The Map of Time Read Online Free PDF Page A

had another reason for giving it to him, dear cousin.” He drained his glass slowly, and gazed at the painting again for a few moments, shaking his head with satisfaction.
    “And what reason was that, Charles?” Andrew asked, becoming impatient.
    “The private enjoyment I get from knowing that my father, who looks down on the lower classes as though they were inferior beings, has the portrait of a common prostitute hanging in his library.” His words made Andrew reel.
    “A prostitute?” he finally managed to stammer.
    “Yes, cousin,” replied Charles, beaming with content. “But not a high-class whore from the brothels in Russell Square, not even one of the tarts who ply their trade in the park on Vincent Street, but a dirty, foul-smelling draggletail from Whitechapel in whose ravaged vagina the wretched of the earth alleviate their misery for a few meager pennies.” Andrew took a swig of brandy, attempting to take in his cousin’s words. There was no denying his cousin’s revelation had shocked him, as it would anybody who saw the portrait. But he also felt strangely disappointed. He stared at the painting again, trying to discover the cause of his unease. So, this lovely creature was a vulgar tart. Now he understood the mixture of passion and resentment seeping from her eyes that the artist had so skilfully captured. But Andrew had to admit his disappointment obeyed a far more selfish logic: the woman did not belong to his social class, which meant he could never meet her.
    “I bought it thanks to Bruce Driscoll,” Charles explained, pouring two more brandies. “Do you remember Bruce?” Andrew nodded unenthusiastically. Bruce was a friend of his cousin whom boredom and money had made an art collector; a conceited, idle young man who had no compunction in showing off his knowledge of paintings at every opportunity.
    “You know how he likes to look for treasure in the most unlikely places,” his cousin said, handing him the second brandy.
    “Well, the last time I saw him, he told me about a painter he’d dug up during one of his visits to the flea markets. A man called Walter Sickert, a founding member of the New English Art Club.
    His studio was in Cleveland Street, and he painted East End prostitutes as though they were society ladies. I dropped in there and couldn’t resist buying his latest canvas.” “Did he tell you anything about her?” Andrew asked, trying to appear nonchalant.
    “About the whore? Only her name. I think she’s called Marie Jeannette.” Marie Jeannette, Andrew muttered. The name oddly suited her, like her little hat.
    “A Whitechapel whore … ,” he whispered, still unable to get over his surprise.
    “Yes, a Whitechapel whore. And my father has given her pride of place in his library!” Charles cried, spreading his arms theatrically in a mock gesture of triumph. “Isn’t it absolutely priceless?” With this, Charles flung his arm around his cousin’s shoulder and guided him through to the sitting room, changing the subject. Andrew tried to hide his agitation, but could not help thinking about the girl in the portrait as they were planning their assault on the charming Keller sisters.
    That night, in his bedroom, Andrew lay wide awake. Where was the woman in the painting now? What was she doing? By the fourth or fifth question, he had begun calling the woman by her name, as though he really knew her and they enjoyed a nonexistent intimacy. He realized he was seriously disturbed when he began to feel an absurd jealousy towards the men who could have her for a few pennies, whereas for him, despite all his wealth, she was unattainable. And yet was she really beyond his reach? Surely, given his position, he could have her, physically at least, more easily than he could any other woman, and for the rest of his life. The problem was finding her. Andrew had never been to Whitechapel, but he had heard enough about the neighborhood to know it was dangerous, especially for