Paladin
by Quinn Tyler Jackson

Cohen lit another cigarette while he waited for his friend, Drake, to come pick him up at the airport. The flight to New York had been short but hellish and he wanted sleep. Drake finally arrived in his beat up blue sedan. 

Drake didn't seem to have aged much in the three years since he had seen him back in San Francisco. Cohen nodded at him to open the back, and when the trunk popped, threw in his one suitcase and got into the passenger seat.

"Benny," Drake said as Cohen buckled in.

"Nobody's called me Benny since ... since the last time you called me that," Cohen said. He reached out his arm and shook Drake's hand vigorously. "Thanks for getting me on such short notice. I hate New York taxis and just panicked as we were landing, you know?"

"No problem," Drake replied. "Glad to help out. Where you staying?"

"Stowed away in some roach hotel, I'm sure," he said. He took a slip of paper from his overcoat pocket and handed it to Drake.

"So it appears," Drake replied upon seeing the address of the hotel. "Why not crash on my couch? It folds out."

"That would be great," Cohen answered quickly. "You're near the Museum of Modern Art, aren't you? Maybe I can take that in tomorrow morning before heading over to see my editor at Grant."

"Yes," Drake replied. "Salomeh would love to finally meet you," he added. "She has a ton of questions about Returning."

Cohen took a cigarette out of his nearly empty pack. "Mind if I smoke?"

"No problem," Drake said. With one hand, he found his own pack and started one for himself.

"How's the painting been?" Cohen asked once his cigarette was a quarter done. Since the car was starting to fill with smoke, he opened his window.

"I've started up again," Drake said. "Was a long stretch without anything, but that's over. I'm really picking up speed lately."

"It's good to hear you got over your dry spell," Cohen said.

"How about your writing? Returning is great, but I need another novel for my students soon." Drake winked as he drove.

"Barflies by the Hundreds is due out very soon," Cohen said.

"The draft I read was something. Sounds like the old Syncopated Cup crowd to me," Drake laughed.

"I did base a few characters on that crew, yes," Cohen admitted.

They continued to catch up and make small talk as Drake drove. Eventually, they pulled into the covered parking to Drake's building, and they were soon enough on their way to his apartment.

"She'll be asleep by now," Drake said, checking his wristwatch. When they arrived at his floor, he carried Cohen's bag for him, opened the door, and waved his friend in.

As soon as Cohen stepped into the apartment, he could smell oil paint. It was a beautiful smell. Drake carried his bag into the living room, put it beside the couch and then disappeared into another room. Cohen sat on the couch. On the wall across from him was a large vertical canvas. He could tell by the signature that it was not a Drake. He stood to get a better look at it.

"That's Rube for you," Drake said, "always raising a few eyebrows." He was standing in the hall with a blanket thrown over one shoulder and a pillow under his arm.

"Rube?"

"Old friend of mine," Drake explained. "Just had his first big showing. I couldn't help but buy that one." He threw the pillow onto the couch and the blanket over top of it. "Rube's starting to catch on."

"He's got a touch of Klimt happening," Cohen noticed out loud.

Drake put his hand on his chin, stared at the piece and said, "Yes, now that you mention it, there is some of that, isn't there? You know, no one has brought that up  before about Rube's stuff, but it's as clear as day once you hear it said." Drake then patted Cohen on the shoulder and said, "Make yourself at home. I'll be gone to work by the time you get up. Feel free to make yourself breakfast. What's mine is yours."

"I appreciate it," Cohen said as his friend walked into the hall and disappeared behind a bedroom door.

Cohen pulled open the couch, spread the blanket down, fluffed his pillow, and then realized that he was not yet ready to sleep. He went to the fridge, found some vodka and ice, and poured himself a drink. It felt good to have some freezing cold vodka in him.

