Camino del Monte Sol, ch. 15 (with OBTS) -- PG-13
Posted: Tue Dec 20, 2011 10:57 pm
Author’s Note: This story is a collaboration between OnceBitTwiceShy and myself for Champagne Challenge #128: Reader/Writer II. OBTS provided the idea of Josef visiting Santa Fe in the 1920’s, and running into…well, you’ll have to read the story. The settings are as accurate as I can make them, having been in Santa Fe myself many times, and also using various resources on the City Different, as they call it, and its inhabitants back in the ‘20s. The artists’ colony, and their compound on Camino del Monte Sol, are well documented. There is a thread with a set of pictures and links to places, costumes, cars, posted after most chapters. My thanks to OBTS, not only for the idea, but for her encouragement and input as the story progressed. I don’t own Josef, or any of the historical locations and personages mentioned in the story. Any errors or misrepresentations of fact are mine.
Camino del Monte Sol
Chapter XV. Camino del Monte Sol
A cloud obscured the afternoon light slanting though the broad window, and Nash stepped away from his easel, sighing in frustration. The canvas still seemed unfinished to him, in some respects, although he’d realized all that was in his preliminary sketches. His models might not appreciate the rendering, but he had been more concerned with light and shadow, and the movement of masses of flesh, than with flattering feminine egos. He’d bet that Kostan would appreciate it, though.
Brushes in hand, he turned to an old dresser that stood against the wall, the top crowded with bottles and tubes, piles of paper and random glassware. Selecting an empty jar, he blew in it to clear the dust out before tipping in a careful quantity of turpentine from a gallon tin, and began to swab his brushes vigorously in the fluid. These brushes were about done for, he reflected, and he had no idea where the money was coming from to buy new ones. Maybe he’d have to see if Bakos needed an assistant in his furniture-making business.
A shadow moved on the wall, and Nash whirled around to see Stephen Kostan closing the door.
“Don’t you knock?” he asked in glowering irritation.
Stephen cocked an eyebrow. “And risk breaking an artist’s concentration?”
Nash had to allow the reasonableness of that. He continued methodically cleaning his brushes, watching as Stephen examined the canvas.
“You never really could get Lou Lou to stand still long enough for a good pose, could you?” he asked with a smile.
“I’m sure it’s a large part of her charm.”
Stephen snorted. “She’s a firecracker, all right.”
Nash inspected his brushes a last time, then set them in another empty jar, tips up, to dry. It took a moment’s rummaging in the top drawer to find a cap for the jar of turpentine. He’d be able to use it again. Putting it aside, he faced Stephen.
“So, Kostan, I’m assuming you didn’t drop by to discuss your,” he gestured toward the canvas, “friends.”
“No, but we do have unfinished business. And as you heard last night, I’m on my way out of town.” He pulled an envelope out of the breast pocket of his suit. “I owe you for the painting. And an advance on the other work we’d discussed.”
Nash took the proffered envelope and pulled out a check. His eyebrows rose. “This is somewhat—what am I saying, hell, it’s a lot—more than we’d discussed.”
Stephen shrugged. “How are you at furniture making?”
“Lousy. You want Bakos for that.”
“So I’ve been told. Which is why I’m giving you the check.”
“I don’t follow.”
It was Stephen’s turn to gesture towards the easel. “You’re a painter, Nash. This is what you should be doing, not trying to keep body and soul together by working at some job your heart’s not in.” He paused. “You need a patron. And I have money to invest.”
Nash looked down at the slip of paper in his hands. He could live on this for months. Maybe a year. Replace his brushes and never have to re-use a canvas. But even as his fantasy spun out, he had a vision of Reza. Reza, in the arms of Kostan, turning to him with unnaturally red lips, and a strange shine in her eyes. “You’re taking Reza from me, aren’t you?” he asked.
Stephen shook his head. “She’s not leaving town with me.”
“But—how do I know you’re not just trying to buy my silence?”
“Silence isn’t something I pay for.” Stephen made no overt move, but an air of menace filled the room with shadow as surely as if another passing cloud outside had occluded the light again. Nash suppressed an urge to shiver.
