"What do you do?"
Not "Who are you?." Nothing so formal as an introduction. Instead, this. Direct and unabashed. What do you do.7 Peeling away all surfaces.
For the first time she smiled at him. "I ... paint."
He nodded, his lips pinched together momentarily. Then he reached out and took her hands in his own, studying them, turning them over.
So firm and warm and fine, those hands. Her own lay caged in his, her fingers thinner, paler than those that held them.
"Good hands," he said, but did not relinquish them. "Now, tell me what you wanted to talk to me about."
About hands, perhaps. Or a million other things. But the warmth, the simple warmth of his hands curled about her own, had robbed her of her voice.
He looked down again, following her eyes. "What is it, Catherine?"
She looked up sharply, searching his face, wondering how he knew her name. He watched her a moment longer, then gave a soft laugh.
"There's little you don't pick up, sitting here. Voices carry."
"And you hear it all? Remember it?"
"Yes."
His eyes were less fierce now, less predatory in their gaze; yet it still seemed as if he were staring at her, as if his wide-eyed look were drug-induced. But it no longer frightened her, no longer picked her up and held her there, suspended, soul-naked and vulnerable before it.
Her fear of him subsided. The warmth of his hands . . .
"What do you paint?"
Until a moment ago it had seemed important. All important. But now? She tilted her head, looking past him, aware of the shape of his head, the way he sat there, so easy, so comfortable in his body. Again, so unexpected.
He laughed. Fine, open laughter. Enjoying the moment. She had not thought him capable of such laughter.
"You're a regular chatterbox, aren't you? So eloquent. . ."
He lifted his head as he uttered the last word, giving it a clipped, sophisticated sound that was designed to make her laugh.
She laughed, enjoying his gentle mockery.
"You had a reason for approaching me, I'm sure. But now you merely sit there, mute, glorious—and quite beautiful."
His voice had softened. His eyes were half-lidded now, like dark, occluded suns.
He turned her hands within his own and held them, his fingers lying upon her wrists, tracing the blood's quickening pulse.
She looked up, surprised, then looked down at his left hand again, feeling the ridge there. A clear, defined line of skin, circling the wrist.
"Your hand . . . ?"
"Is a hand," he said, lifting it to her face so that she could see it better. "An accident. When I was a child."
"Oh." Her fingers traced the line of flesh, a shiver passing through her. It was a fine, strong hand. She closed her hand on his, her fingers laced into his fingers, and looked at him.
"Can I paint you?"
His eyes widened, seeming to search her own for meanings. Then he smiled at her, the smile like a flower unfolding slowly to the sun. "Yes," he said. "I'd like that."
IT WAS NOT THE BEST she had ever done, but it was good, the composition sound, the seated figure lifelike. She looked from the canvas to the reality, sitting there on her bed, and smiled.
"I've finished."
He looked up distractedly. "Finished?"
She laughed. "The portrait, Ben. I've finished it."
"Ah . . ." He stood up, stretching, then looked across at her again. "That was quick."
"Hardly quick. You've been sitting for me the best part of three hours."
"Three hours?" He laughed strangely. "I'm sorry. I was miles away."
"Miles?"
He smiled. "It's nothing. Just an old word, that's all."
She moved aside, letting him stand before the canvas, anxious to know what he thought of it. For a moment she looked at it anew, trying to see it for the first time, as he was seeing it. Then she looked back at him.
He was frowning.
"What is it?" she asked, feeling a pulse start in her throat.
He put one hand out vaguely, indicating the canvas. "Where am I?"
She gave a small laugh. "What do you mean?"
"This . . ." He lifted the picture from its mechanical easel and threw it down. "It's shit, Catherine. Lifeless shit!"
She stood there a moment, too shocked to say anything, unable to believe that he could act so badly, so—boorishly. She glared at him, furious at what he'd done, then bent down and picked up the painting. Where he had thrown it down the frame had snapped, damaging the bottom of the picture. It would be impossible to repair.
She clutched the painting to her, her deep sense of hurt fueling the anger she felt toward him.
"Get out!" she screamed at him. "Go on, get out of here, right now!"
He turned away, seemingly unaffected by her outburst; then he leaned over the bed, picking up the folder he had brought with him. She watched him, expecting him to leave, to go without a further word, but he turned back, facing her, offering the folder.
"Here," he said, meeting her eyes calmly. "This is what I mean. This is the kind of thing you should be doing, not that crap you mistake for art."
She gave a laugh of astonishment. He was unbelievable.
"You arrogant bastard."
She felt like slapping his face. Like smashing the canvas over his smug, self-complacent head.
"Take it," he said, suddenly more forceful, his voice assuming an air of command. Then, strangely, he relented, his voice softening. "Just look. That's all. And afterward, if you can't see what I mean, I'll go. It's just that I thought you were different from the rest. I thought. . ."
He shrugged, then looked down at the folder again. It was a simple art folder— the kind that carried holo flats—its jet-black cover unmarked.
She hesitated, her eyes searching his face, looking for some further insult, but, if anything, he seemed subdued, disappointed in her. She frowned, then put the painting down.
"Here," she said, taking the folder from him angrily. "You've got nerve, I'll give you that."
He said nothing. He was watching her now, expectantly, those dark eyes of his seeming to catch and hold every last atom of her being, their gaze disconcerting.
She sat down on the edge of the bed, the folder in her lap, looking up at him through half-lidded eyes.
"What is this?"
"Open it and see."
For a long time she was silent, her head down, her fingers tracing the shapes and forms that stared up at her from the sheaf of papers that had been inside the folder. Then she looked up at him, wide-eyed, all anger gone from her.
"Who painted these?"
He sat down beside her, taking the folder and flicking through to the first of the reproductions.
"This is by Caravaggio. His 'Supper at Emmaus,' painted more than six hundred years ago. And this . . . this is Vermeer, painted almost sixty years later; he called it 'The Artist's Studio.' And this is by Rembrandt, Aristotle Contemplating the Bust of Homer,' painted ten years earlier. And this is 'Laocoon' by El Greco—"
She put her hand on his, stopping him from turning the print over, staring at the stretched white forms that lay there on the page.
"I've—I've never seen anything like these. They're—"
She shivered, then looked up at him, suddenly afraid.
"Why have I never seen them? I mean, they're beautiful. They're real somehow."
She stopped, suddenly embarrassed, realizing now what he had meant. She had painted him in the traditional way—the only way she knew—but he had known something better.
"What does it mean?" she asked, her fingers tracing the pale, elongated forms. "Who are they?"
He gave a small laugh, then shook his head. "The old man lying down in the center, he's Laocoon. He was the priest who warned the Trojans not to allow the wooden horse into Troy."
She gave a little shake of her head, then laughed. "Troy? Where was Troy? And what do you mean by wooden horse?"