It had felt so good being asked to go to the studio, to become a part of something rather than always being on the periphery. How stupid of him. How naïve not to realise that she would expect more than he had ever considered.
He props the wardrobe door open with a chair. The door has always swung closed for as long as he can remember, but it has never bothered him before. He undoes the belt of his dressing gown, a present from his Uncle Ruben; paisley silk in mauves and blues, the paisley teardrop etched in gold, a spattering in the centre. It catches the light from the window, highlighting the many hues and shades like the smooth cut of an opal.
He studies himself in the mirror. His contorted chest, his thin legs, his genitals. He cups them in his hand, lifting them upwards. Redundant, except for that one dismal attempt and yet, as he lets them drop and surveys his reflection, if he were a normal man he would be proud of his manhood. He wouldn’t mind anyone seeing him naked. He could strut, shoulders back, his whole body on display like a cock bird. He stands feet apart, watching in the mirror as his genitals swing free.
Why should he be embarrassed about showing them? They are no different from any other mans. He tries to study his back in the mirror but he cannot turn his neck far enough to see. He’d been surprised by Angela asking him to model but, well, maybe he should take it as a compliment. Maybe it had never entered her head that he would be so outraged; that he wouldn’t just assume that she would expect him to model naked. For how many years had he longed to be a part of life and now, here was this strange girl – he thinks of her snow dome analogy and smiles – wanting to include him.
How different his life could have been. He could have explored the side of life that he had purposely shut down. He could have followed his dreams, with Uncle Ruben’s help, and become an archaeologist. He could have spent his days with like-minded people, delving into the secrets of past generations. He could have bought his own house, instead of ending up lodging in this one room. He sees now how his life has become dusty, hollow; a life fit to mirror his job in the library. He pulls his robe around him and goes to stand by the window. A bus, its engine running, is standing at the bus stop. The driver is reading a paper, a hot drink steaming the window in front of where he sits. A cup of tea, one sugar, he decides. He hates Sunday afternoons.
He couldn’t do it, not in a million years. He bangs his clenched fists on the windowsill, not in a million years. But an old echo still resonates: ‘You should always face up to your fears. You cannot realise who you are unless you do.’ Oh, how glibly Uncle Ruben had given his advice. How could he know what Edward had to endure? What his fears were? Life, that was Edward’s fear. But that was not strictly true. He had tried to face up to life, but it had always hit back. If he had been a bird he would have been pushed out of the nest, a scrawny fledgling eaten by a cat. Sometimes nature made sense, but could a mother bird push her chick from the nest if it were her fault that his bones were twisted and crooked?
She couldn’t even bring herself to tell him that Angela had been to visit. That she now had the portrait. Why in God’s name did she have to hoard secrets like a squirrel hoards nuts?
He shudders. How had Angela the gall to ask him? Always, in life, just as he thought he saw a door of opportunity opening, it slammed shut in his face.
‘If I wanted to draw a tree I wouldn’t find the straightest tallest one would I?’ It was a good analogy, or so he had thought at the time. But what did it mean, how did she see him. What was a normal tree, an uninteresting tree? Did she see him as interesting, or a freak of nature? Anyway, whatever she thought, it was irrelevant. How could she possibly expect him to model naked? She had no comprehension of what she was asking. None! He had looked into her eyes. No fear, just a frankness, an honesty that he had never encountered before. She was very puzzling. He grasps the lapels of his dressing gown and pulls them together, imagining himself standing there before her naked in the studio, her with a drawing board in her hand. Would she look, then recoil and turn away? Is that why he is so afraid of standing naked in front of this girl?
‘After the initial shyness, you’ll find it really natural.’
He shakes his head; she was so young, so thoughtless, so lovely. Could he do it? Let her hold all that power? Stand there in all his vulnerability, her noting his every intimacy? Though week by week, as she built her portfolio, she would become more and more dependent upon him. It could take weeks, months, several months, she’d said. Sitting with her in the sunlit studio every Saturday afternoon for months was so tempting, and yet he couldn’t, he didn’t have that kind of courage. He so wished he had, but he just didn’t, and what would his mother say? But then, he would have his own secret. One that his mother, even in her wildest dreams, could not imagine. He smiles suddenly, in spite of himself. She would be furious.
‘You young people, why do you revere the grotesque?’