Art on Fire (20 page)

Anna Leighton, in a Marlboro College paper on deSilva's work, compares deSilva's portrayal of her subject to the relationship between Michelangelo and David: “. . . Just as Michelangelo seemed to tap with the chisel ever so gently in order to free his beloved from the tomb of stone, so deSilva caresses
Lala's pelvis with a finger of light that spills in through a cracked shutter.”
⁴⁷

Perhaps the only indisputable observation made about
Woman Reclining on a Blue Couch
can be attributed to Phillip Hamil. In his essay “Live Fast, Die Young, Watch the Vultures Feed,” Hamil stated: “Never has there been more concrete proof [
Woman Reclining on a Blue Couch
] that rumor and speculation about an artist's personal life pervert our understanding of the work.”
⁴⁸

Francesca stood in the threshold, heels hanging halfway out into the cool morning, and Lucky exacted a melancholy kiss. “Thanks, honey. That was great,” she whispered, grazing Francesca's ear and making her wet all over again. To make matters worse, the autumn seemed, in one sweaty night, to have shifted into winter. Francesca's stomach rumbled, loud as a can with a bullet inside. Several times Lucky had offered to drive her home, though never without making mention that she had to be in New York in less than five hours. Otherwise, she said, there'd be a big breakfast in bed.

Francesca sensed she'd just become privy to an element of life she'd never considered before. She wanted to get away as quickly as possible. The hot taste of sex clung to her mouth. She could still hear the tremble of the earth—Lucky coming that second time, while Francesca held her down, every last tremor clamoring for the surface. She'd been indoctrinated all right, into something deeper and uglier and more perfect than she'd ever contemplated. And now, walking alone in the stiff early morning, she knew there were ways a person could be satisfied that had nothing to do with love.

Her only regret was that she hadn't seen the basement. Particularly now that a picture of Lucky—naked, round, fleshy, glowing from inside with lust—was painted in her brain. If she'd awoken a few hours earlier and sneaked down there, she might have dislodged the painting from storage and impressed Lucky with her prodigal talents. Instead, having never spent the night in such a comfortable bed (the closest was Evelyn's, coated in satin sheets), she'd slumbered until Lucky had woken her at 8:30.

“You live in a cabin all alone?” Lucky had replied in the 3 a.m. darkness of the seaside bedroom, against the heavy breathing of
waves hitting the shore. “Isn't there someone you want to live with?”

“You?”

“Me?” Lucky laughed. When she realized Francesca was completely earnest, she laughed again, harder this time, the laughter winding down like the end of a record, until it finally, thankfully, stopped. “Sorry.” She patted Francesca's knee. “I'm married, honey. And even if I weren't married, I'm not a rough-it kind of girl. I'd go out of my mind.” She pressed her hand to her chest and shivered, as if it were already happening. “Isn't there someone else?” Lucky asked.

“Actually, there is someone.”

“Well, where are they?”

“Back home.”

“Oh. That's too bad.” Lucky reached across Francesca's body. “May I?” she lifted Francesca's pack of cigarettes.

Francesca nodded. “This person is the chess champion of the entire state.”

“What state is that?”

“Connecticut.” Francesca ran her finger along the wheel of her blue Bic and lit Lucky's cigarette. What did it matter? Nothing made an impression on Lucky. She'd seen it all.

Over the next few weeks Francesca sent cards to Lucky thanking her for something unspecified. She confided in Snak-Shak Wendy the details of her adventure; Wendy confided back that while she appreciated Francesca's well-placed trust, there were no secrets to be had at the flea market: Everyone knew she'd left with the rich chick. And no one was scratching his head trying to put together a blow-by-blow of what had happened next.

“Do you mean she used me for sex?”

Wendy hugged her little friend maternally and teased, “No flies on you. Anyhow,” she added, “it shouldn't come as a surprise, you gorgeous androgyne.”

“A what? What am I?”

“Androgyne, lovey. Half-boy, half-girl. Or half-girl, half-boy. In your case, it's pretty much divided down the line. Women go for it. They're gonna be pulling each other's hair and scratching each other's eyes to have you as their plaything. You'll see.”

All day Francesca repeated the word to herself: androgyne. It reminded her of android, and thus seemed fitting since she'd always felt she'd been erroneously deposited from some isolated sphere of the universe. Surprisingly, it didn't hurt much, the idea that she'd been used for her body. In fact, it seemed fitting since her mind, almost without exception, couldn't be detained. She looked forward to the possibility that others might try and use her this way as well. She'd fared just fine in the bargain: three orgasms and lessons in cunnilingus that, she hoped, would be stored in the body, like riding a bike.

What she wanted from Lucky, even more than another go at her fleshy form and salty, insistent lips, was the opportunity to transfer from brain to canvas the deep, bluish vision of her body against the flash orange of her hair, the long, alternately flaccid/firm breasts (salmon-colored nipples) and the slim legs that extended forever, spotted by freckles the color of pale lips. So, she'd been used by a married woman. Tossed out in the morning like hired help. Still, she'd do it again in a second, without hesitation, if only for another chance to stare at Lucky's naked body, to memorize its peculiarities, the softly chiseled spaces that separated the ribs, the ditches between the collarbones, dark shadows behind the ankles, red coils of pubic hair.

The flea market ended in late November. To get through the long winter, Francesca secured snow-shoveling jobs with several neighbors. As Christmas neared, she sank under the weight of the dark days, lying on the top bunk and pining over the strange gifts that would surely be sent from Alfonse's distant Italian relatives—unnecessary things like Italian books on tomatoes, pressed butterfly wings in onion skin pages, socks knit from Shetland wool—always arriving in a big carton with Italian airmail stickers plastered across the top. There would be eggnog on New Year's (though never with rum because of Isabella). On Hanukkah, Evelyn would make brisket and latkes. They'd watch Tom Jones' Christmas special or Julie Andrews'—whoever
had a show that year. Evelyn would gasp: “Isn't he handsome!” and “Look at the figure on her. Gorgeous!”

