The David
It started like any other case.
I was sitting at my desk sorting through photos, mostly men caught with their pants down. It was a Friday afternoon and the pictures were sticking together—they made a wet sucking sound when I pulled them apart. The fan on top of my cabinet whirred and coughed, slicing through the dense air, but the currents died before they hit my face, like waves breaking on rocks thirty feet from shore. Cars honked on the street below. A cabbie swore in a language I didn?t understand. It was all too much for me and I was about to call it a day—I could already feel the Guinness on my lips—when Diane, my secretary, buzzed me through the intercom.
“A lady to see you,” she said in a voice she reserved for the customers.
The woman stepped into my office and closed the door behind her. She wore a drab gray dress and a matching hat that covered her eyes. Her skin was ashen. She slumped her shoulders and took short, quiet steps, as if she were afraid she might wake the dead.
?My name is Patricia,? she whispered. She held out her hand. It was limp, like a wet towel, and I wondered if there were any bones in her thin frame at all.
?How do you do?? I said. ?Nathan Beach. How can I help you??
That?s when she lifted her eyes. They were black but shallow, like a one-way mirror. I gestured to the chair across from my desk.
?I need your help,? she said. Her voice sounded thin, as if she were speaking through a tin can. She eased into the chair and I half expected her to slide off like a jellyfish.
?What can I do for you?? I said. Her odd physical appearance had unnerved me, and I was glad we were getting down to business. She would want me to spy on her husband or lover. I didn?t care which, as long as her money was American.
?It?s an awkward situation,? she said. ?I?m a little embarrassed.?
?That?s okay, miss. I?m used to this sort of thing. I?ll be completely discreet.?
?You may not believe me.?
?Try me.?
She put her hand over her mouth before she spoke. ?I?ve lost my will to live,? she said.
A nut job. ?Who of us hasn?t, ma’am? But I don?t think you need a detective.?
?You don?t understand. My will to live. It left me. Three weeks ago. It was a Sunday evening and I was sitting down to watch television. ?The Practice.? I live in a penthouse apartment on Fifth Avenue with my husband. That?s when it happened.?
?What exactly happened??
?You won?t believe me.?
?Try me, ma’am. Trust, first. The case, second.?
?Suddenly she was there. I felt weak, like I was going to pass out, and when I looked up she was standing over me.?
?Who??
?My will to live.? The room seemed to get hotter. ?I want you to find her and bring her back.?
I get all kinds in the office. Last month a man came in and told me he?d misplaced his spaceship, could I help him find it. I was prepared to dismiss this woman as just another oddball, but there was something different about her. Most of the crazies came into the office all heated up, desperate for attention. Some couldn?t hold still, they buzzed around the room like mosquitoes, but this woman didn?t move. She didn?t smile or plead. She sat motionless, a cold, limp statue.
?I still don?t know what I can do for you, ma’am. It sounds like you need someone a little more professional.? I was hoping she?d take the hint. I even knew the name of a couple of psychiatrists.
?There?s a reason I?ve come to you, Nathan. Do you know what it is??
?Sorry, I don?t.? They usually leave if I let them talk it through. I have nothing against being someone?s ear to chew on. I just wished they?d find themselves a bartender instead.
?You don?t recognize me, do you?? she asked.
I leaned forward in my chair. There was something familiar about her, but it ended there. I may be a bad detective, but I am good with faces. And hers didn?t ring any bells.
?My full name is Patricia Korngold,? she said.
?So??
?My maiden name?s Corwin. Patricia Corwin.?
?Jesus!? I said. ?Patricia??
I pulled a pack of Carltons—I?m trying to quit—out of the top drawer and lit one.
It had been at least ten years. Her face had not really changed. No wrinkles, no crows feet around the eyes. She just didn?t look like the same person. Her face was slack. The muscles in her cheeks had atrophied and she seemed incapable of forming a human expression. She was dimmer now, like a burnt-out light bulb.
?I just want you to look into it,? she said. ?I know it sounds crazy, but you owe me at least that.?
?Okay,? I said. ?Yes. I owe you that much.? The ash on my cigarette dropped to the table and I started to brush it to the floor. Any excuse to look away from her.
?Every day it?s worse,? she said suddenly. ?If I had waited one more day, I don?t think I would have cared.?
