Preparatory notes for fu.., p.12
Preparatory Notes for Future Masterpieces, page 12
“Teach him a lesson he’ll never forget!” was his wife’s reply.
“I’m telling you, don’t open that window curtain!” he yelled again. Then I heard their door squeak open and slam shut, and a second later I heard pounding at my door. Still half asleep and a little bewildered, it took me a moment to realize that I was the pervert she was talking about. I quickly scooped up the drawings as though I could hide the evidence, but then I stopped. I had already been caught. Javier had seen everything, and now he was coming to teach me a lesson. I was about to turn and head for the back door, the door leading to nothing but open country, when my front door swung open and I saw my neighbor struggling to pull himself inside as he balanced on the wobbly stack of crates.
“Pssst!” he whispered. “Listen to me. I’m not going to hurt you, I swear. Help me up.”
I thought this was some sort of trick to catch me without a chase, and I continued toward the back exit. He whispered again, “Seriously, I mean it. Help me up!” Then in a loud deep voice he cried out, “I’m going to kill you, you sissy!” Then he held his fingers to his lips and whispered, “I don’t mean it. That’s just for her sake,” and he pointed vigorously toward his shack as though to make his purpose clear.
I was very confused. I continued backing up, eyes on him as my hand reached for the doorknob.
“Wait, please!” he mouthed imploringly, just as he found his footing on the crates and hoisted himself into the house. “Just pretend like I’m hurting you,” he whispered. Then he cried out, “You ingrate! I’ll kill you!” And he reached for a chair and knocked it to the ground. “Squeal like you’re in pain,” he said. “Do it, or I’ll really hurt you,” and his eyes bugged out and he clenched his teeth as though to show me he was serious.
Fearing violence yet finding myself unable to run, I felt compelled to play along. I cried out, “No! Please!” He picked up the chair and threw it across the room.
“Let me have those drawings,” he whispered heavily.
“Why? To destroy them?”
He shushed me. “No, because I can sell them like that,” he said, snapping his fingers. “Now cry again.”
I cried out in pain and yelled, “Don’t hurt me!”
He pounded his foot on the ground and then slammed his hand against a table. “Just give them to me and every guy in this camp will pay a week’s worth of wages for one.”
I eyed him unsurely. “You mean like an art dealer?”
Javier knit his brow in confusion, mulled it over for a second, and then nodded his head. “Yes, why not? Call it whatever you want.” Then he leaned down and picked up one of the drawings of Ella in the windowsill. He stared at it admiringly, almost in awe, and for a moment I was never more convinced of my genius. Even this poor laborer living in the middle of nowhere could see the value of my work, and what’s more, wanted to represent it. But then his expression of admiration became more specific. He stared as if looking at a foldout in a nudie magazine. It was a gaze full of lust. Then he said, “What I’d give for a night with—”
I gasped. “This is a work of art!”
“You can say that again,” he said, not taking his eyes off the page.
“No, I meant this”—and I pointed to the page—“the drawing itself.”
Now he looked up. “Well, yes, that’s what I’m saying, too. You’re good. You’re very good. Which is why I know that men will be lining up to buy these. By any chance do you think you could make smaller drawings, like a size to fit in a wallet?”
I was conflicted. To my mind, it still wasn’t clear whether my neighbor recognized the expert rendering of the subject or if it was simply the subject itself that caught his attention.
“Doesn’t it bother you that this is your wife’s sister?” I asked.
He glanced up at me, his brow furrowed, and then he looked back at the drawing. “My wife’s sister? You mean Ella?”
“Yes, your wife’s sister. That’s who it is!”
“But this doesn’t even look like her!”
“Yes, it does,” I said.
He began shaking his head. “No, this isn’t her. For one, Ella is much shorter than this girl here.”
“Well, she was reclining in the windowsill, which makes it hard to tell how tall or short someone is.”
Javier stuck out his bottom lip as though considering this possibility, and then shook his head again. “I’m sorry, it doesn’t look like her. But why were you drawing my sister-in-law in the windowsill anyway?”
“I don’t have many models to draw from, and she was—well—just there, not moving or anything.”