After a few sips, he walked to the balcony door, quietly slid it open, and stood on the balcony. The fresh air took some of the strain of travel from his face. He loosened his collar, sat on the balcony chair, and closed his eyes, his half-empty tumbler still in his hand. Once in a while, he sipped his drink, without opening his eyes. He eventually opened them and stared at the clear night sky. Finally ready to sleep, he returned inside, undressed, put on his robe, and crawled under the covers after another tumbler of vodka. He was soon fast asleep.

Bacon and eggs. It was hard to not wake up hungry with that smell in the air. Before he could open his eyes, Cohen heard a young woman's voice ask, "How do you like your eggs?"

He opened his mouth and said, with a dry tongue, past dry lips, "Over easy, thanks." He then coughed.

"I wasn't sure if you would eat bacon," the voice replied, "but I made some anyway."

"Bacon is fine," Cohen replied, slowly opening his eyes to the glare of morning. The room stung into his brain. He could feel the painful surface of his skull as he turned his head to look at who he assumed was Salomeh. She was standing near the stove in the kitchen. "Cyrus has gone to work, then?" he managed to say past his headache.

"Yes," she said, glancing over at him.

She was beautiful. Everything Drake had ever said about her had been spot on. If she hadn't been his friend's lover, he would have allowed himself to stare longer, but instead he closed his eyes again and took in a deep breath of bacon and egg air.

"How was the flight?" she asked.

"I hate flying," he replied. "The man beside me kept going on and on about his failed business deals. One boring failure after the next." His tongue was still dry. "Say, could I trouble you to get me a glass full of the hair of the dog that bit me?"

"Pardon me?" Salomeh replied.

"The vodka in the fridge," he explained.

He could hear the bottom of the glass as she put it on the kitchen counter, and could almost hear the drink being poured over the ice. When the sound of her footsteps reached him beside the pulled-open couch, he reached out his hands without opening his eyes and took the cold tumbler. He propped himself up, took in half the drink without opening his eyes, and then breathed a sigh of exquisite relief.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"Nine fifteen," Salomeh replied.

He opened his eyes again, looked at her and smiled. "Thanks for the drink. You're a lifesaver."

She smiled in return, and then walked back to the kitchen. As she did, Cohen allowed himself to watch her as she moved. Drake had broken the laws of physics in finding her at his age.

"I want to visit the MOMA this morning," he told her.

"It opens at ten thirty," she said as she put eggs onto a plate. "Would you like me to join you? I get in free, since Cyrus and I have memberships. You would get in with me for free, since our memberships are Patron." She walked back into the living room, presenting him with a plate of breakfast and a fork.

He wasn't sure how he should reply. "That would be splendid," he finally replied. He cut around the center of one of the eggs, scooped it up, and swallowed it almost without chewing.

"I knew you would be hungry," Salomeh commented.

Dressed in nothing but his robe, propped up under the covers as he ate, he could not help but feel conspicuous. Salomeh must have realized this and returned to the kitchen. Now that she was at some distance, he said, "So, Cyrus said you'd have some questions about my novel."

She returned to the side of the couch-bed with a kitchen chair and sat with the back towards him, straddling it. "Yes," she said.

"For instance?" he said before breaking a strip of bacon in two and putting it in his mouth.

"For instance, why doesn't the hero have a name?" she asked. She rested her chin on the top of the back of the chair, her brown eyes wide open.

"Hero?" Cohen said. "Is he a hero?"

"That's another question I have," she admitted. "But it can wait."

Cohen pointed his fork at the painting across from the couch.

"Does that man have a name?" he asked.

She turned her head towards Rube's painting. "Not that I know about."

"Exactly," he said. "You may give him one, I may give him one, but the painter didn't do so, and therefore, we can only guess. Does the fact that the man in the painting has no name change anything?"

"No," she replied.

"And that is why the protagonist of Returning has no name," he said. "Thank you for breakfast, by the way. It was delicious." He held out the plate, hoping she would take it, return to the kitchen, and let him get quickly dressed. She did as he had hoped, and he was soon dressed in jeans and a turtleneck sweater and folding the couch back in place. "I don't feel," he then went on to explain, "that it is the artist's place to supply the entire picture." He lifted the half-empty tumbler from the small table beside the couch and finally finished his drink. "Painters don't do it, so why should authors?"