I took out a pad of paper. ?Is there anything you can tell me that might make it a little easier??
?Not really,? she said. ?She likes red sweaters.?
Patricia had been attending Columbia graduate school when we met, getting a creative degree in sculpting. I had just opened my own photo business. I was hired to take some landscape photographs for a woman — it was only my second or third job — who turned out to be Patricia?s roommate. Patricia and I saw each other every day for almost a year. It was passionate in the beginning and it ended badly as those affairs often do.
It saddened me to see how she had deteriorated. She used to wake at the crack of dawn and go running. She would return an hour later with a carton of orange juice and the fixings for breakfast. She?d sculpt in the afternoon for hours, nothing could distract her. She created a miniature statute of me that made me look like fucking Jack Lalane. She had always been a serious girl. But not this serious. What the hell had happened?
The next morning I took the E train across to the East side. I bought a bagel and coffee from a street vendor.
Her husband worked on the Thirty-Fourth floor of a large office building. I thought I would talk to him first, see what he knew about his wife?s problem. Sometimes the husband is the last to know in cases like this. Often, he?s the cause.
His secretary, a slim, bearded man, told me to sit in a chair in the waiting room. I sipped coffee and chewed my bagel. The walls were painted yellow and green and I wondered what would make a corporate lawyer choose such extravagant colors. The room was air-conditioned and after twenty minutes my hands started to get numb.
I?m usually a patient man. I sit in apartments for hours, after all, waiting to snap the right photograph. But I knew this was a wild goose chase and I wasn?t getting paid — that was a break I had decided to cut Patricia. Now her husband was making me freeze my ass off in his waiting room.
I walked past his secretary—?Sir, ou can?t do that,? he said—and into the office. Patricia?s husband sat behind a large desk, reclining in a leather chair. He put the phone down when he saw me enter and stood.
?Jesus Christ,? he said. ?Who the hell are you??
I slammed the door on the secretary?s face and took a seat across from Patricia?s husband. I lit another Carlton, just to make him stew a little.
?You Henry Korngold?? I asked.
?Yeah. And who the fuck are you? I?m busy.?
?Nathan Beach. I?m here because of Patricia.?
?Patricia who?? he said. His own wife?s name and he draws a blank. Typical. I wondered what Patricia saw in this clown. He was tall — I?ll give him that — with greasy, straight hair and a thick moustache. His skin was pasty and plump. The blue suit he was wearing probably cost more than I made in two weeks.
?Your wife. Patricia.?
?What?s the problem?? he said. ?I?ve got clients breathing fire today.?
?I?m a private detective, Mr. Korngold. She hired me.? Husbands usually quieted down when I told them that. The fear would leap to their eyes, they?d quiver a little and stumble to a seat. Not Mr. Attorney.
?So what?? he said. ?Patricia and I have an open relationship. We?ve discussed my affairs many times. What is this about??
?She came to me. Said she lost her will to live. I mean, literally. I think she may be a little crazy.?
?Patricia? Don?t be ridiculous.? He finally sat down. He swiveled in his chair so he could gaze out the large picture window behind him. ?Patricia has her whims. But she?s happy. I buy her everything she needs.?
?Why do you think she came to me, then?? I sat up in my chair. I felt my advantage slipping away. It?s hard to pump a man for information when he doesn?t give a damn.
?I have no idea, Mr. Beach. My wife and I don?t talk about those things.?
?What do you talk about, then??
?Look.? He swiveled to face me. ?This is getting personal. My wife and I spend a great deal of time together. We attend functions almost weekly, in fact. But I don?t feel like I have to defend our relationship to you.?
I could see that he did. I kept quiet and hoped he?d say something incriminating.
?We talk about many things and she has never mentioned anything about her will to live. Jesus. She attends to our business affairs quite well, actually. Does that sound like a woman who has lost her will??
?I don?t know,? I said. ?Maybe.?
?Okay, Mr. Beach. I?ve had enough of this. I?ll discuss this with Patricia tonight, but I don?t foresee any problems and I expect that we will not need your services after today.?
?We??
?I can call security or you can leave quietly.?
My curiosity was aroused by Henry Korngold. I had thought he would show concern for his wife. That or fear. But he was defensive and belligerent.