He continued staring at the drawing. “This woman here—she’s . . . she’s exquisite. Ella, she just thinks she looks like a pinup girl, with her fake blonde hair. I’d be careful if I were you. She flirts with every guy who crosses her path. All she wants is to get her hooks into someone—anyone.”
I didn’t like hearing this at all. Ella was my muse. I wanted to believe that she was reserved for me and me only.
“Hand those drawings over,” he said. “You don’t have much choice. My wife is going to drag your name through the dirt. She’s a God-fearing woman who doesn’t abide pornographers. You’re going to be a pariah in this camp. You might as well make a quick buck for your troubles.”
I don’t know what was more upsetting: the negative light in which he had portrayed Ella, or the fact that he didn’t recognize his own sister-in-law in the drawings. So much so that he was willing to sell the drawings to strangers.
“No, I won’t give you these drawings!” I blurted out. Then I rushed over and gathered the sheets of paper as quickly as I could. I directed my voice toward his wife’s ears on the other side of the window. “I didn’t make these drawings for fornication!” I cried.
His eyes widened and then turned angry. Before I could turn and run, drawings safely in hand, he bounded toward me and slapped me across the jaw. The drawings went flying. I tried catching them all at once, but was so staggered by the blow that I grabbed only air before falling to the ground and striking my face against the wood floor. Already tender, my nose began to pour out blood.
“You pervert!” he screamed, his face beet red. “You’re lucky I don’t kill you for shaming my sister-in-law!”
He kicked me in the side, and I heard a rib crack. When I raised my head, his fist slammed into my cheek. I reached for two or three drawings that had settled nearby. I grabbed onto the corners, but soon felt my grip loosen. Then everything went black.
When I awoke, Ella’s face was gazing into mine. I thought for sure I was dead and in heaven. She was caressing my cheek and softly singing a lullaby. I became aware that my head was resting on her thigh.
“You’re alive?” she said.
“I think so,” I said. I breathed in deeply and pain shot through my body. I struggled for air. I winced as every breath pressed on my rib cage.
“You’re just a little banged up,” she said.
I turned my head to the side and saw my drawings scattered everywhere. Some were crumpled, one appeared ripped, another had blood on it, but most seemed intact.
“I like your drawings,” she said.
“You do?” My breathing momentarily eased.
“Yes. Who are they of?” she asked.
I groaned and tried to lift my head from her thigh, but I fell back in pain. “Oh, forget it,” I said. “Just forget it.” And I consoled myself with the fact that I had drawn these works with only a candle to guide me. Distortions were bound to occur.
“I’m just kidding,” she said, giggling. She reached for my head and repositioned it comfortably on her thigh.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I know they’re of me.”
“You do?”
“Well, yes. Who else was sleeping in the windowsill last night?” She smiled, then added, “I also heard you tell Javier before he attacked you.”
“Oh,” I said, my disappointment returning.
“I think they’re very good.”
“You do?”
“Of course I do. But you’re the artist. What do you need my opinion for?”
“You’re right,” I said. And she was right. I was the artist. How had I let Javier shake my confidence?
She looked around.
“How did you find me here?” I asked.
“I crawled through the windows,” she said matter-of-factly. “They’re so close to one another.”
“They are. It’s like we practically live together.”
“That’s true!” she said. “I didn’t even think about that.” Then after a pause she asked, “So you really live in this giant place all by yourself?”
I turned to look at my surroundings, wondering if we were looking at the same room. “It’s not exactly giant,” I said. “This is just my studio. I grew up in a giant home.”
“Oh? Is that where your family is?”
“I have no family,” I said. “My father is dead, and my mother wants nothing to do with me.”
“I’m so sorry. I know what it’s like. I’m an orphan, you know. That’s why I live with my sister.” She sighed. “It’s not easy, living with all of them. So many children, it’s impossible to sleep with five, six of us to a bed. That must be why I get up in the night. And Javier . . . well, you know Javier. He can be such a bully. I still can’t believe what he did to you.” As she said this, she placed the palm of her hand over my forehead. It was soft and cool. Then she gently combed my hair into place. It was a gesture as pleasurable as it was painful, because as she did it I breathed in deeply, causing spasms throughout my body.
