Mirror Kingdoms: The Best of Peter S. Beagle

  Talking about it, even long past the moment’s terror, tears still started in her eyes.

  Uncle Chaim did tell her that he had been visited by an angel who demanded that he paint her portrait. That Aunt Rifke had no trouble believing, thirty-seven years of marriage to an artist having inured her to certain revelations. Her main concern was how painting an angel might affect Uncle Chaim’s working hours, and his daily conduct. “Like actors, you know, Duvidl? They become the people they’re doing, I’ve seen it over and over.” Also, blasphemous as it might sound, she wondered how much the angel would be paying, and in what currency. “And saying we’ll get a big credit in the next world is not funny, Chaim. Not funny.”

  Uncle Chaim urged Rifke to come to the studio the very next day to meet his new model for herself. Strangely, that lady, whom I’d known all my life as a legendary repository of other people’s lives, stories and secrets, flatly refused to take him up on the offer. “I got nothing to wear, not for meeting an angel in. Besides, what would we talk about? No, you just give her my best, I’ll make some rugelach.” And she never wavered from that position, except once.

  The blue angel was indeed waiting when Uncle Chaim arrived in the studio early the next morning. She had even made coffee in his ancient glass percolator, and was offended when he informed her that it was as thin as rain and tasted like used dishwater. “Where I come from, no one ever makes coffee,” she returned fire. “We command it.”

  “That’s what’s wrong with this crap,” Uncle Chaim answered her. “Coffee’s like art, you don’t order coffee around.” He waved the angel aside, and set about a second pot, which came out strong enough to widen the angel’s eyes when she sipped it. Uncle Chaim teased her—“Don’t get stuff like that in the Green Pastures, huh?”—and confided that he made much better coffee than Aunt Rifke. “Not her fault. Woman was raised on decaf, what can you expect? Cooks like an angel, though.”

  The angel either missed the joke or ignored it. She began to resume her pose in the window, but Uncle Chaim stopped her. “Later, later, the sun’s not right. Just stand where you are, I want to do some work on the head.” As I remember, he never used the personal possessive in referring to his models’ bodies: it was invariably “turn the face a little,” “relax the shoulder,” “move the foot to the left.” Amateurs often resented it; professionals tended to find it liberating. Uncle Chaim didn’t much care either way.

  For himself, he was grateful that the angel proved capable of holding a pose indefinitely, without complaining, asking for a break, or needing the toilet. What he found distracting was her steadily emerging interest in talking and asking questions. As requested, her expression never changed and her lips hardly moved; indeed, there were times when he would have sworn he was hearing her only in his mind. Enough of her queries had to do with his work, with how he did what he was doing, that he finally demanded point-blank, “All those angels, seraphs, cherubim, centuries of them—all those Virgins and Assumptions and whatnot—and you’ve never once been painted? Not one time?”

  “I have never set foot on earth before,” the angel confessed. “Not until I was sent to you.”

  “Sent to me. Directly. Special Delivery, Chaim Shlomovitch Malakoff—one angel, totally inexperienced at modeling. Or anything else, got anything to do with human life.” The angel nodded, somewhat shyly. Uncle Chaim spoke only one word. “Why?”

  “I am only eleven thousand, seven hundred and twenty-two years old,” the angel said, with the a slight but distinct suggestion of resentment in her voice. “No one tells me a thing.”

  Uncle Chaim was silent for some time, squinting at her face from different angles and distances, even closing one eye from time to time. Finally he grumbled, more than half to himself, “I got a very bad feeling that we’re both supposed to learn something from this. Bad, bad feeling.” He filled the little glass for the first time that day, and went back to work.

  But if there was to be any learning involved in their near-daily meetings in the studio, it appeared to be entirely on her part. She was ravenously curious about human life on the blue-green ball of damp dirt that she had observed so distantly for so long, and her constant questioning reminded a weary Uncle Chaim—as he informed me more than once—of me at the age of four. Except that an angel cannot be bought off, even temporarily, with strawberry ice cream, or threatened with loss of a bedtime story if she can’t learn to take “I don’t know!” for an answer. At times he pretended not to hear her; on other occasions, he would make up some patently ridiculous explanation that a grandchild would have laughed to scorn, but that the angel took so seriously that he was guiltily certain he was bound to be struck by lightning. Only the lightning never came, and the tactic usually did buy him a few moments peace—until the next question.