I could understand why a man like Henry Korngold would want Patricia. She had been exceptionally beautiful. Long, straight dark hair, but fine; you half expected it to melt like cotton candy in your hand. But why would Patricia go for him? Hell, she had an enormous will to live as I remembered. That?s what made this case so odd. A guy like Korngold would want to tame her. There had to be more to it than money. Then again, perhaps she had always wanted to be tamed. I certainly was not the one to do it, not then anyway. I was young, stupid — bounced from woman to woman, didn?t want to let any of them get under my skin, not even precious Patricia.
Our affair ended typically, a clich? really. She showed up at my apartment one evening and found me in bed with another woman. She ran.
I tried to convince her it was a one time thing, but my effort was a joke, half-hearted, an attempt to convince myself more than her. I visited her nightly for two weeks and we discussed my infidelity. Some nights we even made love. But she couldn?t trust me again and after a short time we stopped seeing each other. I was relieved.
I decided to drop the case. Patricia needed a psychiatrist and I needed a vodka tonic.
But I had to see her one last time.
I rang the buzzer at the Korngold?s Penthouse. A tall, slender butler answered the door and told me that he had explicit instructions not to interrupt Patricia.
?Who gave you explicit instructions?? I asked. He smiled with one side of his face only, his lips forming a right angle.
?Listen,? I said. ?Maybe I can ask you a couple of questions.? I handed him a hundred bucks. I wasn?t sure why I did it. It wasn?t the action of a man quitting a case. But I don?t like no-trespassing signs and Henry Korngold had clearly called to make his penthouse off limits to me. What the hell was he hiding?
The butler stepped outside and closed the door behind him.
?Perhaps,? he said. He wore a black and white uniform that fit him loosely around the shoulders.
?Has Mrs. Korngold been acting strange lately?? I said.
?Frankly, no, she hasn?t.?
?You?ve seen no changes??
?None.?
I tried to stare into the butler?s eyes, but he had a couple of inches on me and he was busy tilting his arrogant head like he was trying to stop a nose bleed.
?Then that?s all you know??
?I believe it is.?
?I don?t think I?m getting my money?s worth, then.?
?Sir??
?You?re not telling me anything I don?t already know. Your information?s not worth a hundred dollars.?
?Sorry sir.? He smiled, a glimmer, but I saw that he enjoyed antagonizing me. That was all it took. I unloaded a quick punch into his gut and he crumpled like a house of cards.
?No games. Just tell me what you know about Mrs. Korngold.?
He sat on both knees, bent over. He took shallow, cautious breaths.
?There have been no changes recently,? he said. I inched closer. ?But over the past five years…? He coughed.
?What is it? Over the past five years, what??
?Mrs. Korngold has gone out less and less. She sits home and watches television. She used to get a lot of phone calls, but even those have stopped.?
?Yeah? So what? Lots of people watch television. Why does she sit home? Who?s stopping her from going out??
?I don?t know.?
I put my fist against his face. ?You sure??
?I?m sure. I could only guess.?
?Guess for me, then. Who?s keeping her from going out??
?She is,? he said.
I sat in Ariel?s, an Upper West Side Bar. Patricia and I used to meet there two or three times a week. The place was swarming with Columbia undergraduates and I felt like I was a million years old. The history between Patricia and me came flooding back. I regretted what I?d done to her, naturally, but there was no changing the past.
Or was there?
I wondered what would happen if I found Patricia?s missing will, crazy as that sounds. Would it be like old times between us? I wondered if I was getting the rarest opportunity in life, a second chance. I doubted it, but I decided to stick with the case a little longer anyway. Maybe I could finally do what I hadn?t done ten years ago.
The college students chattered and laughed. They leaned on each other, groping, touching. A movie played silently on a screen at the end of the bar. A couple of kids shot pool. The clicking of the balls occasionally broke through the din.
If I was going to continue, I needed to decide what my next move would be. Henry Korngold had made it difficult for me to contact his wife. I wasn?t sure she?d be a help to me anyway, not once he?d talked to her. But maybe she had left something in the house, some kind of clue. I asked myself, if I were Patricia Korngold?s will to live — I tried not to laugh when I thought this — where would I go? Nothing occurred to me immediately, but I was drunk enough to wish that she?d want to return to me.
I decided to break into the Korngold?s apartment and poke around. Patricia was the only lead I had.
