In Dark Corners, page 17
Tim shook his head in mock disbelief and watched until the band finally disappeared in the crowd up Telegraph. Man, you never know what to expect here in Funkytown—the name just popped into his head. After a moment's thought he remembered listening to a street musician who'd coined the name.
And indeed, Tim thought, taking a good look around, this section of Berkeley, three blocks along Telegraph that dead-ended into the UC Student Union Building, was more than the common mini-community found near most universities. Oh there were the usual fast food spots, espresso coffee shops, economy travel agencies, bookstores, and other businesses catering to the needs of students. But here everything had an extra spin: Rasputin's with its unmatched collection of new and used records and tapes; Top Dog, its grill covered with every conceivable type of frank and wurst; Comix and Comix, with the best of the underground; and The Other Change of Hobbit, the friendly specialty science fiction and fantasy bookstore. In addition to the stores, the curbs were lined with stands, stalls, and tables of street vendors, who hawked all kinds of custom-made stuff: tie-dyed garments, silver jewelry, pottery, belts, and buckles. Here, on the street, you might hear a man strum a guitar, make up some blues, and sing like Tom Waits; or a lady tell your fortune with Tarot cards; or a preacher shout a religious, political, or ecological tract. Or you might even take a lesson from The Juggling Fool. But it was the people who made the area really distinctive: the students from around the world, many in colorful ethnic garb; hard rockers in shiny leather and metal, their hair spiked in rainbow colors; tourists who came to gawk or haggle with vendors; and, of course, the street people, who came to hustle, beg, or just walk their pit bulls. Funkytown was loud, smelly, filthy, and Tim loved it. He'd been coming here to relax at lunchtime as often as possible during his four years of pre-med at Cal.
By now it was 5:00 o'clock, and Tim knew he should be headed home.
At Channing he waited for the light to turn green, glancing up the street at a cluster of people—
It was her!
The light changed, and Tim hurried across the street, slipping from the flow continuing up Telegraph, to join the group on Channing, who were watching the artist do portraits. He was almost afraid to blink, worried the woman would suddenly disappear again.
Like last Monday afternoon, she used a drawing pad over an easel, sketching with a thick brush that she dipped into what appeared to be ink, the materials similar to those used in calligraphy. Tim edged in even closer, knowing he couldn't stay long. The artist's sketching technique was unusual—she used an economy of long, sweeping strokes for each portrait. The result was something more than the common caricature done by most street artists, who exaggerated a prominent feature of the customer—large eyes, pug nose, or strange hair-do. No, this was more a suggested total likeness, quite good, and so fast. Spellbound, Tim watched the woman finish a pair of portraits at five bucks a piece in less than thirty minutes. Despite the lateness of the hour he remained rooted in place, close enough now to reach out and touch the artist, and he found her to be more fascinating than her unusual materials or technique.
She wore sandals, faded jeans—not designer stressed, but naturally worn—and a white blouse with a colorful embroidered thin band around the collarless neck and down the sides of the buttonless cleft—an ethnic garment, perhaps Ukrainian. She wore nothing under the blouse, but neither her partially exposed breasts or her figure could really be described as full or shapely—no, slightly built would be more accurate. Devoid of make-up, her face was longish with high cheekbones, full lips, and eyes the unusual color of a stormy sky—dark, steely-gray. Crow's feet radiated from the corners of her eyes, and the lines on her brow deepened when she concentrated on her sketches; but all her movements gave an impression of youth—smooth, sure, graceful, with an electric vitality. So it was impossible to guess her age. She had pulled her hair back into a careless ponytail, held in place by a mahogany-colored scarf, and the hair itself was a rich, deep brown, almost matching the color of the dark scarf, with a small patch of white—not gray or silver but white—in front, as if missed by a careless brush stroke. And the imaginary painter had continued with his brush dipped in mahogany, leaving the tiniest speck of white in her left eyebrow. But perhaps the most striking physical characteristic was her stance. She leaned back from the waist, her hips rolled slightly forward, presenting her genital area, a posture Tim had seen described in a textbook as a pronounced pelvic slouch—the dry anatomical description capturing none of the stance's explicit sensuality.
