Thursday, December 16, 2010
The Portrait
The Portrait
by
Phoenix Hocking
The bowl was piled high with Mandarin oranges, apples, bananas, and kumquats. Kumquats, Sylvia thought, how long has it been since I had a kumquat? She reached for one and Max slapped her hand.
“Don’t touch that!”
Startled, Sylvia drew back her hand and dutifully placed it in her lap. She faced forward and stared out the window. The light once more caught her face in contrast. The fold of the scarf at her neck needed to be readjusted, which Max did, muttering under his breath as he did so.
Stupid woman! Max muttered, though not in a language Sylvia was likely to understand. Nobody understands. You can’t just change position when you are sitting for a portrait. Stupid patron! If it weren’t for the money, Max would be painting the landscapes that he loved, not silly portraits of rich, stupid women.
Sylvia, on the other hand, had thoughts of her own. How dare he? How dare he actually strike me? Antonio would hear about THIS! Yes, he would! And Max’s fee would be greatly reduced. Greatly reduced! Yes, indeed.
“Oh, madame,” Max said, remembering his place, “oh, madame. I am so sorry. So sorry. It’s just that the light, she changes when madame moves. And I only want the best likeness of madame. Only the best.”
Sylvia deigned to lower her head slightly, keeping her pose. Mollified, but only a little, she turned her attention to the open window and tried to make her mind a blank. It was the only way to get through these unsufferable sessions.
It was Antonio, of course, who had insisted on the portrait. “It is because I love you so much!” he had told Sylvia. But the truth was that his friend Gregorio had a portrait made of his his wife, and Antonio did not want to be outdone. But then, Gregorio’s wife was beautiful, and Antonio’s wife, alas, was not.
It’s not that Sylvia was homely exactly. It was just that the features of her face didn’t quite match. One eyebrow was just slightly higher than the other and one corner of her mouth drooped down just enough to be noticeable. One brown eye seemed a little darker than the other, but only in a certain light. But everyone has at least one good feature, if one only looks hard enough, and in Sylvia’s case it was her hair.
Sylvia’s hair was long and the color of roasted chestnuts dappled in sunlight. As she sat at the window, facing outward, one could almost ignore her face and concentrate on her hair instead. And that, thought Max, is how I will make this woman look beautiful.
“Please,” Sylvia said, trying not to move. “Are we almost done? My back is beginning to hurt.”
“Of course, madame. Of course.”
Quickly, Max gathered his supplies as Sylvia rose and stretched.
“Now, remember, madame,” Max said, turning the unfinished piece to the wall. “You are not allowed to look until it is done, yes?”
“I know. I know.” Sylvia sighed. This was just so tiresome. “I won’t look.”
*****************************************************************************
She looked. Of course she looked. How could she not? Every day Max said the same thing. “You are not allowed to look until it is done, yes?” And every day Sylvia replied, “I know. I know. I won’t look.” But she always did.
The portrait was coming along nicely. She noticed that Max was spending a lot of time on her hair which, she had to admit, was her best feature.
Once, when she was young, she had overheard her brother say, “My sister, she is not pretty, but she is kind.” And Sylvia had taken that as a compliment. I would rather be kind than pretty, she often thought, but there was another part of her that said, Yes, but pretty would be nice, too.
Antonio, to his credit, did not mind that his wife was not pretty. Antonio knew many men who were married to pretty women, and these men always seemed to be restless. They worried overmuch about what their women might, or might not, be doing when they were not with them. Antonio did not worry. His wife was a good woman. She was not pretty, but she was competent, and kind. She kept a clean house, and was a good cook and mother to their children.
No, Antonio did not worry about his wife.
And Sylvia, on her part, did not worry about her husband. Antonio was a good man. He was not handsome, but he was a good provider and a good father to their children. No, Sylvia did not worry about her husband.
What Antonio did not know was that Sylvia had a lover. His name was Rico and he was married to Sylvia’s best friend Estelle.
And what Sylvia did not know was that Antonio also had a lover. Her name was Estelle, and she was married to his best friend, Rico.
Estelle and Rico also did not know that each had a lover.
Sylvia knew she was not pretty. Even when Rico whispered, “My beautiful one,” to her on those mornings when he came to the house, she knew she was not. Even so, it was nice to hear, even if she did not believe it.
Rico liked the portrait. Sylvia showed him the portrait on Tuesday morning when he came to call.
“Oh!” He exclaimed. “It is beautiful, like you! I like how he paints your hair.”
Sylvia stood naked, her chestnut hair hanging loose in front of her, covering one breast, also looking at the portrait. Her hair was indeed beautiful. She looked very proper, with her scarf around her shoulders, the bowl of fruit beside her, and the view from the window in the background. Yes, the portrait was lovely, even if she was not.
“My beautiful one,” Rico said, as he took her in his arms and led her into the room that Sylvia shared with Antonio. “My beautiful one...”
Antonio had not felt well all morning. Instead of going to work, he went to Estelle’s house, and told her he could not stay. He was cold, and then hot, and then cold again. Estelle’s lips felt cold to the touch, and he made his excuse and walked home.
Sylvia would be waiting, he knew. The children would all be in school. But Sylvia would be home and she would make him tea and put a compress on his head and lay in bed with him until he fell asleep. His room would be cool and dark and all would be well. And perhaps later, when he woke up, he might feel well enough to make love to his wife. She might not be pretty, but she satisfied his needs.
Later, when the policia came, Sylvia’s unfinished portrait looked silently on as Antonio was led away from the bodies of his wife and his best friend. The portrait made no sound as Estelle howled in anger and sorrow.
And across town, Max painted the landscapes dimly remembered from the mountains of his youth, and thought not at all of the portraits of rich, stupid women.
End
# posted by Phoenix MaryGrace Hocking : 2:44 PM
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