Dream Vision
A collection of short stories by
David A. Bates
Copyright © 2010 David A. Bates
Eye of the Beholder
“Look at this,” Leonard Berton called from across the gallery.
His friend and next-door-neighbor Bob Walters strolled over to the portrait Leonard was indicating. “Yeah, what about it?”
The portrait was that of a young woman, dressed formally and smiling demurely.
“I’ve seen this painting at least a dozen times in the past few months, but today it looks different.”
“Different, huh? How so?”
“I don’t know. It just looks different. The girl looks more, I don’t know, real than she used to.”
“You’ve been working too hard Len,” Bob said. “It’s just a painting. It hasn’t changed a bit in, let’s see…” he read the plaque beneath the portrait. “1996 minus 1824. One hundred and seventy-two years. Is that right?”
“I don’t care what it says. It looks different to me. There’s more detail than there used to be.” Leonard distinctly remembered seeing this portrait on earlier visits to the gallery, but hadn’t paid much attention to it until today. “Who is she, I wonder?”
Leonard had visited the gallery regularly for the past three years. He began coming here with Shirley when they lived together. She was an art teacher and Leonard found he enjoyed her impromptu lectures. He wasn’t an art lover in the classic sense of the word. Leonard didn’t look upon each piece with the eye of a scholar or a fellow artist. He often described himself tritely as “not being an art expert, but knowing what I like.”
When Shirley left him, he discovered that visiting the gallery was a habit he didn’t want to break. “I just don’t like going to bars,” he told Bob. “The gallery is my relaxation, kind of like TV is for you.”
Len enjoyed the serenity he found in the gallery’s quiet halls. It was for him a refuge from the everyday pressures in his life. Demanding bosses, fickle women, bills, all his problems, faded away when he came here. He would wander, often for hours, reveling in the oils and watercolors and sculptures by artists unknown to most people. Nevertheless, Leonard enjoyed them as much as he did the one masterpiece the gallery possessed, a lesser-known Matisse.
Len usually came to the gallery alone but today he had talked Bob into coming with him. It was a rainy Saturday. Bob told Leonard, “I’m so bored that even a trip to an art gallery sounds better than staring at the television all afternoon.”
While Leonard gazed transfixed, Bob squinted at the oil painting. He slipped into his worst pidgin French. “’Zee Arteest’s Wife’, 1824, by Jacque Branze. You have certainly found a strange phenomenon here, oui. A painteeng that changes.”
Leonard rolled his eyes. “I don’t know why I even bother trying to civilize you.”
Bob continued to read the plaque beneath the portrait. “The artist died shortly after completing the painting. Hmmm. This was his last known work.” Bob rubbed his chin as he looked at the face. “No wonder he died, if this was his wife, she looks like she could kill any man. But what a way to go, eh?”
After a few more moments of looking at the widow Mrs. Branze as depicted in oil, Bob tugged on Len’s sleeve. “Come on, pal, you wanted to show me the gallery. There must be more to see than one dead artist’s wife.”
Leonard reluctantly turned away. “Right. They have an excellent collection of western sculpture down this way. You’ll enjoy that.” As they passed into the next wing, he cast the portrait a parting glance over his shoulder. He would be back, soon, and without anyone to distract him.
The following Monday, on his lunch hour, Leonard visited the library. He went to the reference section and began looking through the art books. There had to be something, somewhere written about Jacque Branze and his works. In the fifth book he opened, Leonard found a brief biographical notation:
“Branze, Jacque, born 1752, died ca. 1824. One of a group of French painters noted for portraits and landscapes. Branze was most famous for his portrayal of prostitutes. He moved to Paris when he was in his 50’s. He had a succession of wives, all younger than he and each younger than her predecessor. Some of his wives may have been the same prostitutes whom he painted. Little is known of his later life. It is believed he was responsible for the murder of his last wife, Gabrielle, soon after completing a portrait of her. Branze vanished after her death and was never seen again. The actual date of his death is unknown.”
Then Leonard glanced at the picture of Branze. He nearly stopped breathing. “My God. He looks like me.”
It was true. Except for the hairstyle and mustache, Jacque Branze was the spitting image of Leonard Berton.
Len rubbed his eyes and looked at the picture again. “I’m not imagining it. He could be my twin.”
Vanished. The word broke through Leonard’s thoughts. It seemed strange that Branze should disappear without a trace. “There’s something mighty strange about all of this,” Leonard said to himself as he closed the book.
That evening, after dinner, Leonard went next door to tell Bob about his research.
“Are you still hung up on that crazy painting?” Bob shook his head in exasperation.
