Besides the small gifts that he delighted in giving her when the chance came along—the dinners out, the poems, Palestrina, the single red rose every few weeks, the anniversary ring, simple as her wedding ring but crowned with a rainbow opal—he wanted to give her something of supreme value.
There were two posters in their bedroom. On the wall opposite the bed, a large color photograph of Maitreya, the future Buddha: long, elegant wooden fingers almost touching his cheek, head slightly tilted to the right, on his serene face a small, heartwarming smile, as if he was enjoying the most delicious of private jokes.
This mind he knew inside and out. He didn’t need to embody it.
But on the wall above the bed, there was another photo: one of the erotic temple sculptures from Khajuraho. He always thought of the male figure in it as Rama, the marriage god, the god of the happy ending, who has found and reclaimed his Sita among the demons, in the land of the dead. Now they stand reunited in each other’s arms. She has her back toward the viewer. Naked except for a braided belt, she clasps Rama around the neck in a surrender so complete that it makes her whole body weightless. Rama, meanwhile, all creation bursting inside his veins, feels his body as if for the first time, more vigorous, more male than he could ever have imagined. His penis rests on her right thigh, stretching, as if it has awakened from a long sleep.
He knew, of course, that the gift was not his to give. It was beyond his conscious will; there was no way he could touch it, much less hand it to her. But when he lay beside her, at their quietest moments, he could see it in her eyes, reflected as in a medium of supreme clarity and love.