“I know what you are,” he blurted.
Stephen shook his head with a rueful grimace. “Of course you do,” he said. “You talked to Bakos and Mruk, and they explained it to you.”
“So you admit, you do have a secret you need me to keep.”
“Jesus, Nash,” Stephen said, making no effort to keep the exasperation out of his voice, “you really aren’t the brightest color on the palette, are you? As I said, I don’t pay for silence. If there’s a need for it, I create it.” He paused to let that sink in, and then continued, “But whatever nonsense you choose to start spouting about me, I think you might want to consider what it would mean for Reza, as well. And don’t forget, Dorothea will be here in town, and she can counter anything you say about me.”
Nash deflated somewhat. “You have this all thought out, don’t you?”
Stephen laughed, shortly. “As I heard someone here express it, this isn’t my first rodeo.” A change of mood swept over his features, and he was back to being genial, but businesslike. “That canvas,” he said, indicating it again with a careless gesture, “you’ll ship it to me when it’s complete?”
Caught a little flat-footed at the change, Nash blinked. “Umm, yes,” he replied. “I need an address.”
“Of course.” Stephen pulled out a gold card case, and a gold chased fountain pen. He extracted a card, and jotted an address on the back. “Send it there. C.O.D. is fine, or you can invoice me for shipping costs.” He paused, pressing his lips together and giving Nash a speculative look. “Tell me, you’re what, 27, 28?”
“25. Why?”
“You had friends, brothers, maybe, in the War?”
Without conscious thought, Nash’s spine stiffened. “I served in France. AEF.”
“I’ll wager you saw good men die, there.”
He shrugged. “I saw lots of men die there. Good, bad, indifferent.” The war had been a messy, terrifying business. Nash tried not to think about it, but he knew it was with him, every day, and always would be. He wasn’t sure why Kostan was bringing it up now, here, in this studio so far removed from the old conflict, on earth purified by the cleansing New Mexico sun.
Stephen nodded. “Then perhaps you can see why I might choose to support men who work to bring a little beauty into the world.”
Nash met Stephen’s eyes, then, ready to question further, feeling he was on the brink of understanding something. The opening of the door distracted him.
Reza stood framed in the doorway, her face hidden in shadow. Stephen thought he sensed a new stillness in her, a quietness in her bearing that he had not seen before. He recognized it, of course. Residual effects of his blood. The heightened awareness had passed, the echoes of urges she would never have felt before, but traces remained. He’d seen it before, and always mourned the human, even as he celebrated the potential vampire. He wondered if she’d come to him first, or Nash. The choice might signify everything, or nothing.
She went to Nash, sparing Stephen a warm smile. “Willard, darling,” she said, laying one hand flat on his chest, the other curling around his waist, as she tilted her face up to kiss him on the cheek. Stephen noted how Nash’s face softened at once. It was a bad sign, he thought. “I need to steal your visitor away for just a moment.”
“He’s all yours,” Nash replied. “I believe our business was done.”
Reza gave him a dazzling smile, and turned away. “I’m so glad to catch you, Stephen. I saw your car out front, and had to stop in to say goodbye.”
“I was just on my way out of town.”
“Yes, I suppose you’ll have to stop and pick up Patrice, and dear little Lou Lou,” Reza smiled like the edge of a knife.
“They will be devastated to have missed you, to be sure.”
“Do give them my love.”
Stephen nodded. She was going to make a magnificent vampire. He could hardly wait to see her sparring verbally with some of the edgier ladies he knew. He held out a hand, coolly, palm up, and she laid her hand in his. “Señorita Therésa Inez Maria Concepcion Martinez-Ibañez,” he said formally, bowing to kiss her hand, “it has been my very great pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He straightened, to look her in the eye. “I hope we shall meet again.”
“My dear Mr. Kostan,” she replied, “you may rely upon it.”
