The Gilder (9 page)

“Sarah told me she’d modeled for you,” Marina murmured, her eyes following the curve of Sarah’s back. “I know it’s a cliché, but her skin looks like alabaster.”

“You’re right, it does. It was the autumn light, very warm and soft. Would you like to see the darkroom?”

Marina nodded, reluctant to take her eyes off the photographs, but turned and walked to the center of the room.

“What a great space. How did you find it?”

“The contessa. It belonged to a painter friend of hers.”

“Really?”

“Yes. She found our apartment as well. I was already living there when Sarah and I met, but it was a dump until she moved in.”

Marina moved to the shelves, admiring the collection of cameras and lenses. With her back to Thomas, she said, “Seems like the contessa is a pretty handy friend to have.”

“I wouldn’t be where I am today without her. I owe her a lot.” Thomas crossed to where Marina was standing and picked up a camera. “Sarah had a hard time with her at first, said she controlled my life too much. I think she was just jealous, even though I told her there was nothing to be jealous of.”

Marina could smell the garlic and wine on his breath. Not unpleasant, but too close. She moved along the shelf. “And now?”

“She’s okay with her now.”

Yeah, right,
thought Marina. “Okay, so show me the darkroom.”

“Only if you let me take your picture.”

Marina turned, her hand on her chest. “Me? Why me?”

Thomas laughed. “Don’t be coy. I told you I wanted to photograph you.”

An angry flush burned her cheeks. When had she ever been coy? “I just don’t like having my picture taken, that’s all.” She moved toward the darkroom door.

“Come on, you’ll be great. You’ve got wonderful cheekbones and a lovely long neck.” He reached in front of her to open the door, his arm brushing her breast. Marina glanced at him, but he appeared unaware. Had she imagined it? “I’d like to do a study in black and white to get the angles of your face. Then do a little color, too. I want to see if I can capture your eyes.” His face was very close to hers. She could feel the heat from his body. She moved away, toward the cluster of furniture, feigning interest in a large wooden trunk with a padlock that served as an end table.

“So what’s in the trunk? Treasure?”

“No, nothing like that. Just some whips, leather straps, the usual props.” Thomas wiggled his eyebrows up and down.

Marina laughed. “So how come you don’t use Sarah as a model anymore?”

“I think she got tired of me bossing her around.” He grinned, then disappeared into the darkroom, only to return a minute later with a bottle of wine and two glasses. He filled both glasses and handed one to Marina. “So what do you say? How about a couple of shots?”

Marina was reluctant. She really did not like having her picture taken. She always looked washed-out and her nose was too pointy. But part of her wanted to be that woman Thomas saw, the one with the high cheekbones and lovely neck. Had he said beautiful? Before she could answer, Thomas grabbed her hand and led her to the center of the room, where he stopped and put a hand on her shoulder. “Okay, stand here.” Then he moved to the shelves and pulled out a large leather bag. He rummaged around for a minute, finding a camera and then a lens.

“Okay, now come over to the window.”

Marina did as she was told. He brought over a tall stool and instructed her to sit on it. She sat tentatively on the edge of the stool with both feet on the floor, gripping her wineglass with both hands. She expected Thomas to give her a hard time about being stiff and awkward, but it was almost as if he was ignoring her. He talked while he set up a tripod but did not look at her. She sipped the wine and answered his questions about her classes, Sauro, and what she was working on. He moved back and forth between the tripod and the shelves, adding or exchanging equipment. Marina was so engrossed in talking about her work that she scarcely noticed when he started shooting. Every now and then he gave her an instruction. “Put down your glass. Look at me. Turn your head. Lick your lips.” She complied, then continued talking, describing the intricacies of her work. When Thomas finally put down the camera, Marina was shocked to see that nearly an hour had passed and that the wine bottle was empty. The light outside the window had shifted to gold, and in the street below, the shopkeepers were opening for evening hours.

As Marina made her way home in the twilight, she considered stopping for a shot of espresso to clear the wine from her head but didn’t want to forfeit the high she was on from her modeling session. Never had she experienced herself in the way she had that afternoon in Thomas’s studio: confident, carefree, beautiful.

When she arrived at her apartment, she found a note tacked to her door.