 

Hope II, Gustaf Klimt, 1907-08, Museum of Modern Art, New York (Click image to enlarge)

At the Museum of Modern Art, standing before Klimt's Hope II, Cohen came to realize his healthy desire for Salomeh, but he pushed what he could to the back of his mind and gave the painting its due admiration.

"About heroes," she said.

"Oh, yes," he replied. "Heroes, in my opinion, are simply villains who have made better decisions in the eyes of those looking in."

"So, at the end of Returning? Is the nameless man a hero or a villain?" she asked.

"That depends on who is doing the reading," he said. "Tell me what Hope II means."

"It's both a disturbing and soothing piece," she said after a moment of silence. "Very difficult to say what it means without knowing what he meant it to mean."

Cohen stepped back a few paces. "To some degree, sure, but then, it also means exactly what you want it to. If you find that skull behind her belly disturbing, then it means something entirely different than if you do not. Klimt has absolutely no power over how you are going to react to that."

"Who wouldn't find it disturbing?"

"Just look at the expression on her face," Cohen said. "She seems to be at peace. The others, down below, seem rather at peace, don't they? The colors are not disturbing. Were it not for that skull.... Have you ever seen Hope I?"

Hope I, Gustaf Klimt, 1903, National Gallery of Canada, Ottawa (Click image to enlarge)

"Yes, prints and photographs, anyway," Salomeh replied.

"Given the similar themes, and the same half-skull, I would say that Gustav Klimt meant something, surely, but that whether he meant you to be disturbed or soothed is entirely up for debate." The talk of art was not serving its purpose; he could not push back his thoughts about Salomeh. "Let's return to the apartment. I have a few papers I have to bring to Grant. I have a two o'clock appointment with them."

In the taxi on the way back to the apartment, Cohen tried to think of the matters he would be discussing with his editor at Grant Editions. His cell phone rang. It was Cyrus.

"Sorry to be calling you on your cell," Drake said.

"It's fine," Cohen returned. "I'll be billing Grant for all calls while in New York anyway. What's up?"

"I'll be at the college until about eleven tonight," Drake said. "I've started a canvas in my studio, and just don't want to lose the flow. Could I trouble you to take Salomeh out to dinner tonight if you don't have anything on your agenda? It would take the heat off me."

He didn't know what to say. He glanced over at Salomeh, beside him in the back, followed along the curves of her legs, up to her bust, her face, and then said, "Sure, Cyrus, no problem. I'll bill Grant for that, too."

Drake hung up at his end.

"He won't be home until about eleven tonight," Cohen explained.

"Painting at the college again?" she asked, disappointment clear in the movement of her mouth.

"He do that often?" he asked as he put the phone back in its clip.

"More and more lately," she sighed. "I know he is painting, at least. I've seen some of his new work. It's amazing. But still, that doesn't make...." She stopped herself, placing a finger over her lips.

"He asked me to treat you to dinner out," Cohen finally admitted.

Hearing this, Salomeh smiled widely. "Then the night won't be a total waste," she said.

Once back at the apartment, Cohen organized the papers he would need for his meeting with his editor. Salomeh gave him a spare key to the apartment and told him to let himself in when returning, and he headed for the appointment.

During the entire meeting, he could not focus in his mind on the matters that needed to be considered. Jane Plath presented him with ideas and options, and he simply picked the ones that seemed least offensive to him, rather than really think much about what was being asked of him. It was unheard of to be flown in to be consulted on such issues at the publisher's expense anyway, and so, he assumed Grant would eventually do whatever pleased the marketing people most. Returning's sales had done so well, however, that Barflies by the Hundreds would be given special treatment. It was simply that, with Salomeh on his mind, the special treatment from his publisher didn't matter. Finally, the meeting was over. He shook Jane Plath's hand, thanked her very much for everything, and assured her that he would only be in New York on their tab until Monday. She insisted he enjoy the best New York had to offer, on the Grant tab, smiled, and had her assistant see him to the front door.