It was Friday and I?d been staking out the Korngold?s apartment for several days, waiting for one of their ?functions.? I needed to know both of them were out of there. I watched from across the street. There was still an hour of sunlight left, but I knew they wouldn?t see me waiting. It was the one thing the past ten years as a detective had taught me: invisibility.
The Korngolds left the apartment at 7:30 pm. Patricia wore a long, gray dress and Henry probably thought he looked dashing in a tuxedo and bright red bow tie. I remembered that Patricia had said her alter ego liked to wear red sweaters and I wondered about Henry?s red tie. I knew one thing: Henry Korngold had not lost his will to live.
It was surprisingly simple. I picked the door on my second try and walked into the foyer. I figured the butler was around somewhere and I moved quietly.
The main room was narrow, but the ceiling was at least thirty feet high. A long crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. I walked up a spiral staircase to my right and quickly found what I was looking for: Patricia?s private study. I locked the door behind me.
It was a small room. Bookshelves filled the walls to my right and left and a simple oak desk stood opposite me. The walls were painted black and there were no pictures. Not even a window. I had expected to see a few old sculptures, but there were none.
The first few drawers contained a lot of business shit. The bottom drawer on the left hand side was locked. I picked it. It was crammed with scraps of paper. I yanked a handful out and put them on the desk. They were all pencil sketches. The first one was a portrait of a young woman eating an ice cream cone. The next few were of animals and trees. Then a few of statues around town: quite a few of the Atlas across from St. Patrick?s Cathedral on Fifth Avenue.
Then there were a handful of sketches of the same famous statue: Michelangelo?s David. There were sketches from every possible direction. From above. From behind. From far away. Sketches of his eyes.
Finally, I found something. It was a full sketch of the David. The details were vivid. It was not that much different from many of the others I had found in the pile.
But it was the only sketch drawn in bright red ink.
I cashed in a couple of savings bonds and bought a ticket to Florence. That?s where the David was. And I was sure that?s where Patricia?s will to live would be. That is, if Patricia — the real Patricia Korngold — was not completely insane.
I sat on the airplane and wondered for a moment about my own sanity. I was spending money I couldn?t afford to chase after what was almost certainly a sad woman?s psychotic episode. I wasn?t sure if even I believed Patricia, but I wanted to. I wondered what I would find. The old Patricia had been vital, a box of fireworks. The thought of her roaming Florence, frankly, thrilled me.
I stayed in the Olimpia in Piazza della Repubblica. My room had a view of the Giotto Bell of Santa Maria del Fiore. My guidebook said that the reliefs in the lower row of the tower depicted ?the creation of man and woman, the beginnings of human work, and the inventors of various creative activities: sheep-herding, music, metallurgy, wine-making.? A place where new ideas are born seemed like the right place to be and I felt a warm ball fill my gut, something vaguely familiar from my youth. Maybe people were reborn here too.
It was the middle of summer — hot and sticky — and tourists swarmed the city. I bought a pair of Italian sandals and a flowered shirt. I spent most of my time walking. Florence is a tiny place — a village compared to New York — and I was able to cover most of the city every afternoon. The David stood in the Galeria dell?Academia. I checked it at different times each day.
After a week, my money was running out and I was beginning to think my luck was not far behind. I was strolling along the Arno River, a Saturday. Artists and craftsmen hawked their goods up and down the walkway. Crowds of tourists made it impossible to walk. It was the red sweater that caught my eye.
She was sitting by one of the bridges that stretch across the river. An older woman sat in front of her and Patricia was painting the woman?s portrait.
I walked behind Patricia and joined the other tourists watching the painting come alive. The Arno rippled in the background and it was all I could do to keep myself from touching Patricia?s hair. She looked like she hadn?t aged a day. But then, she hadn?t. This wasn?t the real Patricia, I reminded myself. This was someone or something else.
The tourist smiled when she saw her portrait.
?May I go next?? I said.
Patricia turned. Her face clouded and she narrowed her eyes. The look said she wanted to throw me in the river.
?What do you want?? she asked.
?That anyway to greet an old friend? Let me buy you a beer. So we can talk.?
Patricia rubbed her chin. There was a smattering of white paint on her face.
?Buy me dinner. And you do the talking.?
?Sure thing,? I said. My heart pounded.