“I’m sorry!” she cried.
“It’s okay,” I lied.
As my breathing eased, she looked toward the window mournfully. “When I opened the curtain, I saw Javier throwing you around like a rag doll. I told him to stop, but he just kept throwing you about, then pouncing on you. Your tongue was hanging out and your eyes had rolled back in your head. I thought for sure he was going to kill you . . .”
Based on her description, I realized that I had suffered another epileptic attack. I wasn’t about to admit this. In fact, I was thinking of something completely different. She lived with a sister who overworked her, a brother-in-law who wouldn’t recognize a likeness if he was staring at himself in the mirror, and ten insufferable kids. Now, my studio wasn’t exactly spacious, but it was just me, all alone except for some paints, some canvas and paper, and a yellow wooden bed in the corner. As I stared into her twinkling green eyes (she was still describing my beating in great detail), it almost didn’t seem fair. I knew that I had just abandoned my one and only friend Enrique after learning that in order to create masterpieces I needed absolute solitude. But love changes everything. What I needed now was Ella.
I’d been conscious only five minutes, but I was inspired. I imagined myself asking her to live with me, telling her that her days sharing a bed with extended family were over. She would no longer be at her sister’s beck and call; she wouldn’t have to suffer her brother-in-law’s lustful gazes; she would have peace and quiet and could decorate however she saw fit. She may have been a poor orphan girl reliant on the generosity of family, but that would all change. I would be her guardian. I kept imagining her excitement and gratitude, and the thought of her pleasure was overwhelming. So much so that I heard myself ask, “Why don’t you live with me?”
She stopped describing my beating. A smile came to her face, and her cheeks turned several shades of red. “Live with you?” she asked.
“Yes, live with me,” I responded, my inspiration only growing. “Here in my studio. You will be my model and my—” I was about to say “muse,” but I stopped myself. It didn’t seem proper. “My roommate,” I finished.
She laughed. “Your roommate? Is that what you want me to be?” Her voice was playful, and I almost came right out and said “lover.” But I opted for something more chivalrous. “Yes, you won’t have to worry about a thing.” I felt a great surge of emotion as I grasped the meaning of the words already out of my mouth. I would be her provider, her protector—as soon as I’d healed from my wounds, of course.
She lifted my head off her thigh and settled it gently on the floor. She rose, a childlike smile on her face. She wore an ankle-length white cotton dress that clung tightly to the curves of her body. As I stared up at her, she almost seemed tall. She spun around as if doing a waltz. “There is so much room, it’s like a dance floor!” she squealed gleefully, spinning some more, her dress rising just enough to reveal the back of one of her calves. Seeing just this bit of skin caused a tingling in my loins. Never mind that the night before I had made fifteen charcoal drawings of both her legs, bare all the way up to the top of her thigh. That didn’t matter. The night before she was in a windowsill, close, but not close enough. Now she was inside my room, spinning around, laughing, and even though my rib was broken, and most likely my nose, too, and I had suffered both a beating and an epileptic attack and accusations of being a pornographer, there was joy in the room. Pure unadulterated joy.
When she stopped waltzing, she placed her hands on her hips and caught her breath, her chest rising and lowering. The smile hadn’t left her face. If I could have stood up I would’ve rushed to embrace her, to cover her mouth with my own. Instead I lay prostrate on the floor, feeling very much the invalid.
“I’ll be your roommate,” she said. “Just let me get my stuff.”
As easy as that, we ended up living together. In retrospect I wish it had been more difficult. We should’ve had a trial period, gone on a few dates, maybe even spent an hour or two alone in my house just talking and feeling each other out on certain domestic issues, potential bones of contention, such as what was the appropriate amount of talking in any given hour. Even though Javier had beaten me up and left me for dead, and Ella’s sister thought I was a pervert, I wish that the two of them had sat us down and explained the difficulties of cohabitation. After all, they were more experienced. But they were just happy to be rid of Ella, one less mouth to feed, and she still watched the kids, so it was no loss for them. Ella even convinced her sister not to tell the whole camp about my lewd pictures. They gave her an extra blanket as well as some dishes and silverware, which were welcome because I’d taken to scooping food out of the pot with my hands.
