The Memory Painter

“You rake patterns in the sand,” he said finally, marveling at the beautiful symbol she had drawn. He resisted the urge to touch it.

She nodded, looking embarrassed. “I got the inspiration for it watching a travel show about a garden in Kyoto. The next weekend I went to Home Depot and bought everything.” She took the rake and erased the design as if it were too private for him to see. “Every grain and pebble had to move with me from California.”

Bryan could hear the nervousness in her voice. She was uncomfortable. Was he really just a stranger to her? He continued his tour around the room, taking the space in, trying to understand her as much as he could. “Puzzles, stars, and sand gardens,” he murmured. “No chessboard?”

“In the closet.”

“And Bach,” he offered. The violin continued to softly fill the room.

“This is my favorite concerto.” She watched him move to finger the puzzle pieces covering the dining table. It was a puzzle of the Mona Lisa. “They’re kind of an addiction. Sometimes I frame favorites and hang them on the wall.” She gestured to the living room. “Do you like puzzles?”

She was trying to seem relaxed, but Bryan could hear the stress in her voice. She was regretting this meeting. He looked around the room again and took it all in. Her home was like a fascinating kaleidoscope offering a glimpse of her inner self. And yet it also felt … lonely. She never has anyone here, he thought. And yet, she wanted him to come. A rush of emotions filled him. He picked up one puzzle piece from the hundreds spread out on the table and placed it in the correct spot.

Linz gave him a perplexed look. “How did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Know where the piece fit. You hardly looked at it.”

He put his hands in his pockets again. “I looked at it.”

“You have a photographic memory.” She said it like an accusation.

“What makes you say that?”

With a raised eyebrow, she picked up several puzzle pieces from the stack and put them into place. With a little smile, Bryan watched her hands and accepted the challenge. He picked up three pieces from the stack and placed them. She took three more. He took four.

Soon they were hunched over the table, battling over who could connect the pieces faster. Bryan found the task a soothing distraction.

“Why did you sign the painting Origenes Adamantius?” she finally asked.

At first Bryan didn’t answer. “Why do you think Origenes Adamantius was the man’s name?”

Linz gave him a searching look. “Because it was. Wasn’t it?”

“Yes, but how do you know that?” he insisted.

“From a dream I had.”

Bryan glanced up at her. “What was the dream?”

She looked away, focusing on the puzzle, and for a moment she didn’t say anything. Bryan could tell how hard all of this was for her. She seemed very private. But then she began to speak. “I’ve had it over and over since I was a child. It’s always the same. In the dream I am this … woman.…” She said the words in a slow detached fashion. “From ancient Rome. There’s a huge trial, a religious persecution. I was one of thousands who were burned. And it’s just like your painting, every detail … the bird, the child crying, the dress she was wearing, the cross in my hand—her hand. He had given it to her.”

“The priest. Origenes.” Bryan watched her thumb absently trace a pattern on her index finger, knowing that if she did it long enough the circle would change into a figure eight.

Linz nodded. Her voice wavered. “The guards tied her to a post and set her on fire. The priest was forced to stand there and watch as punishment. I can tell he wanted to save her, but he couldn’t.” Her words trailed into a whisper, “Just before I wake up, I feel my feet burning.”

Bryan fought back a surge of grief. He couldn’t speak.

She misinterpreted his silence as disbelief and added, “I know it sounds crazy. My father took me to therapist after therapist. By the time I was a teenager, the dream had become less frequent and eventually went away. Then I saw your painting.”

Instead of responding, Bryan began to place the remaining puzzle pieces with unbelievable speed.

Linz watched his hands work with a rapt expression on her face and prompted him again, “Where did you come up with the idea for the painting? Did Penelope mention it to you?”

“No.” He placed several more pieces.

Linz waited, asking him again. “Why did you sign the painting Origenes Adamantius?” She tried to lighten the mood by adding, “And don’t you dare say serendipity.”

Bryan wasn’t sure how to respond. Right now, she wouldn’t believe any explanation he could offer. So he settled for, “It’s complicated.”

Linz put the final piece into the corner of Mona Lisa’s mouth and sat back, folding her arms. “I like complicated.”

They held each other’s gaze, and a current passed between them.