As he stood by the red Mercedes, pulling on his duster and driving gloves, he could hear Bakos and Mruk arguing with Shuster under the shade trees of their compound. All around, there were the sounds of children playing in the dusty street, dogs barking, women chattering as they worked in their adobe homes. A high buzz of cicadas gave the afternoon a drowsy feel, and cooking chilies and beans scented the air. Behind it all, Stephen could hear Reza’s low, throaty laugh, echoing through the cottonwoods. She would come to him in Los Angeles, he knew. He had only to wait for her. Properly attired for his journey at last, Stephen swung into his automobile, and drove for the last time down the Camino del Monte Sol, to the Plaza.
Is this the end of Stephen’s story? No. We have one more chapter to go, and it will be posted over Christmas weekend.
Camino del Monte Sol
Chapter XV. Camino del Monte Sol
A cloud obscured the afternoon light slanting though the broad window, and Nash stepped away from his easel, sighing in frustration. The canvas still seemed unfinished to him, in some respects, although he’d realized all that was in his preliminary sketches. His models might not appreciate the rendering, but he had been more concerned with light and shadow, and the movement of masses of flesh, than with flattering feminine egos. He’d bet that Kostan would appreciate it, though.
Brushes in hand, he turned to an old dresser that stood against the wall, the top crowded with bottles and tubes, piles of paper and random glassware. Selecting an empty jar, he blew in it to clear the dust out before tipping in a careful quantity of turpentine from a gallon tin, and began to swab his brushes vigorously in the fluid. These brushes were about done for, he reflected, and he had no idea where the money was coming from to buy new ones. Maybe he’d have to see if Bakos needed an assistant in his furniture-making business.
A shadow moved on the wall, and Nash whirled around to see Stephen Kostan closing the door.
“Don’t you knock?” he asked in glowering irritation.
Stephen cocked an eyebrow. “And risk breaking an artist’s concentration?”
Nash had to allow the reasonableness of that. He continued methodically cleaning his brushes, watching as Stephen examined the canvas.
“You never really could get Lou Lou to stand still long enough for a good pose, could you?” he asked with a smile.
“I’m sure it’s a large part of her charm.”
Stephen snorted. “She’s a firecracker, all right.”
Nash inspected his brushes a last time, then set them in another empty jar, tips up, to dry. It took a moment’s rummaging in the top drawer to find a cap for the jar of turpentine. He’d be able to use it again. Putting it aside, he faced Stephen.
“So, Kostan, I’m assuming you didn’t drop by to discuss your,” he gestured toward the canvas, “friends.”
“No, but we do have unfinished business. And as you heard last night, I’m on my way out of town.” He pulled an envelope out of the breast pocket of his suit. “I owe you for the painting. And an advance on the other work we’d discussed.”
Nash took the proffered envelope and pulled out a check. His eyebrows rose. “This is somewhat—what am I saying, hell, it’s a lot—more than we’d discussed.”
Stephen shrugged. “How are you at furniture making?”
“Lousy. You want Bakos for that.”
“So I’ve been told. Which is why I’m giving you the check.”
“I don’t follow.”
It was Stephen’s turn to gesture towards the easel. “You’re a painter, Nash. This is what you should be doing, not trying to keep body and soul together by working at some job your heart’s not in.” He paused. “You need a patron. And I have money to invest.”
Nash looked down at the slip of paper in his hands. He could live on this for months. Maybe a year. Replace his brushes and never have to re-use a canvas. But even as his fantasy spun out, he had a vision of Reza. Reza, in the arms of Kostan, turning to him with unnaturally red lips, and a strange shine in her eyes. “You’re taking Reza from me, aren’t you?” he asked.
Stephen shook his head. “She’s not leaving town with me.”
“But—how do I know you’re not just trying to buy my silence?”
“Silence isn’t something I pay for.” Stephen made no overt move, but an air of menace filled the room with shadow as surely as if another passing cloud outside had occluded the light again. Nash suppressed an urge to shiver.
“I know what you are,” he blurted.
Stephen shook his head with a rueful grimace. “Of course you do,” he said. “You talked to Bakos and Mruk, and they explained it to you.”
“So you admit, you do have a secret you need me to keep.”
“Jesus, Nash,” Stephen said, making no effort to keep the exasperation out of his voice, “you really aren’t the brightest color on the palette, are you? As I said, I don’t pay for silence. If there’s a need for it, I create it.” He paused to let that sink in, and then continued, “But whatever nonsense you choose to start spouting about me, I think you might want to consider what it would mean for Reza, as well. And don’t forget, Dorothea will be here in town, and she can counter anything you say about me.”