I quickly learned that Ella talked a lot more than Enrique. She especially liked to ask questions. At first, I answered willingly and in great detail. For instance, she wanted to know how I became interested in drawing and painting. So of course, I delivered my general philosophy on steely-eyed realism, dropped a few names, Courbet, Corot, Millet, and was really getting to the heart of where I situated my work in the Parisian art world of eight decades before when she interrupted me to ask another question: “What’s the farthest place you’ve traveled to?”
So I told her about my sojourn to Los Angeles with Enrique. Just as I was getting to the part about being robbed, she interrupted to tell me that all she wanted to do in life was travel far away and never live in one space longer than a year. “That’s very nice,” I said, and then I quickly finished my story about finding my luggage and preparatory notes discarded in a dumpster. Her response to this miraculous story was to ask if I preferred apple pie or peach pie. Her questions about pies made me recall a long-suppressed memory from my childhood having to do with a family picnic. As I was reminiscing, searching for the details of this admittedly vague, potentially mundane story, she asked why I hadn’t fought in the war, which caused me to abandon the picnic memory and begin elaborating on the capricious nature of military exemptions. It’s true that, when asked a question, I’ve never had much restraint, I can’t help answering in great depth, but the problem was Ella didn’t seem to care about my answers. She just enjoyed coming up with questions. So it would go on like this for hours. Her asking, me answering, then her interrupting, until I became exasperated, at which point I would say, “Why don’t you let me finish my story?” And she would quickly apologize and say something immensely flattering, such as, “It’s just that I want to learn everything about you, I can’t help it!” So we’d continue.
Until my ribs and face were healed, I remained in bed and Ella took care of me. She cooked and cleaned and even organized and reorganized my art supplies. Other than that, there wasn’t much for her to do. She sat around and asked me questions, and when she tired of asking questions, she gazed out the wall of north-facing windows and sighed loudly every few minutes. As distracting as her sighs were, I tried to ignore them. I feared that if I asked why she was sighing it would lead her back to asking questions, and I needed rest from answering. Plus, I needed to work. I leafed studiously through the reproductions in The Great Book of French Painting. I laid out several of the drawings of Ella and made preparatory notes for the paintings I planned to make once I had fully recovered. I also tried to draw. Ella brought me my drawing board, and I propped it against my knees. She sat in a chair several feet away, and I began sketching her. Every thirty seconds she asked, “What part are you drawing now?” I told her and she would respond with a giddy squeal. Her excitement pleased me, but after the tenth time I informed her that her question was breaking my concentration. She apologized and became quiet, almost morose. The joy gone from the room, I found its absence equally distracting. So I would make amends and tell her, “I’m drawing the graceful slope of your shoulder.” All joy returned.
The truth is I wanted to make Ella happy. I tried to indulge her whims even when those whims ran contrary to what made me happy, like when she told me she was bored and asked if three of her nephews and nieces could visit for a few hours. I consented. They crawled through our adjoining windows and right away started using my brushes and paints and ruined several sheets of paper before I made her send them home. They left, but not before one of them jumped on a tube of red paint and caused it to explode. Red paint was everywhere, on the walls, on the floor. Even after repeated scrubbing, the room looked like a crime scene. Twice a week Ella helped Mrs. Ordoñez, and I had to admit I felt some relief when she left the studio. Even though I had lived with Enrique for years, he was mostly gone at work for fourteen, fifteen hours a day, whereas Ella and I were never out of each other’s presence. I felt suffocated, and I think she did, too, hence the repeated sighs as she longingly stared out the window. Soon all she talked about were the adventures we would have once I was fully recuperated from my beating. She had plans to travel to Albuquerque, Santa Fe, and El Paso, and she even mentioned Los Angeles and San Francisco. She wanted all sorts of adventures, and she felt that those were finally possible now that we were together.
