Part 9 (1/2)

The picture on the box was feeling talkative. ”Have a nice time?” it asked, ironically putting on the voice of an old woman.

At once, in a fury, the Princess sat up again.

”Not the quilt! Not the quilt!” cried the picture-for of late it was the Princess's habit to cover the box with a heavy yellow quilt in hopes of silencing it. ”I'll be good! I'll be nothing but sweetness and light! You have my promise!”

The Princess lay back again and closed her eyes, not resting, ready to spring if the box started in again.

After a long time the box asked, trying to sound innocent, ”Did he talk dirty?”

The Princess groaned.

”It's not that I mean to be troublesome,” said the picture hastily, thinking of the quilt. ”And of course it's none of my business what your suitors say to you. It's just that life's not very interesting for a person who's not real, if you know what I mean. Has it ever occurred to you that all I have is a head and neck and shoulders? I can't even play with my-”

”Stop it!” cried the Princess, sitting up again. ”Where in heaven's name do you get those vulgar, obscene, unspeakable ...” She did not finish, but put her hands to her face and bent forward like a person in pain. ”Why do you hate me?” she whispered. ”What is it you want of me?”

”I don't hate you, really,” said the picture, then abruptly went silent, thinking her own thoughts.

After a long time the Princess said, ”You told me once that Vlemk the box-painter made other pictures of me.”

The picture on the box let the sentence hang in the air a moment, then brought out, in a voice strangely quiet, ”Yes ...”

”What are they like?” the Princess asked.

The picture on the box said nothing.

”Well?” asked the Princess.

”You'd have to see them,” said the picture, again in that quiet, reserved voice that might mean anything.

”Perhaps I will,” said the Princess thoughtfully, and dropped her hands to her knees, one hand on the other, her eyes staring vacantly at the farther wall. After a moment she said, ”I'm told the box-painter is very poor. Perhaps if I went with a few friends to his shop, people who could afford to pay him well if he happened to have something that struck their fancy ...”

Again the picture on the box said nothing.

”I don't mean we'd give him charity,” said the Princess. ”It's just that I thought ...”

The picture on the box said, ”I'm sorry I don't please you. I don't blame you for being angry, I've been thinking of no one but myself, I admit it. Perhaps if we both could try harder-especially me, I mean-”

The Princess frowned. ”You don't want me to see the other boxes!”

”Oh, it isn't that!” the picture exclaimed. But the Princess knew her own voice too well to be fooled.

”That settles it!” said the Princess. She rose quickly and crossed to the door to call a servant and send a message to her driver. The Prince, who had been standing with his hands behind his back, looking at the pictures of n.o.bility on the walls, saw the Princess talking with her servant and came to greet her.

”Are you better, then?” he asked.

”Prince!” she said, giving him a quick, false smile. ”I've thought of something we must do. Will you help me?”

”Anything at all, my love,” said the Prince, and s.h.i.+fted his eyes to some point above her head, slightly troubled by that smile.

”We must do something to help the poor box-painter,” she said. ”There he is, living in abject poverty, though he may well be one of the most brilliant artists in the kingdom!” And she told him her plan.

7.

A whisper went through the tavern, and the next thing Vlemk the box-painter knew, the barmaid was leaning down to him, murmuring in his ear. Though he did not quite hear what she said, he turned around and, there at the doorway, saw the man who drove the Princess's carriage, dressed in all his finery, with the boots that shone like onyx.

Vlemk's mind was beclouded-he'd drunk a good deal of wine-and he turned to his friends in hopes of judging by their faces what was wanted of him. The poet was asleep with his eyes rolled up; the axe-murderer was staring dully straight ahead, like a man in a trance. ”He's asking to see you,” said the ex-violinist, and jabbed his long finger in the direction of the carriage driver. Vlemk looked up at the barmaid. She nodded.

Slowly, clumsily, Vlemk felt for and found his shoes-which he'd pulled out of because of the pain they gave him-scuffed his feet into them, and struggled to get up out of his seat. The barmaid took his arm, helping him, saying in his ear, ”Don't be afraid! I think it's something good!” and led him across the room to where the carriage driver waited, aloof and displeased by everything around him-the open mouths, warts, and blemishes of the regulars, the stink of stale whiskey, sickness, and tobacco, the barmaid's tomcat lying over by the bar on his back, his eyes rolled sideways, waiting for someone to drop food. As Vlemk approached, the driver gave a kind of smile and a bow that were almost obsequious but constrained, full of grim reservations.

”The Princess,” said the driver, ”has asked if you might possibly be willing to open your shop.”

Vlemk opened his mouth, put his hand on his chin, and thought deeply.

”She is interested in looking at your work,” said the driver.

