Nude Men Page 5

  Well, maybe I’m strange and different from every other man, but personally, I believe it’s my bottom half that makes me most nervous.

  I decide I have no choice. I can’t back out, no matter what.

  I’m just about to emerge, when Lady Henrietta says, “Would it make you feel better if another model came and posed next to you?”

  “No,” I answer, and pull back the curtain.

  I don’t take my eyes off her as I step out, so I can see her reaction to my naked body. Will she look down? That is the question. Or will she keep her eyes on mine? She does look down, but so casually and rapidly that it makes me feel even less uncomfortable than if she had not looked down at all, which would have suggested she was using all her willpower to resist the temptation of looking at my thingy, which would have brought more attention to it. She acts perfectly normal, makes no strange expression, doesn’t even raise an eyebrow, which surprises me a little but is great.

  She leads me to the couch behind the easel and asks me to lie down in the most comfortable position I can find. I must say, she looks and acts very professional.

  She starts painting, and she makes me talk about my life, and she talks about her life. I am amazed at how comfortable she is able to make me feel. I like her more and more because of it. Next to her is a tray of small marzipan pigs and rabbits, which she nibbles on while she paints. After an hour or so, she puts a big sheet over the canvas and says she is finished for today.

  “Can I see it?” I ask.

  “No,” she answers. “Never until it is completely done and dry.”

  She tells me that I am a very good model and asks if I would mind coming over and posing again. I eagerly agree. We set a date.

  “By the way,” I say, “how should I call you? Lady Henrietta, or Henrietta, or Lady?”

  “Henrietta is fine. Do you know why I call myself Lady Henrietta?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever read The Picture of Dorian Gray?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you should. It’s my bible. There is a character in there, Lord Henry, who is in a certain sense my god. I admire his philosophies of life. I decided to take the liberty of making myself the female version of his character. He is Lord Henry. I am Lady Henrietta.”

  I leave, on great terms with her and very happy and in love. The next appointment is in five days. The moment I step out of her building I run to the nearest bookstore and buy The Picture of Dorian Gray. I read it that evening, and I am puzzled. Lord Henry is not a particularly admirable character. Some might even call him mildly evil: a meek devil. His chief sin is manipulation for the sake of manipulation. I must admit that his ideas about life are amusing in their extreme cynicism, but I don’t understand. I did not detect any similarities between Lord Henry and Lady Henrietta. Perhaps similarities will soon surface, in which case I will not be overly disappointed, because the evil in question is rather more like spice than like, let’s say, poison or acid.

  I suppose my elephant wish did not come true. I suppose I’m not the most beautiful man Henrietta has ever seen. Though maybe I am. She did nothing to indicate that I definitely was not. As for her falling in love with me, there’s no way to tell if that part of my wish came true. It probably didn’t. I must stay pessimistic, for my own good. Some people might even call it realistic, though that’s not nice.

  I don’t go on a diet, as I did before, and I don’t exercise. I think Lady Henrietta is great because she accepts me as I am. For five days, I’m so happy. But there’s one thing that puzzles me. I know that no portrait of me could ever be in Play girl. I am simply not good-looking enough. I wonder why she chose me and why she needs a portrait of me. I fantasize that maybe it’s for her own pleasure. Maybe it’s to keep for herself. But I doubt it.

  I am a little ashamed to admit that since posing for Henrietta I have become very confident when I’m around my girlfriend, Charlotte, and neglectful, as though I have power now.

  chapter four

  The day of the second posing arrives. I buy Lady Henrietta a potted lily of the valley, my favorite flower. She likes it, smells it, and is very polite and proper. I realize that I want to ask her out on a date. But I have to wait a little while to see how things go.

  Like the last time, she tells me to lie down in the most comfortable position I can find. She paints me while nibbling on marzipan lions, and I feel great. I become even more self-confident, and I continue talking about my life.

  After fifteen minutes of posing, Henrietta shouts, “Sara!”

  A moment later a tall little girl enters the living room. She has long blond braids and reminds me of a child heroine from a fairy tale, like Alice in Wonderland, or Gretel. She is so pretty, her skin is so flawless, and her features are so perfect, that she looks like a cartoon. She is wearing white knee socks and holding a Barbie doll. I can’t quite determine her age. Her body is rather developed and looks inappropriate in her childish clothes, but her face is very young, very little-girlish.

