Who Killed Dorian Gray? Read online

  Just then the faint sound of a solo flute floated up from the direction of the woods. Claire thought she recognized it as Bach, the notes cool and sweet in the warm morning air.

  “Who’s playing the flute?” she said.

  “Oh, that’s Gary Robinson. He likes to practice in the woods sometimes.”

  “It’s nice. He’s good,” said Claire, settling back in her chair to listen.

  “Yes, Gary’s talented at a lot of things,” Camille answered, and there was something in her voice Claire couldn’t read, a subtext she didn’t quite get.

  “I understand Liza’s planning a little soirée tonight to welcome you; it’s also a sort of end-of-season party,” said Camille. “I just arrived last week, but some of the residents have been here all summer.”

  “Oh? I thought you were all here all summer long.”

  “No, you can come for just a month at a time. I’m here only for August, and I think a couple of the painters just arrived this month, too. I taught summer term this year and my classes only just ended last week.”

  “Oh, do you teach literature?”

  “Yes, I’m an associate professor of comparative literature at Barnard.”

  “How nice.”

  Camille shrugged and was about to say something when the screen door squeaked and clanged shut. Claire turned to see a short, stocky man with a plump, blunt face partially obscured by a thick beard. The beard made his features look even rounder; he reminded her of one of Santa’s elves.

  “Good morning,” Camille said pleasantly, but he just nodded distractedly. “This is Claire Rawlings. Claire, this is Terry Nordstrom, another of the writers.”

  “Hello,” said Claire.

  Terry Nordstrom looked as if he were pushing his way through a thick fog in order to comprehend this information. He stared at Claire for a moment and then spoke.

  “How do you do.” His voice was light and thin, a full octave higher than Camille’s, but there was a tightness, a strain in it. His whole body seemed to vibrate from suppressed tension; even standing still, he gave the impression of movement, like an Impressionist painting. There was another pause, then he shook himself as a dog might shake water from its fur. “I’m sorry, I didn’t expect to see anyone out here, and I’m a little distracted right now. I’m in the middle of a difficult problem, and I came out here to clear my head.”

  “Please don’t let us disturb you,” Claire began, but he shook his head.

  “No, no—it’s all right; what I probably need is to get away from it. Is there more coffee?” he added, seeing Claire’s mug.

  “There was half a pot a little while ago,” said Claire.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get some.” He turned and went back into the house, the screen door slapping shut behind him.

  “Writers.” Camille sighed, with a longing look at her cigarettes.

  “Oh, he doesn’t seem so bad, just a little distracted.”

  “He’s not. He just has the usual short man’s chip on his shoulder—you know, thinks he has to prove himself all the time, just because he’s little. It’s too bad, really, that the way someone looks can have such an impact on their personality.”

  “I know what you mean. I think it’s particularly true in America, don’t you?” said Claire. It amused her that she wanted to show Camille that she, too, had traveled and knew something of the world.

  “Well, of course Americans are obsessed with appearance, with cookie-cutter notions of beauty, but the French have their own image problems. And to make it worse for Terry,” Camille said, lowering her voice, “he’s in love with the Swedish meatball.”

  “What?”

  “Dorian Gray, a.k.a. Maya Sorenson. She’s the resident beauty. Every arts colony has one, you know.”

  As if on cue, the screen door opened and a tall, slender woman with shoulder-length ash-blond hair appeared on the doorstep.

  “Why, Dorian, we were just talking about you,” said Camille.

  “Really? Vhat a coincidence.”

  She was tall and blond and willowy, and certainly pretty enough, though Claire would not have called her beautiful. Still, she moved with a shy grace, like a young colt. And although Claire would have put her well on the far side of forty, she had an ageless quality about her.

  “This is Claire Rawlings, the editor Liza brought up from the city,” said Camille. “Claire, this is Maya Sorenson.”

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  “How do yoo doo?” Maya shook Claire’s hand with a firm grasp. Her hand was thin and cool, like her voice, with its rolling Scandinavian cadence.

