. It just happened."

After dinner, when the couple had left, Wainwright appraised Daphne with cool eyes. "Notice Gloria sees the helping hand of destiny, but he sees only a series of unfortunate coincidences. Bad luck."

Daphne said, "I suppose your view depends on whether you're pleased with the result or not."

Wainwright looked surprised. "Very good, my dear. Another theory for us to discuss. Once we've finished coffee, shall we repair to the bar?"

"I'm very tired, Alexander. I think I'll just turn in."