“Charade?” My mother spat the word out, genuinely furious; no elegant playacting here. “I saved your life, ungrateful idiot! You would be dead now—or worse, much worse—if I had not forced you to become what you were supposed to be, what I had come to despair of your ever bothering to be. I made you an enchantress, my daughter, which was more than your inheritance or your own nature could have done, and what matter if I used all the world to do it. Will you give me the lie, then?”
Rage can often make plain, homely people beautiful, or almost so. It does not have the same effect on beautiful ones like my mother. I said, “It was poor Dragine, and the Being itself, who made me an enchantress. You made me a tool.” I fell silent for a moment, because my own anger suddenly had me by the throat, and I could barely breathe with it. “And I could have stood that—I could have endured it all and still trusted you, and loved you—but for the look of my Lathro when he opened Dragine’s door and did not know me.”
My mother had the grace not to speak. My mother has a great deal of grace.
“You ensorcelled my love,” I said. “You dared,” and how I got that word out, I will never know. “Lathro was under your spell from the moment he left this house and set off to find the Being, as you had charged him, bidding him forget me. But you had not counted on the strength of his love; he was throwing off the charm before ever I defeated the Being.” I actually smiled at her then, so proud I was of Lathro. “You should have known better, Mother.”
There was no surrender in Willalou, no smallest yielding; I would never have expected any. “When I was training you, I knew that it might one day come to this—that if you survived the trials for which I was preparing you, you would return with mastery enough to punish me for deceiving you. Do it, then. I did what I did, and unlike you I regret none of it. Do as you choose, Breya. Don’t dally, girl, do it.”
I think she may very well have expected death, but I could not do that to Dunreath. So I did something else instead.
She never lowered her eyes from mine as I sang three words that stripped her power from her, leaving her as mortal as my father, as vulnerable to the world as Lathro’s first kiss had made me feel. She took a single long breath—then went back to her chair, picked up the kiit, and began to play again.
We have not spoken since.
And, yes, if it could possibly interest a demon, I regret that. But it was to be expected, for the Being’s last words were spoken truly. I did pay a price that night in Muldeary: I lost my mother. At need an enchantress can deceive anyone or anything but herself, but no spell in my throat could ever hide the truth of Willalou from me, no matter how much I may sometimes wish it.
So here I sit now, in your lair, watching the moon over your spine-crested shoulder, and feeling the quickening inside me. Not even Lathro knows yet, but I am with child. Actually, I think I am with children, for I can already sense the doubleness, though it is too soon for them to be much more than two breaths. Daughters, I hope, though majkes they will not be, neither of them. They are Lathro’s children. That is magic enough.
The moon is down and gone, and it has come time for me to sing you to your end—or, for all I know, your beginning—in some demon afterworld. It seems a pity, after having spent this night telling you things I have never spoken of to another human, but there it is. You can only be what you are, with that nasty fixation of yours on other people’s livers and hearts… and I can only be myself. It has cost me what it has cost me, but I am an enchantress, which is different from a witch or a sorceress, and I have more lives to guard than just the two I carry. You do understand? I would truly prefer to think so.
Goodbye, demon. Goodbye.
UNCLE CHAIM AND AUNT RIFKE AND THE ANGEL
My Uncle Chaim, who was a painter, was working in his studio—as he did on every day except Shabbos—when the blue angel showed up. I was there.
I was usually there most afternoons, dropping in on my way home from Fiorello LaGuardia Elementary School. I was what they call a “latchkey kid,” these days. My parents both worked and traveled fulltime, and Uncle Chaim’s studio had been my home base and my real playground since I was small. I was shy and uncomfortable with other children. Uncle Chaim didn’t have any kids, and didn’t know much about them, so he talked to me like an adult when he talked at all, which suited me perfectly. I looked through his paintings and drawings, tried some of my own, and ate Chinese food with him in silent companionship, when he remembered that we should probably eat. Sometimes I fell asleep on the cot. And when his friends—who were mostly painters like himself—dropped in to visit, I withdrew into my favorite corner and listened to their talk, and understood what I understood. Until the blue angel came.