  Once he said to her, in some desperation, “You’re an angel, you’re supposed to know everything about human beings. Listen, I’ll take you out to Bleecker, MacDougal, Washington Square, you can look at the books, magazines, TV, the classes, the beads and crystals… it’s all about how to get in touch with angels. Real ones, real angels, never mind that stuff about the angel inside you. Everybody wants some of that angel wisdom, and they want it bad, and they want it right now. We’ll take an afternoon off, I’ll show you.”

  The blue angel said simply, “The streets and the shops have nothing to show me, nothing to teach. You do.”

  “No,” Uncle Chaim said. “No, no, no, no no. I’m a painter—that’s all, that’s it, that’s what I know. Painting. But you, you sit at the right hand of God—”

  “He doesn’t have hands,” the angel interrupted. “And nobody exactly sits—”

  “The point I’m making, you’re the one who ought to be answering questions. About the universe, and about Darwin, and how everything really happened, and what is it with God and shellfish, and the whole business with the milk and the meat—those kinds of questions. I mean, I should be asking them, I know that, only I’m working right now.”

  It was almost impossible to judge the angel’s emotions from the expressions of her chillingly beautiful porcelain face; but as far as Uncle Chaim could tell, she looked sad. She said, “I also am what I am. We angels—as you call us—we are messengers, minions, lackeys, knowing only what we are told, what we are ordered to do. A few of the Oldest, the ones who were there at the Beginning—Michael, Gabriel, Raphael—they have names, thoughts, histories, choices, powers. The rest of us, we tremble, we hide when we see them passing by. We think, if those are angels, we must be something else altogether, but we can never find a better word for ourselves.”

  She looked straight at Uncle Chaim—he noticed in some surprise that in a certain light her eyes were not nearly as blue as he had been painting them, but closer to a dark sea-green—and he looked away from an anguish that he had never seen before, and did not know how to paint.

  He said, “So okay, you’re a low-class angel, a heavenly grunt, like they say now. So how come they picked you to be my muse? Got to mean something, no? Right?”

  The angel did not answer his question, nor did she speak much for the rest of the day. Uncle Chaim posed her in several positions, but the unwonted sadness in her eyes depressed him past even Laphroaig’s ability to ameliorate. He quit work early, allowing the angel—as he would never have permitted Aunt Rifke or me—to potter around the studio, putting it to rights according to her inexpert notions, organizing brushes, oils, watercolors, pastels and pencils, fixatives, rolls of canvas, bottles of tempera and turpentine, even dusty chunks of rabbit skin glue, according to size. As he told his friend Jules Sidelsky, meeting for their traditional weekly lunch at a Ukrainian restaurant on Second Avenue, where the two of them spoke only Russian, “maybe God could figure where things are anymore. Me, I just shut my eyes and pray.”

  Jules was large and fat, like Diego Rivera, and I thought of him as a sort of uncle too, because he and Ruthie always remembered my birthday, just like Uncle Chaim and Aunt Rifke. Jules did no
t believe in angels, but he knew that Uncle Chaim didn’t necessarily believe in them either, just because he had one in his studio every day. He asked seriously, “That helps? The praying?” Uncle Chaim gave him a look, and Jules dropped the subject. “So what’s she like? I mean, as a model? You like painting her?”

  Uncle Chaim held his hand out, palm down, and wobbled it gently from side to side. “What’s not to like? She’ll hold any pose absolutely forever—you could leave her all night, morning I guarantee she wouldn’t have moved a muscle. No whining, no bellyaching—listen, she’d make Cinderella look like the witch in that movie, the green one. In my life I never worked with anybody gave me less tsuris.”

  “So what’s with—?” and Jules mimicked his fluttering hand. “I’m waiting for the but, Chaim.”

