TCOTNK 12 Picasso
TCOTNK 12 Picasso
Then she slowly got dressed again. With slight reluctance. Fortunately it was clothing she liked to wear. This costume didn't feel like dressing up at all, more like coming home.
Picasso
She had told everyone the appointment was at four. Behind her she heard James turn the car around and drive off. She didn't look back. A little further she turned of into a forest path. In fact, she didn't have an appointment at all.
Picasso was a nickname that got stuck. Just because he looked like the famous guy. She forgot his real name. Joe did say. He had told her a lot but she hadn’t heard a word. She often didn’t listen to the actual words. Can something you listen to be transparent, she wondered. And this time she tried to banish all associations and expectations - especially the stupid clichés - from her mind. Still, in her mind's eye, she saw swimming pools with skimpy bikinis and clean-shaven lawns. A house that would be her brother-in-law Robert's wet dream. What did Karen see in that guy? Clearly enough to bear his children. She thought of her sister for the first time since she had left. Had the baby arrived yet? Well, the child was already there, but the delivery should have been in the meantime. It seemed months ago. She pushed Karen away. Knew exactly why she was thinking about her now. But that was the old her, the one from before the decision.
Her new role was that of goddess, she thought, and made an effort to get off the ground, laughed, and decided she needed to empathize with Artemis even more. She envisioned a scantily clad Greek rather than the Amazon assassin she felt herself to be.
Two dogs came running. Wolfhounds. They didn't approach her curiously, as domestic animals would, but walked a little sideways, one on each side, examining the ground with a slanted look at her. Bright blue eyes. Their ears erect.
The woman who followed, walked briskly, despite her age. Scarlotte greeted the woman, a mutual hand up. Just past her the lady turned around.
"What are you chasing?" she asked. Someone who was used to getting answers to her questions.
Scarlotte took a chance. "An artist," she said with her sweetest smile. The woman looked at her impassively. Then her eyes slid to a point behind Scarlotte.
"You mean Picasso." it wasn't really a question.
“Even with a smile like that you won’t get in. It's a fortress. Power on the gates. Cameras. Watchdogs with pants on.” She barely refrained from spitting the dirt.
Well, that’s nice, thought Scarlotte.
"He's not here either." The woman now turned all the way to Scarlotte. “It's none of my business of course, but if you're looking for him you'll have to go to the island. This estate is just a public relations exterior.”
The dogs grew impatient. Pulled on the lead that the woman held half coiled. She made no move, however.
Scarlotte was aware of the conflict within herself. She would like to be able to say, okay, thank you, I tried but the man wasn't home. At the same time the buzzing golden planet in and around her was undeniable. She loosened the reins a little more and the tension immediately dissipated.
"How do I get to that island?" she asked directly. A perfect mimicking of the woman’s tone.
The woman offered to take her. An unfriendly kind of kindness on which no words were wasted. It was an hour's drive. The dogs were in the box of the pickup. The winding rural roads ran through sparsely housed areas. Lots of neglected apple trees that were nevertheless beautifully in bloom. It became more watery with the occasional lake. And then they drove along an expanse of water. A bumpy dirt road.
The woman pointed. A densely wooded strip of land in the middle of the lake.
She stopped at a marina.
"I'm not going any further," she said. "You'll have to get to Glass Island yourself."
Scarlotte got out and peered into the low sun. She had to hurry.
"Hey, Diane, don't forget your bow and arrow!" the woman cried through the rolled-down window.
Scarlotte went back and fished her hunting gear out of the boot, petted the chained dogs, and stood there until the cloud of dust had cleared.
The easiest way was to ask someone to take her there. However, the harbor was deserted. The boats that lay there were fastened like the dogs, not going anywhere. She stood on the long jetty for a while, looking at the island. It looked uninhabited. Two low hills. Forest to the water. She sat down and laid the bow on the weathered boards. She was hungry because she had forgotten to eat at noon. Fortunately the weather was good. Not too hot. Dry and almost no wind
How far would it be? Eight hundred meters? She put her hand in the water. Warmer than the river. But the clothes were too beautiful to get wet. Nothing would remain of the soft red colored chamois leather. And the wood bow shouldn't get soaked either.
She got up and searched the area. There was a waste container on the shore with a new blue bin-liner in it. Still empty. The clothes could go in the liner. With a good knot not much water would get in and the bag would float. She searched further and found an old roof box in the grass near the parking lot. That was perfect.
She undressed on the jetty, placed the bow and quiver in the lid of the damaged suitcase, then started packing the blue bag. She undid one of the long laces from the seam of her trousers. That became the safety line. Scarlotte launched her makeshift boat, put the plastic bundle on top and lowered herself. Cold water was always a battle. She held onto the rim of her little boat and set off.
The water was calm and after the first cold stretch it seemed to get warmer and probably less deep. It was nothing, just a little swim, so she steered to the right to land on the sunny side of the island. That was better than being wet in the shade.
The bank was low and she climbed ashore without difficulty. She looked at the vegetation in amazement. Blueberries that were not yet ripe, delphiniums in the bud, it smelled of wild garlic and sweet rose hips. Butterflies fluttered above the spring flowers. From the forest came the sound of a thousand birds. She could get used to this place. She stretched, basked in the warm evening sun, and waited to dry sufficiently.
Then she slowly got dressed again. With slight reluctance. Fortunately it was clothing she liked to wear. This costume didn't feel like dressing up at all, more like coming home.
The island was a wild garden. There were paths through high grass between blossoming trees and she passed a field of all kinds of vegetables. Interplanted crisscross. No rows or anything ordered. She saw potato plants, it smelled of herbs. She pulled a few radishes out of the ground and rubbed them clean. Nibbled on them. There was a hand water pump. Gambling it was drinkable she drank half a bucket.
Then continued. Into the woods. Many different trees. No wonder it was overcrowded with birds, dragonflies and all sorts of unknown flying folk.
The house was in between the two hills. A large open space. Out of sight of the shore but bordering the open water on one side.
A kind of cottage. No showiness.
He was reading, looked up as she stepped onto the terrace, put down his book and looked as if expecting her.
“Charlotte,” he said with a relaxed smile, “you made it here quickly.”