I couldn?t believe how beautiful Patricia looked. She was pristine, like a manifestation of my memory. We sat in a corner of Harry?s Bar, an American restaurant out of my price range, and sipped wine.
?How?d you find me?? she asked. ?I?m impressed.?
?Just a lucky guess,? I said. She attempted to maintain a passive expression, but the set of her jaw betrayed her. She was scared.
?What do you want with me?? She gulped a glass of wine like it was a shot and poured herself another.
?I?ve got to take you home,? I said. ?For Patricia.?
?Oh, fuck that,? she said loudly. ?I?ve had it with her. I?m living now. I?m doing what I want. No fucking way I?m going back to Patricia.?
?I understand,? I said.
?Do you?? She looked away.
?How did this happen?? I asked. ?Patricia was? she was always so vibrant. This — you — it doesn?t make sense.?
?People sell out, Nathan. After a while she was too afraid to do anything except what Henry told her.?
?I just don?t see how she would.?
?People do stupid things, Nathan. Destructive things. But I guess you know about that.?
I deserved that. Besides, I?d missed Patricia?s sarcasm over the years.
?Not Patricia,? I said.
?Not Patricia? Did you ever take the time to get to know what she was thinking? What she really cared about??
?Jesus, I knew her. She just wouldn?t??
?Wouldn?t what??
?Well, marry that fucker Henry, for one thing.?
?Oh Christ, Nathan, you?re living in a dream. She wanted money and security. She wanted an easy life. She thought she could have it all, marry Henry, sculpt in her free time, travel. But Henry is strong, too. He drove her, hard. He insisted she attend his corporate functions, made her dress like an old maid, threatened her with divorce. She fell in line. She had to. She had no skills, no way to make money, and she was afraid. You start to grow a little old, you learn about fear. Isn?t that right, Nathan??
She was arrogant. The arrogance of immortality.
?Patricia deserves another chance,? I said. ?If you come back with me, she can start over.?
?She had her chance. It?s over. She fucked it up and I?m free.?
I could see her point and it was making less and less sense to try to rescue the poor, sagging woman I?d met in my office. She was gray, drab, dead. This woman — this dream — sitting in front of me pulsated with life. Her skin, glossy, like marble, was perfect. What would be the point of dragging her back to the real Patricia? She, the will, would only suffer and it wouldn?t help Patricia any, either.
Besides, I wanted the chance to do what I hadn?t years before. I wanted to stick with this new Patricia.
I touched her hand. I shouldn?t have done it, but I was helpless: the only good thing in my life had returned from the dead and was sitting across from me gulping wine. My heartbeat slowed and deepened, as if my blood were freezing.
?I thought you wanted to take me back to the States,? she said. She leaned over and kissed me, hard. My blood surged, like a dam bursting, and I returned her kiss.
She led me back to her apartment, a small studio with a view of the river.
Touching her again was excruciating. Every caress — her lips, her shoulders, her breasts — carved a fresh hole in my chest.
I spent the next week following her around. I tried to forget that I was supposed to be doing a job and enjoyed watching her. She ran in the mornings along the Arno. She sculpted until the mid-afternoon and spent the rest of the day painting pictures for tourists. That?s how she managed to pay her way.
One Friday she took me to the Galeria dell?Academia and we stood shoulder to shoulder, staring at the David for nearly an hour. Tourists jostled around us, bustling, mooing at the great sculpture. David was carved out of cold, white marble. The great height, the frozen, tilted head, the position of the arms, one by his side, the other curled in by his chin, clutching his slingshot over his shoulder, made me feel sorry for him. He seemed sad and alone.
I thought I was falling in love. I caressed the will?s brown arm and asked her to marry me. She threw back her head and laughed, but she didn?t answer.
?I don?t think I can live without you,? I said. ?I won?t make the same mistakes I made before. I was young and stupid. I can make you happy.? Patricia?s will smiled and patted me on the head like a dog. She was in control and she knew it. She turned and faced the David again.
?You just care about you, Nathan,? she said. ?You?re the same as ever.?
“Please?”
“You and Patricia deserve each other.”
So naturally, it happened.