Marina, Where are you? Birthday picnic on Saturday. I’ll do food, you bring wine. My place 11:00 sharp. XO, Sarah

Marina had completely forgotten that her twenty-third birthday was less than a week away. Her intention had been to keep it to herself, let the day pass quietly as she went about her business, celebrating her new life rather than the passing of another year. But Sarah, who had a fascination for astrology, had once asked when her birthday was, and apparently she hadn’t forgotten.

By midmorning, it was hot. Marina hurried toward Sarah, who waited in front of her building.

“Sorry I’m late. I forgot the wine and had to go back.”

“That’s okay. I just came down.”

Sarah wore a Mexican peasant blouse tied at the waist with an embroidered sash over a long, red, tiered skirt with black trim at the edge of each layer. Only her coloring and the garment’s immaculate condition might keep her from being mistaken for a gypsy. She slung her market basket into the crook of one arm and linked the other with Marina.

“We’ll catch the number seven bus in San Marco. It’ll take us up to Fiesole.” Sarah squeezed Marina’s arm. “That’s where my special picnic spot is.”

The orange city bus was packed with tourists, predominantly German and French, who pointed and exclaimed, turning their heads from side to side as the bus wound its way up into the hills. Marina found a seat by a window and kept her eyes fixed on the dwindling city, Brunelleschi’s dome refusing to shrink.

When they arrived in the town’s ancient piazza, Sarah took Marina’s hand and led her through the crowd of waiting tourists to a narrow street that led out of the village. The dusty road was lined with towering cypress trees that rose up like candlewicks and cast long shadows across their path. Along one side of the road, a tall stucco wall was periodically interrupted by the wrought iron gates of hillside villas, and on the other, a low, stone wall bordered an olive grove terraced into the hillside. After half a mile, they reached an opening in the wall.

Sarah motioned and said, “This way.”

Marina followed her deep into the grove, until Sarah stopped and put her basket down in the shade of a gnarled olive tree.

“Here, give me a hand.” Sarah pulled a faded Indian bedspread from her basket and handed one end to Marina. Together, they shook it out onto the ground.

Sarah flopped down on to her back. “Isn’t this heavenly?” She sighed, looking up through the tree branches. “I love it here; look at the green leaves against the blue sky. Who would think to put those colors together?”

Marina sat down on the edge of the blanket. The air around them, redolent with the heady fragrance of olives, was still and quiet. She wondered if this was just Sarah’s special place or if Thomas came here, too. In either case, she was pleased that Sarah had chosen to share it with her. Across the olive grove, on the backside of Fiesole just below the town, an Etruscan amphitheater was carved into the side of the hill. Tiers of massive stone blocks formed a perfect semicircle of seats around a stone platform. She could just make out a few people wandering through the ruins.

Sarah sat up. “They do performances there in the summertime, usually music. We could go sometime.” She began unpacking her basket: coarse Tuscan bread; mascarpone cheese; tiny, shriveled black olives; two apples; a chocolate bar. She held up the candy. “I didn’t think a cake would travel well, so I got us this.”

Marina smiled and fished the bottle of Chianti from her satchel. “I hope you brought a corkscrew; I forgot to loosen the cork.”

Sarah reached into the basket. “
Ecco la,
here you go, but I forgot glasses. We’ll just have to drink from the bottle.”

Marina pulled the cork and held out the bottle. “Here, you first, since this picnic was your brilliant idea.”

“No, no, you’re the birthday girl.”

They sipped the wine, passing the bottle back and forth, silence settling between them, a silence that wasn’t exactly awkward for Marina but not completely comfortable either. They’d spent a great deal of their free time together in the past months, much of it sprawled across Marina’s bed sharing intimacies. She’d heard Sarah’s life story and told Sarah hers. They were both only children, but that’s where the similarities ended. Sarah had grown up under the rule of Bible-thumping, fundamentalist parents who didn’t believe in sparing the rod, while Marina managed to find her way under the benign neglect of a bohemian mother and eccentric father, both of whom were completely absorbed in their careers. They’d shared stories from childhood and adolescence both serious and silly, but somehow, sitting in this peaceful orchard sharing a bottle of wine, the silence felt more intimate than anything Marina could remember. She took a long pull on the bottle and broke the silence. “Did Thomas tell you he ran into me the other day and showed me his studio?”

“Yes, he did, and he sent you something.” Sarah drew a scuffed manila envelope out of her basket and handed it to Marina. “Go on, open it.”