  She walks over to Henrietta and stands next to her, looking at me.

  “What do you think of my new model?” Henrietta asks the little girl.

  “Excellent,” says the girl. “Where did you find him?”

  “In a coffee shop, eating Jell-O.”

  “I’ve never seen a more extreme O.I.M.”

  “Thank you,” says Henrietta. “Jeremy, this is my daughter, Sara. Sara, this is Jeremy.”

  I want to ask them what is an O.I.M., but due to the terribly awkward situation I’m in right now, my curiosity leaves me as quickly as it came. Sara walks over to me and extends her hand. I am so shocked that this little girl can see me naked, and that Henrietta has a daughter, and that the girl is approaching me, and that she wants me to touch her while I’m naked, that at first I don’t move. I feel that any movement on my part would emphasize my nakedness. But the girl doesn’t move either. She just stands there with her hand extended, so I finally shake it. I have a lump in my throat, the same sort of lump one gets while watching a sad movie and trying not to cry.

  “Sara, I have a little problem here,” says Henrietta. “I need your expert opinion. Jeremy is supposedly lying in the most comfortable position he could find, but it doesn’t look quite right.”

  “You’re right,” says the little girl. “It’s totally off. It looks very tight. And he lied to you. He’s not in the most comfortable position he could find. In fact, he’s not very comfortable at all.” I marvel at her perceptiveness. I am lying in a rather uncomfortable position, and I hadn’t bothered to change it.

  “Naughty, naughty, Jeremy,” says Henrietta, shaking her paintbrush at me. “You are not comfortable. How do you expect me to do good work if you’re fooling me? Do something about it, please, Sara.”

  Sara stands right in front of me and says, “Get up.”

  I get up. I have never, ever in my life been so conscious of my penis. The greatest wish I have right now is to be castrated and look like a doll, with no sexual organ, just smooth flesh.

  Sara puts a pink sheet on the sofa, and then a black sheet, and she tells me to lie on it again, in the most comfortable position I can find. I obey her. She covers one of my legs with a corner of the pink sheet, and she says to her mother, “How’s that?”

  “You are a genius, my daughter. Thank you. Now run along and get ready for your dancing magic lesson.”

  “Please,” says the girl, “I really don’t want to go today. Please.”

  “Oh, come on, it’s only twice a week.”

  “That’s a lot. Don’t say ‘only.’ That is so much a lot.”

  “But you’re always in such a good mood afterward.”

  “That’s because I know I have three entire wonderful days of peace before my next stupid dancing magic lesson.”

  “No excuses. Come on now,” says Henrietta in a high-pitched, nanny, Mary Poppins voice.

  Sara leaves, her cheeks and lips red and shiny, shooting dark-blue glances at her mother.r />
  Henrietta says to me, “Sara has exquisite taste. She always manages to find the perfect position for my models. And she knows precisely what props to use.”

  “You mean you always let her see naked men?”

  “Of course.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Eleven.”

  I decide to change the subject, not wanting to seem critical of her. We talk of pleasant things. After an hour, she tells me that the painting is finished, or at least that she can finish it without me. She says I can come and see it next Saturday, when it is completely done and dry. I feel sad, afraid that she intends our next meeting to be our last.

  Then I remember I wanted to ask her what she’s going to do with her painting of me.

  “I know I’m not very good-looking,” I say. “Why did you choose me?”

  She smiles kindly, probably at my modesty, and says, “I have my perfect models, which I use for the magazine, and I have my imperfect models, which I use for artistic reasons. I find that painting imperfect models is a much more interesting and intelligent thing to do. It is a way of admitting the defects of life.” She stops abruptly and then says, “I’m sorry. I just realized this may have been hurtful to you. I apologize.”

  “I wasn’t hurt at all.” This is not true. I was hurt. She chose me as an imperfect model. She chose me to be a representation of the defects of life. I am lying to her because I want her to keep talking, to say all the horrible things that are on her mind, so I’ll know from the very beginning what she really thinks of me. I try to act relaxed and cheerful.

  “Could I see portraits of your imperfect models?” I ask. “Sure.”

  She leads me to the other end of her living room and takes paintings out of enormous cabinets. She leans them against the wall. Some are very funny. They are all much worse than I am, which depresses me.

  “Do you think I look as bad as they do?” I ask glumly.

  She smiles slightly and says, “No. I’m changing my style, moderating it, using more subtle subjects.”

