Opening the first bottle of gin, he sticks a dirty straw into the neck and drinks and then fumbles under his jeans and his thermal long johns, cupping his hand down by his crotch to catch the warmth.
When the first bottle is finished he stares up at nothing. In the tunnel all is quiet. He takes the harmonica out of his pocket, but it is cold and he decides not to warm it. The train from upstate blasts its way through the tunnel, and, feeling drunk, he rises when he hears the sound of someone whistling in the distance. He looks down along the tunnel at Papa Love emerging from his shack.
Treefrog leans far out on the catwalk to get a better view.
Middle-aged and dreadlocked, Papa Love is swathed in clothes, only his face and fingers exposed, but he moves with fluidity. He puts wood on the fire opposite his shack and carefully arranges cans of spray paint on some old wicker chairs. Moving with slow grace, Papa Love lines the cans of paint up one by one and flaps his arms in the cold. Along the side of his shack, on top of the boards, are the words THERE IS NO SELF TO BE DISCOVERED, ONLY A SELF TO BE CREATED. Beneath this, a collage of yellow lines and a Confederate flag in African liberation colors.
Treefrog has seldom seen Papa Love go topside, except to get food and paint. The old artist still keeps a bank account from his days as a high school art teacher — he first came down to the tunnels after his lover was hit by a bullet. It was a simple drive-by; the killers were high on amphetamines. His lover was whisked to a Manhattan hospital, but the red line of the heart machine bleeped and bottomed out. Papa Love had seen lots of men die in Vietnam, but he wasn’t prepared to watch his lover go that way. He began walking after his lover died, walked the length and breadth of the city, slept on the steps of a church, and then one summer he decided to strap his heart to a cardboard box. He found the cardboard at the bottom of a doorstep on Riverside Drive, and he carried it under his arm down into the tunnels, and he strapped his aorta on one side and his pulmonary on the other, and he tied them both very neatly together, and he strapped all his veins longways down the cardboard, and he strapped all his arteries in the opposite direction, and he weaved them together with a muscle of his heart and he felt as if his blood were exploding and he lay down on the brown sprawl and looked along the length of the dark tunnel and saw a rat moving over the tracks, and he chuckled in grief and said to himself, I have strapped my heart to a cardboard box.
That was Papa Love’s first painting — a self-portrait of his heart tied around a sheet of cardboard — and people mistook it for a love heart and gave him his nickname, and he never corrected them.
Once, years ago, a gallery dealer came along the tunnel and woke Papa Love, said he wanted the artist to do some work topside. Papa Love had drawn another self-portrait — as a coffee percolator, the slow downward drip of dark flesh. The gallery owner wanted him to do it on canvas. Papa Love said no and the gallery owner left the tunnel hurriedly, beads of sweat at his brow in the cold, so scared that his legs almost whipped out from underneath him. Dean brushed against the man and palmed the wallet from his pocket. It was the only time that anyone ever saw Papa Love angry. He smashed Dean’s blond head against the wall and went running topside with the gallery man’s wallet. When he came back to the tunnel he was panting, screaming for Dean, but Dean had run off. In revenge Papa Love drew Dean’s portrait under a churchlike series of grills beneath 86th, and he wrote the word PEDOPHILE in giant letters, though later that same day he felt guilty and scrubbed the letters out, left the painting, and Dean took it as a compliment, his portrait on the tunnel wall.
From a distance, Treefrog sees that a huge area of the tunnel wall — directly across from Papa Love’s shack, lit by the fire — has already been primed with white paint, a perfect rectangle outlined in black.
Papa Love steps up to it and stacks four crates on top of each other to use as a ladder. He covers his mouth and nose with a red bandanna, so as not to suck the paint fumes down. An old pair of battered spectacles is placed comically over the bandanna. He stands on the crates and shakes a can of paint. Treefrog can hear the metal marble bouncing inside. Papa Love stretches out his arms and, with sudden violence, sweeps in toward the wall, moving his arms through a giant arc.
A mist of air issues from the top of the bandanna as he steps off the crates — they begin to collapse like a house of cards — and his body travels through the darkness as if on a rope, and the paint strikes the wall as the artist travels, a big half-circular sweep; and then, almost as quickly, Papa Love is on the ground by the campfire, rubbing at his knees with the pain of having hit the tunnel floor.
He steps back, nods at the wall, and begins to restack the crates. Standing up on the curious ladder once again, Papa Love falls in toward the wall and, in another perfect arc, sprays over the half circle a second time. His gray hair swings as he flies. The paint covers every inch of the first sweep. He lands by the campfire and then rubs his hands vigorously against the cold. He spreads the crates out, stands wide-footed — he could be the ghost of Nathan Walker; he could be digging — takes another can of paint, and jets two moons underneath the half circle. Each time he steps back he warms his fingers over the fire.
Treefrog drops down from the catwalk and moves further up the tunnel, stands in the shadows, watching.
Papa Love bends and draws a long straight tube emerging from the half circle. A series of striations are drawn across the tube. The center of the mural is sprayed yellow and then tinged at the edges with a cloud of red. Papa Love works furiously, the cans scattered around him on the ground. He stops every few minutes to ignite his hands with campfire warmth, then stepping upward, haunts the wall with colors using long sweeps of his arm, zeroing in afterward to draw lines emerging from the top of the circle.
The portrait on the tunnel wall grows and a giant lightbulb appears, ten feet high. Papa Love stands by the fire and works at the nozzle of a spray can with his knife. In the high center of the lightbulb he draws two furred lines and, underneath them, ovals tinged with blue. Treefrog realizes that the old artist has drawn a pair of eyes within the lightbulb.
Papa Love uses a paintbrush to draw circuit boards for pupils. Using only one crate now, a long swatch of nose appears beneath the eyes and then a mouth set into half a grin. Some stubble is drawn at the bottom of the bulb.
Papa Love steps back and admires his work, hands in his dungarees.
“Heyyo,” says Treefrog, stepping forward.
“You go to the funeral?”
“Yeah, we got paid. Faraday’s father gave me fifteen bucks to stay away. Rest of them got twenty.”
“Bullshit.”
“First funeral I ever got paid for.”
“I’m too old for funerals now,” says Papa Love.
Treefrog points at the mural. “It’s Faraday, huh?”
“Gonna be. Maybe. Ain’t fully finished yet.”
“He’s looking good.”
“A brother in the spine,” says Papa Love.
Treefrog shuffles in the gravel. “There’s a grave inside all of us.” And then he is embarrassed by what he has said, and he mumbles, “You think it’s ever gonna stop snowing?”
Papa Love shrugs.
“You think Faraday did it on purpose?” asks Treefrog.
“I doubt it. But at least he went the way he probably would’ve liked. I mean, that’s what he probably wanted.”
“Hey,” says Treefrog. “If you were to draw a picture of me, what’d you draw?”
“Man, I only draw dead people.”
“You drew yourself. And Dean.”
“Dead people and people I want dead.”
“Oh.” Treefrog pauses for a long time. “Say, what about Miriam Makeba?”
“I been wishing she was dead too,” says Papa Love.