Chapter 6 – Choice of Medium
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“Nicholas! Anthony, are you back yet? Josephine?” Madge walked from room to room, shouting names, and I tagged behind her, still clutching my invitation. I felt like I had a backstage pass to a concert, and that at any moment, I could be challenged by a beefy, black-shirted bouncer to show my papers.

“You caught us at an awkward time,” Madge said, as we completed a loop of the first floor. “If only we’d known you were coming today, we would all have been ready to meet you.”

“The invitation didn’t have any contact information,” I said, finding my voice.

“The phone number is on the website,” said Madge, with a touch of that schoolmistress demeanor. She sniffed. “Still, as the invitation said nothing about an RSVP, I cannot rightly blame you. We’ll try the residence.”

She fell silent and walked on, giving me a chance to observe my surroundings. The first floor of the Belmont House featured gallery after gallery, or what had clearly become galleries. Before the house was put to its current use, the rooms were obviously for other purposes, and those purposes lingered. The drawing rooms and sitting rooms still had sofas and chairs and lamps; the smoking room was richly outfitted in wood and leather. There was a dining room and kitchen, next to a pantry the size of my bedroom at home. All of it might have been fully functional, had every spare surface not been appropriated for art. The walls were hung with oils and pastels and watercolors, not to mention mixed media of the wildest descriptions. Counters and tables held not just sculpture and statuary, but jewelry and pottery and all other manner of artistic craft.

The initial impression was chaotic, but I soon detected a theme. The works in each room had clearly been chosen to fit that room, composed into a harmonious whole that had an internal logic and balance. “Everything is complete as it is,” I said, more to myself than Madge.

She smiled at me over her shoulder. “Clever of you to notice so soon. Yes, we have a stasis now, but it won’t last. As works are sold, we must constantly adjust. There will be room for your art soon enough.”

Nothing I had ever made was that good. And as soon as they figured that out, I’d be on my way back to Long Island.

At the back of the house was a set of double doors, which would once have led to the back garden. But the house continued, and it was clear that we had entered more recent construction. “This is the residence,” Madge explained. "We used to live upstairs in the main house, but that's work space now that this was built. Common areas on the ground floor, and two floors of private apartments above. You’ll be taking Caroline’s place, third floor southeast. I say, you didn’t show up without any clothes, did you?”

“They’re in the car.”

“Well, once you’ve seen the place, we can fetch... ah, I hear them now.”

We passed through a hall into a wider room, where four people sat in repose. A tall, elegant woman of about thirty occupied one end of a sofa, flipping through a coffee table book of photography. Across from her, on a love seat, two men in their middle years were seated close together, one with his arm draped around the other. A much older man stood in front of a tall bookcase, studying the titles there.

“We’ve found her at last,” Madge announced, and all four directed their attention towards me. I had never felt more like an impostor at that moment. Surely, I thought, one of them would spring to their feet to denounce me.

Instead, they smiled and approached. “Josephine,” said the woman. Standing I could see that she was indeed tall, taller than Madge, taller than all but one of the men. “It is wonderful to meet you. Always it is such a puzzle when the new ones arrive.” Her accent was musical, and I soon placed it as continental French.

“I’m Nicholas,” said the man who had been by the bookcase. His hair was snow white; his skin dark as raw umber. He had a rich accent, neither American nor British, which I could not place. He was dressed well, but comfortably, and he would not have looked out of place playing chess in a New York park. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance.”

The shorter of the other two men spoke next. His hair was short and almost spiky, though not as if he had styled it that way. Rather, it appeared that he had shaved his head to address impending baldness, but had not kept up with it. “I’m Gerald,” he said. “How do you do? And this is my husband Anthony.” His partner had a thin angular face, and I was left with an impression of Bert and Ernie. His handshake was brief, and he said only, “Delighted,” in a sort of droll British way. His smile was more sardonic than not, and it did not reach his eyes.

“So Cayley, perhaps you could tell us about your art?” Madge prompted. “We’re always interested in what new ideas will make their way into our little community.”

“I can’t imagine that there will be anything you’ll learn from me,” I said. “I do oils and watercolors, some clay work, a bit of photography, really just anything that....”

“Not the medium, sweetheart,” said Gerald. “What is it all about?”

“Oh!” I was unused to answering this question. I’d had the same conversation about my art so many times with non-artists. They cared about the technique and the skill, but not the meaning behind it. One word bubbled to the top of my consciousness, though, and it escaped my lips. “Change. It’s all about change.”

Gerald’s face assumed a triumphant expression, and Nicholas chuckled softly. Anthony, on the other hand, looked sour, and Josephine slightly amused. I turned to Madge. “What?”

“Don’t mind them. You’ve just accidentally picked a side in an ongoing argument, on whether art is inherently a static expression, or an expression of change. Your predecessor, Caroline, was in the former camp. Your arrival has tipped the balance a little.”