As he sucked in a deep breath, Tim guessed that few men would describe this woman as beautiful, her whole demeanor was really somewhat disheveled, but she had that erotic aura about her that turned male heads, and for him it was a strong, irresistible attraction.
By now the paying customers had thinned out, leaving only a few gawkers. The woman looked up, not really meeting his gaze, only a quick commercial appraisal. "And you, you want one?" she asked, her speech accented, her throaty tone matching her sexy stance perfectly.
Tim glanced at his watch: 5:35. Jesus, Carolyn was going to kill him. "Yes, but I'll have to come back," he replied regretfully. "Will you be working tomorrow?"
She shrugged nonchalantly and began to pack up her materials. "Who knows? Usually yes on Saturdays, but it depends on how I feel tomorrow…" She hooked the easel, then began to tuck it under her arm—
"Wait," Tim said, a little too loudly.
The woman stopped moving, really looking at him for the first time.
Tim flushed, adding, "I mean I'll be here for sure tomorrow. I really would like a portrait."
The artist stared at him with her interesting eyes then nodded. "Okay, I will try to be here." And just before she turned to walk off, she added, "I promise," and gave him a wide, full-toothed, beautiful smile.
Tim hurried home, the smile engraved in his memory.
***
Carolyn wasn't smiling when Tim reached home at 6:15. He'd forgotten to stop for the wine, and the folks were due at 7:00. She was in the kitchen surrounded by used dishes, the air heavy with the smell of something spicy baking in the oven, the sink full of prawn shell peelings. "Oh, Timothy," she said sharply, the use of his full name indicating her degree of irritation. Normally she greeted him with a warm kiss, combing her fingers through his shoulder-length brown hair. Not tonight. "Doug called—"
Doug? Oh, dammit, he swore to himself. He'd completely forgotten about his lab-mate from bio-chem. They were finishing up a lengthy experiment and were supposed to meet at 4:30 at the lab—just about the time he was playing Hide 'n Seek over on Telegraph.
Now Carolyn was really frowning. "He was worried when you didn't show or—"
"I know, I should've called him," Tim said, trying to look more contrite than he really felt. "I guess I was too busy at the library with this paper. It just slipped my mind."
She turned back to the salad she was preparing. "Not like you," she murmured, sighing. "Good thing I got off a little early today."
"Hey, I've still got time to run to the 7-Eleven. Can I get anything beside the wine?"
"Yes," she said, glancing back at him, "a quart of ice cream, vanilla."
"Will do," he said, picking up the car keys.
But before Tim got to the door, Carolyn asked, "What paper?"
"Oh," he stalled, thinking quickly, "something for my seminar in kinematics." Then, as an afterthought, he added, "I'll need to return to the library tomorrow to finish it."
"Oh, no," Carolyn said, the disappointment thick in her voice. "I was hoping we'd go to lunch before the concert."
He'd forgotten the concert. "Sorry, Babe," he said, leaving the apartment.
Out at the old VW Tim asked himself, "What the fuck are you doing, man, lying to your wife?" He slipped into the bug without answering, just shaking his head, wondering if he were on some kind of downward spiral to hell.
***
She was there in the same spot on Channing on Saturday afternoon, surrounded by a huge crowd of tourists.
Tim watched and waited…
Finally, the last couple was examining their portrait, oohing and aahing; then they were gone.
It was Tim's turn.
The woman looked at him directly with her stormy eyes. She nodded. "You must come a little closer," she said, beckoning him. "I promise not to bite you," she added, her husky voice reinforcing the double entendre.
Tim laughed and relaxed—which had probably been her real intent using the cliché—moving closer, trying to place the woman's accent. It seemed almost Asian, but she was obviously Caucasian—perhaps East European? He wasn't sure. He watched her concentrate, her gaze flicking from him to the easel and back. Again he wondered about her age…And, too soon, she was finished, tearing off the completed portrait.