“I’m not ‘hung up’, just interested.”
“So he disappeared? So what? He probably decided to vanish into the sewers of Paris or something. He was an artist. Those guys were weird anyway. Maybe he died in an alley and they just never identified him, you know, buried him in an unmarked pauper’s grave. That happened a lot back in those days.”
“You’re probably right. People disappear all the time, like you say. Even today. Still, I can’t stop wondering about the guy. And that painting of his wife…”
“You’re getting obsessed, Len. I’ve got to get you out of the house more often. Maybe we can find some real live women to entertain us, not some old painting.”
“But there’s something about her. You just don’t understand.”
“You don’t even know if she really existed. She might have been a figment of the old guy’s imagination. Maybe she was really some old hag who he just wanted to look like that, so he painted her that way.”
“I know. I’ve thought about all that,” Leonard said. “But I know that picture looked different to me the other day. I can’t put my finger on it, but something about it was just different. And there’s something else.”
“What might that be?”
“The artist, Branze. He looked just like me. I saw a picture of him in the book at the library.”
“You’re imagining things, Len. I'm telling you, this isn’t healthy.”
“I saw it myself, today, in the library. I’m not making it up.”
“Okay. Whatever you say.”
Leonard gave up. “All right. You don’t believe any of this. Just don’t say I didn’t try to tell you.”
“Don’t worry about that. I won’t.”
The next day, Leonard shoved a stack of papers into his desk drawer at four-fifty, placed his phone on automatic, sneaked out the side door, and made the seven-block walk through heavy pedestrian traffic in thirteen minutes. He knew the exact time it took because he checked his watch every three minutes. The gallery would close at six, and he wanted to spend as much time with his lady as he could.
Bursting through the gallery doors, winded from his walk, he was pleased to find the gallery nearly empty. Great, he thought. I’ll have her to myself. He rushed toward “The Artist's Wife.” His footsteps echoed, adding to the eeriness of the gallery. Finally, standing before the portrait, he gazed at it in disbelief. Her eyes had a deeper, more soulful look. Her face was softer, her mouth moist an
d inviting. Leonard was enchanted by her sexuality.
“It’s a remarkable work of art, isn’t it?”
The voice, so sudden and intrusive, startled Leonard. With a cry of surprise, he turned to see a tall, gaunt gentleman in a poorly tailored suit standing directly behind him.
“I’m sorry,” the man said apologetically. “I didn’t intend to frighten you. My name is Joseph Morganstein. I’m the Gallery Director. I noticed you were admiring our Branze. It’s one of my favorite works and…oh, my God. It can’t be! Mr. Biggs, is that you?”
“No. My name’s Leonard Berton. I don’t know any Biggs. What’s wrong?” Leonard was alarmed by the look of shock in the man’s eyes. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I’m not certain I haven’t. The man who last owned this painting could have been your twin brother.”
“What!” Leonard felt lightheaded. This couldn’t be happening. First the resemblance to Branze, now this.
“What do you know about this painting?” Leonard managed to regain his composure. “I’ve been doing some research on Branze lately.” Len decided against mentioning the picture of the artist he’d found in the library.
“Well, we acquired it about two years ago in an auction. It was part of a private collection, an estate in New York City. We got it at an obscenely low cost. Probably due to the circumstances.”
“Circumstances?”
“Yes. The owner, Donald Biggs, simply vanished. He was at a party two days before last being seen. At least 50 people claimed to have seen him there and speaking to him. That’s why I was so shocked when I saw you. I thought you’d come to claim the portrait.”
Vanished. There was that word again. “And what about the owner before him?” Leonard asked, not entirely certain he wanted to know.
“Donald’s father, Walter. He died in 1983.”
“Of natural causes?”
“Yes, as far as I know.”
“Did Donald and Walter look alike?”
“No more than most family members. Donald favored his Mother’s side of the family.”
“Do you know if Donald was acting strangely at the party? Or if he said anything about the painting?”
“No. Not that I can recall,” Morganstein gazed at the picture, then shook his head. “He was a very private man. I knew the family because of their interest in art. Donald was a collector like his father.”
“Tell me, Mr. Morganstein, do you have any information about who owned this painting before the Biggs Family?”
“No, I wish I did. I can’t even find out much about the artist.”
“I read about him in the library yesterday,” Leonard said. “The article didn’t say much,” he lied.
Morganstein sighed. “Yes, I’m afraid that we each have about the same information, or lack of it. Well, I must go and take care of some last minute business before closing.” He extended his hand. “I’m so glad you visited today and I hope you return soon.”