Evelyn had instilled in Francesca an antipathy for gaudy Christmas decorations. Still, she was comforted to see that here, where the ocean surrounded the world like quicksand, people succumbed to the season's spell. She was further relieved when the snow finally came, even as it silenced what had all summer been a bustling, often vociferous world. She headed out on her bicycle, shovel tucked into the space between her backpack and her body. First, she dug the pizza restaurant out from under the heavy, wet snow, had a cigarette on the stoop, her pants growing heavy with the cold melt, and watched trees struggle against the wind. Her face stung. Nor were her gloves made for true cold; she'd chosen them because they had no fingers, thus permitting her to smoke. She headed down the block to a white Cape owned by Charlotte Wallace, a gray-haired lady who lived alone. The driveway was gravel, which made for more difficult shoveling, but Mrs. Wallace had agreed to pay a substantial $30 each time Francesca shoveled; spent correctly and with enough snow, this would last through the season.

Mrs. Wallace opened the door. She wore a light blue robe, pulled tight around her body, the pale color reflecting the silver tones in her hair. Her pewter colored glasses were attached by a silver chain, parked low on her nose. “Hi, dear,” she said. “Come inside and I'll make you a cocoa.”

A trellis with thick brown vines strangled the siding; the brick steps, protected from snow by an overhang, were stained greenish from a light coating of moss. Francesca thought it was the most beautiful little house she'd ever seen. She kicked her feet together to loosen the snow, tapped each foot against a step, slapped her hands against her bulky jacket and shook the snow from her cap, until Mrs. Wallace said, rather impatiently, “Oh, just come in already or we'll let all the heat out.”

Francesca stepped inside. Sunlight bore through the clean, wide windows, warming her face and hands, making her shiver. A wood stove in the center of the room ran so hot, the air above trembled. “This is a lovely house,” she said, reaching for a new refinement in her choice of adjectives.

Mrs. Wallace smiled. She put on a pot of water and busied herself at the counter, removing a container of cocoa from a cabinet, then filling a pitcher with milk, selecting a blue mug, taking out a teaspoon. She seemed not to want to talk, so Francesca gazed from object to object—the shiny silver stove, the fresh white paint, the wood trim and oiled cabinets. Two paintings hung on one wall, both small, both depicting the same lady in the same pose; yet they were inexplicably different. She squinted for a closer look, then walked to them.

“Do you like those?” asked Mrs. Wallace.

“They're the same, aren't they? Oh, wait. No, they're different. And they're the same.”

“That's exactly right. You can see their difference?”

“No.” She looked more closely. In one painting, the subject's head tilted to the right and the background was darker. “This one is sadder,” she said.

“That one is expressionistic,” Charlotte corrected. “The other is realistic. Which is a fancy way of saying what you just said.” She smiled.

“Are you an artist?” Francesca asked.

“Me? Heavens, no. I just run a small gallery.”

“What a coincidence. I'm a painter!” She pointed to herself and laughed. Confidence rushed through her body. Fate, at long last, was cooperating. How else to explain it? She was here, just shoveling the walk, minding her own business; the woman invited her inside for cocoa—what were the odds of that? And then, she just happened to own an art gallery!

“Where have you exhibited?” asked Charlotte.

Francesca turned. “Exhibited? Oh, I'm only in high school. Well, I was in high school. But I attended a special school for the gifted. Only seven students from the entire district were chosen to go.”

“How exceptional!” Charlotte said. “Well, the Cape is filled with painters. You're in good company.” The kettle began to whistle, then scream. Mrs. Wallace turned off the flame. She prepared the cocoa, put the mug on the tray with the pitcher of milk, the spoon, and a napkin, and carried the tray to the table. Ceremoniously, she placed the cup in front of Francesca. “This cocoa is imported from Holland. I have it sent all the way from Zabar's.”

Francesca presumed Zabar's was an African country, though how the cocoa arrived in Africa by way of Holland was puzzling. “It's delicious. Thanks,” she said. It tasted like all the other cocoa she'd had in her life; whipped cream would have made it festive, but undressed, it was hot and sweet.

By the time Francesca had finished shoveling Charlotte Wallace's driveway, sweat was trickling inside her heavy jacket and down the sides of her head. She'd taken her cap off early on, stuffed it in her pocket, seeking out the cold air on her sweaty head. She needed soap and steam. Until two weeks before, she'd have biked over to the YMCA where a young, attractive woman always let her in, even provided one of the towels reserved for the members. But in the off-season, a new woman, who was immune to Francesca's charms, worked the desk, and she required proof of membership. These days Francesca resorted to the cold spigot behind her cabin, a bar of Ivory soap, and a large towel to warm her the moment she was clean enough—i.e., armpits, genitals, face, ears—to turn off the water and run inside.

Spongy palettes of snow continued to fall from the sky, thickening the beachside air, hitting the pavement like dollops. She considered asking Charlotte Wallace whether she might borrow the shower in her guest bathroom. But she couldn't bear the idea of asking for something so essential, something that people were supposed to just have.

What happened next did not spring into her head fully formed, the way, say, a painting might. It gained momentum gradually, compelling her to push harder on the pedals of her bicycle, and harder still, until she found herself climbing the steep hill that led to Lucky Perkins' seaside mansion. The structure was as ugly and ostentatious as ever (some might say it looked nearly identical to the other homes in the neighborhood; Francesca would have disagreed).