Nude Men

though comparatively pathetically minor, fault of being false.
    I look at her, and there are tears in her eyes. My heart constricts.
    Finally, she speaks: “I don’t know you as wed as I thought I did. I never thought you could do something like this. I don’t know anyone else who could. You’re noble and generous.”
    Does she mean I’m noble to have confessed, or is she being sarcastic?
    She moves closer to me and rests her head on my chest. “I love you so much,” she says. “I’m glad you were able to help Henrietta.
    For a moment I am surprised, but then I realize that it makes sense. Her response fits with her extraordinary, angelic personality. It’s the side of her that’s more human than any human I know, and therefore not quite human. I hold her delicately, respectfully, as though I’m holding a sacred object, or a saint. But then our awe becomes more sensual, our tenderness more violent: our behavior sinks into the more mundane pattern of making love.
    Just as we finish, the phone rings. Laura answers it.
    “Hello?... Oh hi, Henrietta,” she says, looking at me significantly. “I’m fine, and you?... Was it nice in the country?... You must be exhausted after the drive.... Yes, he’s right here.” She hands me the phone.
    “Hi. How are you feeling?” I ask Henrietta.
    “Pretty good, actually. What about you, are you tired?”
    “A bit.”
    “Oh well,” she says, “I suddenly got this craving to paint, and I was wondering which model I felt like calling over, and it turned out to be you.”
    “I’m flattered, but are you sure? When you tried painting me at my mother’s, you seemed totally uninspired.”
    “It had nothing to do with you. I just didn’t feel like painting at the time. But now I’m dying to.”
    “I’d love to pose for you,” I tell her, glad to hear that she has regained her taste for painting and eager to help in any way I can.
    “Ready?” she says. “Like even now?”
    “You mean today?”
    “If you could, I’d love it.”
    “Hang on a second.” I cover the mouthpiece with my hand and say to Laura, “She wants me to pose for her, but I wanted to spend the evening with you. I don’t know what to do.”
    “Go pose for her. She sounds like she’s in pretty good spirits, so you should help her keep them up.”
    I take my hand off the mouthpiece. “How about in a couple of hours?”
    “Thank you. Be hungry,” Henrietta says, and hangs up.
     
    S he greets me at the door, wearing some sort of dressing gown or kimono. A goldish kimono.
    In the middle of the room is set up the largest canvas I have ever seen her use. It is square, as tad as me. She says she will do a vertical, life-size portrait of me. She wants me to pose standing up.
    I feel strange just standing there, stark naked, without even leaning against anything, without the slightest thread of satin to decorate me, to hide me, to pull one’s attention away from my nakedness. Next to me, Henrietta has placed a stool, on which is a tray of canapés. There is also a glass of champagne and the inevitable marzipan, which today is in the shape of little pink elephants. She has an identical tray next to her easel.
    She teds me I’m allowed to move my right arm and my jaw, to eat the food. I eat a pate canapé, lick my fingers, and say, “I’m glad you feel like painting again,” just to make conversation. “Are you now going to concentrate more on your serious art than on your commercial art?”
    “Don’t talk,” she says. “Let’s just appreciate the food and the sensual pleasure of creation.”
    So we pose and paint and eat in silence for a few minutes. Then she starts talking. Light, pleasant, amusing, unmemorable, insignificant conversation. I feel good, even though I’ve been standing virtually motionless now for about half an hour. I feel I could stand here many more hours, as long as there’s a steady supply of canapés, champagne, marzipan elephants, and unmemorable conversation.
    She gets up once in a while, to change my position slightly. One inch to the right, feet closer together, one step back— Wait! I don’t want to get too far from my stool of marzipan elephants and insignificant conversation. We’ll bring the stool closer, she says. Yes, closer, I sigh, comforted, as I bite off the trunk of a little pink elephant.
    She goes back to her seat but soon puts down her paintbrush again. “Your position is still not quite right,” she says, and adds pitifully, “Sara