  “Why do they call you Dorian Gray?” Claire asked.

  Maya smiled. “Oh, that was my nom de plume when I wrote briefly for a London tabloid.” Claire noticed that her French accent was perfect.

  “And we’re all convinced she has a picture somewhere in her attic,” Camille added.

  “Won’t you join us?” said Claire.

  “Oh, no thank yoo; I am in the meddle of a chapter, and I am—how do you say—on a bun.”

  “On a roll,” Camille corrected without smiling.

  “Yes. These English idiots are so difficult for me,” Maya said, turning to Claire.

  “I’ve met my share of English idiots, too,” she replied, and Camille laughed.

  “What—did I say something wrong?”

  “You meant idioms, not idiots,” Camille said gently.

  “Oh, yes, that’s right.”

  The door opened again and Terry stood there with two cups of coffee.

  “Coffee, anyone?”

  “We’ve already got some,” said Camille. “Maya, why don’t you have it?”

  “Thank yoo very much,” she replied, taking the mug.

  “That’s how you can tell we’re writers, by the way,” said Terry.

  “What do you mean?” said Claire.

  “Oh, the painters all drink ginseng or echinacea or some weird unpronounceable herb,” said Camille. “They wouldn’t be caught dead caffeinating themselves.”

  “That’s right; they’re all lacto-flacto-embryo vegetarians; they live on sprouts and tahini sauce,” Terry agreed.

  “Whereas you’re all—”

  “Dissipated,” said Terry. “It’s part of our self-image. Camille here even smokes, for God’s sake.”

  Camille laughed. “I’m like the resident drug dealer.”

  “You should see us all late at night, bumming cigarettes from her,” Terry said. “I think you should start charging us.”

  Camille shrugged. “It’s my penance for having them around to tempt you.” She smiled at Claire. “Listen to me! You can take the girl out of the Church, but you can’t take the Church out of the girl.”

  “You were raised Catholic?”

  Camille rolled her eyes. “Oh, does it show?” she said, smiling. There was something about her smile—a kind of invitation to intimacy—that Claire found intriguing, even a little startling.

  Terry perched on the edge of the sofa, next to Camille, his compact little body coiled tight as a spring. Sitting down, he looked even more restless, as if he were longing to burst into action.

  “Maya and I were both raised Lutheran,” he said, “and that can be just as bad—right, Maya?”

  Maya folded her long body into one of the director’s chairs.

  “Vell, I suppose it depends upon how yoo look at it.”

  “I think it’s ironic that Marx called religion ‘the opiate of the masses,’ ” Terry continued. “I think it’s more the oppressor of the masses.”

  “Yes, mass can be oppressive,” Camille remarked with a smile. Claire felt she was trying to lighten the tone.

  But Terry was not to be deterred; determined as a terrier, he pushed on.

  “I mean, Barbara Tuchman once said that all wars are religious wars—and I think she was right. Look at Bosnia, for example. I was talking to Tahir about it the other day—”

  “Who’s Tahir?” said Cla
ire.

  “Oh, he’s a very talented Muslim writer, from Bosnia,” said Camille. “He won a literature prize just before he came here; he’s written about the war over there.”

  “Anyway, we were talking about the difference between religious groups in Bosnia,” Terry continued, “and how difficult it was for them to coexist, all because of religion.”

  “Vell, it’s not that sample,” Maya said, sipping her coffee languidly. “After all, there are profound cultural and ethnic differences which transcend religion.” She smiled at Claire. “I spent some time there as a journalist,” she added almost apologetically.

  “Yes, but look at the Jews and the Palestinians,” Terry said, his voice bristling with impatience. “They’re both Semitic, they share customs like not eating pork, and yet they’ve been killing one another for centuries!”

  “Do you know a book came out not long ago claiming that war is more or less hardwired into our brains, and that there will always be wars?” said Camille.

  Maya sighed and let her head drop back, so that the sun peeking under the eaves glinted off her blond hair. “That’s a depressing thought.”

