Trudy Parr had been falling all of her life. It was an enduring dream. From a hotel room window, high over the street. She would open it and edge out, earnest in her aim, nauseous from the height. And, having written her brief neatly folded note of apology, she’d fall. Past flags and lighted windows, the moon and tresses of neon, the redemptive pavement rushing toward her. Since childhood. But she had always woken before impact. In her bed, in the dark of night or grey dawn, hearing perhaps a lonesome bird just outside.
But not that night. That night she didn’t wake before shattering like a mirror, seeing herself reflected ten thousand times.
Now she sat on the edge of her bed, smoking a cigarette, seeing the concrete, reliving the stunning ruby flash.
It was 4 a.m.
From her window, she saw the freighters on English Bay shine like cities on the water. It was early July. The sun would be prodding the eastern horizon. She looked west. Her dream had had the density of stone. It would have sunk into the bay, had there been a way.
She snuffed out her cigarette, and had a shower.
10 am Commercial Drive
“Caffè lungo and Cornetti,” said Trudy Parr. “Have you seen Melisa?”
“She no come in yet today,” said Tony Nuzzo, in his broken English, starting Trudy’s order. “That’s strange because she’s usually in round eight o’clock. She come in yesterday, but she very sad I think.”
“She gets that way, you know?”
“Yes.” Trudy knew. Melisa Patton did get sad. They’d been friends of all their lives, and she could remember Melisa’s long years of sadness. She was an artist, a painter of stunning canvases, sold in galleries as far away as New York and London.
“You take a table,” Tony Nuzzo told Trudy. “I bring it to you.”
Trudy sat by the widow. Commercial Drive was a busy east Vancouver high street, in an Italian neighbourhood. Through the window she saw merchants and customers hurry by. Tony Nuzzo arrived with her order. He’d placed two small chocolate cookies next to her Cornetti.
“A little chocolate for you,” he said. “You too thin, Miss Parr.”
After twenty years in Canada, Tony Nuzzo still held onto old country ideas. “A man likes a woman with a little width, if you don’t mind me to say so.”
“I’d like to sit down with you,” Nuzzo said. “May I?”
“Grazie, grazie.” Nuzzo sat. “It’s about your friend, Melisa. It’s none-a-my-business, but she really didn’t look so good yesterday. She’s pale. No smile. No, Hello Tony, how you today? And it’s July. It’s warm. But wears this paint stained sweater, long sleeves. And I see bandages poking out. Some dry blood. Her wrists, maybe her whole arms, wrapped in bandages.”
Trudy tried not to look worried. She’d attempted to return Melisa’s call from the day before, last evening and this morning. Her secretary had said the caller, Melisa, sounded especially unhappy. There’d been no answer when Trudy called back. It was Melisa’s studio number. She was almost always there. Now this. Bandages. Melisa had cut herself before, when things were bad. Her arms. Her legs.
“Did she say anything when she was here?”
“No,” said Nuzzo. “She just had two espresso, bang bang, one after the other, and left. Maybe she’s unlucky in love, huh?”
“Maybe,” Trudy said. She bit a cookie and sipped her coffee. “I’ll ask around, check her apartment and studio. I’ll let you know if I find anything.”
“That’s fine,” said Nuzzo. He stood up with a broad smile. “You good at that kinda stuff, you bet.”
The apartment and studio were on the Drive, a half block away from one other. The apartment door was locked, no answer. But she found the studio door open, when she arrived. She went in.
The large room reflected Melisa’s obsession with neatness, in spite of the paints and canvasses, splattered palettes and linseed oil soaked rags.
On the easel was an unfinished painting of a woman, seen from behind. She was walking away from the viewer, in the rain, without an umbrella. Her coat was bright red, with darker rustier shades in its creases and folds. The surrounding colours, however, people, buildings and automobiles, were bleak and hopeless. It was a treasure, nonetheless, even to Trudy’s untrained eye.
On a countertop, under a lamp, she discovered a roll of gauze and a small metal case containing blue Gillette razor blades. Next to them was a bloody rag and a beaker stained with a dry rust coloured substance. She shivered. Melisa was talented and a striking woman, educated and revered. What provoked her?
“Hello.” A voice came from behind her. She turned round and saw a small dapper man, in a suit and holding his hat in his hand. “Have you seen Miss Patton?” he said.