With that, Morganstein turned on his heel and walked off. He had taken only a few steps when he stopped and looked back.
“You asked if Donald Biggs said anything about this painting. I don’t know about at the party, but the day I last spoke with him, he seemed troubled about something. We had been chatting about French portrait painters and he mentioned the fact that he had inherited the Branze. He told me it had the most interesting characteristic. He claimed it changed in appearance. He didn’t elaborate on it, just that it wasn’t quite the same face as when his father first acquired it. Donald was, for want of a better word, somewhat obsessed with the painting. That probably doesn’t mean anything. As I said, Mr. Biggs was a loner. But you did ask.”
Morganstein then hastened off toward the front of the gallery and Leonard was again alone with the portrait. Alone with his lady. He lovingly gazed at her.
She was truly beautiful, he thought. Almost real. “Why am I so afraid of you and yet so attracted to you?” he asked, then sheepishly looked around the empty hallway. He was talking to a lifeless painting.
But was it really so lifeless?
His thoughts were interrupted by a soft voice on the intercom: “The gallery will be closing in five minutes. Thank you for visiting us today. Please come again soon.”
It was time to leave. Leonard felt like a teenager at the end of his first date. He wanted one last kiss but her father was flashing the porch lights.
The following Saturday, Leonard answered a knock on his door. It was Bob. “Hey, Len. Want to hit the mall and see if we can pick up any women?”
Leonard shook his head. “I can’t. I’m going to the gallery.”
“The gallery?” Bob’s frown showed his disapproval. “Again? Don’t tell me you’re going to go look at that picture all day.”
“But it keeps changing. Come and see for yourself.”
“No way, my friend. You might have the hots for a face on a wall, but not this dude. I like my women a little warmer.”
“I do not have the ‘hots’ for her.”
“Oh yeah. You just called a painting ‘her.’ Does that sound normal to you? My God, Len, for the last month or so you’ve been acting really strange. Ever since you first noticed that damned painting, you haven’t been the old Len I know.”
“You’re right. I know you’re right. I just can’t get that picture out of my mind. It’s like she’s trying to get inside my head or something.”
Bob shook his head in despair. “I’ve heard enough. Do whatever you want, just leave me out of it.” Turning, he began to walk away.
“Bob! I also found out that the guy who used to own the painting looked almost exactly like me. The Gallery Director thought I was the same person.”
Bob halted mid-step and turned. “So you’re telling me that not only did this artist look like you, but the last owner of the painting looked like you too? Doesn’t any of this bother you at all?”
“Yes. A little bit I suppose. But that still doesn’t explain to me why that painting is changing.”
“Len. Get some help. You’ve let your imagination run away with your sanity. I’m serious. You’re seeing paintings that change overnight and everyone involved with it looks like you. Like I said, it’s not healthy.”
Bob walked out the door. This time he didn’t stop.
As Leonard drove to the gallery, he discussed with himself the possibility of possessing the painting. “How much could it possibly cost? Ten thousand dollars? Twenty thousand? I’ve got some savings. My credit is good. If it couldn’t be purchased, it wouldn’t be on display. There has to be a way.”
Leonard was at the gallery before it opened. As he entered the building, he spotted Morganstein. Approaching him, Leonard blurted, “I want to buy the Branze.”
“I’m afraid it isn’t for sale. Even if it were, the price would be quite beyond your means, I believe.”
“But you said you got it at a bargain price. Circumstances, you told me. Give me a price. I’ll get the money. I have to have the painting.” Owning the portrait would solve his problems, Leonard was certain.
“The value has risen considerably since I purchased it. I couldn’t possibly sell it.” Morganstein said and promptly walked away.
“What’s his problem? Why did he get so angry over an innocent request?” Leonard shrugged and then hurried down the hallway toward his beloved.
He stopped short when he saw Morganstein standing in front of the painting. Completely oblivious to everything except the Branze, Morganstein slowly raised his hand and gently touched the surface of the painting. “Why can’t you see that I love you?” he murmured. “Why am I not good enough for you?”
Stunned, Leonard stood frozen for a moment, then spoke. “Now I understand why you won’t sell her, Mr. Morganstein. You’re in love with her too.”
Morganstein turned suddenly, shock reflected on his face. “What?
What are you talking about? How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to hear everything you said. Long enough to know why you won’t sell her to me. You want her for yourself. You want her to love you.”
“Love? Now, see here, Mr., ah, er….”
“Berton. The name is Berton. Remember?”
“Yes, of course. Mr. Berton. You misunderstood what you heard. How could you think I’d want a painting to love me? Paintings cannot love. You are mad, sir.”
