Kristopher Jansma - The Unchangeable Spots of Leopards

A rock flew past my ear with a hollow whistle and then I heard it thwack into something behind me. Terrified, I spun, just in time to catch the falling body of a policeman whose club had been raised to split my head open mere seconds before. The front of his uniform was the color of cherry juice and his face nothing but a pulpy hollow. I let him fall, and I screamed, and I ran for my life — thirty-three blocks without stopping — until I arrived at Tammany Hall.

I charged through the main doors, anxious to warn the others about the riot. But before I could, Colette Marsh appeared around the corner. Breathless, I stopped, almost forgetting why I’d come, and what I’d seen.

Colette was of “the Railroad Marshes” of Georgia, and heiress to a fortune larger than I could begin to imagine. Her impending wedding to Bertram Vanderbilt was the talk of the Hall, where I, and my fellow apprentices, scrambled daily, making preparations for the big event.

Many times, I had tried capturing her with my crude charcoals and my penny paints. All this failed. Only when I layered thin leaves of gold onto the columns of the hall had I ever felt near to capturing the deep hue of her Southern sun-kissed hair. Only when I delicately painted golden highlights onto the murals of the Revolution in the Great Room — glinting medals on uniforms and in the sunlight behind a musket blast — had I ever come close to the electric spark behind her eyes. But Chausser only kept a single day’s supply of gold paint on the premises at a time, locked in a back cabinet, and he weighed our jars at the end of the day to be sure none had been wasted. A single drop was worth more than I’d be paid in a week, but I had become so meticulous with my brush that I could conceal a few drips of gold each week, and with these precious drops I had painted a single portrait of Colette on the blank back page of my book.

“D’you happen to have a match?” she asked, approaching me lazily, and withdrew a cigarette holder made of purest bone.

Of course I did. I bought seven matches each week, at the tobacconist’s down the block from my boardinghouse, even though I had no money to buy tobacco. A Hungarian man there dipped a bundle of pine sticks into a great vat while I watched. He brought the sticks out with beads of lead and gum arabic and white phosphorus on the tips, exotic and potent substances that were befitting only of Colette Marsh.

And so I took out a match then, as I did each time she asked me, and struck it against the buckle of my belt. The little stick sizzled into white flames while I lifted it to the slim line of bone and paper and tobacco that led directly to her perfect lips. She inhaled with ladylike deliberation.

Then her eyes widened, and — bliss! Her hand reached to my face. “Is that blood on your cheek?” The policeman’s blood stained the white lace of her gloves. Her eyes flicked down to my Wilkie Collins novel. “The other men are always reading the newspaper. Not you.”

“No, ma’am,” I said, pulling the novel out to show her. “This one’s called ‘No Name.’ It’s not quite as good as ‘The Woman in White.’”

“That’s my favorite,” she said, plucking the book from my hands and turning it over in her own. I was so surprised to still be speaking to her that I completely forgot about what I’d painted on the blank page in the back — at least until she paused there, the blood-stained tip of her glove resting on a golden portrait of herself.

“Oh. That’s just… ”—I grabbed for the book—“… a sketch. Of a woman. I knew back home.”

But the verisimilitude was too great. Either my imaginary Southern woman was her identical twin, or that was a portrait of her. With no further word at all, Colette closed the book, tucked it into the folds of her flowing yellow dress, and left me standing there in the echoing hall. Far away, a clerk was rushing in the other entrance, shouting that the Colored Orphanage on Forty-fourth Street had just been set on fire.

Later I listened to the booming voice of Boss Tweed, discussing with the others how to best protect Tammany. Still I couldn’t think of anything but Colette as I gilded the arrows of fat-faced cherubs, drawn and ready to pierce the hearts of men like me. The riots continued on and off for days. I was reassigned to touch up the ceiling in the room where Colette’s wedding reception was to be held. Below, the little tables were laid out with gold-rimmed china teacups. Once or twice I dared to peek down from my perch and I caught sight of Colette, bobbing below, like a star fallen from my ceiling and submerged in the sea.

The Vanderbilts saw no need to cancel the wedding just because of the riots. The fires didn’t dare spread their way downtown; even the smoke seemed to always blow in the other direction. When, the day before the wedding, a servant clumsily slammed a vat of tomato soup into one of the Grecian frescoes in an adjacent portico, the Vanderbilts demanded even that tiny crack be repaired. Chausser sent me in to be sure it was done right. In the cracked fresco, Leander, the young Greek, swam across a turbulent river toward his forbidden love, Hero, a priestess of Aphrodite, who kept a light on in her tower so that he could find her. It was as I limned the rays of this light that I first heard Colette’s whispering.

“You’re in there, aren’t you?”

Jerking back from the wall, I looked all around me, but Colette was nowhere. And then I saw the shadow that had come over the crack in the wall. I bent down to peer through it. On the other side, out in the main hall, was a luminous blue eye. From where I stood, it seemed almost a part of the deep sea that Leander swam through.

“It’s masterful,” she whispered, holding her sweet lips to the thin fissure. “In your book. The painting, I mean.”

“It’s just a silly sketch,” I said. “I’m so sorry. Please—”

“I’d love to see what you can do with more time,” she whispered.

Before I could respond, one of the Vanderbilt daughters shouted Colette’s name, and she rushed away. I watched through the gap in the wall as Colette looked back over her pure white shoulder, just once, at me.

The next thing I knew, I was shivering in the pale light of early morning and Anton was awake.

“What happened?” I asked, snapping forward sharply into the leather-wrapped steering wheel. My eyes were so glazed over that I could barely see.

“Apparently,” Anton said drily, “you tried to kidnap me and steal my father’s car but fell asleep in the middle of the getaway.”

“You were dying. Coughing up blood and—”

Anton protested, even as he let out another long hacking cough. “I’m from Russia. This is my natural state of being. What? You think I have tuberculosis? Consumption? Like some character in this terrible thing?”

Suddenly my eyes focused on the pile of papers on his lap, and I twisted around to find the yellow hatbox, violated on the backseat.

“Who said you could read that?” I grabbed the pilfered pages away from him. I felt my heart pounding harder: back in our college days, Anton had written a story not entirely unlike this one, about his great-great-grandfather, and for months now I’d feared his reaction when he realized I was, somewhat, stealing his story. He seemed, if anything, amused — hardly what I’d been expecting.

“I wake up next to your snoring body, in a car with a dead battery, in the middle of nowhere. What else am I supposed to do to pass the time?”

“Dead battery?”

“Yes. I know Fiddler is enchanting, but perhaps you could have turned it off before you tucked in for the night?”

Anxious to escape him, I shoved my door open and stepped out onto the side of the road. We were on the side of the Saw Mill Parkway. The snow had stopped, at least, and I waved at some approaching cars, hoping to find someone with jumper cables.