  I feel better. I think this is a good time to ask her out. Even though she has a daughter (which doesn’t change my feelings for her at all) and may also have a husband, she also may not, so I might as well try my luck. She doesn’t seem to be living with anyone, but of course one can’t be sure.

  Before I came over today, I thought a lot about asking her out, so I know exactly what I’m going to say.

  “Would you like to go and see a movie with me?” I ask.

  “Ah! I’m glad you brought it up,” she says. “I wanted to talk to you about that type of thing exactly.”

  I raise my eyebrows nervously and resist the urge to ask something that might sound stupid, such as “What type of thing?” So I remain quiet. I bet she’s going to tell me that she doesn’t date her models. Or on the other hand, maybe she feels I took too long to ask her out. In any case, if she accepts my invitation and wants me to choose the movie, I chose one already. It’s Spanish, with English subtitles, about a toreador caught in a love triangle. Nice and intellectual. Nice and artsy. It’s called We Are the Taurus.

  She says, “One of the reasons I decided to speak to you that day, in the coffee shop, was that I wanted you to meet a friend of mine. I think you’ll like her.”

  I don’t understand what she’s talking about. Does she want to match me up with someone other than herself?

  “Her name is Laura,” she continues. “She’s performing tonight at Défense d’y Voir, a little club. We could have dinner there and go to a movie afterward.”

  “She’s a singer or something?” I ask.

  “No. A dancing magician.”

  I frown. “Like Sara’s lesson?”

  “Yes. Laura is Sara’s instructor.”

  I wish I could ask, “What is a dancing magician, by the way?” But I don’t allow myself to, because I’m afraid the answer might be too obvious, like: a magician who dances. I wonder if the little scenario that took place earlier between Henrietta and her daughter wasn’t arranged solely for my benefit, to pique my curiosity or something, which it did. Maybe it was supposed to make me think: Wow, I am going to meet someone who does what Sara begs her mother not to make her do. It must be something awe-inspiringly unpleasant.

  Later, in my apartment, while standing in front of the mirror and getting dressed for the evening, I realize I look just as maggoty as ever. I immediately try to push that negative, grossly inaccurate, grossly exaggerated, paranoiac thought out of my mind. Then I remember that the little girl called me an

  O.I.M., and I try to guess what those letters stand for: Obviously Imperfect Maggot, Ordinary Inbred Mosquito, Occasional Insect Murderer, Odiously Immortal Man. No, it must be something good, because Henrietta said thank you: Optimally Impressive Mannequin, Outrageously Inspiring Model, Our Incomparable Male, Obediently Indecent Meat. But the girl is the one who said it, and maybe she saw me as a threat: Old Intruding Molester.

  I pick up Henrietta that evening at eight. I’m surprised she got so dressed up for me. I’m flattered. It makes me feel very self-confident, and I act a bit more familiar with her.

  “You look great,” I say.

  Défense d’y Voir is an unusual little club, more of a restaurant, really, except that there’s an open space among the tables for dancing, and a small stage at the end of the room. Henrietta explains to me that the restaurant’s name is a French play on words that means “forbidden to see” or, when spelled differently, “ivory tusk.”

  Apart from the choices on the menu, it’s casual in every way: the prices are reasonable, a few jeans are sprinkled here and there, and there’s no coat check. Henrietta tells me that she will pay for us, that she’s inviting me. I’m so surprised to hear her telling me this before we even start eating that I don’t even bother to object. I’m also slightly mortified, but I force myself to forget about it instantly. The waiter comes to take our order.

  Lady Henrietta says, “To begin, I would like the petite croûte d’escargots et champignons sauvages.”

  I barely know any French, so I read the English translation of what I want: “And I’d like the pigeon salad with couscous and Xeres vinegar.”

  “And as a main course,” says Henrietta, “I would like the steak tartare pommes frites.”

  I say, “And I’d like the roulade and grilled legs of partridge with leeks on a bed of wild greens.”

  Lady Henrietta orders red wine for us.

  I am curious to know when the dancing magician woman will come out, but I don’t ask because I don’t want to seem interested in this person, which I’m not. We eat. It is okay. I try to make her talk a little about her life. I don’t want to say anything that might jeopardize our relationship or turn her off.

  “Are there any other men in your life?” I ask gently.

  “There are none,” she says, sort of distractedly. This answer makes me so happy.