  “Yes, I remember that book,” said Claire. “A friend of mine was the editor. I kept meaning to read it.”

  “Now I’ve saved you the trouble,” said Camille, laughing, which set off a coughing fit. The rest of them sat there uncomfortably while she coughed the deep, hacking cough of a heavy smoker.

  After she stopped, there was a pause and then Maya said, “Yoo know yoo really should think about quitting, Camille. I know it’s none of my business, but—”

  Camille dismissed her with a wave of her hand. “I know, I know, Maya; as soon as I finish this book, I’m going to try hypnosis.” She looked at Claire and shrugged. “It worked for my mother.”

  Maya stood up and stretched. “Vell, I have to go make my journal entry.”

  “You keep a journal?” said Claire.

  “It was a habit I got into when I was working as a journalist. I always kept notes so I wouldn’t forget anything. Now I use it to jot down things that interest me. It’s also a good way to limber up, I think.”

  “Yes, I think you’re right,” Claire agreed.

  “Do any of your authors keep journals?” Camille asked Claire.

  “Some of them; it varies.”

  “I’ll see yoo later,” said Maya, gliding gracefully into the house. Terry looked after her, hunger in his eyes; when she was gone, it was as if all the air had gone out of his body. Claire rose from the couch.

  “Well, this morning is my chance to see the town, so if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to drive down and have a look. Does anybody want anything?”

  Terry shook his head. Camille lifted her pack of cigarettes sheepishly. “I could use another pack of these. I thought I had another one but I can’t seem to find them. You can get them at the gourmet food store on Tinker Street.”

  “Sobraines are expensive,” said Claire.

  “Exactly. I’m hoping that will make me smoke less.”

  “And does it?” said Terry.

  Camille shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  Claire went back into the kitchen and put some food out for Ralph, who was nowhere to be seen, then she threw a sweater around her shoulders and went out to her car. It was much cooler here on the side of the mountain than in New York, and even with the sun climbing higher in the sky, there was a chill in the air. Next to her were parked the two cars Liza had mentioned earlier: a sprawling old yellow Chevy and a late-model white Toyota Corolla.

  Driving down the mountain and into Woodstock, Claire wondered if the town would live up to its image. She was amused to see the number of people, men and women, wearing sandals—and yes, tie-dyed clothing. Looking at a couple dressed in matching batiked smocks, Claire felt a sudden burning nostalgia for the sixties, a decade she had never really felt in tune with at the time, being both too young and too conservative by nature to participate fully. Now, however, as she thought of all that had happened since—and what was perhaps to come—the sixties appeared as sweet and innocent as downtown Woodstock, gleaming in the late-summer sun. The low, crooked buildings nestled into the hillside, their secrets tucked away under ancient rotting roofs, fascinated Claire as she drove slowly down Tinker Street. The street, like the town, did not have a straight line in it. It swooped and dipped and turned as it made its way past shops and restaurants and the only hotel in downtown Woodstock, the Twin Gables, a turn-of-the-century farmhouse with white clapboards and green shutters. Claire drove to the end of town, where Route 212 headed out toward Bearsville, then turned around and went back. She parked in a lot behind some shops and walked back to Tinker Street to have a closer look.

  What had happened to Greenwich Village was happening to Woodstock, only more slowly: once the haven of artists, dropouts, and bohemians, it now was in danger of being taken over by the people who inevitably followed them, like pilot fish on a whale, living on the detritus of their host. The makers of tie-dye and pottery and poetry were being replaced by the people who sold those things. Creation had given way to marketing, and process had become a product. Woodstock personified a paradox of the sixties: with its uneasy coexistence of ideology and commercialism, it was able to preserve its image—at the cost of losing the essence that image represented.