Leonard knew the truth. He could read Morganstein’s expression as well as he could read the look in the eyes of his beloved Gabrielle. She loved him, not Morganstein. Morganstein regained some of his composure. “She’s not for sale, period,” he snapped with finality and walked away as quickly as he could.
Smiling, Leonard walked toward the portrait. He was alone with her at last. “I don’t care what he says, you’re mine. I’m going to find a way to take you home with me. I promise.”
Leonard lifted off the floor and floated ever so slowly toward the canvas. He felt more than saw the soft glow that emanated from the portrait and surrounded him in radiance. He felt the warmth flowing from the face on the wall, from her eyes, her smile. He felt a releasetotal, sensual, almost orgasmic in nature. How it was happening, he neither knew nor cared, but he, Leonard Berton, was completely at peace as he was absorbed into the portrait of “The Artist’s Wife.” He gave himself completely to her, opening his arms to accept her loving embrace.
Something was horribly wrong.
The pain was intense, searing, as though his entire body was aflame. He screamed, but no one heard. Shocked, Leonard realized he was being consumed. Desperately he fought to escape. It was too late. Every molecule of his body began to dissolve.
He screamed again, for the last time.
Her hunger was satisfied once more. She waited a long time for this feeding, but the humans she fed upon had to be perfect to her mind’s eye. The face, the body, all must fit her idea of perfection.
She knew what they liked. Their minds were weak. She could read their every thought. She gave them what they wanted. They called it ‘love.’
She had fed often, in many places and many guises, for thousands of years. Her only mistake was in taking the form of a human female. The artist, in France many years ago, wanted to paint her portrait. She toyed with him, as was her habit. He grew jealous and tried to destroy her. She simply transformed into the very painting the foolish artist wanted to create. He grew more and more obsessed with her, as she knew he would. She found she could easily lure him to her. Feeding on him had been almost too easy. His body sustained her for nearly a century.
She had spent much of that time locked away in dark, cold rooms. The need to feed returned. She again found her perfect human and made him possess her. How wonderful he made her feel as he was consumed.
Now, after much seeking, she had found yet another perfect human. She liked it here, in the gallery. She could choose her meals at her leisure. They walked past her and she could study them closely, seeking perfection. She made sure the tall one, the one who had the power to sell her, would always keep her here. She made him love her too. In time, there would be another perfect human, another meal.
“I’m coming, hold your horses!” Bob Walters ran to answer the doorbell. “Yes, who is it?” he asked through the closed door.
“Frank Berton. I’m Leonard’s brother.”
Bob quickly opened the door. “Please, come in. Len once told me he had a brother but…God, you look almost exactly like him.”
“Yes, so I’ve been told. Actually I’m two years younger.” Frank entered the house and extended his hand. Bob shook it, his eyes still on the familiar face.
“I was in town to finish some business with Leonard’s property. We’re hoping to be able to sell the house. It’s been over eight months since he disappeared and there are bills that won’t wait.”
“Have you ever found out anything about what happened to Len? I spent weeks trying to locate him and ran into dead ends everywhere.”
“No,” Frank sighed. “We haven’t. In fact, I was kind of hoping you could give me some leads. Len once told me you guys were close.”
“I wish I could. I told the police everything I could think of during the investigation, but I’m afraid I wasn’t much help. The only thing I know to tell you is that he spent a lot of time at the local art gallery. He even dragged me down there once. He had a fetish about one of the paintings there. I thought he was over the edge about it, but he didn’t agree.”
“The gallery, you say? I passed that on the way here. Maybe I’ll go back there and see if they can help me. At this point, I’m willing to try almost anything.”
Frank extended his hand again. “Thank you, Mr. Walters. Sorry to trouble you.”
As he moved down the walk, Bob said to himself, “I can’t get over how much Frank Berton resembles his brother.” Somewhere in the back of his mind a conversation he once had with Leonard, something to do with resemblance, long forgotten, revived for only a moment. Bob shook his head. “He sure does look like Len.”
“For a small town, this isn’t a bad art gallery,” Frank said to himself as he entered the building. “Maybe I’ll look around a little while before I find the curator.” He turned down a side hall and began to view the various works. “These sculptures would look great in my new place. Art is great for attracting women with class,” he chuckled. “Maybe I can even get somewhere with that new brunette at work. God, but she’s a babe.”
As he said this, Frank walked past “The Artist’s Wife.” He slowed his pace. “Now that’s a beautiful lady.” He walked toward the portrait to read the plaque. As he approached, her hair began to darken.