After a time, Vlemk nodded. He felt for the top of his head, seeing if his hat was there, then nodded again. He sensed some awful trouble outside the door, but his drunkenness was unable to place it, and so, at length, he nodded again and moved with the driver toward the entrance.

Outside, four carriages were lined up, filled with people. Vlemk removed his hat. The door of the black-and-gold carriage opened, and the Princess leaned out to smile at him. ”h.e.l.lo, Vlemk. I'm sorry-we weren't sure about your hours.”

Vlemk laughed, then stopped himself, thoughtfully licked his lips, then nodded. ”No matter,” he tried to say, then remembered the curse and simply shrugged.

”Would you do us the honor of riding with us?” asked the Princess.

He gazed at her in dismay, looked up and down the street, then helplessly shrugged again. With his hat in his hands he moved toward the carriage and, when he reached it, raised one foot, like a blind man. The driver bent down beside him and guided the foot to the s.h.i.+ning bra.s.s step, then gently helped him in. He could see nothing inside the carriage-he had a sense of white faces gazing at him like moons-and had no choice but to submit to their kindness as they turned him and aimed his rear end toward the seat beside the Princess. ”Thank you,” said the Princess, leaning past him; and the driver closed the door.

”It's a great honor to meet you again,” said a voice Vlemk faintly recognized. A glowing white hand hung in front of him, and after a moment he understood that he was meant to shake it. Clumsily, he did so, then wiped his hand on his trousers. The carriage smelled of flowers or perfume. Vlemk breathed very shallowly for fear of being sick.

”It's a fortunate kingdom,” said another voice, ”that has artists of such stature and renown!”

”Renown is for gargoyle hackers,” Vlemk said scornfully; but luckily no sound came out. His hands lay on his knees. The Princess's glove came down gently on the hand to the right. He was puzzled to find it shaking like the hand of a madwoman.

The carriage swayed, soundless as a boat on the water except for the tocking of the horses' iron shoes on the cobblestones, rhythmical as clocks. Then the sound stopped and, soon after, the swaying also stopped, and the door at Vlemk's elbow fell open. He caught his breath, but all was well. The driver was extending his hand.

It was while he was climbing the stairs that his mind came back to him. A shock went through him, and he glanced down past his arm at the lords and ladies following him up the steps in all their finery. They were smiling like children at a party, expecting presents, and with a turn of the stomach he realized what it was they'd come for, what it was they wanted to see. Without his willing it, his feet stopped and his left hand clamped tight on the bannister as if never to be moved. The Princess, just behind him, looked up at his face inquiringly, waiting, dark circles under her eyes, and after a moment, touching his beard, wetting his lips, Vlemk continued climbing.

As he lighted the candles in his studio, the box-painter hesitated again, wondering if perhaps he might fool them by keeping the place relatively dark. But it was not to be, for the Prince with the moustache, ever eager to be useful, had found phosphor sticks and was hurrying here and there through the studio finding more candles in their old china dishes and lighting them, one after another. Soon the place was glowing like a room in the palace, and Vlemk knew that all was lost. Slowly, deliberately, he brought the little boxes from their various places-first the shoddily painted boxes with landscapes on them, then the boxes with flowers, then the boxes with cats and dogs-but he knew from the beginning that it would not be enough. He stood with his hands in his pockets and his eyes half closed, like some pot-bellied watchman asleep on his feet, and observed as they admired those shameless betrayals of his gift.

”I had heard ...” said the Princess, and let the words trail off.

She seemed to Vlemk very young, very frightened, just an ordinary child, not a Princess whose father, though said to be dying, had powers like a G.o.d's in this kingdom. The Prince with the moustache stood beside her, his hand on her arm, as childlike as the girl, in the painter's eyes, a c.o.c.ky, good-looking boy who'd never seen trouble, had no idea-unless he'd gotten it from books or the tales of old servants-that in the streets below there were axe-murderers, people who picked pockets, men who crept like rats through cloakrooms. He could say, he thought-that is, he could manage to impart to them by gestures-that he had no more boxes, that the pictures she'd heard of did not exist. But he saw that again she was shaping the question, opening her mouth to speak; and he did not have it in him, he found, to lie to her. He retained, despite his efforts, too much of that original lunatic vision, the shadowy reality peeking out from behind what she was.

Vlemk the box-painter nodded grimly, and brought out the boxes on which he'd painted all her worst potential. When he'd displayed them he turned curtly and went over to stand with his back to them, looking out the window. It occurred to him briefly that he might jump from it, but he was too old, too familiar with misery to be moved by cheap romance. He heard them whispering. No, they were not pleased.

”How tragic!” someone whispered.