It was very sudden: one moment I was looking through a couple of the comic books Uncle Chaim kept around for me, while he was trying to catch the highlight on the tendons under his model’s chin, and the next moment there was this angel standing before him, actually posing, with her arms spread out and her great wings taking up almost half the studio.
She was not blue herself—a light beige would be closer—but she wore a blue robe that managed to look at once graceful and grand, with a white undergarment glimmering beneath. Her face, half-shadowed by a loose hood, looked disapproving.
I dropped the comic book and stared. No, I gaped, there’s a difference.
Uncle Chaim said to her, “I can’t see my model. If you wouldn’t mind moving just a bit?” He was grumpy when he was working, but never rude.
“I am your model,” the angel said. “From this day forth, you will paint no one but me.”
“I don’t work on commission,” Uncle Chaim answered. “I used to, but you have to put up with too many aggravating rich people. Now I just paint what I paint, take it to the gallery. Easier on my stomach, you know?”
His model, the wife of a fellow painter, said, “Chaim, who are you talking to?”
“Nobody, nobody, Ruthie. Just myself, same way your Jules does when he’s working. Old guys get like that.” To the angel, in a lower voice, he said, “Also, whatever you’re doing to the light, could you not? I got some great shadows going right now.” For a celestial brightness was swelling in the grubby little warehouse district studio, illuminating the warped floor boards, the wrinkled tubes of colors scattered everywhere, the canvases stacked and propped in the corners, along with several ancient rickety easels. It scared me, but not Uncle Chaim. He said. “So you’re an angel, fine, that’s terrific. Now give me back my shadows.”
The room darkened obediently. “Thank you. Now about moving….” He made a brushing-away gesture with the hand holding the little glass of Scotch.
The model said, “Chaim, you’re worrying me.”
“What, I’m seventy-six years old, I’m not entitled to a hallucination now and then? I’m seeing an angel, you’re not—this is no big deal. I just want it should move out of the way, let me work.” The angel, in response, spread her wings even wider, and Uncle Chaim snapped, “Oh, for God’s sake, shoo!”
“It is for God’s sake that I am here,” the angel announced majestically. “The Lord—Yahweh—I Am That I Am—has sent me down to be your muse.” She inclined her head a trifle, by way of accepting the worship and wonder she expected.
From Uncle Chaim, she didn’t get it, unless very nearly dropping his glass of Scotch counts as a compliment. “A muse?” he snorted. “I don’t need a muse—I got models!”
“That’s it,” Ruthie said. “I’m calling Jules, I’ll make him come over and sit with you.” She put on her coat, picked up her purse, and headed for the door, saying over her shoulder, “Same time Thursday? If you’re still here?”
“I got more models than I know what to do with,” Uncle Chaim told the blue angel. “Men, women, old, young—even a cat, there’s one lady always brings her cat, what am I going to do?” He heard the door slam, realized that Ruthie was gone, and sighed irritably, taking a larger swallow of whiskey than he usually allowed himself. “Now
she’s upset, she thinks she’s my mother anyway, she’ll send Jules with chicken soup and an enema.” He narrowed his eyes at the angel. “And what’s this, how I’m only going to be painting you from now on? Like Velazquez stuck painting royal Hapsburg imbeciles over and over? Some hope you’ve got! Listen, you go back and tell,”—he hesitated just a trifle—“tell whoever sent you that Chaim Malakoff is too old not to paint what he likes, when he likes, and for who he likes. You got all that? We’re clear?”
It was surely no way to speak to an angel; but as Uncle Chaim used to warn me about everyone from neighborhood bullies to my fourth-grade teacher, who hit people, “You give the bastards an inch, they’ll walk all over you. From me they get bupkes, nichevo, nothing. Not an inch.” I got beaten up more than once in those days, saying that to the wrong people.
And the blue angel was definitely one of them. The entire room suddenly filled with her: with the wings spreading higher than the ceiling, wider than the walls, yet somehow not touching so much as a stick of charcoal; with the aroma almost too impossibly haunting to be borne; with the vast, unutterable beauty that a thousand medieval and Renaissance artists had somehow not gone mad (for the most part) trying to ambush on canvas or trap in stone. In that moment, Uncle Chaim confided later, he didn’t know whether to pity or envy Muslims their ancient ban on depictions of the human body.