  She’s looking at the people around us a lot.

  “How old are you?” I ask. Whether she’s twenty or forty doesn’t make any difference to me. I’m asking her because I want to know as much about her as possible, and I believe in directness.

  “Thirty,” she says.

  “I’m twenty-nine. What about the past men in your life?”

  “Oh, they were like anyone else’s past men.”

  “Which is?”

  “I went out with a few. They lasted a year at the most. It was fun while it lasted.”

  “Would you like to find a relationship that will last?”

  “I’m sure I do.”

  “What do you mean, you’re sure you do? Is that a way of saying you’re not sure?”

  “One of my traits is that I am usually not sure about anything.”

  “What about Sara’s father?”

  “What about him?”

  “What became of him?”

  “He died.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  I know I probably shouldn’t ask “how.” But wha
t about “when”? Am I allowed to ask “when”?

  “When?” I ask in a small voice.

  “Ten years ago.”

  “I’m very sorry.”

  “Yeah, me too,” she says, and looks around at the people, probably wanting me to drop the subject.

  “How did it happen?”

  She looks at me. “Flying accident.”

  “A plane crash?”

  “No, hang gliding.”

  Am I allowed to ask, “Have you ever hang glided?” or would that be dragging out the unpleasant subject for too long?

  “Have you ever hang glided?” I ask.

  “No, it was never my cup of tea,” she says, pushing the hair out of her face, probably desperate for me to shut up. She looks around at the people more eagerly than ever, and I decide to point it out to her.

  “Are you studying subjects for your paintings?” I ask.

  “How perceptive,” she says, smiling, probably relieved that I dropped the subject. “Recently,” she goes on, “I realized more clearly than ever that movement is an excellent thing to study for painting. Especially now, for my new, more moderate paintings. Everything is more subtle, so I have to start observing things that don’t seem relevant for painting. Like voice, conversation, and intelligence.”

  I’m a teeny bit jealous that she looks at other people so much. Obsessively Infatuated Martyr.

  “I like optical illusions,” she adds.

  I can’t think of anything else to say, so even though I don’t really care about the answer, I ask, “Where is the dancing magician?”

  “She should be out soon. She’s getting ready. It takes her a long time.”

  I wonder why she is smiling when she says this. The waiter comes to take our order for dessert.

  Henrietta says, “I would like the poires aux amandes sur une mousse de vin blanc.”

  I say, “I would like the homemade honey ice cream, please.” The background music suddenly stops, and a different music begins. It sounds rather Arabian.

  A woman comes out on the stage, carrying a box full of objects. She puts it down in a corner. I guess this is Laura. She has not been announced, but since she starts dancing, it must be her. She is dressed rather normally (for living, that is, not dancing), wearing boots and a loose jacket, no special costume, except for a top hat, which looks out of place with the rest of her outfit. The hat is held on her head by an elastic under her chin, so that it won’t fall off when she dances. She’s not bad-looking, except that her mouth seems a bit deformed. She twirls and skips and raises her arms. I can tell right away that her dancing is very amateurish: the kind bankers might do, on the spur of the moment, in the privacy of their homes. The magic has not come yet. She bounces, taps her feet. She pulls a flower out of her boot and raises it triumphantly, leading me to believe with disbelief that this flower-out-of-boot business is to be considered a magic trick. I’m bewildered. She does a touch of tap dancing, a touch of belly dancing, a bit of moonwalk, a modest leap, and pulls a small toy rabbit from inside her jacket. Oddly Incompetent Magician. I’m astonished. She skips some more, jumps, spins, kicks up one leg, and takes a big white marble out of her mouth, which explains why her mouth looked deformed. She is much prettier now. She raises the shiny wet marble to the audience victoriously. It’s appalling. I try hard not to grimace. She claps her hands, slaps her thighs, swings her arms, pivots on her heels, and from her other boot pulls out a stick, which I think is supposed to be a wand. She waves it wildly, at first like a lasso, then, more appropriately, in the manner of a witch. She turns her back to the audience for a few seconds, doing something we cannot see. She then faces us and (ta-da!), she is wearing glasses. Her grand flourish of a pose leads us to understand that she has just accomplished her fourth magic trick, unless the wand-out-of-boot was supposed to be one, in which case this would be the fifth. It’s exhausting, trying to pinpoint her tricks; I must give her credit for that.