Once outside, he hailed a cab and returned to the apartment. It was four thirty by the time he arrived back. As soon as he opened the door, he could smell something delicious.

"Hello, Cohen!" Salomeh called from the kitchen. "I decided to make dinner for you, rather than have us go out."

After removing his shoes and hanging up his overcoat, Cohen entered the kitchen. "That was very thoughtful of you," he said. He noticed that the kitchen table had been set with two settings. There were flowers in the middle, and two candles, already burning. It seemed off for Salomeh to have set so intimate a table, but after his having spent so much time in a cramped office discussing publication details with Plath, the idea of going out for dinner was not very appealing.

"Do I have time for a nightcap and smoke on the balcony?" he asked.

"Yes," she said.

He went to the fridge, poured himself some vodka, neat, and wandered to the balcony. It was difficult to light up his cigarette in the wind, but he eventually managed to get a bead going on it. Ten minutes and one cigarette later, he was three quarters the way through his drink. The balcony door slid open, and he turned to see Salomeh, now dressed in a tight fitting one-piece dress. She had an amazing body, and with the drink in him, he did not turn away after staring for too long.

"Dinner is ready," she said, smiling and waving him in.

He put back what remained of his drink and walked inside, still staring at her as she walked in front of him to the set table. He sat, stared down at his plate, and tried to find words to say that weren't silly sounding.

"This is amazing," he said as he tasted his chicken.

"How long have you known Cyrus?" she asked him.

"Quite a few years," he replied, cutting another bite from the chicken on his plate. "I met him when I was an stage actor back in San Francisco."

"Has he always been so ... aloof?" Across from him, in the candlelight, with yellow light dancing on her olive skin, she was more breathtaking than ever.

"More or less," he finally replied. "He's someone I always had difficulty getting a handle on. That's why I didn't even attempt to base any character on him in Barflies. He's too complex, but in a minimalist way, if that makes any sense at all."

Salomeh's gaze did not leave his. "I have done my utmost to bring him out of that," she said. "For a while, after we returned from our trip to Iran, he seemed almost out of his secret place. But then...."

After a sip of water, Cohen said, "Go on."

"Then he started painting again," she sighed. "It's his first love. He had put it aside for such a long time. I met him when he wasn't painting."

"So when he fell back in love with painting, you lost something?" Cohen guessed.

"I lost him," Salomeh said.

"Don't you love dance as much as he loves painting?" He pushed his plate away, finished. "That was a lovely meal, by the way. Thank you very much."

"My pleasure," she said. She pushed the flowers aside, so that their gaze was now completely meeting. "Dance is dance," she then said. "Do you love your writing more than you'd love a woman?"

He didn't know what to say at first, and so, took another sip of water instead. After about a minute of staring at Salomeh's eyes, he said, "I don't know that I've ever been around long enough to love a woman in the way I love writing."

She smiled, stood, and came over for his plate. He could smell her perfume when she was this close, and wanted to brush the side of his head into her bosom, but did not. "Why haven't you been around long enough?"

"Gypsy blood, I suppose," he said. "I've been on the road my entire adult life. Acting troupes, book signings, on and on. You take what you can get of human affection in circumstances like that, without necessarily forming a lot of bonds."

Salomeh put the dishes in the kitchen and then returned to the table. She placed a chair at the side of the table, so that she was closer to Cohen. "But could you love a woman more than you love your work?" she asked.

In the candlelight, Salomeh looked good enough for him to say, "Yes," and his mouth moved the words before he could stop himself. He realized that he did not know her, and was speaking only from being intoxicated by her good looks, her young body, and the glassy stare she was giving him, but the word came out and he did not speak to contradict himself. "I could. It would depend on whether I wanted to be a hero or a villain."

Another cigarette butt flew in the New York air, still burning, as Cohen leaned over the balcony. He could hear the thing slide open as he tipped back a mouthful from the bottle directly. Drake walked up beside him, held out his hand for the bottle, took a sip, and then lit up a cigarette and handed it to his friend.

