Romance: The Art of my Love: a story of betrayal, desire, love, and marriage (6 page)

At home, I tell Paul the news. He’s genuinely happy for me. He thinks Rachel’s proposal is a huge compliment. “This means she really believes in you. I’ve always said how talented you are!” And yes, he would definitely come and visit me on the weekends. He wouldn’t have much of a chance to miss me, though, since the university’s summer session promised to be packed full. And at night, he would still be working on his screenplay. John had already read it, and made a whole long list of corrections and comments, too. I fall asleep happily anticipating all the big changes that are right around the corner.

On Friday, I load our pickup with piles of canvasses, paints, stretchers, and so on and head for the mountains. The cabin is fairly isolated. It’s at the edge of a lake, in the forest. I find the key in its hiding spot under a flowerpot in the garden and I go inside.

This house is nothing like John and Rachel’s mansion in the city. That one was all glass and concrete, strict minimalism throughout, in a style that was more than contemporary – I’d even call it futuristic. Here, everything is the opposite. It is kind of a log cabin where everything seemed to have been preserved from a century ago. Old wooden furniture, a brick fireplace, wooden floors laid with different-colored boards, and a very traditional kitchen. But here, too, there is nothing extra, only what is vital. It’s strange that Rachel hasn’t changed anything here to fit her tastes. Maybe this was the work of a different designer. Or else she and John just hadn’t wanted to spend time and money redoing this nice old place and decided to leave it as it was. I’ll have to remember to ask Rachel later. A quick examination tells me there’s no television here. The computer works, though, and the Internet connection is good.

Outside, I hear a car drive up. It’s John. He must have come right from a meeting. He’s wearing a conservative dark suit and a tie. Behind his glasses, his eyes are tired and red. His hair is disheveled.

“Was your trip all right?” he asks me.

“Yes, and I’ve already gotten online. My phone works here, too. I was just about to call Paul or write to him.”

“I’ll turn the water and the gas on in the meantime. I picked up a pizza on the way here. Will you eat with me? I just need to go and change.”

I start to unload my truck. Before long, John joins me, dressed in old jeans and a t-shirt. Later, we grab the pizza and a six-pack of beer and head to the kitchen to eat. John says that he had a long, hard day. Before that, it had been a long, hard week. He’s barely staying awake. And so, if I don’t mind, he’s going to show me my room and head to bed.

I don’t mind at all. Here I was afraid of being seduced, or raped, or I don’t even know what else. And the poor guy can barely keep his eyes open.

John goes off to sleep. I putter around the house a while longer, setting my paints and brushes out on the terrace (I decided right away that the terrace, facing the lake, would be my temporary studio), and I call Paul. He doesn’t answer. He’s probably working on his screenplay. I send him a text: “Got here OK. Miss you already. See you tomorrow.” And I go upstairs to sleep.

I wake up early, as usual. During the school year I have to be at work at 7:30 AM, and leave the house at 6:30, so I have to get up early. I look at the clock. 5:30, early even for me. Still, I feel thoroughly rested, as if I’ve slept well. The air really must be different here. Mountain air! It revives you fast. I remember how exhausted John had been at dinner yesterday, like a squeezed-out lemon. He could really use some revival.

Tired or not, though, he had still been totally charming. Whether we were chatting or sitting quietly, sipping our beer, I felt comfortable with him, as if we were old friends. It seems to me that the secret to his attractiveness is how confident he is, so sure of himself that it never occurs to him to put on airs, or pretend to be somebody else. Here he is, just as he is. I’ve almost never seen so much genuineness in another person. 

I pull on shorts and a t-shirt and go downstairs for breakfast. The coffeepot is already hot. I pour myself a first cup of coffee and walk up to the window. The view from here is breathtaking. The lake lies below, with stretches of fog creeping along its shores. The sky is pale gold as the sun rises over the horizon.

