God, but something else entirely: a wedding present from my paternal grandmother who disapproved of the marriage. And slowly something from that face seeped into our general behavior. We still ran around and played like other children with our mischievous, secretive ways, but in the house, at table and before our parents, we were mostly quiet, our heads often bowed. My father put this down to God-fearing, from his teaching and that of others, and was pleased. It was once I had left home, that I retrained myself how to see, how not to be afraid to look at the face of anything, that the act of looking propelled me like no other. And when he saw my first paintings exhibited he understood that it was not God that I was ever fearful of, merely the propaganda that dictated the Art around Him. He could not bring himself to comment, or even come close to me, only to seek out the gallery owner and shake her hand before leaving. That was the last of my work he looked at. He never saw my paintings of you. I haven’t thought of my father in a long time, but seeing the easel now shrouded in half-light, the back of the canvas facing me, I am reminded of him and of the crucifixes. How I cannot bring myself to look at the painting as it was left yesterday. Essentially, it will appear no different than it was the day before, but I will start looking for cracks, a gesture in your eyes or hands I might have unwittingly captured that explains where you might be. Was the river in your eyes? The beach? What was it I missed that now prevents the painting being real? What have I been looking at, if not you?
And it is that fear above all others which keeps me from the easel: that I have seen something with false eyes, added something that was never part of you. I have left work unfinished before. All around this room are canvases of ideas that have not worked, missteps that cannot be repaired. Everything starts with past failures in mind. It is one of the cornerstones I work from. For those paintings that navigate beyond that, the finish point is to be satisfied that I have done everything I could and no more. For the moment, I cannot decide where this current work sits. Your absence makes the decision ominous. All I can do is take the blanket from the floor, where you were sitting last night, and throw it over the easel, at last shrouding your face and neck. Only your hands are visible, crossed in your lap, your index fingers pointing outward as if in the direction of what went wrong.
I AM LYING ON the daybed when Vishni appears for a second time. She came earlier, tense in her posture; the oxygen tank pulled closely behind her frame, as if I could not hear the creak of the trolley that carried it. The clumsiness made me angry and I sent her away before I could taste what was actually needed: slow inhalations of sweet gas to give me strength and clear my mind. They say I should use it as often as needed. I ration that advice and its practice; hateful of both. Sleep will not come, neither work, but by now I have opened the skylight and placed a sketchbook on the small table next to me, knowing that pencil can be more comforting than paint. Even without you the day must end with progress being made. Vishni’s face is dappled by patches of light breaking through the cloud; something from both this and the coyness of her gaze make her appear ten years younger. It makes me think about one of the pictures, labored over beneath this skylight, now hanging in one of the ambassadorial residences: Helsinki or Buenos Aires. At this age, not every work I remember, and this rarely troubles me. Lists and chronology are best left to collectors and other documentarians. When I do remember, especially if the work was good, it is mostly worthwhile. I think of the sweat, the processes and the mistakes. The fear of not knowing what I was doing, of falling into an abyss of banal movement, can be looked upon with fondness. In those days I was always so quick to be angry with myself. Nowadays I still hold myself to task, but I have learned to be more forgiving. These are not the hands or eyes of a twenty-year-old, or forty-year-old. I have learned to work with what I have. Vishni’s posture is similar to now, bent forward and conspiratorial, momentarily glancing backwards at the door, wary of being overheard.
– Who’s here?
– Ben. He said not to disturb you if you were busy. He’s on the porch, reading the newspaper.
– But why is he here? He usually calls beforehand. I didn’t hear the telephone.
– You asked me to disconnect the phone last week. The hospital chasing the appointment you missed.
– Tell him I’m working. I can’t see him now. Ask him to stay and have lunch with John. They always find things to talk about.
– He’s not back yet.
– He’s not back? Can you give Ben some lunch anyhow? He’s more likely to leave once his belly’s full.
For a moment you had become one of the old paintings: your absence forgotten. And then to suddenly remember, like the shock of waking from a sudden sleep; chest beating with guilt. Vishni will not be fooled for long. Her face is studious as I recover myself, processing every gesture. She has learned too many of my tricks. Alone, I open the sketchbook and shape some lines from memory. You, leaning over the fence toward the meadow, pondering a comment you made to which your walking companion, Ben, is laughing heartily. I have always admired that about you: your ability to make strangers feel welcome, not just to do with hospitality, but with ease. You are always comfortable, unshaken, willing to be open with everyone. I remember how you charmed and subsequently became brotherly with those stubborn farmers who refused to sell us firewood because of how we were dressed, and also disarming the ladies who gossiped at the store. They are still untrusting of me on my rare trips to town, my demeanor varying from hesitant to brusque in my inability to make even a chink in their stony faces, but you they have time for. You have become like family, celebrating the birth of their children, their marriages, and paying your respects at the burial of their dead. My friends from the city too, when entertaining here was as important as work, all initially suspicious, waiting for you to trip yourself up with your story, until they realized that they loved you more.
That afternoon with Ben was languid; the midsummer heat imbued you both with uncharacteristic sloth while I carried on working at the back of the house. Your masculine laziness was a wonderful thing to see: burnished, and in Ben’s case sunburnt, limbs stretched over chair arms and the edge of the kitchen table once lunch had been cleared. You drank beer with lemonade and read each other the oddest classifieds you came across in month-old editions of the New York Times, which Vishni saved to wrap up food for the trash. Patti Labelle and the Bluebelles were playing on a low volume, Ben joining in on ‘I Sold My Heart to the Junkman’ because, as he kept telling you, a girl had once sung it into his ear as they made love. You played dominos and waited for me. Boyish laughter rang through the house making me want to leave my work and join you. The piece I was working on was somehow dead in my hands in the face of so much life outside my door. You and Vishni often laughed together, giving the front of the house a lightness the back lacked. But there was something different, more vital in this chorus of masculine joking. It pounded deep inside my head and groin, intense and pleasurable.
I was reminded of being a teenager in Jersey Heights and sitting on the promenade railings with groups of boys, pulsing with the joy that comes from seeking attention but also fearing its strength when it finally came. However much I wanted to crash your boys’ party, though I was aware that you were both waiting on me – that the shape of the day was dictated by my needs and working patterns, and how powerful that made me feel, made overt by a thumping in my chest – I could not intrude on your intimacy. You had the closeness of siblings, the way you shared the pitcher of spiked lemonade and bickered over whose turn it was to get up and flip the record. You talked about everything but me; the World Series, whether a horse can belch, the women in Hawaii. Paintings were the business of both of you and these were never mentioned. It was an unspoken rule between you. Outside the studio we all talked about other things. There were too many other things to talk about. A mixture of longing and envy kept me going through the day. Also, stubbornness, because I didn’t want either of you to think I was cutting my day short on your account. You were young men with egos. You would have dined off it for weeks. When I finally had done all I could, on a painting that was going nowhere and shortly after abandoned, I joined you. I planned on playing the martyr for your simple amusement, and to prove to myself that I had not been forgotten. Dinner was close to being served
