Charles De Lint - Memory and Dream

Alan heard the wild girl’s voice in his mind. It’s almost time for the dawn chorus and she’s still up there, filling sheet after sheet with sketches.

Except he’d decided that he had dreamed her—hadn’t he?

“I don’t know,” he said. “I guess I heard you walking around or something.” When she raised her eyebrows quizzically, he added, “You did tell me yesterday that you’re the only person living here on the island, didn’t you?”

Isabelle nodded, but Alan thought he could detect a guarded expression slip into her eyes.

“Why?” she asked, her voice mild. “Did you see somebody?”

A half-naked adolescent girl, that’s all, Alan thought. You know, the one from your painting. She came to me in the middle of the night, dispensing her own version of advice for the lovelorn.

“Not really,” he said. “I just had a very vivid dream—you know the kind that seems so real it’s more like a memory?”

Isabelle smiled, making Alan forget that her eyes had ever held a hint of circumspection.

“Sometimes it seems as if all this island holds are dreams and memories,” she said.

“Good ones, I hope.”

Isabelle hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. “All kinds.”

She seemed to have to work a little harder at it, but she gave him another smile before returning her attention to the stove where she was frying the last of the eggs. Sliding it from the spatula onto a plate, she joined him at the table.

“Dig in,” she said.

“Thanks. It looks great.”

She surprised him while they were eating by telling him that she’d illustrate Kathy’s book.

“I don’t see any problem with you holding on to the originals,” he told her after she’d explained the terms under which she would take on the project. “I can call you with the specs when we’re further along in production—unless you’d like to be involved with the design as well?”

Isabelle shook her head. “That’s not my field of expertise. I’d rather you just let me know what sizes the pieces have to be reduced down to, if you want headings for the stories, incidental art—that sort of thing.”

“No problem.”

“I’ll be moving to town for a while to do some research,” she told him, surprising him further. “I might even rent a studio if I can find something affordable. I’ll let you know where you can reach me as soon as it’s more settled.”

Alan was about to offer her the use of his own spare room, but stopped himself just in time. Let’s not get too pushy, he told himself. He might have fantasies about her, including visits from advice-dispensing gamines, and they certainly seemed to have resolved their differences, by avoiding them if nothing else, but that didn’t mean his own feelings were reciprocated. At this point he’d be far better off taking it slowly, one step at a time.

“If I’m not in, you can leave a message on my answering machine,” he said. “And maybe I could repay your hospitality by taking you out to dinner one night.”

“That would be nice.”

Be still, my heart, Alan thought. He felt like a schoolboy fumbling through his first awkward attempt at making a date.

“Now, about the payment schedule,” he said, trying to make his way back to firmer emotional ground. “As I told you yesterday, until we get a firm commitment from New York on the distribution deal, we can only—”

Isabelle held up a hand, forestalling him. “I want my fees to go to the arts court as well,” she said.

“That’s awfully generous of you.”

Isabelle smiled. “It just feels like the right thing to do. But please, don’t let it get around how cheap I am.”

“And you’re okay working in color?”

The guarded expression returned to her features and he berated himself for the question he’d just blurted out. But he’d been thinking—of Isabelle’s curious demands concerning the originals, and then his dawn visitor’s cryptic comments. I’d suggest that you simply use monochrome studies to illustrate the book—that would certainly make it easier on Isabelle, you know.

Easier how? What was the difference between finished oils and monochrome work—beyond the obvious, of course. How did the difference between the two affect Isabelle?

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Isabelle asked.

Because someone he was fairly certain existed only in a dream had told him so. And hadn’t Cosette then added, But I have to admit I’m too selfish and lonely. It’ll be so nice to see a few new faces around here.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I just thought maybe monochrome illustrations would be—”

For no good reason, the word safer popped into his mind.

“Would be what?”

“Easier?” he tried.

“Would you prefer monochrome? Black-and-white line drawings and wash? Or perhaps sepia?”

“Well, no. It’s just that—” Think quick, he told himself. “I thought, what with your having been away from this style for so long, you might find it more comfortable to ease back into illustrative work with something simpler.”

“I’d like to provide paintings,” Isabelle said. “I think the stories require a full palette.”

“Oh, I agree.”

“And I’m just doing this one project.”

“Of course.”

The mood in the room had become rapidly strained. The tension wasn’t quite the same as it had been last night, but it still lay between them like a thickening in the air. Alan knew he had caused the sudden coolness he could feel coming from Isabelle, but he had no idea what he’d done to cause it. He just hoped that he hadn’t blown the deal for Kathy’s book. But more importantly, he hoped he hadn’t completely estranged Isabelle again. Seeing her now, being with her after all those years of separation, he couldn’t bear the thought of being shut out of her life once more.

But as suddenly as the coolness had come, Isabelle appeared to shake it off. She smiled that winning smile of hers, the one that lit her entire face and had won his heart so long ago. Casually, she started up the conversation again, steering it back onto safer ground.

Alan was happy to follow her lead, but by the time he finally left the island, he was feeling more confused than ever.

Isabelle maintained her masquerade of casual good-naturedness until she’d seen Alan back to his car. Once he drove off, the mask dropped. She kicked at a pinecone that was lying on the dock and sent it flying into the water.

She was angry, but she didn’t know why.

Certainly it wasn’t Alan’s fault. He’d simply been talking about possibilities for the project, showing his concern for her having been out of touch with the illustrative field for as long as she had—not so much for the sake of the book itself, she had been able to realize, but for her own sake. For the sake of kindness.

But if it wasn’t Alan, then what was it?

Except, perhaps that same kindness that was to blame. It reminded her too much of how, after the fire, everyone had seemed to walk on eggshells around her. She’d understood—she’d appreciated—their compassion, but it had been misdirected. The loss they’d perceived had nothing to do with what had actually died in those flames. They could never have known, but it hadn’t made it any easier to deal with them.

It had proved simpler to retreat. She’d worked on the new show at the loft she’d shared with Sophie while she had the barn renovated into what was now her home and studio. Then, when the show was done, she’d left Sophie’s loft, the city, the art scene, everyone she knew—this time, she’d thought, for good. She’d known it would be easier, when someone came to visit, to deal with one small piece of her old life at a time than all of it at once, the way it would always be in Newford.