Marina undid the clasp and pulled out a stack of photographs. “Oh, my God!” She stared down at herself, sitting on the high stool in her jeans and boots, her heels hooked on the rungs of the stool, knees spread wide. She was leaning forward on her hands, resting them on the stool between her legs. Her arms squeezed her breasts, and she could see her nipples through the thin cotton tank top. “Jesus. I don’t remember doing that.” She looked up at Sarah, afraid she might be angry, but her friend was grinning.

“Look at the rest of them. They’re great.” Sarah leaned her head close and removed the top picture. The next one, a closeup of Marina’s face turned toward the light, captured her lost in thought. There was another of her face, her eyes half closed and her tongue peeking out between moist lips. How much of that bottle of wine had she had that day? The remainder of the pictures caught her in motion, her arms uplifted as if she had been demonstrating something
.

“I didn’t realize... .” She was at a loss for words.

“He’s good, isn’t he?”

“Amazing! You’d never know I hate having my picture taken.”

“That’s what makes him so good. He has a way of being there without seeming to be. At least, people seem to forget he’s there.”

Or don’t know it in the first place,
thought Marina, remembering the stolen-moment portraits at his show. She shuffled through the photographs. What she didn’t say was how good she thought she looked, not washed-out at all, and even in profile, she liked her nose.

“You know, you should consider working with Thomas.” Sarah was spreading cheese on a piece of bread. “He sometimes needs help in the studio. You know your way around a darkroom, don’t you?”

“Somewhat.” Marina put down the pictures and picked up an olive.

“You could help with that. Sometimes he needs a model. He’d like to shoot you again, I know that.”

Marina hesitated. “I don’t know. Maybe I could help in the studio, but I’m not really model material.”

“Maybe not in the classic sense, but clearly the camera likes you.” Sarah reached out and ran her finger down Marina’s bare arm. “You’ve got beautiful skin, very peaches and cream.”

Goosebumps rose on her flesh. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“That’s good enough.” Sarah brushed the crumbs from her lap and got up on her knees. “Okay, now let’s have a look at your feet.”

“My feet?”

“Yes, let’s see what you’ve got under those heavy boots of yours.” Sarah reached for Marina’s nearest foot.

Marina laughed and squirmed away. “Wait. Why do you want to see my feet?”

Sarah sat back down and unfolded her legs. She had taken off her espadrilles. Her toes were painted pink. “It’s a sign of beauty. Beautiful feet, beautiful face. See?” She wiggled her toes.

Marina considered them. “Yeah, they’re okay,” she teased.

“Okay! What do you mean okay?” With that, Sarah pushed her down on the blanket and straddled her, sitting on her hips. She held Marina’s arms down over her head and repeated in a threatening voice, “Okay, you say? Just okay?” Then she let go of Marina’s arms and began tickling her ribs.

Marina shrieked and writhed under Sarah’s weight. “I was only kidding! They’re gorgeous, gorgeous!”

Sarah stopped tickling and put her hands on her hips. “That’s better.” She slid down Marina’s legs. “Now yours.”

Marina sat up, laughing, and pushed her gently out of the way. “Here, I’ll do it myself.” She pulled off her boots and socks and thrust her feet out. “There, are you satisfied now?”

Sarah lifted one foot and cradled it in her hands. “They’re warm.” She turned the foot from side to side and took each toe between her fingers as if she were doing “This Little Piggy.” “And quite pretty, too. But you need some polish. I’ll paint them for you sometime.”

Marina tried to pull her foot away, but Sarah held on and told her to lie back on the blanket. “It’s your birthday. I’ll give you a foot rub. Ever had one?”

“No, not really.” Marina shook her head. “But, no tickling!”

“Don’t worry, you’re safe in my hands. Relax.”

By the time Sarah put her foot gently on the blanket and lifted the other one into her hands, Marina felt as if she were sinking into the earth, its molecules rearranging themselves, creating space for bone and muscle, supporting every inch of her with its warmth. She opened her eyes a crack and peeked at Sarah, who sat cross-legged, head bowed over her task. Never having been ministered to quite so intimately, she wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. Was Sarah just being friendly, or was she flirting with her? She’d never had a woman come on to her, so she didn’t know what the signs might be, surely something more obvious. Besides, Sarah was happily married and devoted to Thomas. She brought her attention back to her foot and allowed herself to sink into the sensation.