Charles De Lint: Memory and Dream

“Fine. So until tomorrow. Eight, sharp. And don’t bother to bring any equipment,” he added. “Before I can teach you a thing I’ll have to empty your head of all the nonsense you’ve already no doubt acquired.”

Izzy watched him stuff her sketch into his pocket and let him walk away with it without further protest. She looked down at what she’d gotten in exchange for the drawing. This time the name registered.

“Rushkin?” she said softly.

She lifted her head quickly, but her troll had vanished into the afternoon crowds and was nowhere to be seen. Slowly she went back over the whole odd encounter, considering his side of the conversation under an entirely new light. She’d just met Vincent Adjani Rushkin—the Vincent Adjani Rushkin. The most respected old-school artist in Newford wanted to give her lessons?

It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible could it?

II

... and then he just vanished,” Izzy said in conclusion.

Kathy gave her a lazy smile. “What? Like in a puff of smoke?”

“No. Into the crowd. You know what it’s like around St. Paul’s at lunch-time.”

Izzy had found her roommate in the middle of hennaing her hair when she got back to the room they shared in Karizen Hall. From their window they had a view of the university library and what Kathy called the Wild Acre—a tangle of unkempt vegetation that spread between the two buildings and was overseen by a giant oak tree. The windowsill was wide enough to sit in and Izzy stretched out along its length, watching two red squirrels argue over an apple core while she related the afternoon’s adventure.

Kathy moved from the sink to her bed, where she valiantly tried to maintain some control over the green muck that kept trying to leak out from under the Saran Wrap cap holding the henna mixture in place on top of her head.

Izzy turned from the view to look at her roommate.

“You’re leaking again,” she said. “Just by your left ear.”

“Thanks.”

“So what do you think?”

“What’s to think?” Kathy asked. “You should go. Do you know anybody else who ever got the chance to study under Rushkin?”

“If it even was Rushkin,” Izzy said.

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Why would he be interested in me?”

“Because you’re brilliant,” Kathy said. “Any fool can see that. And he’s obviously no fool.”

“Yeah, right.”

Kathy put on what was supposed to be a fierce frown, but whatever she did with her features under that cap of green mud and Saran Wrap could only look silly. “Just go,” she said as Izzy started to giggle.

“But I’ve got a class.”

“So skip it.”

Izzy sighed. It was easy for Kathy to say. Whenever Izzy did anything that wasn’t related to schoolwork, she felt guilty. The only reason she could afford to go to Butler U. was because of her scholarship and the money she’d saved from working at the marina during summer vacations. It wasn’t as though her parents approved, but then they had never approved of anything she did. Sometimes she wondered which was worse: having no family like Kathy, or having one such as her own.

“It’s probably just a joke,” she said finally. At Kathy’s raised eyebrows, she went on. “He just didn’t look right.”

“Oh, I see. Artists are all supposed to be tall and handsome, right?”

“Well, no. But he looked so ... uncouth. Why would Rushkin of all people go around like a dirty beggar looking for a handout?”

“Personally,” Kathy said, “I think you’re all mad. But that’s part and parcel of being an artistic genius, isn’t it? There’s not really that much difference between cutting off your own ear or having pretensions of poverty with an aversion to clean clothes and bathwater. Neither makes much sense.”

Izzy shrugged. “I suppose. I never have seen a picture of him. Actually, I’ve never even read anything about him. All the books just talk about his art and show reproductions of the paintings.”

“If it really was Rushkin you met,” Kathy said, “then someone’s working damage control. It’s all public relations. His agent probably doesn’t let anyone know anything about him. Who’d want to buy fine art from some smelly bum?” A sudden thought came to her and she pointed a finger at Izzy. “Hey, you could write an expose.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then at least go and see if it really is him,” Kathy said. “Though maybe you’re right to be cautious,”

she added with a teasing smile in her eyes. “I mean, would it even be worthwhile to study under him if he really was Rushkin?”

“Oh god. I’ve never heard of anybody who has studied with him. It’s not like he lectures or gives workshops or anything. But it’s like you said: the man’s an absolute genius.”

“So you’d learn something?”

“I’m not even good enough to sweep up his studio! But the things I could learn, just by watching him work ...”

“I hate it when you put yourself down,” Kathy said. “Look at this,” she went on, indicating the sketch that Izzy had done of Rushkin as soon as she’d come back to their room. Izzy had been working on it while Kathy finished gooping her hair.

“Whoops,” Kathy said. She tried to dab up the bit of green mud that she’d dropped onto the drawing and only succeeded in smearing it more. “Sony.”

“That’s okay. It’s not like it was really any good or anything.”

“There you go again! I may not be an artist, but I’ve got eyes; I know what’s good and you’re good.”

A blush rose up the back of Izzy’s neck and she smiled self-consciously. “My own private cheering section,” she said. “If only you were an art critic.”

“Who listens to critics?”

“Gallery owners. Museum curators. People looking for an investment.”

“So screw ’em.”

“Now, there we agree,” Izzy said.

“And we’ve got history to back us up,” Kathy added.

“What do you mean?”

“Anybody can reel off a half-dozen famous artists from a hundred years ago, but how many critics can the average person name?”

“I never thought of it like that.”

Kathy smiled. “Listen to me. I know what I’m talking about. I may have green mud all over my hair, but I still have wisdom to impart.”

“I do listen,” Izzy said.

“So you’ll go?” Kathy asked.

“To Rushkin’s studio?”

Kathy nodded.

“How could I not go?” Izzy said.

III

At ten to eight the next morning, Izzy stood on the pavement in front of 48 Stanton Street and looked up at the imposing Tudor-style house, reassured by the respectability of the neighborhood. Although she’d been told not to bring any supplies, she’d still thrown a few things into her knapsack before leaving the dorm: sketch pad, pencils, brushes, paints and two nine-by-twelve pieces of hardboard that she’d primed with gesso the night before. Gathering her courage, she went up the walk and onto the porch, where she quickly pressed the bell before she could change her mind and flee. A dark-haired woman in her forties answered the door. She held her bathrobe closed with one hand and regarded Izzy through the foot-wide crack in the door.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m, um, here to see Mr. Rushkin.”

“Oh, you want 48-B.” At Izzy’s blank look the woman added, “That’s the coach house around back. But don’t bother ringing the bell—he never answers it. Just go up the fire escape and hammer on the studio door.”

“Thanks,” Izzy said, but the woman had already closed the door.

Well, at least she now knew that yesterday’s odd encounter had really been with Rushkin. She wasn’t sure if she was happy or not about that. The idea of studying under him was so intimidating. What if, when he saw her at his door today, he told her that he’d changed his mind? What if the first thing she tried to do was so pathetic that he just threw her out of his studio?