Origins, Volume 10, No.2 (4)

Herewith, the latest selection from dusted-off published poetry and short fiction, circa 1970s vintage and beyond....

Leonara's Passion

Sunlight streamed through the slats of the blind, throwing fingers of light over the bed. Motes of dust shifted lazily through the streams of light. He stirred beside her; moaned lightly in his sleep. She strained to hear; was that someone's name? That most intrusive of curiosities, wanting to know, in a careless kind of way, the most intimate of another's needs.

She had been awake since dawn, studying him. To look at him like that, unaware, with no protective devices in place. Smooth cheeks, no blemishes, like a girl's. Hair tumbling in chestnut loops over his forehead, his ears. Vulnerable. That pleased her, the thought of his seeming vulnerability.

She felt tempted to bring her hand up, stroke the marbled shoulder closest to her. Instead, she brought her hand up to stroke her left breast, lingeringly. Her hand travelled with an impetus of its own to her face, then traced the scar on her cheekbone.

She turned again in his direction, was startled to see him watching her. She smiled and stretched, deliberately provocative, voluptuously. His face remained impassive yet strangely searching, wanting something of her.

He threw the light covering off and rose, walked toward the window, wordlessly. Stood there looking out, back turned to her. Like Donatello's 'David', she mused. Well formed but light, almost feline. Of course it was Michelangelo's 'David' that she preferred. As an art object, that is. As a sex object she preferred the artless helplessness of the perpetual adolescent. Eternal mother, warm and ready to receive - not nurture, receive.

All-embracing in a discriminating kind of way. Everywhere her venue. Belonging to no one and everyone. Like public property with a private lease. And this way, she mused with familiar satisfaction, life was less of a bloody bore. She needed these distractions as a release from business tension, as a cathartic outlet. And why bloody-well not?

She straightened up and shifted to her back to clasp her hands around the back of her neck, stare up at the ceiling, review her schedule. This would be a day of decisions. She had to draw up the season's calendar of public events. A Harold Brown retrospective for certain. He was currently enjoying a renaissance of public interest, might as well cash in on it. And what about a special showing of French impressionist pen-and-ink drawings? Could think of inviting the French ambassador to open the exhibition at a gala reception. Have to check the budget, think about the wine list. Talk to Sara about bringing over Jackson's exquisite mushroom drawings. She could mount that exhibition in much the same manner as the National Gallery, using excerpts from his diary to highlight the total effect. Look into the rumour of that Renoir going up for grabs; she could stretch the acquisition budget to allow for a prestigious coup.

"Well?"

She winced at the intrusion, resented her broken train of thought. Turned to regard him. His voice sounded surprisingly firm considering his state. He was picking at his fingers, again. He knew she hated that. People should control their ambitions, their emotions a little better than that. This was a civilized world they moved in.

Not straining herself with a verbal reply, she raised her eyebrows questioningly. Despite herself, annoyance turned to pleasure as the curator took over. With the sunlight playing over his flesh she could almost imagine him encapsulated in amber. Pity. As a specimen he would be simpler to deal with.

She would simply have to exercise a little more choice in future - be less eclectic? And by all means look for someone less ... what, dependent? Yes. More mature, less needy. A military type, for example. With the stunningly cruel yet beautiful face of Verrocchio's 'Condottiere'.

The sardonic half smile on her face was for herself, not for him, waiting for her response, glowering like an ill-tempered child.

"Yes, David?"
"David!"
"Sorry, Brian." She yawned, amused by the tremor in his voice.
"What's the matter? What's been happening?" His voice pleading. He meant to play on her sympathies. That was certainly assuming a great deal.

The floor creaked lightly as he walked toward the bed, settled on the rug, then leaned his head on the sheet thrown lightly over her, his eyes calf-like, appealing. She adored his long lashes.

"Absolutely nothing. There is nothing at all going on. Unless, of course" she said coquettishly, "you consider the marvellous break you're getting. A show of your own. Toronto's newest darling of the nouveau-arty set."

"Right ... and I'm grateful, of course I am! But you know that's not what I mean."
"...of course, non-objective art ... these surrealist abstractions don't do anything for me. A personal opinion, you understand." She tilted her face toward him, smiled warmly.
"Yes, I ..."

"I much prefer the Italian masters. However, I have it on absolutely impeccable authority that the latest craze among those who can afford it is for these little avant garde constructions of yours. How would you categorize them, Darling, pastiches?"
"Actually ..."
"...and with the right kind of presentation - which is what this show is all about ..."
"Goddammit! Never mind that now!" He brought his face closer, the earnest look on his face, the intensity with which he regarded her ....

"Brian, dear!"
"Look, you've got to level with me! I have to know!"
"Daarling" she drawled, wondering how long it would take him to finally accept the tedious inevitable. "Is it true that those little pellets you litter your canvases with, the ones you spray with that horrid aluminum paint - are they really rabbit droppings?"

