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faltered, it was to disguise a yawn.
    The whore’s insincerity was obvious. But he remembered a woman who was far, far more deceitful. He dared not think of her. But it was too late! The sound of her name was already bouncing inside his skull like an echo.
Helene! Helene!
He remembered the branches of an oak tree reaching to her bedroom window, forming a natural ladder that he had climbed many times. On the last occasion, he had seen the orange glow from the flickering candles that lit her room, through a curtain of leaves, through a layer of lashing rain . . .
    The grunting quickened.
    “Damn you, she-devil!” he roared, feeling the veins jut from his temples. “For heaven’s sake, cease your beastly noise!”
    “Now, be good, my pet,” coaxed the whore from across the stable. “Pay heed and you may learn something.”
    Her companion guffawed.
    Again her voice screeched through the night. “Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, please take pity on me.”
    The gale howled, and the prostitute’s curtain whipped against the stall’s outer wall. François closed his eyes, and the image he carried in the depth of his soul rematerialized. He grew rigid at the scene being replayed in his mind. Through the beckoning window of Helene’s bedroom, the candles danced to the rhythm of the wind. Two naked bodies entwined in her bed, their skin rosy in the fire’s glow. She was lying on her back, looking straight at François. The expression of bliss on her face turned his stomach sour . . .
    Above him, the trees murmured. The frosty stars that pricked the black sky winked at him. He reminded himself that he must rise above his suffering and make his heart devoid of feelings. He dozed fitfully, drifting in and out of consciousness until a blaze of light penetrated his eyelids and made him wince.
    He awoke. His body was shivering. It was early afternoon. A few black crows were flying high in the sky. From where he was lying, they looked like floating crosses. Around him the forest was silent, and he had no way of knowing if the whore and her customer had left or were merely sleeping.
    He rolled to one side and propped himself up on an elbow. Dizziness made him nauseous. He swallowed a bitter taste rising to the back of his throat. A violent heaving twisted his innards, and François vomited until he felt he was drowning.
    Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, please take pity on me!
his mind cried, mimicking the prostitute’s wail. The blue air above him faded.
    As he slipped into the gray abyss of nothingness, he heard the voice of the same woman. “Is this the artist you are looking for, Father?”
    He was melting. His body was a river of paint. Where its current took him, there was no concept of time. But the fright was overwhelming—choking him, spreading until he was nothing but a tiny particle in a vastness of pure terror. For each drop of water that was dribbled on his tongue, for every gentle touch of a wet cloth over his lips, his stomach would expel bursts of bitter bile in response. A hand was massaging his back. Its heat was like fire, scorching him.
    A flash of lightning illuminated an image. He saw Helene’s heart-shaped face, the thick waves of light brown hair that cascaded down her shoulders, her high cheekbones—he gasped. In his fevered consciousness, she represented everything that was lost. The lightning had revealed her entwined with her lover in her bed. They turned to look at him through the open window of her bedroom, through the gushing rain that blurred his vision. He was unable to move. The man on top of Helene ceased his rocking motion. In utterpanic, she clutched her limbs around his glistening body. And then something struck the side of François’s head. Hot wax sprayed his face, but he could barely feel the heat. He saw her reach for another candle.
    I gave you all my love. Why are you doing this to me?
    Go away!
Her shout drummed against his face, the language dripping with poison.
This is how it has to end. My