“Sure. He wrote that music in “Apocalypse Now,” the part where Robert Duvall is in the helicopter talking about how much he loves the smell of napalm in the morning.” He sobered. For all he knew, her mother had been killed by some soldier in Korea.
But to his relief she didn’t seem to get it. She rose and went to the stereo, putting on a tape. Moments later, the music began, so softly he barely heard it. Zoe came back, fitting into the crook of his arm, laying her head back on his shoulder.
“This is Liebestod,” she said.
“Nice,” Louis said.
“It means ‘Love Death.’ It’s Isolde’s song of ecstasy, just as she’s getting ready to jump into the fire to meet Tristan in death.”
“Oh, those wacky Germans.”
Zoe closed her eyes. “Now, just listen to it. It starts out so slow, so sensual.”
Louis set the brandy aside and shut his eyes.
“Listen,” she whispered. “Hear how it builds?”
“Hmmm.”
“This part…listen to this. Louis? Are you listening?”
The music was growing louder. Zoe’s voice was at his ear. “Here,” she said. “The climax begins. It comes in waves, hear it?”
“Yes.”
“And now, just when you think it is over — ”
“Zoe.”
“It builds again.”
“Zoe…”
“Hang on, it’s only seven minutes long.”
“That’s not the problem.”
The music came to a crescendo then became quiet again, trailing off as it had begun. The only sound was the cat purring in his lap. Zoe kissed his cheek and he opened his eyes.
“I like opera,” he said.
“I knew you would.”
“But I don’t think I should stand up just yet.”
She laughed and went to put on another tape. It was Billie Holliday. He listened to “Trav’lin’ Light” and “Gimme a Pigfoot and a Bottle of Beer,” a small smile tipping his lips. Zoe was tapping out the tempo lightly on his thigh. It turned to a caress as Billie Holliday moved on to “What a Little Moonlight Can Do.”
The next song began, “Strange Fruit.” Zoe’s hand stopped moving. They sat motionless through the images of magnolias and black bodies hanging from trees. Neither moved until the tape went on to the next cut.
“When I was living in Mississippi I started listening to her stuff a lot more,” Louis said. “But I couldn’t listen to that song.”
Zoe leaned in and kissed him, her hand cupping his cheek. She pulled back, her dark eyes locked on his.
He wanted suddenly to tell her. To tell her the truth about himself, about what he was. He wanted to tell her everything, about what happened down in Mississippi, about the bones of the black man he had found in that grave under the tree, about how he had felt when he finally found the man’s murderer. He wanted to tell her about the terror he had felt in that cell when Larry Cutter put that rope around his neck.
She kissed him again, more deeply. He returned her kiss then gently pushed away from her. He rose slowly and went toward the fireplace. He stared at the painting, unable to turn around and face her.
After a moment, she came up and put her arms around his waist, leaning into him.
“What would you like to do now?” she said softly.
What he wanted to do was make love. But he couldn’t look at her. Not just yet.
“Can I see your paintings?” he asked.
“All right,” she said. “They’re in the other room.”
He followed her into an adjoining room. She switched on a small lamp. In contrast to the living room this room was barren. There was no furniture except for a table and one old chair. The table was covered with tubes of paints and cans holding brushes. In one corner stood a large easel, which held a bare white canvas about four by three feet. The north wall of the room was given over entirely to two huge bare windows. Outside, in the moonlight, Louis could see that all the trees within ten yards of the cabin had been cut down. Zoe saw him staring at the stumps.
“I had to take them out. I needed the light,” she said. “You won’t arrest me or something, will you.”
He turned sharply then realized she was joking about his “job” with the forestry department. He shook his head.
He went to the table, touching the tubes of paint. Zoe hovered behind him. His eyes went finally to the canvases stacked in the corner against the wall and he picked one up. It was a landscape of the lake in winter, a stark study in grays, whites and blacks. He put it back and looked through the others. They were all variations on the same theme — somber-toned studies of nature caught in its coldest moments.
He turned to look at her. “They’re good but…bleak. Why no people?”
“I don’t know.”
She was looking up at him. She seemed suddenly self-conscious, vulnerable, in a way she never did, even when they made love. “I’ve never let anyone in here before,” she said.
He couldn’t think of anything to say.
“I’d like to draw you,” she said.
“What?”
“I’ve been thinking about it all night.” She hurried to the table.
Louis stared at her back. “Right now?” he asked.
She turned, smiling. “Why not? Take off your shirt.”
“Zoe — ”
She had pulled her hair back in a ponytail and was rummaging through a box of charcoal. She turned and saw that he hadn’t moved. “Come on, it’ll be fun,” she said with a smile. “I’ll turn on the space heater for you.”
She went to the easel and set up a small canvas. He hesitated then pulled his sweatshirt off over his head.
“Just sit down in the chair,” Zoe said. “However you’re comfortable.”
Reluctantly, he sat down in the chair. Zoe studied him for a moment then repositioned one of his arms on the back of the chair. She took her place behind the easel.
“Don’t move,” She said.
“For how long?” he asked.
“Until I get you sketched in.”
The room grew quiet. Louis sat motionless, watching her as she made swift arcing movements over the canvas. She frowned slightly in concentration as her eyes moved back and forth from the canvas to him. He could feel her eyes moving over his body but it was different than how she looked at him when they made love. He felt a surge move through his body and knew he was starting to get erect again.
She noticed it and laughed. She kept sketching.
His eyes drifted toward the windows. It had started to snow and the windows were starting to fog up from the space heater.
“You have a good face,” she said, sketching.
“Good?” he said.
She nodded. “I had forgotten how it all comes out when you draw people. Their characters, it comes out.” She wiped a strand of hair back from her face, leaving a smudge of charcoal on her cheek. “I can see things in your face,” she said. “Things that I try to put in my painting.”
“What things?” Louis asked.
“Goodness,” she said. “Grace, kindness, honor.”
He shook his head slowly, letting his arm drop from the back of the chair. She was concentrating and didn’t notice.
“Zoe…”
She looked up.
“Zoe, there’s something I have to tell you,” he said.
“What?”
He rested his arms on his knees, bowing his head.
“Louis? What is it?”
He looked up at her. “The first night, when you were talking about your father. Remember that?”
She nodded, the charcoal poised above the canvas.
Louis ran a hand over his head.
“For God’s sake,” she said with a small laugh. “What is it?”
“I lied to you. When I told you what I did for a living. I lied to you.” He let out a deep breath. “I’m a cop, Zoe.”
For a moment, she didn’t move. Then she blinked, turned her back to him and went to the table.
“Here?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Suddenly, she picked up a can of brushes and hurled it at the wall. It caught the edge of the easel and knocked it over, splashing colored water across the walls. The canvas fell to the floor. Louis reached to pick it up.