“I thought maybe I should kneel, what would it hurt? But then I thought, what would it hurt? It’d hurt my left knee, the one had the arthritis twenty years, that’s what it would hurt.” So he only shrugged a little and told her, “I could manage a sitting on Monday. Somebody cancelled, I got the whole morning free.”
“Now,” the angel said. Her air of distinct disapproval had become one of authority. The difference was slight but notable.
“Now,” Uncle Chaim mimicked her. “All right, already—Ruthie left early, so why not?” He moved the unfinished portrait over to another easel, and carefully selected a blank canvas from several propped against a wall. “I got to clean off a couple of brushes here, we’ll start. You want to take off that thing, whatever, on your head?” Even I knew perfectly well that it was a halo, but Uncle Chaim always told me that you had to start with people as you meant to go on.
“You will require a larger surface,” the angel instructed him. “I am not to be represented in miniature.”
Uncle Chaim raised one eyebrow (an ability I envied him to the point of practicing—futilely—in the bathroom mirror for hours, until my parents banged on the door, certain I was up to the worst kind of no good).
“No, huh? Good enough for the Persians, good enough for Holbein and Hilliard and Sam Cooper, but not for you? So okay, so we’ll try this one….” Rummaging in a corner, he fetched out his biggest canvas, dusted it off, eyed it critically—“Don’t even remember what I’m doing with anything this size, must have been saving it for you”—and finally set it up on the empty easel, turning it away from the angel. “Okay, Malakoff’s rules. Nobody—nobody—looks at my painting till I’m done. Not angels, not Adonai, not my nephew over there in the corner, that’s David, Duvidl—not even my wife. Nobody. Understood?”
The angel nodded, almost imperceptibly. With surprising meekness, she asked, “Where shall I sit?”
“Not a lot of choices,” Uncle Chaim grunted, lifting a brush from a jar of turpentine. “Over there’s okay, where Ruthie was sitting—or maybe by the big window. The window would be good, we’ve lost the shadows already. Take the red chair, I’ll fix the color later.”
But sitting down is not a natural act for an angel: they stand or they fly; check any Renaissance painting. The great wings inevitably get crumpled, the halo always winds up distinctly askew; and there is simply no way, even for Uncle Chaim, to ask an angel to cross her legs or to hook one over the arm of the chair. In the end they compromised, and the blue angel rose up to pose in the window, holding herself there effortlessly, with her wings not stirring at all. Uncle Chaim, settling in to work—brushes cleaned and Scotch replenished—could not refrain from remarking, “I always imagined you guys sort of hovered. Like hummingbirds.”
“We fly only by the Will of God,” the angel replied. “If Yahweh, praised be His name,”—I could actually hear the capital letters—“withdrew that mighty Will from us, we would fall from the sky on the instant, every single one.”
“Doesn’t bear thinking about,” Uncle Chaim muttered. “Raining angels all over everywhere—falling on people’s heads, tying up traffic—” The angel looked, first startled, and then notably shocked. “I was speaking of our sky,” she explained haughtily, “the sky of Paradise, which compares to yours as gold to lead, tapestry to tissue, heavenly choirs to the bellowing of feeding hogs—”
“All right already, I get the picture.” Uncle Chaim cocked an eye at her, poised up there in the window with no visible means of support, and then back at his canvas. “I was going to ask you about being an angel, what it’s like, but if you’re going to talk about us like that—badmouthing the sky, for God’s sake, the whole planet.”
The angel did not answer him immediately, and when she did, she appeared considerably abashed and spoke very quietly, almost like a scolded schoolgirl. “You are right. It is His sky, His world, and I shame my Lord, my fellows and my breeding by speaking slightingly of any part of it.” In a lower voice, she added, as though speaking only to herself, “Perhaps that is why I am here.”
Uncle Chaim was covering the canvas with a thin layer of very light blue, to give the painting an undertone. Without looking up, he said, “What, you got sent down here like a punishment? You talked back, you didn’t take out the garbage? I could believe it. Your boy Yahweh, he always did have a short fuse.”
