Nude Men Read online

  Not trusting my own judgment, though, I lean toward Henrietta and whisper, “I don’t understand.”

  “There’s nothing to understand,” she whispers back.

  “It’s very unusual. Is she very successful?”

  “No.”

  “Then how does she get hired?”

  “Connections, first of all. The club belongs to a friend of her father’s. Other than that, the way I see it is that the dancing compensates for the mediocrity of the magic.”

  “The dancing? But it’s as... problematic as the magic.”

  “Well, the magic makes up for the lack of skill in the dancing.”

  “The overall effect is not unpleasant, though,” I lie. “Lack of competence in magic and dance mix quite well.”

  For the first time, Henrietta laughs rather hard at my wit and looks at me with interest through her squinting eyes. I want to milk my witty idea, so I add, “That’s what you have to look at: the whole.” This does not make her redouble with laughter, but oh well.

  Back onstage, Laura takes a tennis ball from the box, holds it in her hand, slowly turns her back to the audience, and when she faces us again, her hand is held out in front of her, gloriously empty. I feel like hiding under the table with embarrassment for her. She resumes her skipping, shakes her head, wriggles her shoulders, leaps, waves the wand. From the box she takes a little orange hard candy, wrapped in a conventional transparent wrapper. She unwraps the candy, pops it in her mouth, and presents her open empty hands to the audience, letting the wrap, per flutter to the floor. It’s heartrending. She rocks her head, undulates her hips, flutters her fingers, flaps the sides of her jacket like wings, curves her spine concave and convex, shuffles her feet, meanders, zigzags. She takes off her top hat, pulls out some sort of stuffed animal, raises it with a flourish. Ludicrous. I smile stiffly. She bends her legs, twists and wiggles her body as though she has ants in her pants, shakes her hair, crouches, stands up, and pulls a knife out of her sleeve. I think: Oh, good, maybe she’ll do something traditional, like swallow it.

  But no, she drops it in the box on the floor. She takes a handful of white powder from the box, vigorously extends her wand, as though casting a magic spell, and throws some of the white powder in the direction of the wand, which thankfully is not aimed at the audience. She casts many rotten powdery magic spells in various directions, like a proud witch. Suddenly, she bows, and all her hair falls forward, and it is rather pretty; she has nice hair.

  People clap very softly. To clap with less enthusiasm would not be possible, but I am surprised they are clapping at all. A young man at a neighboring table claps with the tips of his two index fingers, to the amusement of his female companion. The performance lasted ten minutes at the most. Laura, the Obstinately Incompetent Magician, bows again and disappears backstage.

  “How long has she been doing this?” I ask.

  “A few months. Four or five, I think.”

  “How does she make a living?”

  “Her family is rich. She doesn’t do this show for the money, and she doesn’t do it to become successful. She does it for the respectability.”

  “How does she figure she gets respectability from this?”

  “It’s work. It’s more respectable than not working.”

  “Why did she choose this particular work?” I ask.

  “She probably thought of it off the top of her head. She’s a very easygoing person.”

  “Then why does she care about respectability?”

  “She doesn’t care about it passionately. It’s simply more comfortable to be respected than not. She also gives lessons to children, which adds to the respectability, because it’s additional work.”

  Henrietta stops talking, looks above my head, and smiles. I look above my head too. It’s Laura. She joins us, and Henrietta makes the introductions. Laura smiles warmly and shakes my hand firmly, to indicate intelligence and strength of character.

  “It was good tonight,” says Henrietta to Laura.

  “Oh, thanks. I was very nervous,” replies Laura, glancing at me.

  I feel I should say something. “You didn’t look nervous,”

  I say.

  “Thanks, but I was,” she answers, looking modest.

  “How was the lesson this afternoon? Was Sara good?” asks Henrietta.

  “She’s very talented, but I can tell she doesn’t practice enough.”

  Henrietta nods gravely.

  Poor Sara. Poor little, little Sara, to have to endure these inane dancing magic lessons. I sympathize with her completely and utterly. And to have to practice at home! I can just imagine Laura’s wise words: “One does not take one’s wand out of one’s boot in that manner. One takes it out in this manner.... Make sure your back is completely turned to the audience before you put on the glasses.... Be sure your pose is very grand and flamboyant after each and every magic trick, or people might not realize you’ve just done a trick. People are not always very bright, especially when they’re eating, so you have to help them understand that they have just been entertained.”

  Henrietta asks her friend if she has had dinner and whether she wants to order something. Laura says no, thanks, she’s not hungry. They start talking about Laura’s brother. Laura doesn’t seem at all as dumb as her show might suggest. In person, she is extremely normal, and therefore my mind starts to drift, I can’t concentrate. Normal people bore me, not because I feel superior but because I don’t understand them or what they are saying. They make me feel like a child watching the news; I look at the pictures but think of other things.

