Fantastic Metropolis

I was excited at the prospect of finally meeting my patron, and concentrated on gaining a modicum of composure so as to better represent myself when she appeared. The item I focused on in order to effect this was the subject of what price I would ask for the commission. If Watkin had spoken truthfully, she was willing to part with an extraordinary amount of money. I smiled at the great sums that slithered through my thoughts like eels, and practiced whispering one to see if I could speak it in a voice that would not betray my awareness of how ridiculous it was. The first sounded convincing enough, but when I tried a number a few digits higher, I was startled by a vague noise from behind the screen in front of me.

“Hello?” I said.

There was no response, and I was beginning to think that the insubstantial sound of someone clearing his throat had come from my own conscience, directed at my plan of artistic piracy. As I was about to return to my prices, the sound came again.

“Hello, Mr. Piambo,” said a soft, female voice.

I froze for a moment and then spoke loudly enough to indicate my embarrassment. “I didn’t know anyone was there.”

“Yes. Well.” She paused slightly, and I leaned forward. “You may call me Mrs. Charbuque,” she said.

I tried to recall if I had ever heard the name before, but nothing came to mind. “Very well then,” I said. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Watkin tells me that you have agreed to paint my portrait,” she said, the panels of the screen lightly vibrating the sound of her words.

“If we can make the appropriate arrangement, I am quite interested,” I said.

Then she mentioned a sum that was far beyond even the most dazzling I had dared to consider.

I couldn’t help myself. Taking a deep breath, I said, “That is a lot of money.”

“Yes,” she said.

“I don’t want to seem impertinent, Mrs. Charbuque, but may I ask why we are speaking with this screen between us?”

“Because you may not see me, Mr. Piambo,” she said.

“How then am I to paint you if I cannot see you?” I asked, laughing.

“Did you think I would offer you such a great amount of money for an ordinary portrait? Money I have, sir, but I am not a fool with it.”

“Forgive me,” I said. “I don’t understand.”

“Surely you do, Mr. Piambo. You must paint me without seeing me,” she said.

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This is an excerpt from The Portrait of Mrs. Charbuque by Jeffrey Ford, (c) 2002 HarperCollins Publishers. Used with permission.