“We spend so much time trying to capture that motion and energy, no one stops to examine the way the subject IS,” Anthony groused. Gerald patted him on the arm affectionately.

“And all motion, it is made of moments, no?” Josephine put in.

“That’s just Zeno’s Paradox again,” Gerald cut in.

“Yes, but speaking mathematically...”

Nicholas pulled me aside, out of the line of fire. “Cayley, this discussion could take all night. I’m sure you’ll want to get settled in. Did you bring any suitcases?”

“They’re in my car.”

“Where did you park? I’ll bring them in.”

He was not frail, but I objected to the notion of an older man lugging in my enormous suitcases. “I couldn’t! I’ll get them myself once I know where I’m taking them.”

“Better tell him, Cayley,” Madge advised. “Nicholas is a gentleman, and you’d gravely offend him if you brought the cases in yourself.”

I looked between their faces, and it appeared they were serious. “Well, if you have to, I mean... I’m in the visitor lot.”

Nicholas held out his hand. I just stared at it until he said, “And may I have the key?”

“Oh!” I reddened again. Embarrassment wasn’t pleasant, I reflected as Nicholas bowed slightly and made his way to my car. But at least it helped the illusion. I hadn’t blushed this much in years.

“That’s an interesting necklace.” It was Anthony’s voice, cutting over the discussion raging between Gerald and Josephine. Madge, who had been leading me out of the living area, paused, and I stopped with her.

It took a moment to realized he was talking to me. “This?” I said, fingering the twisted knot of the silver mediallion. “Thank you.”

“Have you had it long?”

“No. Not long. It was a gift.” I wasn’t sure what his line of questioning was getting at, but I figured I could use the occasion to lay some groundwork. “Since I got it, I’ve barely taken it off, though.”

Anthony grunted, and Gerald glared at him. Madge tugged on my arm, and I followed her up the stairs.

“Don’t mind him,” Madge said as we began the ascent to the third floor, well out of earshot of the discussion that continued below. “Anthony probably misses Caroline. She did a lot of silvercrafting, you know. I always meant to learn.”

A sudden thought struck me. “Was Caroline around my age? Short hair, glasses?”

Madge regarded me out of the corner of her eye. “She was my age. Long black hair, which I’m sure she dyed. But surely you met her before coming here.”

“There were two,” I lied quickly. “Neither of them gave a name.”

“Ah.” Madge seemed to relax. “That sounds more like Caroline. Always leaving out important details.”

I tried to slow my heartbeat without giving away to Madge that I was nervous. That had been close. Of course the real Belmont fellow would have met Caroline. No doubt that was how she had been chosen in the first place. Why the invitation was then passed off to me, I couldn’t say. But now I had another lie to maintain, and I would have to get my story together, stronger than it was now, if I wanted to keep it up.

Madge was still talking. “It’s a shame that Darren and Aubrey weren’t here to meet you. Darren is off performing, of course; that’s every Friday. And Aubrey is visiting her parents. She’s only nineteen, you know, youngest fellow in our history. She’s only been here a few weeks herself. Here we are.”

We had arrived in front of a door. “We call it an apartment, because it’s more than one room. All furnished, of course, but let us know if there is anything you’d like to move in.” Madge beamed down at me. “Now I expect you’d like to get some rest. I’ll send up Nicholas with the suitcases directly he gets back. If you’re up for conversation, you can always come down and join the party. Breakfast will be in the kitchen if you’re a morning person. Or lunch, if not.”

I thanked her, and we parted at the door. The apartment was more spacious than my own back home. It was furnished simply but comfortably, with an overstuffed chair and mismatched sofa. They were grouped around a fireplace, not a television; in fact, there was no TV in sight. The soot-stained fittings and pile of nearby wood told me the hearth was more than just decorative. On the walls hung a startling variety of art, many different genres and styles. Each bore a small brass plaque underneath, and I quickly came to understand that they had been left behind by previous occupants of the room.

There was a toilet and shower en suite, a small kitchenette with a hot plate and microwave, mini-fridge, and a shelf containing an empty box of Corn Chex. There were two doors at the back of the room. One led to a chamber that was mostly empty, except for a few discarded art supplies and the smell of turpentine. A work space, I gathered. The other side was a bedroom. There were few distinctive effects, but a crocheted bedspread and matching pillow shams gave the room a homey, grandmotherly, bed-and-breakfast feel.

There was a nightstand next to the bed, bare except for a single folded piece of paper. It was unlined, as if it had been torn from a sketch pad. I unfolded it.

“Never take it off in the house or on the grounds. If you do they’ll know.”

When Nicholas came up with my bags, he found me trying to get a fire started, and very helpfully retrieved some kindling from his own room. I spent a long time that night, watching the fire, seeing the note in my mind long after it had shriveled into ash.

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