“No,” Trudy said. “Who are you?”
“A patron. An admirer. A costumer.” His eyes fixed on the painting. “Ah, she’s nearly done. It’s exquisite.”
Trudy Parr looked over her shoulder.
“For you?” she said.
“Indeed,” said the man. “A special commission. A vision.”
He walked into the studio, up to the painting, removing his soft leather gloves. Then he ran his fingers over it gently, feeling the texture of the brush strokes. His eyes were closed, as he seemed to experience a strange ecstasy.
When he was done, he wiped his brow with a yellow silk handkerchief. “Do you know anything of her whereabouts?” he said.
Trudy saw odd markings on the backs of his hands. Circles and cruciforms, a cursive script she didn’t recognise. They might have been tattoos, but looked more like blemishes. The man noticed, and put on his gloves again.
“You’re a curious one, aren’t you?” he said.
“Some have said so.”
Suddenly he didn’t seem so small, his eyes were dark. She swore she heard a whispering chorus.
“It’s a hard life for a woman,” he said. “Is it not?”
“That’s a peculiar thing to say.”
“I mean,” said the man, “for a woman to establish herself, in the world of men.”
“What’s your game, mister?”
“If you find her,” he said, taking a card from his shirt pocket, and handing it to her. “Would you call me? I understand that you find people for a living, among other things. I’ll make it worth your while.”
Trudy Parr looked at the card. No name. Only a phone number.
“I think you’re the last person I’d call if I find her,” she said.
“That’s entirely the wrong attitude, Miss Parr.”
“You know my name?”
“My knowledge of things here is limited, but I know that much.”
He grinned, but if he meant it to be agreeable, he failed.
Putting on his hat, he walked to the door. But before he left, he turned and spoke again.
“This painting,” he said. “Melisa is only repaying a favour, in creating it. A favour she asked of me, and that I granted. Do you think I’m wrong for expecting something in return?”
Trudy Parr said nothing, only wished that he would go away. He did, with a nod, but without a sound, no footfalls as he proceeded down the hall.
7 pm Tony Nuzzo’s
“And so far that’s all I know,” Trudy said. She had intentionally failed to mention the small man and the strange whispering refrain that had surrounded him.
“A mystery,” said Tony Nuzzo. “She’s gotta be round somwheres.”
“She’ll show up.”
A man in a summer suit, needing a press, came into the shop, and looked at the menu.
“Can a fella get an ordinary cuppa joe round here?” he said.
“I make,” said Tony Nuzzo, getting up. He knew a flatfoot when he saw one. “I make. I know whatsa guy like you likes.”
It was police detective Olaf Brandt.
“That’s fine,” he said, and dropped a nickel onto the counter.
Nuzzo looked at the small coin, and rolled his eyes.
Brandt took a seat across from Trudy Parr.
“I hear you been looking for Melisa Patton,” he said.
“That’s right.” She braced herself. Cops like Brandt didn’t patronise places like Tony Nuzzo’s, unless there was a reason.
“It’s bad, Trudy,” he said. “We found her this afternoon. She took a room at the Astoria Hotel.”
“She jumped,” he said. “Early this morning round four a.m., best we can tell. She mentioned you in her suicide note. How you were best friends. How she was sorry.”
“Four? This morning?” Trudy recalled the sequence and terrible clarity of her dream. “Why’d it take you this long to contact me? I’ve been calling in to the office all day.”
Tony Nuzzo arrived with a cup of black coffee and put it down in front of Brandt. Then he stood and listened.
“No one noticed her until this afternoon,” Brandt said, “when somebody looked out of a window. She fell onto an awning, not the street. Sorry, Trudy. Her note said something about a fella that wouldn’t leave her alone. He wanted a painting in the worst way. She said she didn’t have the blood in her to finish it. I guess that’s artist talk. Her note said that you should run like hell if you meet the runt. A real little swell. Dresses like a millionaire. She didn’t want to write his whole name in the note, said it would be bad juju for anyone who read it. Called him Bub, for short. We’ll keep an ear to the ground, see if he shows up.”
“He ran his hand over that painting like he was gonna have one hell of an orgasm,” Trudy Parr recalled.
“Who?” said Nuzzo.
Brandt sipped his coffee, and raised an eye brow.
“That’s some good coffee,” he said. “You don’t get this downtown.”