Chapter 60
To be clear, few citizens of Golden actually knew Theo.
How could someone of such renown — and why would someone of such renown — choose their city? And how did he escape their notice? How, in a world where every hand holds a camera, could he achieve anonymity for an entire year?
Among those who knew him, even those who knew him merely as a cheerful presence along Broadway, he was remembered not as a celebrated artist or collector but as an acquaintance, neighbor, and friend.
On sidewalks up and down the Promenade, people shared stories and reminiscences of Theo’s year in Golden.
From those fragments, they constructed an image that was nothing short of mythic.
Those who knew him best held their peace and declined to be interviewed or drawn into the mob of the carelessly inquisitive.
Even Katherine Lesker, whose journalistic instinct was to write, kept her silence in reverence for Theo’s memory and out of respect for the promise she had made to him at the Fedder, a promise from which she was now most certainly freed.
There were, not surprisingly, insistent, professional writers — bloggers, art aficionados, reporters from New York papers and magazines, an international journalist or two, and even, early on, a documentary filmmaker — who pursued whatever rumor or lead they could find in hopes of telling Theo’s story.
Eventually, perhaps, they would pierce the inner ring of his friends and get the details for which they yearned, but in the immediate aftermath of Theo’s death, silence reigned.
More than one reporter tried to approach Ellen while she was a patient at the hospital following the attack.
When Tony, who rarely left her side during the week and a half she was there, learned of their intrusion from Mrs. Van Blarcum, he searched them out, dressed them down with an eruption of curses, and swore to invoke every means, legal and not so, to protect the woman.
And “hell no, I won’t talk to you! Get your ink-wasting ass out of here.”
In time, he might soften, but not yet. He kept a close eye on Ellen.
As Theo would have wished.
Members of the press were pleased, accordingly, to learn that a memorial service had been planned for Theo at St. James.
Perhaps there, they would be able to harvest information for an interesting story with anecdotes and reminiscences.
In all fairness, people around the world, for good reason, wanted to know about the famed artist’s death.
Theo’s body had already been flown to France and buried beside his daughter’s in a private ceremony near Paris.
Mr. Ponder had worked and would continue to work with Theo’s lawyers and business associates on a number of estate matters, including the funeral.
But he did not, and would not ever, violate Theo’s confidence, though he, as much as anyone, was convinced of the world’s need to know Theo’s story.
On the evening of the memorial for Theo — two weeks after his fall, at seven o’clock on a Thursday, the precise hour of so many of his bestowals — the sanctuary at St. James was filled to overflowing.
Many members of the church, ones who had seen him regularly on Sunday mornings, were in attendance.
Business owners, students, waiters and waitresses, the homeless, and the merely inquisitive filled the pews.
By an arrangement that had somehow been made and communicated to the affected parties, everyone who had received a portrait from Theo was invited, as if they were family, to sit in the front rows.
Some brought their portraits with them. A handful of others who had not yet received a portrait — Shep, Tony, Mr. Ponder, Lamisha, Mrs. Van Blarcum — were also placed front and center.
Ellen, by special dispensation, was allowed to bring her bicycle to the front of the sanctuary and park it beside the pew.
She was still feeble, bruised, and bandaged from the incident at the Fedder.
Many were surprised that she was well enough to attend.
But even in her delicate state, and even in the company of her Noble Invention, she exuded a tender dignity as she joined the procession of the portrait people.
A sign at the entrance of the church building, politely worded but clear in its stern intent, instructed members of the press, local and not, to respect those in attendance and to remain at the back of the sanctuary.
And to all, press and friends alike, a notice was prominently posted:
In honor of this sacred place and today’s memorial, we ask that there be no photography or recording of the service. Before entering the sanctuary, please turn off all cell phones, recording devices, and cameras, and place them out of sight. Violators will be removed from the service.
As if to emphasize the sincerity of the warning, the church had retained and stationed uniformed policemen at the entrance and in the building’s vestibule.
