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Show 84 "They've told me you can stop," she said finally. "The painting? Stop the painting?" "Yes." "No. I'm sorry. What do you mean?! I've just started." "Now they want us to ..." Tears welled in the far corners of her eyes. Us? Hunt's mind swam. He checked adjoining tables, leaned forward. "Victoria," he said. It was the first time he had used her name. "Whatever . . . whatever communications you receive from whatever places ..." "Yes?" "Well, that's your business." "But Mr. Hunt: you see, they want . . . " "No! Hold i t . Wait." What was frightening him? "I started . . . I began this because you asked me. And because, well, I've been painting apples. The painting's good; i t will be good; I know that. It came alive. In the dark. Woke me. I love -- what i t . . ." Hunt thought he'd grown away from groping. "I'd like to finish i t , " he said. "But this new business -- £S - no. No: That's something else. I can't accept . . ." Her eyes looked exiled. She crossed her hands on her chest and her lips trembled. "Why?" she asked. "Are you saying - I'm unacceptable?" Her voice had almost no force, like the barest wings beating. Hunt couldn't answer. She went on, nervous frayed threads of laughter powering her: "Who knows? Who knows?" she said. She clenched her teeth. Her fingers set hard against her lips to stop their shaking then set them loose again. "Who knows?" She was out of control. "Maybe . . . maybe I ' l l 'be good.' Maybe I ' l l 'come alive in the dark and wake y o u . ' " She bit her knuckles. It was a gesture |