  I think of Henrietta and of the movie we will go to see soon, and should I do anything while we’re watching it, like touch her and/or make astute comments about the editing, dialogue, or plot? No, of course not; I’m just raving in my head right now. I may be socially inept to a certain extent, but I’m not quite that bad.

  A tall, blond, and extremely good-looking man comes to our table. He could be one of Henrietta’s Playgirl models.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he says to Laura. “Did I miss your show?”

  “Yes,” she says pleasantly. “It doesn’t matter.”

  He kisses both Laura and Henrietta on the cheek. Henrietta says to me, “Jeremy, this is Damon, my ex-model and Laura’s brother. I have a mad crush on him.”

  I do have just enough sophistication, finesse, and knowing what fork to use, to realize that she’s joking, or she wouldn’t gay it right out.

  “Damon,” she says, “this is Jeremy, my present model.”

  She does not add that she has a mad crush on me, which means she might. Damon shakes my hand.

  They talk, and I go back to watching the news. I blink with intelligence and laugh mechanically when they laugh. I am even able to appear bright and perky every time they address me, and to answer “I don’t know” with shrewdness in my tone, astuteness in the pacing of my three words, and wisdom in my eyes.

  Movie, movie, movie, I begin chanting in my head, while tears of boredom start running down my mind. Movie, movie, movie. Almost, almost, almost. Soon, soon, soon, soon. Move, move, move, move.

  “Let’s dance!” says Henrietta. A few people are dancing in the open area between the tables.

  I dance with Henrietta. Laura dances with her brother. I spot a dollar bill on the floor, being trampled by people’s feet. I point it out to Lady Henrietta. “Do you want to get it?” I scream at her over the music, which has grown louder.

  “No, it’s okay, but you go ahead,” she says.

  I shake my head.

  I see a thread dangling from my shirt-sleeve button. I pull the thread out completely. The button detaches itself. I put it in my breast pocket. Lady Henrietta is watching me. 1 smile. Ornamentally Interesting Moron. Outstandingly Intelligent Mute.

  We switch partners (not my idea, of course). I feel a little panicked, dancing with Laura. I keep getting the urge to take a Kleenex out of my pocket and raise it triumphantly, to be her Worthy dance par
tner.

  Finally, we are about to leave. Henrietta asks Laura if she’d like to join us for the movie. Laura accepts, to my great disappointment. It was supposed to be a private date, at least the movie was. Damon is invited, too, but says he already has plans, and adds, “unfortunately.” Henrietta acts very disappointed, and I am suave enough to know she’s not sincere; it’s all fashionable flattery.

  We see We Are the Taurus, the film about the toreador caught in the love triangle. I sit in the middle. Overwhelmingly Impressive Matador. Laura’s hands are resting calmly on her lap. She’s a relaxed, well-balanced person. Henrietta is sitting normally too. Halfway through the movie, I notice that she is not looking at the screen. She’s looking at the head of the man sitting in front of her. Toward the end of the movie, she is sitting forward in her seat, looking very closely at his head.

  “Are you okay?” I whisper in her ear.

  She whispers back to me, “That man is an O.I.M.”

  “What’s an O.I.M.?”

  “An Optical Illusion Man.”

  Wow. So that’s what I am. I’m an Optical Illusion Man! It sounds almost like the Invisible Man. Almost a superhero! “What does that mean?” I ask.

  “It means he’s almost something but not quite, or maybe he is and it’s impossible to tell if he is or isn’t. One second you think he is, and the next you are certain he isn’t.”

  I look closely at the back of the man’s head, to see what he almost is or isn’t. I feel very intelligent and perceptive, because I notice right away what she means. The man almost has a bald spot. His hair is thinning in the middle of his head. One moment I think he does have the bald spot, and the next moment I think no, no, he definitely doesn’t have it yet. It is a strange sensation, and it is the first time I have ever noticed an optical illusion in a person. I suddenly become anxious at the thought of what optical illusion Henrietta sees in me.

  The movie ends. I have had trouble focusing my attention on it, as I’m sure you can imagine. Nevertheless, my vague impression makes me pretty confident that my choice is not something to be ashamed of. I believe that We Are the Taurus gave Henrietta a favorable opinion of my taste in films. Not much happened in the story, which I am again refined enough to know is always a plus. Additionally, the ending was unhappy, which I know is a must (a European trait and therefore excellent): The woman the toreador loved got pierced by the bull’s horns, and the woman who loved him stopped loving him once her rival was dead. In his grief at the unfortunate perforation of his beloved (who by the way did not reciprocate his affection), he gave up his superstar career forever.

  This ending, although appropriately somber, is, as you can judge, a tad too action-packed, which I can assure you made me glance at Henrietta apprehensively, even though I did have the excuse of never having seen the movie before. Still, insecure as I am, I do feel the need to reassure Henrietta of the soundness of my taste by making her aware that I am aware that the boo-boo in the ending is indeed a boo-boo. So when we get up, I tell her, “Not a bad film, but the ending was a bit much, wasn’t it.”

