Philip Nutman - Cities of Night

I burned the potion Fanny gave me along with a few strands of my Emilia’s lover’s hair, and within a day, he grew ill, very ill with scarlet fever. Of course, She ran to his bedside — “just a friend,” She said — but within two weeks he was dead, and She was again my Emilia.

Everything returned to its normal routine. Cards and knitting, me reading to Her a new novel by an English gentleman named Dickens. I tried to ignore the sad look that now stained Her lovely eyes. And then She told me She wanted to paint me, and I would sit for hours in the drawing room clasping the old Indian skull as She laboured. A perfect likeness was what She had said She wanted to create. When the final brushstroke was complete, She pulled me over finally to look at it. Imagine my surprise when I saw that the man in the painting She had laboured upon so long and meticulously had no face. It was then that Her eyes began to change and I first began truly to see Her as the vile creature cackled with laughter, chanting in an arcane language I could not understand. As I went for Her throat — the screech of Her voice so grating and horrible to my ears — I found myself dragged instead away from Her and into the portrait.

She hung me over the fireplace to watch as my lifeless body was proclaimed dead by the coroner. My will had clearly stated that I wished to be buried under the front steps (to prevent Her from ever bringing another suitor across them), but She gleefully told me that she had had the church declare that last wish ungodly and I had been buried in the town cemetery instead. Mute for eternity, I could only listen and watch as She never remarried but paraded countless lovers into the drawing room to make me watch them seduce Her and then carry Her upstairs in their arms. My one solace was to see Her grow old and cracked until no lovers would come anymore. Until the day when the men in black suits and women in black dresses arrived to declare that She had finally died, alone.

My memories are interrupted as I notice that my two night visitors are not rolling up any more paintings. They are perusing the bookcase with an intense sense of purpose. She pulls out one book, and he shakes his head. Then she points at the coffee table, and he nods. The torchlight hits the cover: The Complete and Unabridged Poems of Edgar Allan Poe — the first edition that has haunted me for over a century. They pause as she hands the book to her accomplice, and then he hands her the torch and begins to peruse the pages carefully, lovingly.

I want to scream: “No, the real poet is here .” I want to point them to the thin, forgotten volume in the far corner of the bottom shelf, to the poems that He stole from me so shamelessly. For Him to say that He sent me His works in friendly correspondence, and I was the thief! My cadence is so much more lush, only the deaf ear could truly believe otherwise.

But, of course, I sit silent, only staring at the intruders, a lifeless work of art, a likeness of a long-forgotten relative. No value for a thief. They will leave me. The walls are empty now, except for me and Her and Admiral Nelson. They will leave me alone with Her and the dour-faced English naval hero who is too heavy to be lifted by any fewer than two men.

“Come on, Stan, we’ve got to hurry,” the woman whispers, the first words passed between them. “You can gush over it later when we’re safe in Cancun.”

“Sorry, Carla,” the man whispers back. “It’s just you know how much I’ve wanted to get hold of this, how much money it’s going to get us. Good ol’ Edgar!”

He pulls a thin, slippery cover out of the bag, carefully drapes the book, and eases it inside the side pocket so as not to damage the rolled paintings.

“Okay, let’s go,” Carla whispers.

They start to crawl out the window, but then suddenly Stan steps back inside. His eyes dart around the room, the light with them, as if he thinks he has forgotten something. Unexpectedly, they lock on me.

“Wait a minute,” Stan whispers. “We forgot about him.”

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Carla urges, sounding worried.

“No, this is that guy who says Poe plagiarized his work,” Stan adds softly. “Remember that guy I told you about? What was his name, Pecker-something? Yeah, I almost forgot that his picture was here, too. Poor old fucker. Must’ve eaten him up, that Poe first edition across the room from him on the coffee table.”

“Stan, we’ve been lucky this long,” Carla goes on, her voice rising ever so slightly. “Let’s go.”

“No, I want to take him along,” Stan says, his voice dropping as if in warning to her. “As a memento of the last great heist. Poe’s volume will bring us a fortune, along with the Picasso, the Renoir, the little Jasper Johns, but no one’s gonna miss this guy. I kinda feel sorry for him. I think we owe it to him, babe.”

“All right,” Carla whispers impatiently, stepping back into the room. “But make it quick.”

With that, he lifts me off the wall and removes me from the frame, turning my back toward Her for the first time in over a century. It tickles when he removes the nails from the board. He cannot use the serpent teeth because my nails are older, heavier, unlike the odd metal prongs used to connect the younger paintings. Then, with a sudden tingle, I am rolled up and clutched in his hand, and he carries me out the window.

My vision turns to pitch, but I can smell the fresh night air, a scent I could not forget. At least I am not in the bag. I do not have to rub shoulders with that damnable tome. This thief does remember me. Somebody remembers me. And now I am to rest in the place of honour in his home. What difference does it make that it is a home bought with wealth obtained by the sale of stolen possessions? I finally will be granted appreciation.

From the motion, I infer that these thieves — my liberators — run a short distance from the house. How I wish to see my old, dear friend Moon and to gaze at the façade of the place of incarceration! Stan, however, keeps me rolled and holds my canvas with a reverence, for which I am grateful. I hope their abode will be a magnificent place and that they will hang me somewhere with a splendid view. Ah, to be remembered! I, a poet, cannot find words superlative enough to describe the sense of elation I feel.

They slow then, as I seek those elusive words, and the sound of a door opening distracts me from my jubilant reverie. Stan’s gentle hands lay me carefully on a leather surface, and I am aware that the duffel bag is placed beside me. Darkness lessens somewhat as my canvas unrolls a trifle, allowing my ever-open eyes to detect the alabaster luminescence of my constant companion of so many years, now peeking out from the clouds.

“We’ve done it, Carla! This is it! Man, I can’t fuckin’ believe those stupid bastards were only using that antiquated alarm system.”

“We’re not out of the woods yet, hon,” Carla replies. “And don’t forget to change clothes.”

“Jeez! You’re right. Where would I be without you, babe?”

“Wasting away in Riker’s probably.”

“Sure as shit, sweet pea.”

The sounds of fabric slipping from young, adventurous bodies follow their exchange, and I decide I like this couple, despite the fact that young Stan has the manners and vocabulary of a guttersnipe, for he yet has taste enough to take an interest in me. Miss Carla, I sense, loves her brash, larcenous beau fiercely, and the knowledge makes me yearn for my long-lost youth.

“You ready?” asks Stan.

“Just a sec. Okay.”

“Love you, babe.”

The sound of a kiss follows, then a click, a whir, and the roar of some infernal machine. We are obviously in one of those horseless carriages they call “cars,” and I wish I could see more. In fact, I am quite giddy — and perhaps, a tad fearful — at the thought of being transported in such a machine. But then we are off and the sensation is surprisingly pleasant.