It wouldn’t happen that way. We’re too old to be holding grudges.
– You’re also too old to be turning yourself into a hermit, Anna. The telephone’s never bothered you before. You have all the solitude you want out here, without these gestures.
– Takes too much energy, gripes and feuds. It should be left with the young where it belongs.
– Do you understand how people can worry if they don’t hear from you, are unable to contact you?
– People, as you call them, know where to find me. I’m always here. As for those that care, two of them are in the house as we speak. The other is buying paint.
– I also hear that you’re not taking the oxygen as you’re supposed to.
– I have as much as I need. Ignore what you hear.
Ben pours tea and holds out a cup. I take it, well aware that I am still glaring at him; understanding also the heat generated in my body as I bat his invasiveness away. Something in our altercation makes me feel more alive than I have been for these last few hours in the studio. Always the boys who tap my spirit; one at the table, the other buying paint.
THERE IS A SOFTENING over lunch; the saffron that colors and infuses the chicken and potatoes mellows me somewhat, until I feel as light and flyaway as one of those dark-red threads of spice. We share the wine that Ben has brought from one of his father’s vineyards, and he talks happily about what is happening with his other artists. He knows, as I do, that there is no sport more torturous than gossip relating to the heightened work rate and success of other artists. In my younger days, those that felt like being under an apprenticeship of sorts, such talk would drive me from the table, so sensitive was I to the perception of my work and how it measured up to others’. Now there is something pleasant about its buzz. I swat it toward and away from me as if playing with a fly. As insects are a reminder of the summer seasons, so too is Ben’s talk, reminding me of the existence of other artists in the world. Jealousy can be just as deeply felt at this age as any other. You of all people understand how jealous I can become. What kills this is ultimately down to personal resources. Energy is finite, and you have to decide how to spend it wisely. Working on canvases taller than either of us, the strength to push a rolling ladder, or climb up the scaffold, can take everything I have. Time spent mulling over professional jealousies would deplete everything.
– Are you going to show me the canvases? It’s half the reason I came here.
– What happened to my welfare? You were concerned about so many things.
– That was on my list too.
– Wouldn’t you rather say hello to the donkey first?
– I’ll feed the old boy his favorites before I go. Let’s see some paintings.
– Nothing’s ready, Ben. I’m not prepared.
– That’s not what I’ve been hearing from other parties. They suggested you have several ready to go. That it’s been the case for almost a year.
– And how do you get to hear from other parties, I wonder? This house might not be clapboard like your place in Provincetown, but the walls are just as thin. I can hear when the telephone rings, as hard as they try for me not to.
– Like I said, there are other ways besides the telephone. He sends letters from the post office. Collects mine from there too.
I think about where you must keep those letters. I would never search your room, but something tells me that they are not in the house, that you probably throw them away as soon as they have been read, the way you do with other more mundane correspondence that reaches the house. Maybe even in the trashcan outside the post office and store. You are agents, of a kind. Your friendship works independently of me, which is how things should be. So why does it jar so, this desire to know what you have been writing?
– Show me. Just the ones you’re happy with. Bring them out. Take me to the studio. Anything.
I try to visualize what Ben will see; what the paintings will make him say, how he will feel. I think of your responses when each of the last pieces was finished. The sigh that came from your mouth; something that could be read as a mixture of wonder and satisfaction. Equally, of disappointment. It is not Ben’s dissatisfaction that holds me back. I will drag him by the wrist to the studio if I am guaranteed that reaction. It is something that I already feel about my work of the past few years. Disappointment I can understand. I live with it, working daily on canvases that resolutely do not bend to my will, capturing the light differently to what I see. My fear is that he will love it. That he will see the larger works and feel that you are in the room; that the real essence of you, your quietness and sense of wonder about the world, has been made permanent. It will make me question what is deficient in his eyes, and again, in mine. What is it that Ben sees, what insight does he have, what has he shared with you that makes sense of these pictures. That I am capable of capturing something I no longer recognize.
– We’ll have to eat some fruit first, otherwise Vishni will be angry with us.
Vishni stands on the kitchen steps holding a bowl of quartered peaches and a jug of cream. Who knows how long she has been there, studying us in our reverie, both light-headed from the wine, induced to sloth from the crisp potatoes. Neither of us seems aware until the moment that our plates have also been cleared away and dirty glasses replaced with fresh ones. I am incapable of seeing anything, I want to tell Ben. Vishni is the one who sees. But I do not want him to leave thinking I am in a depression, because that will only come back to you from another letter left at the post office. Instead I do as I’m told and eat the dessert placed before me, listening as Vishni scolds Ben that he is not eating enough.
– TRY EITHER OF THOSE jackets on the chair. Perhaps the darker one. It looks like it will be a better fit across the shoulders. Yes? It’s comfortable? Right, let me see your shirt. Stand by the window there, please. It doesn’t work together. There’s too much fuss with those stripes. Sorry, Ben. It’s a beautiful shirt, just too distracting. It doesn’t work … How about something a little softer … there’s a blue here, or white. The white would be perfect, I think. Unless you would be happier in a color? There’s a purple T-shirt on the shelf but it will drain your complexion. What was that phrase you used to tell us they drummed into you at art school: ‘We add, not subtract’? There you go; algebra in action. You’re about the same size so it shouldn’t feel tight on the collar. Oh, whatever you prefer, but maybe the top button open, and also the one after that. Let me see. Two buttons are definitely better than one … but not three. That’ll be too much.
We are in the room behind the kitchen where Vishni does the laundry twice a week. I cannot bear to take Ben into your room, so pulling the clothes nearest to hand is safer. Your scent is not here, the overwhelming smell of detergent banishing all ghosts. We have swum together in the past, shared a bed for sleeping purposes more than once, making Ben not embarrassed to change in front of me. He has posed before, of course, many years ago, shortly after we first met and before the appearance of you. Ben’s painting was one of the first that got me noticed, but you know all about that; what attention does. It is this past history combined with his taste for Provincetown nudist beaches that has schooled him in his lack of self-consciousness. I am sifting through the pile of clothes that Vishni has ironed, looking for further options, so at first I miss an opportunity to note the differences in his body to yours, bar the firmness of his stomach suggesting his continuing loyalty to calisthenics. As he turns around, I see more: the muscular V of his back, the square-packed shoulders and how, despite being as tall and rangy as you are, there is neatness to his frame. He seems so compact. Time is etched on his face, of course, and clings with honor
