The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

beneath the other chaise. High on the wall across from him was a large mirror in a heavy frame pointing to his doorway at a looming angle. Chang looked into it with distaste—he disliked seeing himself at any time—but his eye was caught by something else in the reflection—on the wall next to him, a small painting that could only have been executed by the hand of Oskar Veilandt. He reached up and took it from the wall, and flipped it over to examine the rear of the canvas. In what he assumed was the artist’s own hand, in blue paint, he read “
Annunciation Fragment,
3/13”, and then beneath it a series of symbols—like a mathematical formula incorporating Greek letters—which were in turn followed by the words,
“And so they shall be Reborn.”
    He turned the canvas to the painted image and found himself astonished by its bluntly lurid nature. Perhaps it was the contrast between the image and its luxurious gold frame, the subsequent isolation—the
fragmentary
nature, its
containment
—of the subject matter that made the whole seem such a transgression, but Chang could not turn his eyes away. It was not so much pornographic—indeed it was not precisely explicit—as it was, somehow, palpably monstrous. He could not even say why, but the stark tremor of revulsion was as undeniable and as simultaneous as the stirring in his groin. This portion of the painting did not seem to be adjacent to the one they had seen in the gallery, of the woman’s—the very idea of thinking of her as “Mary” was appalling—rapturous scarred face. This section showed her naked pelvis from the side, her splendid thighs wrapped around the hips of a figure in blue who had quite obviously mounted her. On a second glance however, Chang saw the hands of the blue figure clutching the woman’s hips…the hands were blue as well, and decorated with many rings, as the wrists glittered with many bracelets of different metals—gold, silver, copper, iron—the man was not wearing a blue garment,
the blue was his skin
. Perhaps he was an angel—blasphemy enough—but the work’s unnatural quality was compounded by the perfectly realized corporeality of the bodies, the sensual immediacy of the weight of the woman’s haunches in the man’s grip, the twisting angle of their conjoinment, fixed for a moment, but directly evocative of the writhing exquisite union that would continue—in the mind of the viewer if nowhere else.

    Chang swallowed and clumsily replaced the painting on its hook. He glanced at it again, mortified at his reaction, compelled and disturbed anew at the long nails at the tip of each blue finger and the tenderly rendered impressions they made in the woman’s flesh. He turned away to the chaise and collected the green boots from beneath it. They had to belong to Celeste. It was rare enough that Chang felt any obligation to another soul that to have formed such a bond—to so unlikely a person—and then find it so swiftly broken gnawed terribly at his conscience. The poignance of the empty boots—the very idea that her feet could be so small, could fit within such a space and yet enable her willful marching, was suddenly unbearable. He sighed quite bitterly, stricken with regret, and dropped them back on the chaise. The room had one door, which was ajar. He forced himself to push it with the tip of his stick. It opened silently.
    This was clearly Rosamonde’s bedroom. The bed itself was massive, with high mahogany pillars at each corner and a heavy purple damask curtain drawn across each side. The floor was littered with clothing, mainly underthings, but also here and there pieces of a dress, or a jacket, or even shoes. He recognized none of them as belonging to Celeste, but knew that he wouldn’t in any case. The very idea of Celeste’s underthings forced his mind to a place it had not formerly been, which seemed somehow—now that he feared she was dead—transgressive. Perhaps it was just the residual impact of Veilandt’s painting, but Chang found his thoughts—indeed, he wondered, his heart—punctured by the idea of his hands around her slim ribcage…sliding down to her hips, hips unencumbered by a corset or petticoats, the unquestionably creamy texture of her skin. He shook his head. What was he thinking? For all he knew, he was about to part the purple curtains and find her corpse. He forced himself grimly back to the task, to the room and away from his insistent fantasies. Chang took a deliberately