  “Really? I sort of liked it,” she replies, giving me gray hair over the sudden, budding, but thankfully still debatable realization that perhaps my taste is too good for my own good.

  She walks over to the O.I.M. and starts talking to him. I am not close to her, so I can’t hear what she’s saying at first. Becoming indignant, I move closer.

  She turns to Laura and me and says, “Good night, you two. Jeremy, I’ll see you Saturday.”

  Ark! She’s leaving me alone with Laura! Ark, berk, peu, spl, gerk. “Don’t you want me to take you home?” I ask.

  “No, thank you. This gentleman will take me home,” she says.

  The man is looking at her with big watery eyes. And his mouth is wet too, probably with lust.

  She gives me an intimate smile and raises her eyebrows, sort of saying: I have just found my next model, I must paint him tonight, please don’t spoil my inspiration.

  I smile back at her, and she leaves the theater, accompanied by her O.I.M.

  I turn to Laura. “Are you taking a cab home?” I ask.

  “Yes, I think that’s the easiest way.”

  We walk out. To avoid having to share a cab with her, I won’t ask her if we live in the same direction. I hope she won’t bring it up, and I hope a cab will be easy to find, so we don’t have to make small talk.

  As if by magic (the most magical thing of the evening, in fact), a taxi comes immediately and stops in front of us before we even raise our hands. Laura climbs in and is driven away. I hope I never have to see her again. I did not appreciate getting matched up, especially by the very person I am interested in.

  When I get home, my cat, Minou, says, What is heat?

  I look at her apprehensively, because I recently discovered that heat may have something to do with sex, and I don’t know how to go about discussing that subject with my cat.

  Where did you learn that word? I ask.

  Someplace. What does it mean?

  You know very well what it means. Heat is what comes out of the radiator.

  Oh, Jeremy, spare me. What does “to be in heat” mean?

  In the meantime, my girlfriend, Charlotte, has been saying that she wants to live with me. I don’t have the strength or the interest to fight her, so I let her move into my apartment, but I ask her to keep her own apartment in case one of us ever wants a break.

  I can imagine Charlotte as being the snoopy type, and I do own a few things that I would not like her to see: my boyhood diary, the Playgirl magazine containing Henrietta’s painting, and a pair of handcuffs that I bought a while ago because I wanted to be a person who owned a pair of handcuffs. Being such an owner changes one’s personality slightly, and for the better, I believe. It makes one more exciting, even if only in the subtlest way. When people see me, I want them to think: Now, this man has the personality of someone who owns a pair of handcuffs. He’s an exciting person.

  And my self-image changed a bit too. It became: Me, Jeremy, the owner of a pair of handcuffs.

  I need to find a good place to hide these three things. After much deliberation, I decide to take advantage of Charlotte’s habit of never looking up. I nail my belongings to the bathroom ceiling.

  One isn’t likely to be lying on one’s back in the bathroom, unless one is taking a bath, but in that case the highest level Charlotte would look at is straight ahead at her feet.

  The following Saturday I bring the little girl a bunch of white peonies, my second-favorite flower, thinking it will please Lady Henrietta. It turns out that it pleases the little girl even more. She jumps around my neck gratefully, which makes me uncomfortable because she has seen me naked.

  I ask Henrietta what happened with the O.I.M. she brought home the other night. She says she painted him but it’s not finished yet, so she can’t show it to anyone.

  She shows me the painting of myself. I almost laugh at how much she changed me. She made me look like a very effeminate man, lying in a feminine pose. Then I am overcome with a feeling of awe. It is very well painted. It shows me lying on the couch, naked, on pink and black sheets, my arm behind my head, looking at the painter. The painting is full of optical illusions, especially in my expression and the way I hold myself. I look as if I’m almost happy, but I also look as if I’m anxious and very desperate. My body looks comfortable, relaxed, and even self-confident, but at the same time the facial expression indicates a wish for the body to be veiled, and indeed, it almost does seem that a barely perceptible veil covers me entirely, except for the eyes, like a Halloween ghost costume.

  “It’s very good,” I say.

  “I know,” she says. “It is without doubt the best painting I’ve ever done. You were the best model.”

  “Was I an Optical Illusion Man?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your daughter said I am the most extreme O.I.M. she has ever seen. Is that true?”

  “Yes. I have never seen a mor
e complete Optical Illusion Man than you.”

  “How am I an O.I.M.? What is it that I am almost but not quite?”

  “You are almost ugly, but not quite. You are almost good-looking, but not quite. There is almost a tire of fat around your waist, but not quite. Your ribs almost stick out too much, but not quite. You almost look like the most stupidly blissful man in the world, but not quite. You almost look like you might commit suicide any second, but not quite.”