A figure appears on the path leading up to the cabin. It’s John. He’s running quickly, professionally. He’s wearing shorts and a t-shirt. The shirt is soaked with sweat and it clings to his body. When he comes into the kitchen, I can’t help but stare at his torso and his muscles bulging out clearly under that shirt.

“Hi!” says John. “What’s wrong? Do I have something on my chest?”

“No, no, everything’s perfectly fine. It’s just that my hands are sort of itching to draw you. You and all your muscles.”

“So, you like muscles?” laughs John.

“Well, sure! Why else would I want to draw them?”

“Let’s do it then, after breakfast. I’ll sit for you, if you want.” He wasn’t at all embarrassed by the way I was obviously checking him out. I think he even felt flattered.

“Really? No kidding? Will you have time?” I can’t believe it. This whole, ideal set of muscles would be completely at my disposal!

“I will, if you pose for me afterwards.” John is drinking down water thirstily, while looking at me intently.

“Do you draw, too?” I asked.

“No, but remember how you liked the photos at our house? The ones I took of Rachel? I’d like to try photographing you. So? Do we have a deal?”

“It’s a deal,” I agree, easily. I run off for my sketchbook and pencils, set myself up in an armchair, and start to sketch. After breakfast, John goes to take a shower, and he returns wearing no shirt, so that I can draw as much as I like. And I draw him, while he talks on the phone, reads some manuscript or other, and checks his mail on the computer. He has the fantastic body of an athlete in perfect shape. It’s clear that he spends a lot of time working out. He even has a pretty good tan already. And those muscles rolling around under his skin look even more seductive.

“Well, let’s see how it turned out.” John has suddenly come to stand right over me. I hand him the sketchbook. He looks thoughtfully at each drawing, turning the pages slowly.

“This is great. It’s me, and it’s not me. It’s always interesting to see yourself through somebody else’s eyes.” John’s face wears a pensive expression. I keep quiet. “Mentally, we imagine how we must look from the outside. And usually, our imagination is distorted. Another person’s eye really helps. You’ll see. Now it’s your turn,” John smiles. “Go and get changed, and I’ll go get the camera and the lights from the car.”

He has lights! This sounds serious. I’m a little anxious about what else John might have prepared for me. And again, for some reason, the suspicion creeps in that things are not this simple, that there’s some sort of trap being laid here. As I recall the tone of John’s voice and the look on his face, though, I can’t pinpoint anything suspicious. And we have an agreement, after all. I promised to pose for him.

I go into my room and stop, confused. What did “go and get changed” mean? Photography isn’t like drawing. If you need to photograph a naked body, you can’t mentally remove the clothing. So I need to get undressed – completely. But there is no way I could just walk out of my bedroom absolutely naked. Nothing in the world could make me do it. Then I remember that I have some flesh-colored panties with me. They’re brand new and, I think, very suggestive. Dammit! I need to get myself together. Seduction is not on the agenda today. I’m trying to pull through this intact! I quickly tear my clothes off and “change.” There’s almost nothing to those panties, but at least they afford some sort of protection.

For some reason I decide to look in the mirror. What an idiot! I shouldn’t have done it. My knees are knocking in terror. No, I can’t just emerge this way: “Here I am! Look at me!” I grab a bathrobe, put it on, and calm down a little. I know I’ll have to take it off, anyway, but for now, I feel better.

John has already set up the lights in the room and turned on the gas fireplace. It hadn’t been that cold in the room before, and a question comes to my lips, unasked. John catches my gaze, as he does so well and so often.

“A photo shoot can take a long time, and it can be cool here in the mountains in the mornings. We need you to feel comfortable.”

“What do you mean?” I ask him. “How long?” Talking feels difficult. My throat is apparently tightening up in fear.

“Two hours, probably, no less. For photography it’s best when you take your time and don’t rush it.”

My internal alarm bell starts ringing again. Was John really talking about photography, or alluding to something else?

“A professional probably wouldn’t need so much time, but I’m an amateur, so I need to really think things over and try out different options.”