  Uncle Chaim was still for a while, neither answering nor appearing to notice the steaming varyniki that the waitress had just set down before him. Finally he grumbled, “She’s an angel, what can I tell you? Go reason with an angel.” He found himself vaguely angry with Jules, for no reason that made any sense. He went on, “She’s got it in her head she’s supposed to be my muse. It’s not the most comfortable thing sometimes, all right?”

  Perhaps due to their shared childhood on Tenth Avenue, Jules did not laugh, but it was plainly a near thing. He said, mildly enough, “Matisse had muses. Rodin, up to here with muses. Picasso about had to give them serial numbers—I think he married them just to keep them straight in his head. You, me… I don’t see it, Chaim. We’re not muse types, you know? Never were, not in all our lives. Also, Rifke would kill you dead. Deader.”

  “What, I don’t know that? Anyway, it’s not what you’re thinking.” He grinned suddenly, in spite of himself. “She’s not that kind of girl, you ought to be ashamed. It’s just she wants to help, to inspire, that’s what muses do. I don’t mind her messing around with my mess in the studio—I mean, yeah, I mind it, but I can live with it. But the other day,”—he paused briefly, taking a long breath—“the other day she wanted to give me a haircut. A haircut. It’s all right, go ahead.”

  For Jules was definitely laughing this time, spluttering tea through his nose, so that he turned a bright cerise as other diners stared at them. “A haircut,” he managed to get out, when he could speak at all clearly. “An angel gave you a haircut.”

  “No, she didn’t give me a haircut,” Uncle Chaim snapped back crossly. “She wanted to, she offered—and then, when I said no, thanks, after a while she said she could play music for me while I worked. I usually have the news on, and she doesn’t like it, I can tell. Well, it wouldn’t make much sense to her, would it? Hardly does to me anymore.”

  “So she’s going to be posing and playing music? What, on her harp? That’s true, the harp business?”

  “No, she just said she could command the music. The way they do with coffee.” Jules stared at him. “Well, I don’t know—I guess it’s like some heavenly Muzak or something. Anyway, I told her no, and I’m sorry I told you anything. Eat, forget it, okay?”

  But Jules was not to be put off so easily. He dug down into his galushki poltavski for a little time, and then looked up and said with his mouth full, “Tell me one thing, then I’ll drop it. Would you say she was beautiful?”

  “She’s an angel,” Uncle Chaim said.

  “That’s not what I asked. Angels are all supposed to be beautiful, right? Beyond words, beyond description, the works. So?” He smiled serenely at Uncle Chaim over his folded hands.

  Uncle Chaim took so long to answer him that Jules actually waved a hand directly in front of his eyes. “Hello? Earth to Malakoff—this is your wakeup call. You in there, Chaim?”

  “I’m there, I’m there, stop with the kid stuff.” Uncle Chaim flicked his own fingers dismissively at his friend’s hand. “Jules, all I can tell you, I never saw anyone looked like her before. Maybe that’s beauty all by itself, maybe it’s just novelty. Some days she looks eleven thousand years old, like she says—some days… some days she could be younger than Duvidl, she could be the first child in the world, first one ever.” He shook his head helplessly. “I don’t know, Jules. I wish I could ask Rembrandt or somebody. Vermeer. Vermeer would know.”

  Strangely, of the small corps of visitors to the studio—old painters like himself and Jules, gallery owners, art brokers, friends from the neighborhood—I seemed to be the only one who ever saw the blue angel as anything other than one of his unsought acolytes, perfectly happy to stretch canvases, make sandwiches and occasionally pose, all for the gift of a growled thanks and the privilege of covertly studying him at work. My memory is that I regarded her as a nice-looking older lady with wings, but not my type at all, I having just discovered Alice Faye. Lauren Bacall, Lizabeth Scott and Lena Horne came a bit later in my development.