Everyone was a bit surprised and pleased (at least most were) that for over an hour, no phones rang, no cameras clicked, and no other sign of technological trespass occurred. A sense of solemnity prevailed throughout the service.
While people entered the building, the organist played a soft, seamless medley of hymns. A reverent hush was observed by the congregation, even among the writers and reporters in the back of the room.
The radiance of the evening sun through stained glass dappled the sanctuary. The slow movement of color would have been undetectable from minute to minute, but over the course of the hour, patches of red, lavender, melon, gold, and emerald shifted kaleidoscopically across the room.
The sun was a brush; the west window its palette; the floor, walls, ceiling, and congregants its canvas; an angel somewhere, the artist.
The tulip gardens of Holland would have blushed in the presence of such sublime color and light. The effect of filtered rays, muted tints, and deepening shadows was perfectly suited to the occasion commemorating an old artist.
Lamisha, the youngest member of the congregation and weepy with feelings too complex for her vocabulary, was aware enough of her surroundings to notice the swaths of color as they crept subtly across the sanctuary.
She wondered if the colors from the windows, set free like the notes of music from Simone’s cello, would hide in the chandeliers and curtains and rafters until late at night when the room was dark and silent.
Did they, too, like those quarter and eighth and sixteenth notes at the Bet, reappear for festivities after midnight?
Is that what the preacher meant when he spoke of resurrection?
If Theo were there, he would have been able to tell her.
A large bouquet of hydrangeas and roses had been placed in front of the pulpit where a casket might ordinarily have been situated.
Next to the flowers, a portrait of Theo, drawn by Asher and placed on a paint-stained easel, fixed its gaze on the congregation.
In it, Theo’s closed mouth smiled broadly, and his eyes glistened.
To those in the front rows, Asher’s mastery as an artist and Theo’s mastery as a man fully-alive were movingly apparent.
At precisely seven o’clock, the last notes of the organ receded into silence, and Father Lundy walked to the pulpit. He paused, studied the assembled mourners, and finally settled his eyes on those nearest him. In a tone almost conversational — strong and precise and warm — he spoke.
“To everyone else, he was Zila the famous. To us, he was Theo the familiar.
“To everyone else, he was Zila the wealthy. To us, he was Theo the generous.
“To some, he is Zila the headline. To us, he is Theo the friend.
“To some, he is Zila the preyed upon. To us, he is Theo the prayed for.
“To some, he was Zila the mysterious recluse. To us,” Father Lundy looked at the first rows, at Ellen, Kendrick, and at Tony’s tear-filled eyes, “to us, he will always be the face of heaven.
“We honor him today. And we grieve, but not — to quote the Apostle Paul — as those who have no hope. Didn’t Theo speak often of heaven, with an unmistakable longing in his voice and with a clear conviction of its reality and beauty?”
Heads nodded.
“In Theo’s honor, and in keeping with the hope that expressed itself so radiantly in his life, I read these words of promise from Another, a far greater One who lived obscurely among His neighbors long ago, an Artist Himself, the One who, for Theo, defined life and love and goodness.
The One who alone makes us good and wise and happy. ”
Father Lundy read from the gospels of Matthew and John and then, in recognition of Theo’s love for water, both moving and still, the twenty-third Psalm.
Father Lundy let the words hang over the room before offering an extemporaneous prayer: thankful, thoughtful, honest, and eloquent.
“… And if it is true that ‘begging is our only wisdom,’ then we beg, dear Lord, that this man’s presence in our lives will not have been in vain but instead that we will perpetuate the obedient faith, the cheerful hope, and the generous love that he made so beautifully visible while he was here among us.
Might the light of his countenance, how he loved, and who he loved, inspire us to follow him, even as he followed the Christ, in whose name we pray. Amen.”
When those in the congregation opened their eyes and raised their heads, Professor Gobelli was sitting before them, to the right of the pulpit.
With graceful and balletic precision of movement, he raised his left hand to the neck of the cello, positioned the bow over the strings with his right, took a deep breath, relaxed his shoulders, tilted his head slightly, and began to play a mournful rendition of “Fado for Theo.”