He stared at his likeness a moment, then dug out his wallet, trying to think of some clever way to prolong contact.
The artist took the five, stuffing the bill into her jeans, mumbling her thanks; then she began to pack up, carefully putting her brushes and ink container in a little lacquered box, and finally hooking the legs of the easel together.
"You're not going already?" Tim blurted out.
She shrugged sympathetically, as if she were a patient parent, and he a recalcitrant child refusing to leave the park. "Time to go. No more people, see?"
He nodded, glancing about absently. "Well, let me help you with that," he offered, reaching for the easel. "I'll take it to your car."
***
"No," she replied, "I only live down the street." She pointed at a two-story building a block up Channing. "So, no trouble," she said, sliding the easel back out of his reach.
Tim grinned, stepping closer. "But I'd like to help."
She stared back, her eyes at first cold, then a smile finally thawing her gaze, as she let him take the easel.
"Besides," he pressed, "I'd like to talk about taking a lesson or two, learning your quick sketch technique."
"Oh, you are an artist?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.
"No," he admitted, shaking his head, "I'm a pre-med student, but we do a lot of anatomical sketches and the speed of your method might be an advantage."
"A healer, a man of magic?" she said, her stormy eyes taking on a thoughtful look.
Tim swallowed and continued to press, hoping he was gaining some advantage. "I couldn't afford much, but we could make it at your convenience, you know."
"Okay," she said, her gaze refocused, "how about right now?"
Tim felt a rush of excitement, which was flattened by a twinge of guilt—he was supposed to take Carolyn to the Greek Theatre for the U-2 concert, and she wanted to go early, get a good place in line. Looking at his watch, he decided he still had a little cushion. So he nodded. "My name is Timothy McHenry," he said, drawing alongside the woman.
"Timo-thy?" she repeated, incorrectly breaking the syllables.
"Yes," he said, laughing at her strange accent, his wife forgotten for now.
The woman stopped in front of the building. It looked like a Chinese take-out restaurant. "I live upstairs," she explained, stepping into the narrow side entry and unlocking the door. "Come along, Timo-thy." She held the door for him, as he turned the easel sideways and slid by. She let the door close and said, "You call me, Nikko, okay?"
"Okay, Nikko," he replied, thinking the name didn't seem right.
At the top of the stairs her place was three rooms. The huge front room had no windows, but the cluttered work area was set directly under a large skylight. Nikko took her things and put them by a cabinet alongside a black-lacquered table with seat cushions. The perimeter of the room was almost bare of furnishings or decorations, as if the light from overhead lit all that was important in the center of the room.
Tim cleared his throat. "Well, Nikko, it's very…ah, functional. Things look almost Japanese. You're from there?"
She moved close, took his hand, and led him to the table. "No, I am not Japanese," she said, "but my people lived on Hokkaido long, long ago." Her husky tone was weighted with sadness.
"Ainu!" he said, remembering the name from his cultural anthropology class last year, referring to the mysterious Caucasian race that once occupied Japan's northern island.
"Yes, you are right," she said, looking surprised, but indicating for him to sit on a cushion at the black table.
Tim was confused. He thought the Ainu were all gone. In fact, he recalled his professor saying they'd been assimilated by the Japanese, the last full-bloodied Ainu dying thirty years ago. But, before he could ask a question, Nikko had flicked on a light and opened her lacquered box.
"Lesson number one," she said, her tone still serious, but no longer sad. "This is called sumi painting, an art form considered to be Japanese or Chinese. We use four things. Rice paper—" She tore a sheet from the pad on her easel, then spread it next to the box on the table. "A sumi brush—" She handed him one of the brushes. "A sumi stick and sumi stones." She indicated the small, dark stick and stone dish. Then she splashed a few drops of water into the dish from a tiny vase. "This stick is quite old, made by a master from secret ingredients. Some say his sticks possess strong magic. But, before the magic can work, you must master technique."
Magic? She must be kidding, he thought, grinning dumbly.
But Nikko didn't appear to be joking. She continued, "We grind the stick to make ink…until it is about this thick—" She dipped her brush, the water and ink slightly oily and very dark. "Now, the beginning strokes, which are all you will need."
