The Memory Painter

FORTY-SIX

Bryan stood on the ledge of the balcony, performing a series of dance-like stretches. Countless drawings filled the tiny hotel patio; none of them were depictions of Egypt.

He closed his eyes and breathed in the air, letting his mind expand into the openness, hoping to touch upon whatever life Linz had already found. But instead he began to fixate on why she hadn’t called him back. He felt like he was in exile.

His scattered thoughts almost pitched him over the edge. Channeling Bodhidharma, Bryan quickly regained his balance. And again the Zen monk commanded him to paint.

Bryan rolled his eyes and, instead, stood up on one toe to prove a point.

“Sir?” Layla stood behind him at the balcony’s door holding a set of fresh towels, her face frozen in disbelief.

Bryan pivoted around in a perfect 180-degree turn. “Oh, hello, Layla. I didn’t hear you come in.”

Layla’s mouth opened and closed several times. “Should you be up there?” she finally squeaked.

“Probably not.” In truth, he could only tolerate Bodhidharma’s exercises for short periods of time, and the look of terror on her face wasn’t helping his concentration.

He glanced over the edge, feeling the street rise up to meet him as gravity did its best to pull him down. Somehow, he launched into an impossible back flip and landed right in front of Layla.

She yelped and dropped the towels. It took her a moment to process what he’d just done. “Are you in the circus?” she finally asked.

Bryan burst into laughter. It made Layla laugh too. “Something along those lines,” he said, when he finally stopped chuckling.

“You scared me to death!” She playfully swatted at his arm.

“Sorry.” They both smiled at each other.

“I don’t think you should be standing on that ledge anymore, okay?”

“No more ledges,” he promised.

Layla picked up the towels and took in all the drawings. “You’re an artist,” she gasped, delighted. “These are so beautiful. You are in Cairo to work?”

“It’s turning out to be that way,” Bryan said with a rueful smile. This hotel had somehow become his studio, and he had yet to leave it. He stared at her, still trying to determine who she was. “Could I paint your portrait?” he heard himself ask.

Layla laughed in surprise. “You want to paint me?”

“I would pay you, of course, as a model.” Bryan could sense her reluctance and hastened to reassure her. “I pay all my models,” he lied, having never worked with a live model in his life. Ducking into the room, he found Linz’s pile of money. “Five hundred dollars is the usual fee,” he offered, counting out five one-hundred-dollar bills.