"Beautiful city," Cohen said, his words slurring from his mouth.

"It is indeed," Drake replied, lighting another cigarette, this one for himself.

"Saw Klimt at the MOMA today," Cohen tried to say. "Rube does have some Klimt in him, I tell you."

"Hope II is my guess," Drake said. He put his arm around Cohen in the way close male friends sometimes will when sharing an open bottle.

"All in the how you see it," his friend replied.

"Pardon?"

Cohen tried to form words through his drunken haze, but could not for some time. "You know, hope or despair, hope or despair, which is it going to be?"

Drake smiled at his friend, but did not reply with words. Cohen held out his hands, as if holding up the skull of Yorick in Hamlet and said, "'I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is!'"

"You're drunk, Benny," Drake laughed. "The old stage days coming back to you?"

"'Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favor she must come; make her laugh at that,'" Cohen then continued.

"What's wrong, Benny?" Drake asked.

Cohen gathered up his courage. "Salomeh and I did the wild thing into next week after dinner." The words were out, into the cold air, falling over the balcony like spent cigarette butts. He put out his chin. "Hit me," he said.

Drake tapped the cleft of Cohen Benjamin's chin with his index finger. His hands smelled of fresh turpentine. "She already told me," he said.

Upon hearing this, Cohen pushed his chin into Drake's finger so that it hurt. "Come on, damn it, hit me hard." His cigarette by now was close to the butt and almost burning between his fingers, so he tossed it.

"Why?" Drake asked. He seemed amused with the whole situation.

Not knowing what to say, Cohen leaned over the balcony again and breathed in a deep breath. He grabbed the bottle from Drake and took a long gulp from it. "Well, I guess, if you hit me, then I'll know you're willing to fight like hell for her, and I won't do anything stupid."

Drake put his arm around his friend again and said, "You've already gone and done something stupid, Benny." He lit another smoke, handed it to Cohen. "And there's nothing I can do about that, now, is there? I can't double back to undo a line, put a little turp here or there on the canvas of life to erase, and then cover over the mistake. Someone would come along later and would find the correction."

Cohen took the fresh cigarette, put it between his lips, saying, "No sabers at dawn? No 'you dumb piece of shit'?" He shrugged. "You make it too damned complicated. A nice whack in the head would make it all clear again."

"If it had been anyone but you, Benny," Drake said, taking a deep drag from his smoke, "I'd have decked you. It was you, though. Benny, don't you know what power you have over people? I'll learn to live with this. It's all part of the ebb and flow."

"What am I, charmed?" Cohen smiled at his friend.

"Must be," Drake replied, blowing circles out into the cold New York wind.

Cohen put his own arm around Drake's back and started to laugh. At the very depths of where he allowed himself to question what he meant, he tried to stand back and see a hero or a villain, but could only see two drunken idiots standing on a balcony, throwing butts into the wind, some blowing left, some right.

Copyright © 2002 Quinn Tyler Jackson
All rights reserved

About the Author

        Quinn Tyler Jackson has been writing since he was twelve. At various stages of his career, he has been an artist's apprentice, antiquarian bookseller's assistant, gas jockey, freelance editor, literary agent, stay-at-home father, and computer software and hardware consultant. Through it all, he has always written poetry and fiction and has usually, when presented with two paths, taken the one that holds the promise of enlightenment, however worn.

He is a member of Mysterium, Ultranet, the Poetic Genius Society, and he has been a member of the Editors' Association of Canada, the Institute of Electrical and Electronics Engineers, and the Association for Computing Machinery. He lives in Western Canada with his wife and three children, where he continues to nurture his lifelong fascination with language. You can read more of Mr. Jackson's short stories at his website, JacksonStories.

Editor's note: If you admire Jackson's ability to string words together in coherent patterns, you will also enjoy his essay in this month's issue. It offers a rare look inside the mind of an artist, complete with links to his other works referenced in the essay.