Nikko smoothed out the paper with the flat of her hand, then dipped her brush in the ink. "Lines," she said simply, making a thick stroke then narrowing the line pencil-thin by deftly rolling the brush in her fingers, which smoothly changed the plane of the bristles. "Curves." She connected two half moon strokes to make a perfect letter O. "And last beginning stroke is for tone." She made another thick line that faded continuously from black to gray—apparently varying her pressure on the brush as she stroked. "Now, Timo-thy, you try."
He laughed self-consciously. "I don't know if I can." But he attempted to draw a line, varying width. Halfway along the brush slipped from his fingers, making a smeared spot. "Oh, damn it!"
"It is all right," she said sympathetically. "Even the young bear must learn to fish if he has a taste for salmon."
The odd expression tickled something in Tim's memory, but he was too busy to dig it out. He pressed on with the lesson. But soon he grew frustrated with his clumsiness, and finally he threw down the brush. "I'm not really interested in this."
Nikko sat quietly, staring at him with a knowing look.
Tim stared back, feeling himself sinking, as if he were being drawn into a deep well, down, down, down into dark steel-gray water.
Nikko blinked.
Tim felt a strong sense of relief. Then, as if compelled, he blurted out, "The lesson was just a ruse to get to know you better."
She nodded, her face expressionless.
"You're angry?"
Nikko didn't answer. But, after a moment, she took Tim's hand and pulled him to his feet. "I have something I want to show you," she explained, leading him into her bedroom, which was very dark. They stood still, eyes adjusting to the dimness. Then she pointed to the wall above her futon.
It was a painting, a sumi painting of a figure, much more detailed than any of Nikko's portraits.
At first Tim thought the painting was obscured by the room's shadows; then he realized the shadows were part of the painting. Squinting slightly he could easily see that the figure was a naked male, resting on his side. And there was something about the pose, suggesting much more than was actually there, suggesting…that the model had just had sex, that, in fact, he was resting in a state of post-coital lassitude. The erotic nature of the thing almost took his breath away. But there was something wrong about the face, which was more heavily shadowed than the body. Perhaps it was done for anonymity, Tim thought, to protect the identity of the model. No, that wasn't it. The face was heavily shadowed to hide something else. He peered intently for a few moments at the figure's head, but was unable to discover the answer to the mystery. Finally, he turned to Nikko and said, "It's a remarkable piece of work, but the face—?"
She interrupted his question. "It was done sixty years ago, another place, another time."
Sixty. He almost laughed, then realized that she must've screwed up the time in English.
"It is long past time to do another," she whispered huskily, her tone heavy with resignation. She took both of his hands in hers. "Would you like to pose for me, Timo-thy?"
He understood all of what she implied, but he was unable to respond, afraid he'd shatter the moment. Finally, he managed a nod.
"You are sure? There will be a great cost to you."
"Yes," he said, finding his voice, "I don't care about the repercussions."
She led him to the foot of the futon, stopped, then slipped her blouse over her head.
Tim stared at her partial nakedness, her breasts small but with large, dark aureoles and pronounced nipples. With no hesitation or false shyness, she slipped from her jeans. She wore no underpants, her exposed pubic triangle a dark brown thatch.
He quickly shucked his clothes, only minimally concerned about his almost fully aroused state.
Without another word, Nikko pushed him down on the futon, kneeled, took him in hand, and caressed him with her tongue briefly until he was fully erect. Then, with no other foreplay, she mounted him easily, quite ready herself. She leaned forward, her arms stretched out, palms pressing against his shoulders, as if pinning him in place, knees supporting most of her weight, and she made love to him roughly.
Tim was caught up in the basic, frantic sex, reaching climax quickly, unable to stifle a loud groan of pleasure.
She blinked, her eyes bright and shiny like a young child's, and she murmured huskily, "That was good, Timo-thy, but it will get better."
Before he could respond, she was up, scooping up a kimono from the foot of the futon, and headed into the other room.