"Jee-sus! You're not even listening to me! Yeah, that's what they are, all right. Shit! And that's what you think my work is too, I know that. Now please, give me some idea of where we're at!"

"Oh, sorry Love. Where we're at?" She repeated, then paused and the silence and his expectations weighted the air around them, suddenly made her sick of the game.
"Well, exactly nowhere" she finally pronounced, articulating carefully.
"Just like that?" He demanded incredulously. "Everything was fine. It was, wasn't it? What'd I do wrong?"

His breath breezed stale cigarettes, liquor, an altogether unsavoury excess. Her nose twitched, like a rabbit, she told herself, suppressing a giggle. Ill-timed, dearie, that would most surely devastate the poor dear, the dolt. Remember what Mama taught you; only resort to ridicule when all else fails. Give him another chance to muster his resources. She drew away and propped herself on an elbow, her hair shifting over her shoulders.

"Nothing, nothing is wrong. You've done nothing. Comes a time when a relationship has nothing to keep it going."
"How can you say that?" How can he sound so anguished? Marvellous, had no idea he had thespian talents as well. Might recommend he explore that option, give up the dabbling in oils - some other time, when he'd be more receptive to good advice.

"I'm a romantic, an inveterate romantic" she sighed. "And Lovey, there's nothing left. I'm ready to move on."

He turned away, hugged his arms around his bent knees. The silence encompassed the dishevelled bed, the stale air, his brooding figure, her condescension; her patience which was wearing thin. Old girl, she reminded herself, be kind, remember what Mama always said.

Tedious! And last night's party at the Purple Pansy; an utter bore. Waste of time ... almost. Was getting tired of all the little arty-farty backstabbings, whining. And the bloody tantrum he threw! Just because ... what the hell was his name, now?

"I satisfy you, don't I? Well?" She mocked with vigour. Blew him a well-rounded kiss.

He drew his breath. So audibly, oh dear! "You cold bitch! You're frigid, that's what's wrong!" His voice breaking, sounding almost, she thought with relish, like a castrato. Really!"
"That's better" she said, her voice deliberately encouraging. "That's more like it! Get it out of your head, let it all hang out, Lovey."

"No...I..." he disclaimed, his voice stricken now, head bent like a broken puppet's, in despair.
"It's therapeutic" she assured him. Goddamm! If it isn't time for this little bedroom farce to end, she thought with growing irritation.

He rose from the floor, hung his face pleadingly over hers. "I didn't mean it. I'm frustrated. It just ...." He began striding about the room, back and forth. Splendid, a caged pussycat.

Her eye caught the helmet glimmering on top of the French armoire. Photography was her own medium, her forte, and he had been persuaded to pose for her last night; a tipsy Cupid, resplendent in his glowing nakedness, the metal helmet set awry on his head, posing obligingly. Oh, call them Adonis, Salai or David, they're all the same; fey sprites in love with themselves and vehemently denying it.

Why didn't he go? These scenes were so damn predictable. She really was getting sick of these pseudo-incestuous relationships.

Her attention turned back to him, striding the floor. She wasn't entirely insensitive. But it might be just what he needed, a bit of anguish; self-manufactured or not, this blow to his self-esteem. Excite, perhaps, his latent genius. How droll.

She watched him stop before the portrait dominating the wall before the bed. With him, she appraised the self-portrait of the Great Man, ran her eyes over the flowing beard, the piercing eyes that bespoke his genius. "This goddamn picture! How can you stand it staring down at you all the time? Everywhere you turn, those eyes follow. It gives me the creeps!"

She glanced at the clock on the night table, yanked the sheet off herself and slid out of the bed to stride, finally, into the bathroom. Placing herself on the toilet, grateful for its unexpected warmth, she waited. Not bothering to shut the door, she grinned at him watching from the other room, his face stricken, mouth gulping air like a drowning guppy.

His face crumpled, his breathing resounded in shallow gulps. Turning with a piercing shout he plucked his clothes off the floor, slapped them hastily on; the whole thing taking seconds, then exited, slamming the door behind him, resoundingly.

She sighed, rose, flushed the toilet.

Turning the taps on full, she began to run her bath, sprinkled salts into the rushing water, the aromatic fragrance of a heady musk rising with the steam to fill the lavender-coloured room. She sniffed appreciatively and padded back to the bedroom, briefly surveyed the mess.

She lifted a snifter from her bureau. Some brandy left. She warmed it with her hands, held the glass up to observe more closely the colour shimmering on the sides of the glass, then tilted it and played her tongue in the viscous liquid.

Hands on her ample hips, she stood before the picture of the Maestro, da Vinci. the bathroom thundered a waterfall. Water, she recalled, was thought to portray sensuality ... the background of the Mona Lisa, that half-wittish, asexual creature, that clever joke.

"Old Misanthrope" she murmured. "Two can play at that game."

c. 1980 Rita Rosenfeld
published in Origins, June 1980