The Sculptress by V.S. Alexander (ereader for comics txt) 📗

should be held in check because the risks of passion were too great.

And then an equally dangerous thought came upon her. It would force Linton and her together for art’s sake. Linton is my Narcissus. As quickly as the idea entered her mind, the matter was settled—a nod to taboo in a manner no one could question except herself.

When they crossed the triangle at Columbus Avenue, Linton wrapped his left arm gently around her waist for support. A thrill ran up her back, his intimacy enough to rock her on her feet. But the world of men was never far away—Kurt, Tom, even Alex. They passed a war poster in a shop window that dampened her good spirits. Shame washed over her—how could she enjoy her time, even this innocent walk, with Linton, while Tom toiled as a surgeon on French soil? The reality and horror of it, like the determined doughboy in the poster, sent her plummeting from the heavens. She squeezed Linton’s arm and focused on the city stretching before her—brick bowfront after brick bowfront in an undulating wave to the horizon. Life traveled that endless distance, until it could proceed no further.

* * *

“Here it is,” Alex said. He withdrew a key from his pants pocket.

Emma looked at the stone building that towered over them—five stories tall, ugly, utilitarian in its uninspired rectangular architecture. It plunged the adjoining alley into darkness as it pushed back into the murky depths of the lot. A tailor and a cobbler occupied the ground floor, the wares of the trades, suits and shoes, displayed in the grimy windows.

“It’s one flight up,” Alex said. “I know the landlord. He was kind enough to give me the key.”

Emma and Linton, behind Alex, climbed the dingy stairs lined with dust and bits of dead leaves.

“Contrary to what you might think, Mrs. Swan, I have no trouble navigating stairs,” Linton said.

“Oh, I don’t doubt it for a moment.”

At the landing, Alex stopped at a green metal door inset with frosted glass. He slipped the key into the lock and led them inside.

A vast room, broken only by its circular stone columns, opened before them. The studio smelled of dust and the vacant odor of neglect. Greasy cobwebs dangled from the high ceiling. But the light! The room, which faced west, was already filling with afternoon sun thanks to an unbroken row of large windows that looked out upon the low buildings across the street.

“Linton, it’s perfect,” Emma said. “It needs sprucing up, but I could help you with that.”

“Really, Emma, you go too far,” Alex said, his voice bordering on censure. “Linton isn’t an invalid. He knows how to handle a broom.”

“Ssshhh!” Linton put a finger to his lips. “Let me walk.”

He withdrew his arm from Emma’s and took a few steps toward the windows. Then, he turned in a circle, his head and the cloudy eyes directed toward the ceiling. He stopped, faced the windows again, walked to them, and caressed the glass as if it were fine crystal. After a few moments, he walked back to Emma in measured steps.

“I love it,” Linton said as he approached. Fire sparkled beneath the pale irises. “The light is extraordinary. When can I have it, Alex?”

“The first of June, if you wish.” Alex turned to Emma. “The owner has made a very generous offer because he owes me a few favors. Linton can have the space for five dollars a month.” Alex added with a wink to Emma, “The details of our business proposition shall remain undisclosed to all.”

“Always,” Emma said.

“Then, it’s settled,” Linton said. “The space is mine as of June. I already know where I’ll set up my easels. Perhaps a sofa and some chairs. My table and work counter will be there.” He pointed to a dusty corner on the south side of the room. “Now, I only need to retrace our steps, so I can find my way home.”

“Come then,” Alex offered. “I have an appointment after lunch with a potential buyer.”

“I’m sure Mrs. Swan would be glad to escort me home,” Linton said. He took no notice of Alex, but stared at Emma with his dim eyes.

Alex smiled curtly as if overpowered by the two and tipped his hat to Emma. “Who am I to dissuade creative minds from their artistic pursuits?” He shook Linton’s hand and then placed the key in his palm. “Hold on to it. I’ll deliver the good news personally to the landlord. I know he’ll be pleased. Good-bye, Emma. Linton . . .” Alex brushed his hands against Linton’s and then he was gone.

“I wish there was a place to sit,” Linton said, backing away from Emma. He waved his right hand in a broad circle. “Is there any furniture?”

“Unfortunately, no. Not even a footstool. But we won’t be here long.” She hoped she didn’t sound too disingenuous because, in actuality, she wanted to linger in the studio, breathe in the electric air of possibility.

“Thank you for coming today, Mrs. Swan,” Linton said, and returned to the windows. “It would have been harder to make up my mind with just Alex accompanying me.”

“Why?” she asked. “And, please, call me Emma.” She stopped behind him as he peered through the dusty glass. He stood, his hands planted against the casement, the contours of his shoulders and back showing beneath the suit jacket.

“Because Alex would have forced the issue,” he replied. “He wants me to paint—to take this space no matter what. Even though I’m blind, I’m no fool. I’m an asset to him as long as I make money.”

“That’s rather cold thinking.”

He looked over his shoulder for a moment. “Not at all. Art is a business as well as a vocation. Think what financial straits Alex would be in if he made no sales at all. The Fountain is barely scraping by as it is. He needs artists who sell.”

“Unlike me,” Emma said with a touch of bitterness.

“I didn’t mean to imply that. Please don’t extrapolate upon