A week after our visit to the David, I had decided to go and watch her paint. She looked lovely and I wanted to possess her. Then a man appeared. He lightly stroked her cheek. They stood together talking. He was a young man, no more than twenty-five — but then, that?s how old she appeared to be — with long, dark hair and fuzzy sideburns. Suddenly, he kissed her. I clenched my eyes shut, curled my fists into rage. I?d thought I?d outgrown that kind of passion.
I thought about running down and confronting her, maybe getting into a fight, but it wouldn?t do. I was deluding myself — it was too easy, here, under the Italian sun, surrounded by ancient art — and I thought I could still convince her to marry me.
“What do you expect from me, Nathan?” she asked. “I?m not like you. Or other people. I see what I want and I go after it. That?s what I am. And I will never age.”
We were standing in the lobby of her apartment building.
“You?re right, of course,” I said. “I just thought we had something.”
“You had something. I just have me.”
“Of course.” Now what? I had no money and my credit card was nearly at its limit. How long did I really think I could stay in Florence and make love to a ghost?
As I walked back to my hotel I decided there was only one thing to do: my job. The real Patricia was waiting. Perhaps I still had a chance with her. If I could return her will to live then she would be whole again. And real. We were both damaged, but perhaps real love was, at least, possible for us.
I waited in the dark for her. I sat in the chair by the window, my heart racing.
The door opened around midnight and she came in, stumbling a little bit from drink. She flicked the light switch on the wall and walked toward the mini-bar. Then she stopped and turned her head slowly.
“I thought you might turn up,” she said. She was not startled in the least.
“I have to bring you back. For Patricia. It?s my job.”
“Now you decide you have to do your job? I see.”
“This might be my only chance. And it?s certainly Patricia?s.”
“She won?t want you. Even with me, she won?t.”
“It doesn?t matter. Now tell me what really happened with Patricia.”
“I told you. She was lazy?”
“I?m not buying it,” I said. “Spill it.” My cheek was twitching so hard I could hardly see.
“You narcissistic fuck,” she said. “This isn?t about Patricia.”
“I said spill it.”
“Figure it out for yourself, you lazy prick. I?m not ratting out Patricia. You bastard.”
“Did she love me?”
“Fuck you! There?s no going back in time, Nathan.”
That was for me to decide.
“There?s still time. You — Patricia — can leave her husband.”
“Don?t you see? That?s why I exist. She just won?t. She doesn?t deserve me anymore.”
“I have to try,” I said.
She pulled a gun and pointed it at my head. Her jaw was set and I could see that she would not hesitate to kill me.
“I?m aiming a gun right at your gut,” I said. And I was. My hand was in my jacket pocket.
“I won?t go back,” she said.
“Then I?m sorry.”
I fired first. The bullet hit her in the gut and a bright red gush of blood splashed the wall behind her. She took two quick shots before she hit the floor, but both missed.
I knelt beside the corpse and stroked her hair. She stared off into the distance, panting, smiling. Then she began to fade, like an old photograph, until there was nothing left except her red sweater.
I was back in New York City the next day. I tried to return to my old routine, forget Patricia, drown myself in bourbon and sodas. But the liquor had somehow lost its punch and I found myself wandering the streets at all hours.
I sometimes strolled past Fifth Avenue and watched Henry and Patricia. Her face was pale and drawn and she could barely walk without Henry?s assistance. Her arms looked like hollow straws and she shuffled when she walked, unable to lift her feet.
One day she stopped suddenly, bent over, slowly, like the minute hand of a clock, and picked up a coin from the sidewalk. She stood again at the same rate and studied it, moving it close to her face. Henry continued walking and didn?t seem to notice that his wife was no longer by his side.
Patricia dropped the hand with the coin by her side, tilted her head to the left as if she were looking at something far down the street and curled her left hand by her shoulder to clutch the hood of her coat. She froze solid like that in a position that seemed familiar to me, though I couldn?t place it at first. The wind tousled her hair, swirling it like the snakes of Medusa, but Patricia remained motionless. People hurried past, flying about their business, but none stopped or took notice. I felt something give way in my gut and I wanted to run, hold her in my arms and make everything right. But I didn?t. It was too late. She was beyond anyone?s help, let alone mine.
I looked closer. Her face looked at peace now, smooth, somehow flawless, but without life. And that?s when I remembered where I had seen that pose. In a Florence museum, standing next to a vibrant force of nature that I later destroyed with a single gun shot. Sphere: Related Content