Charles De Lint - Memory and Dream

Needless to say, Izzy was pleased with his praise and the fact that, wherever he was, however he did it, he still managed to fit in the time to see her work and comment upon it.

She wondered if John ever went to her shows. Maybe he didn’t have to. Maybe meeting his fellow numena in the streets of Newford was enough for him.

VIII

July 1976

On a hot muggy day, with both the temperature and humidity climbing into the nineties, Izzy ran into Jilly at Amos & Cook’s when she took a break from her current painting to pick up a few art supplies.

Jilly was as preoccupied as she was, and they only noticed each other when they both reached for the same tube of viridian.

“Well, howdy, stranger,” Jilly said.

Izzy smiled. “It has been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Weeks and weeks. You’re turning into a hermit.”

“Not really. I’ve just been working on changing my priorities. Less partying, more painting.”

“Good for you. Just don’t overdo it.”

Jilly glanced at the palette-shaped clock that hung behind the airbrush counter. It took her a moment to work out that the paintbrushes that served as the clock’s hands were pointing to the equivalent of eleven-thirty.

“Do you have time for an early lunch?” she asked.

“Depends. Is the place you have in mind air-conditioned?”

Jilly laughed. “I take it your studio isn’t either.”

“I’m wilting.”

Because it was only a few blocks over on Williamson Street, they settled on The Monkey Woman’s Nest. They took a table by the window so that they could look out from their comfortable vantage point at all the people going by, who were less fortunate than they were because they still had to fight the heat.

Two iced teas and grilled cheese sandwiches later, the conversation got around to Tom Downs.

“You’re seeing a lot of him these days,” Jilly remarked.

Izzy shrugged. Her relationship with Tom had never developed further than friendship, but meeting him at the opening had marked a turning point for her in terms of how she related to men. There were no more one-night stands. There was no more casual sex, period. She focused all of her energy instead on her work and her friends and her numena.

“You make it sound like a crime,” she said.

“He just bugs me, that’s all.”

“He used to bug me as well, but he’s turned out to be a pretty decent sort. Have you seen much of his work?”

Jilly sighed. “That’s what’s so really infuriating about him. Unlike so many other people who’ll launch into a half-hour lecture at the drop of a hat, he can actually paint. Technically, he’s really good. A little reminiscent of Keane at times, but not so much as he used to be. And he really does practice what he preaches. I can’t believe how realistic his work is while still keeping its painterly qualities.”

“And he’s doing it with watercolors.”

“I know.” _Ally paused. “Well?” she asked when Izzy didn’t fill the silence. “Are you serious about him?”

Izzy shook her head. “No—or at least not in the sense that you mean. I’m serious about him as a friend. It’s nice to have a man to go to a film or an opening with and not have to fend off advances or worry about all sorts of strings being attached. And I like to listen to him go on. I don’t agree with him all of the time, but I still fmd what he has to say interesting.”

“Uh-huh,” Jilly said, as though she thought there had to be more to it than that.

“It’s true,” Izzy said.

Jilly studied her for a long moment.

“You still miss John, don’t you?” she asked.

“Not at all,” Izzy lied. “I can’t remember the last time I even thought about him.”

IX

March 1977

Izzy finished La Liseuse on the second anniversary of having broken up with John. She stood back from the canvas and was surprised herself at how well the painting had come out. She almost expected the red-haired woman to step gracefully down from the easel, book under her arm, that solemn look in her eyes counteracted by the warmth of her smile. Then Izzy had to laugh at herself. Well, yes. She would be stepping down from the painting, wouldn’t she? Crossing over from the before to here. That’s what numena did.

Her crossing over wasn’t the question at all. The question was, what would she be like?

Izzy had taken the inspiration for the reading woman from Kathy’s story of the same name. Rosalind was the character’s name; its numena would have the same. This was the first time that Izzy had deliberately set out to bring to life a numena whose genesis lay in another’s creativity rather than her own, and she had no idea what was going to happen. Would Rosalind be like the character in Kathy’s story, or would she be similar only in how both Izzy and Kathy had described her?

“Rosalind,” she said softly. “If you cross over, I hope you’ll be your own woman.”

“Whose else’s would I be?” a soft voice asked.

Izzy turned slowly to find the painting’s numena standing in the studio behind her. She had never seen one of her numena so soon after it had crossed over, and she studied Rosalind carefully, worried that she might feel disoriented and wondering what she should do if Rosalind was. But the numena radiated an aura of peace, just as Kathy had described in her story, just as Izzy had tried to capture on her canvas.

“Do you feel okay?” Izzy asked.

Rosalind’s smile broadened. “I’ve never felt better. Thank you for bringing me across.”

“You remember the crossing?”

“I remember I was in a story,” Rosalind said in that soft voice of hers, “but I don’t remember what it was.”

For a moment Izzy thought she was talking about Kathy’s story, but then she realized Rosalind was speaking of the before, describing it the same way John had. There were stories, he’d told her once. That seemed like a lifetime ago now.

“Can I get you anything?” Izzy asked. “Some tea, or something to eat?”

“I think I will sit for a moment.”

Rosalind crossed the room and settled in the window seat. She looked out over the snowy lane that ran beside the coach house, her face in profile. Izzy had painted her head-on, but only after much indecision and having sketched any number of alternate poses. She was surprised to see that Rosalind’s profile was exactly the way she’d imagined it to be, though why that should surprise her, she didn’t know. After a moment, she wiped her hands on a rag and went to join her visitor in the window seat.

“What’s the book about?” she asked.

She’d painted a book because in the story, Kathy’s Rosalind had always been reading. It had been the character’s connection to herself, a lifeline that helped her through the bad times, then a pleasure that she’d continued when her life finally turned around and she was able to have hope for the future once more.

Rosalind smiled at her question. “I’m not sure. I haven’t begun it yet.” The smile reached her eyes as she added, “But I have the feeling that it will be different each time I read it. That’s the way it is with enchantment, isn’t it?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

Rosalind turned the book so that Izzy could see the one-word title on its spine—Enchantment—then brought the book back to her chest and folded her arms around it.

“I think I might take a walk,” Rosalind said. “I’d like to explore the city a little before I go.”

“Go?”

“To the island,” Rosalind explained. “I have this feeling that I will never be as comfortable indoors as living out among the elements. I will make myself a home there in a birch wood. There is a birch wood, isn’t there?”