No. Stop panicking! There is no reason to suspect John of anything. All my suspicions are based on my own personal fantasies. I had never spent time with such a successful or confident man, and I don’t know how to behave. If only John had decided to put his shirt back on, I’d have a much easier time not thinking about sex!

“Okay, are you ready?” John asks.

“Yes. What should I do?”

“Let’s start from behind, and a little to the side. Sit on the chair and open your robe so I can see your left side and shoulder.”

That I can do. I do what he tells me. John expertly adjusts the lights and takes a few shots. After each shot, he gestures to me in an indication of how to change the pose. But either his gestures aren’t very clear, or I’m too slow to pick up on them, I keep turning in the wrong direction. We laugh. I relax now, completely, and my tension dissipates. The atmosphere between us is still fun and friendly, but now it’s creative, too. John shows me the first shots right on the camera. They’re turning out great! John really is a talented photographer. And – who would have thought! – I’m not a bad model.

The artist in me starts to awake, and the process draws me in completely. I begin to suggest different options myself. And John, after the earlier fiasco with his instructions, now just moves me physically in the right direction. His hands are strong and warm. They feel so pleasant. Almost half an hour goes by.

“You know, let’s take a break and have some coffee,” says John. “I need to think a little bit. Something’s not quite right.” I grab the robe, and we switch on the coffee maker.

“They’re all turning out a little bland, somehow,” John complains. He connects the camera to the computer monitor, and now we can see the pictures on a bigger screen. He’s right. They’re all nice, and beautiful, but boring. There’s not quite enough flavor to them. John moves over to the window, and sips his coffee thoughtfully.

And I watch John. My eyes are glued to him for a long time. My fear is gone, and now my curiosity is guiding me. John really is amazingly erotic. Why were the photographs of Rachel in their house so captivating, so alive? And I suddenly start to think of what sex must be like between John and Rachel. How had she described it to me? Explosive? I remember the video of her, how her body responds to the slightest touch with gratitude. And I think about how much that must turn John on, with his finely tuned radar for other people’s reactions. I close my eyes and let my imagination run free. Literally one minute later I realize I’m seriously aroused.

I open my eyes and see John watching me carefully. I have the feeling he can see right through me. Who cares! I may be embarrassed, but I speak up, firmly, all business.

“Let’s try again. I think I have an idea about what we need to do.”

“Great,” says John. “Let’s go.”

We return to our routine. John uses his hands to pose me. Now I stop being just a model, and start being a woman. Sensual. Sensitive. It’s completely quiet in the room. All we hear are the clicks from the camera and our own breathing. I’m deep in an erotic trance, and I don’t know how much time passes before a bird gives a loud shriek outside the window, and I snap out of it. We need a break.

We look at the new pictures up on the screen. Wow! I love every single one! I adore John’s work, of course, but there’s something more important going on: for the first time in my life, I adore my own body. I can hardly believe that woman on the screen is me. Emotion washes over me. I’m going to have to think about this more later, but one thing is clear: something in me has changed, in a major way. Something in the way I perceive myself and my body. As if I’ve awakened from hibernation. I can feel every cell. My body seems to be ready to resound like a taut string just waiting to be plucked. And it is
such
a good feeling. I can’t wait to get back to this work of ours. John doesn’t seem to have any objection, either. Only now we decide to look at every photograph together, right away. John does something magical with the wires and the new photographs appear immediately on the monitor. And I dive down again into my enchanted dream.

I feel the touch of John’s hand. My body responds with gratitude. The camera clicks. Do you like it? John asks silently. Yes, very much, I answer silently.

John’s hand touches me. My body responds. The camera clicks. Do you like it? Yes, very much!

There is a slow but clear rhythm to our actions, and I start to mentally anticipate the next touch, and everything that comes after it. I am seriously aroused, but John is behaving impeccably, and I feel safe. We start to take full-body photographs. It becomes clear that even though my panties are flesh colored, they’re still visible, and they’re ruining the composition. John touches them and asks me a silent question. I nod, without even thinking. We continue.