Charles De Lint - Memory and Dream

“And no wonder.”

“But if what happened to Rochelle colored something that was perfectly harmless—”

“Oh please,” Kathy said. “You don’t even know what he looks like. Maybe he was hiding in the shadows because he’s got a face like a toad.”

“You like toads,” Izzy pointed out.

“This is true, but for themselves—not as a frame of reference for a potential boyfriend’s features.”

Izzy’s face went red. “I never said—”

“I know, I know. Just do me a favor. The next time you talk to him, do it in a crowd.”

“If I get the choice.”

Kathy nodded. “If he’s as interested in you as you are in him—hold on, let me finish,” she added as Izzy started to protest, “then you can be sure he’ll be approaching you again. And if he’s got any kind of smarts whatsoever, he’ll do it at a more appropriate time, like the middle of the day when there’s lots of people around. If he doesn’t, my advice is: run.”

“Advice duly noted and to be followed,” Izzy said.

“Good. Now ask me about my night.”

“How was your night?”

“Borrrring,” Kathy said. “Alan and I went to a poetry reading at The Stone Angel and I honestly didn’t think we’d get out of there before our brains had turned to mush.”

“I thought you guys liked poetry.”

“We do. But this wasn’t poetry. It was more like—” Kathy grinned suddenly, “—posery.”

After two years of being roommates, by now Izzy was used to the way Kathy liked to coin words.

“Which means?” she asked.

“They were more interested in the way they looked—in being ‘poets’—than the content of their work. Except for this one girl—Wendy something-or-other. I didn’t quite catch her name and she left before I had a chance to talk to her. She was good.”

They stayed up a little while longer, talking over a pot of tea before finally calling it quits around midnight. When Izzy finally fell asleep that night, she didn’t dream of ruined paintings, but of a shadowy figure who stayed out of the light and called himselfJohn. She woke up wondering when, or indeed if, she’d ever see him again, not at all sure that she was even looking forward to another encounter with him in the first place.

XI

But Izzy didn’t have to wait all that long to find out how she’d feel. The next morning as she was coming down the lane toward Rushkin’s studio, she spied John again, a lean shape in a white T-shirt and jeans, lounging against the stone wall a hundred yards or so farther down the lane on the far side of the coach house. She hesitated briefly, then continued past the coach house, coming to a sudden halt when she was a half-dozen yards away from him. She’d stopped more from shock than from any fear of his harming her.

He smiled, but looked a little uncertain as to his welcome.

“Hello, again,” he said as the long moment of silence continued to stretch out between them.

All Izzy could do was stare at him. Last night’s feeling of familiarity had returned in a rush, but it was no longer vague. She knew those broad, flat features, those dark eyes, that spill of long black hair.

“This is so weird,” she said finally. “You look exactly like the guy in the painting I just finished yesterday.”

Right down to the small silver earring shaped like a feather that dangled from his left earlobe. The resemblance was so uncanny she couldn’t suppress a shiver.

“Really?” he said. “I’d love to see it.”

Izzy turned to give the coach house a glance, then brought her gaze back to her companion’s handsome features. “Maybe some other time. My teacher doesn’t much care for visitors.” She paused, still off-balance, still trying to sort through what she was feeling. To cover her uneasiness, she added,

“Aren’t you cold?”

“Maybe a little.”

“Then why don’t you wear some warmer clothing?”

He shrugged. “This is all I have.”

“Oh.”

She still couldn’t get over the way he was exactly like the painting. It wasn’t that he bore a resemblance to the young man she’d used as a basic model for the pose rendered on her canvas; no, he was exactly like the man in her painting.

“There’s a used clothing place on Lee near the corner of Quinlan,” she found herself saying. “Rags and Bones. I was in there the other day and they had some really cheap jackets, you know, for like under five dollars.”

He smiled. “I don’t have any money, either.”

Izzy remembered an article she’d read in The Newford Star recently about the abject poverty on the Kickaha reserve. God, and she thought she had trouble paying her tuition and making her rent. Here was someone who couldn’t even afford a warm shirt or jacket.

“Um, I guess you’d,” she began, hesitated, then started again. “Would you be insulted if I spotted you the money to get yourself one?”

“That depends,” he said.

“On what?”

“On whether or not I can see you again.”

He gave her another smile and that, she realized, was the one thing she hadn’t gotten quite right in her painting. His was a smile that was utterly guileless, that spoke of the pure joy of simply being alive and breathing the crisp autumn air, jacket or no jacket, never mind the cold.

“Well?” he said.

Oh boy, Izzy thought. Like you have to ask. Then she remembered how Kathy’d been teasing her the night before and felt herself starting to blush. She wondered if he’d noticed, which made the flush rising up her neck grow hotter, then realized that he was still waiting for her to answer him.

“Urn, sure,” she said. “Maybe we could have dinner tonight. Do you know Perry’s Diner? It’s also on Lee.”

“No, but I can find it.”

“Around six?”

“Sounds fine.”

Feeling a little awkward, Izzy dug out her wallet. All she had was a pair of tens, so she handed one of them over to him.

“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll bring you the change.”

“Sure. Whatever. Just get yourself something warm.” Izzy glanced back at the coach house and this time she saw Rushkin standing at his window, watching them. “Look,” she added. “I’ve really got to run. I’ll see you tonight—okay?”

He nodded.

“My name’s Izzy,” she said before she left. “Isabelle, actually.”

“I know.”

“Oh.” How did he know?

This time he was the one to look up at the coach house. “I’ll see you tonight,” he said, his gaze dropping back down to meet hers once more. “Be careful, Isabelle.”

“What do you mean by ... ?” Izzy began, but he’d already turned away and was walking off down the lane as though he hadn’t heard her. She started to call after him, but then shook her head. She’d ask him tonight. There were a lot of things she was going to ask him tonight. She wondered how many straight answers she’d get, and then realized that she didn’t really care. The whole mystery of it was sort of fun. His resemblance to her painting, the way he just kept showing up, the way everything he said seemed so ... so ambiguous. She remembered how he’d frightened her last night, but she didn’t feel he was at all scary anymore. Odd, yes. And he still seemed a little lost. But any fear she’d felt toward him was gone.

She was humming happily to herself by the time she climbed the stairs up to the studio. Tonight was going to be fun.

XII

Who was that?” Rushkin demanded.

“Just this guy I met last night,” Izzy replied.

She took off her coat and hung it on a nail by the door, then walked over to her easel where The Spirit Is Strong was still drying. Yes. Except for the smile, he was exactly the same.