  But Claire had a weakness for charm, and these crooked little buildings were seductive way before they housed Cynthia’s House of Candles or Jake’s Organic Foods Emporium. She walked past the stores catering to tourists, selling everything from Woodstock T-shirts to blueberry chutney, but beyond all of that—and inside all of that—Claire sensed something real and sincere and vital about this little town, with its Poetry Readings Every Friday and its carefully burnished image. Perhaps there were people living here whose feet remained planted firmly in the long-gone idealism of the sixties, and that was something worth preserving. Self-conscious innocence collided with unapologetic materialism, and the prices for Birkenstock sandals were even higher than in New York. But as she wandered the streets, Claire sensed an earnestness in the local people who roamed the streets and ran the bookstores, a kind of hardy, defensive determination to preserve a lifestyle in danger of being swallowed up by its very popularity, like a serpent eating its own tail.

  Claire stepped into a shop called the Village Peddler. It was modeled after an old-fashioned general store and carried a wide assortment of goods, from shoe polish to fishing tackle. She walked down the aisles browsing, not really looking for anything in particular. She needed to buy food for the week, but she had passed a Grand Union on her way into town and planned to go there for most of her staples. Still, she liked stores like this one; even though the prices weren’t always good, sometimes you could find interesting sauces. Claire loved sauces, and had a collection of half-finished bottles slowly growing mold in her refrigerator. She picked up a jar of jalapeño sauce and was reading the label when she heard voices at the counter.

  “Hello, I’d like to buy a hunting knife.”

  “Anything in particular?”

  “Can I look at what you have?” The cultivated voice sounded familiar, but Claire couldn’t place it. She peeked over the top of the row of Ronzoni spaghetti sauces and saw Gary Robinson, the moody black painter she had met the night before. Quickly she ducked down behind the aisle, feeling silly but not wanting to meet him here. She crept along the rows of canned goods to the back of the store and stopped behind a tall display of potato chips on sale.

  “This is a nice one,” she heard Gary say.

  “Oh, that’s our best one. I’ve got one of those myself.”

  “How much is it?”

  Claire didn’t hear the reply, because a mother and her daughter entered the store at that moment, and the child noisily dragged her mother over to the rack of toys next to Claire.

  Claire picked up a bag of potato chips and pretended to study the list of ingredients.

  “Can I have this?” sa
id the little girl, a stocky child of about six with curly brown hair. She clutched a baby doll wrapped in plastic. The doll’s shiny blond hair was matted inside the clear plastic wrapper, which pressed tightly against her rosy lips and stubby little nose. Claire suddenly had an irrational fear that the doll was going to suffocate inside her plastic package.

  “No toys today,” said the mother, who was young but tired looking, with circles under her dark eyes. Claire took this opportunity to peek over at the front counter again, but Gary was gone. She went around to the front door and peered out into the street just in time to see him climb into a white Toyota Corolla. Claire stood there for a moment wondering if he had gotten what he came for, and she tried to imagine what a painter would want with a hunting knife.

  Chapter 3

  “Would you like some tea?” said Liza.

  Liza was always making tea; Claire remembered that from their days together at Waverly. Liza kept a hot pot in her office, and owned a dazzling assortment of black and green teas. Now, as she stood in front of Claire in the living room of her cabin, Claire thought that her broad hands looked as if they would be equally at home making tea or splitting wood. Liza had on jeans and a long red flannel shirt, and today she wore little round spectacles similar to the ones Claire had seen on Gary.

  “Thank you,” said Claire, “that would be nice.”

  “How about Irish Breakfast? That’s my favorite right now.”

  “Sounds great.”

  “Have a seat; I’ll just be a minute. The cats will keep you company.”

  “What are their names?”

  “The one without a tail is Nubs and the black-and-white one is Velcro. He actually belongs to Marcel the handyman, but he’s sort of adopted us. Actually, I think he’s outside right now; he’s not as friendly as Nubs, who’s a real ‘people cat.’ ”

  Liza went into the kitchen and Claire sank down on the comfortable, tatty sofa, which was covered by a yellow wool blanket, to protect it from the cats, she supposed. The moment she touched the cushion, Nubs jumped onto her lap, purring violently.