Nash deflated somewhat. “You have this all thought out, don’t you?”
Stephen laughed, shortly. “As I heard someone here express it, this isn’t my first rodeo.” A change of mood swept over his features, and he was back to being genial, but businesslike. “That canvas,” he said, indicating it again with a careless gesture, “you’ll ship it to me when it’s complete?”
Caught a little flat-footed at the change, Nash blinked. “Umm, yes,” he replied. “I need an address.”
“Of course.” Stephen pulled out a gold card case, and a gold chased fountain pen. He extracted a card, and jotted an address on the back. “Send it there. C.O.D. is fine, or you can invoice me for shipping costs.” He paused, pressing his lips together and giving Nash a speculative look. “Tell me, you’re what, 27, 28?”
“25. Why?”
“You had friends, brothers, maybe, in the War?”
Without conscious thought, Nash’s spine stiffened. “I served in France. AEF.”
“I’ll wager you saw good men die, there.”
He shrugged. “I saw lots of men die there. Good, bad, indifferent.” The war had been a messy, terrifying business. Nash tried not to think about it, but he knew it was with him, every day, and always would be. He wasn’t sure why Kostan was bringing it up now, here, in this studio so far removed from the old conflict, on earth purified by the cleansing New Mexico sun.
Stephen nodded. “Then perhaps you can see why I might choose to support men who work to bring a little beauty into the world.”
Nash met Stephen’s eyes, then, ready to question further, feeling he was on the brink of understanding something. The opening of the door distracted him.
Reza stood framed in the doorway, her face hidden in shadow. Stephen thought he sensed a new stillness in her, a quietness in her bearing that he had not seen before. He recognized it, of course. Residual effects of his blood. The heightened awareness had passed, the echoes of urges she would never have felt before, but traces remained. He’d seen it before, and always mourned the human, even as he celebrated the potential vampire. He wondered if she’d come to him first, or Nash. The choice might signify everything, or nothing.
She went to Nash, sparing Stephen a warm smile. “Willard, darling,” she said, laying one hand flat on his chest, the other curling around his waist, as she tilted her face up to kiss him on the cheek. Stephen noted how Nash’s face softened at once. It was a bad sign, he thought. “I need to steal your visitor away for just a moment.”
“He’s all yours,” Nash replied. “I believe our business was done.”
Reza gave him a dazzling smile, and turned away. “I’m so glad to catch you, Stephen. I saw your car out front, and had to stop in to say goodbye.”
“I was just on my way out of town.”
“Yes, I suppose you’ll have to stop and pick up Patrice, and dear little Lou Lou,” Reza smiled like the edge of a knife.
“They will be devastated to have missed you, to be sure.”
“Do give them my love.”
Stephen nodded. She was going to make a magnificent vampire. He could hardly wait to see her sparring verbally with some of the edgier ladies he knew. He held out a hand, coolly, palm up, and she laid her hand in his. “Señorita Therésa Inez Maria Concepcion Martinez-Ibañez,” he said formally, bowing to kiss her hand, “it has been my very great pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He straightened, to look her in the eye. “I hope we shall meet again.”
“My dear Mr. Kostan,” she replied, “you may rely upon it.”
As he stood by the red Mercedes, pulling on his duster and driving gloves, he could hear Bakos and Mruk arguing with Shuster under the shade trees of their compound. All around, there were the sounds of children playing in the dusty street, dogs barking, women chattering as they worked in their adobe homes. A high buzz of cicadas gave the afternoon a drowsy feel, and cooking chilies and beans scented the air. Behind it all, Stephen could hear Reza’s low, throaty laugh, echoing through the cottonwoods. She would come to him in Los Angeles, he knew. He had only to wait for her. Properly attired for his journey at last, Stephen swung into his automobile, and drove for the last time down the Camino del Monte Sol, to the Plaza.
Is this the end of Stephen’s story? No. We have one more chapter to go, and it will be posted over Christmas weekend.