“I was told only that I was to come to you and be your model and your muse,” the angel answered. She pushed her hood back from her face, revealing hair that was not bright gold, as so often painted, but of a color resembling the night sky when it pales into dawn. “Angels do not ask questions.”
“Mmm.” Uncle Chaim sipped thoughtfully at his Scotch. “Well, one did, anyway, you believe the story.”
The angel did not reply, but she looked at him as though he had uttered some unimaginable obscenity. Uncle Chaim shrugged and continued preparing the ground for the portrait. Neither one said anything for some time, and it was the angel who spoke first. She said, a trifle hesitantly, “I have never been a muse before.”
“Never had one,” Uncle Chaim replied sourly. “Did just fine.”
“I do not know what the duties of a muse would be,” the angel confessed. “You will need to advise me.”
“What?” Uncle Chaim put down his brush. “Okay now, wait a minute. I got to tell you how to get into my hair, order me around, probably tell me how I’m not painting you right? Forget it, lady—you figure it out for yourself, I’m working here.”
But the blue angel looked confused and unhappy, which is no more natural for an angel than sitting down. Uncle Chaim scratched his head and said, more gently, “What do I know? I guess you’re supposed to stimulate my creativity, something like that. Give me ideas, visions, make me see things, think about things I’ve never thought about.” After a pause, he added, “Frankly, Goya pretty much has that effect on me already. Goya and Matisse. So that’s covered, the stimulation—maybe you could just tell them, him, about that….”
Seeing the expression on the angel’s marble-smooth face, he let the sentence trail away. Rabbi Shulevitz, who cut his blond hair close and wore shorts when he watered his lawn, once told me that angels are supposed to express God’s emotions and desires, without being troubled by any of their own. “Like a number of other heavenly dictates,” he murmured when my mother was out of the room, “that one has never quite functioned as I’m sure it was intended.”
They were still working in the studio when my mother called and ordered me home. The angel had required no rest or food at all, while Uncle Chaim had actually been drinking his Scotch instead of sippin
g it (I never once saw him drunk, but I’m not sure that I ever saw him entirely sober), and needed more bathroom breaks than usual. Daylight gone, and his precarious array of 60-watt bulbs proving increasingly unsatisfactory, he looked briefly at the portrait, covered it, and said to the angel, “Well, that stinks, but we’ll do better tomorrow. What time you want to start?”
The angel floated down from the window to stand before him. Uncle Chaim was a small man, dark and balding, but he already knew that the angel altered her height when they faced each other, so as not to overwhelm him completely. She said, “I will be here when you are.”
Uncle Chaim misunderstood. He assured her that if she had no other place to sleep but the studio, it wouldn’t be the first time a model or a friend had spent the night on that trundle bed in the far corner. “Only no peeking at the picture, okay? On your honor as a muse.”
The blue angel looked for a moment as though she were going to smile, but she didn’t. “I will not sleep here, or anywhere on this earth,” she said. “But you will find me waiting when you come.”
“Oh,” Uncle Chaim said. “Right. Of course. Fine. But don’t change your clothes, okay? Absolutely no changing.” The angel nodded.
When Uncle Chaim got home that night, my Aunt Rifke told my mother on the phone at some length, he was in a state that simply did not register on her long-practiced seismograph of her husband’s moods. “He comes in, he’s telling jokes, he eats up everything on the table, we snuggle up, watch a little TV, I can figure the work went well today. He doesn’t talk, he’s not hungry, he goes to bed early, tosses and tumbles around all night… okay, not so good. Thirty-seven years with a person, wait, you’ll find out.” Aunt Rifke had been Uncle Chaim’s model until they married, and his agent, accountant and road manager ever since.
But the night he returned from beginning his portrait of the angel brought Aunt Rifke a husband she barely recognized. “Not up, not down, not happy, not not happy, just… dazed, I guess that’s the best word. He’d start to eat something, then he’d forget about it, wander around the apartment—couldn’t sit still, couldn’t keep his mind on anything, had trouble even finishing a sentence. One sentence. I tell you, it scared me. I couldn’t keep from wondering, is this how it begins? A man starts acting strange, one day to the next, you think about things like that, you know?”