  I knew she was an angel. I also knew better than to tell any of my own friends about her: we were a cynical lot, who regularly got thrown out of movie theatres for cheering on the Wolfman and booing Shirley Temple and Bobby Breen. But I was shy with the angel, and—I guess—she with me, so I can’t honestly say I remember much either in the way of conversation or revelation. Though I am still haunted by one particular moment when I asked her, straight out, “Up there, in heaven—do you ever see Jesus? Jesus Christ, I mean.” We were hardly an observant family, any of us, but it still felt strange and a bit dangerous to say the name.

  The blue angel turned from cleaning off a palette knife and looked directly at me, really for the first time since we had been introduced. I noticed that the color of her wings seemed to change from moment to moment, rippling constantly through a supple spectrum different from any I knew; and that I had no words either for her hair color, or for her smell. She said, “No, I have never seen him.”

  “Oh,” I said, vaguely disappointed, Jewish or not. “Well—uh—what about his mother? The—the Virgin?” Funny, I remember that that seemed more daringly wicked than saying the other name out loud. I wonder why that should have been.

  “No,” the angel answered. “Nor,”—heading me off—“have I ever seen God. You are closer to God now, as you stand there, than I have ever been.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” I said. She kept looking at me, but did not reply. I said, “I mean, you’re an angel. Angels live with God, don’t they?”

  She shook her head. In that moment—and just for that moment—her richly empty face showed me a sadness that I don’t think a human face could ever have contained. “Angels live alone. If we were with God, we would not be angels.” She turned away, and I thought she had finished speaking. But then she looked back quite suddenly to say, in a voice that did not sound like her voice at all, being lower than the sound I knew, and almost masculine in texture, “Dark and dark and dark… so empty… so dark….”

  It frightened me deeply, that one broken sentence, though I couldn’t have said why: it was just so dislocating, so completely out of place—even the rhythm of those few words sounded more like the hesitant English of our old Latvian rabbi than that of Uncle Chaim’s muse. He didn’t hear it, and I didn’t tell him about it, because I thought it must be me, that I was making it up, or I’d heard it wrong. I was accustomed to thinking like that when I was a boy.

  “She’s got like a dimmer switch,” Uncle Chaim explained to Aunt Rifke; they were putting freshly washed sheets on the guest bed at the time, because I was staying the night to interview them for my Immigrant Experience class project. “Dial it one way, you wouldn’t notice her if she were running naked down Madison Avenue at high noon, flapping her wings and waving a gun. Two guns. Turn that dial back the other way, all the way… well, thank God she wouldn’t ever do that, because she’d likely set the studio on fire. You think I’m joking. I’m not joking.”

  “No, Chaim, I know you’re not joking.” Rifke silently undid and remade both of his attempts at hospital corners, as she always did. She said, “What I want to know is, just where’s that dial set when you’re painting her? And I’
d think a bit about that answer, if I were you.” Rifke’s favorite cousin Harvey, a career social worker, had recently abandoned wife and children to run off with a beautiful young dope dealer, and Rifke was feeling more than slightly edgy.

  Uncle Chaim did think about it, and replied, “About a third, I’d say. Maybe half, once or twice, no more. I remember, I had to ask her a couple times, turn it down, please—go work when somebody’s glowing six feet away from you. I mean, the moon takes up a lot of space, a little studio like mine. Bad enough with the wings.”

  Rifke tucked in the last corner, smoothed the sheet tight, faced him across the bed and said, “You’re never going to finish this one, are you? Thirty-seven years, I know all the signs. You’ll do it over and over, you’ll frame it, you’ll hang it, you’ll say, okay, that’s it, I’m done—but you won’t be done, you’ll just start the whole thing again, only maybe a different style, a brighter palette, a bigger canvas, a smaller canvas. But you’ll never get it the way it’s in your head, not for you.” She smacked the pillows fluffy and tossed them back on the bed. “Don’t even bother arguing with me, Malakoff. Not when I’m right.”

  “So am I arguing? Does it look like I’m arguing?” Uncle Chaim rarely drank at home, but on this occasion he walked into the kitchen, filled a glass from the dusty bottle of grappa, and turned back to his wife. He said very quietly, “Crazy to think I could get an angel right. Who could paint an angel?”