Flesh.
c. 1999, Miriam M. WynnSan Francisco was cold, and it blew a chill breeze against Sophia's naked cheek, reminding her that Fall was just beginning and it was a long time away from Spring. Sapling trees shook bright orange leaves down onto the street, and she stepped through them, crunching the brittle confetti under her black kid leather boots with mild satisfaction. A small smile crossed her lips at the sound, but it fell away when she heard the chapel clock across the street chime the quarter hour. She was late.
When she reached the dinged and dirty metal doors of San Rafael High School's art building, her gloved hand paused on the handle for a moment, and she cocked her head to listen for any sounds of life inside. She heard feet scuffling, murmuring, the scrape of chairs across linoleum. Someone dropped a book, or something else heavy, and someone else cursed loudly.
Freaks, all of them, she thought, and she bit her lip in anticipation. It had been a long time since she had picked a live model. It had been unprecedented for her to pick two.
Unable to wait any longer, Sophia pulled the door open in a sudden, exultant movement, and raised her face to see who had come to bare their souls to her.
Among the lost and sooty faces of junkies, the expectant wide-eyed gazes of starlet hopefuls, the stupid dreamy grins of sex objects, she found a face, a body, eyes that she had been hunting for. Sophia procrastinated, walking leisurely down the rows of those who wanted to be immortal. Marlene stood beside her and whispered names when Sophia stopped along the rows in front of collections of gangly limbs, impeccable poses, adolescent yearning.
"How much for the building?"
She turned slightly as she asked, out of the corner of her eye watching the dark brown hair of the girl with a bruise shaped like teeth on her upper thigh, revealed because of her short shorts, her off-white crew socks crunched down at the ankles, her sneakers with mismatched laces. The girl was blowing bubbles, the bottled kind with a wand found in a cheap mini-mart that specialized in packaged donuts, Ho-Hos, Ding-Dongs, Twinkies, and everything else like them. Sophia pretended not to be fascinated by the catch of the waning sunlight through a dirty window on the girl's neck.
Marlene was not aware of her interest in the girl and made little checks on her ever-present writing pad, sniffing disdainfully at the smell of grubby hands and bodies. There were some classy people: a young man in a crew-neck sweater with creased slacks and a gold watch, a redhead in a skirt suit adding layer upon layer of lipstick while eyeing herself in her compact mirror. An older looking woman, obviously a housewife looking for excitement, touched her fingers, flighty as birds, nervously to her hair.
"No price, remember? A favor. The school likes the publicity. Especially in this neighborhood, keeps the customers coming. Private schools get by hard these days."
"We have it until . . ." Sophia already knew what time, but wanted to waste it anyway.
"You came in late. We're fifteen minutes behind. We've got another twenty minutes, then we've got to get these people out. I promised the headmistress." Marlene looked at her expectantly, and Sophia gave her a slow smile, her brown eyes widening. Marlene's expression turned knowing.
"Who? Both?"
"One. I can't find the other right now, but maybe this'll do." Marlene turned to face the crowd, trying, as always, to figure out which. She was never right.
"Him!" Marlene said it softly, without gesturing, so that no one would get their hopes up.
"No. You're cold." Sophia examined the specimen. Marlene had nodded almost imperceptibly to a good-looking man in his mid-twenties, with brown hair and blue eyes. He was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, and he looked bored.
"God, I'll be here all night trying to play hot and cold. Who, then?"
Sophia smiled her trademark smile, soft and enigmatic, and slid away, down the rows, to the waning rectangular patch of sunlight that a young girl had instinctively known, when she first sat down, would be the last in the room before it went entirely. She stopped in front of the girl sitting in her wooden seat. Sophia, her expression unchanged, reached out slowly to take the girl's chin. The girl looked up at her with a mix of surprise and nonchalance. Sophia's voice was as evasive and quiet as her presence.
"Your face. I want to see it in moonlight."
The girl was named Rachel, and she threw a smirk to the crowd as they left, taking her bubbles with her. Disappointment grumbled across the thirty year-old walls of the art building, but it settled almost as soon as Sophia left. She was known for her firm and quick decisions-one look, and she knew who she wanted, and they were always a masterpiece. Marlene would give the details of the latest choice to the local newspaper, to a few magazines, and then public interest would die down. Behind the scenes, a few calls would come in every few weeks to check on progress, from interested museums, galleries, and private collectors. They would all be eager to see and hear about her latest work.
Rachel sat with one sneaker under her in the back seat of the car, shivering slightly at the cold. She did not have a jacket-she had nothing. The heater was on, but it would take time to warm up, and by then they would be at the studio. Sophia did not speak, but listened to Marlene give her business talk as usual, and she noticed that the girl never made any attempt to speak. She found it odd, already sensing that the girl had an attitude partial to outspokenness.
"So next week we have dinner with Gary, he promises to bring along a friend or two who could spread some word, stimulate buyer interest. They just want to meet you, and you know how far impressions can carry your image. So, spiff up a little, have a little wine beforehand, loosen up. We need you to talk." Marlene eyed her activity planner through her cat's eye glasses, pushing them up on her nose.
"I'll talk as much as I can. Are we here?"
Marlene rolled her eyes at the obvious, and got out first. Sophia and Rachel followed. Sophia watched as Rachel's large brown eyes sharpened on the large and impressive building in front of them. They were on a non-descript street with average traffic, a few blocks from a residential area but not far from the hustle and bustle of the yuppie shopping district. It made the thirty-something locals proud that they housed the workplace of an eminent artist. The large three-story brownstone sat on the corner of Hawthorne and Paisley Streets, facing the San Francisco Bay, far off in the distance above the corners of the trees and houses opposite. It was a richly cultured area, with hand-painted signs in the windows of family shops, trinket and rare book stores, coffee shops and cafes, spread intermittently down the street between homes and across blocks.
The most important and impressive thing about the building was its windows; they swept each floor from ceiling to base, full-walled, and the top floor boasted a huge bay window separated into three sections.
"You live here?" Rachel's tone suggested she took offense to the idea, but Sophia only smiled and nodded goodbye to Marlene.
"I'll see you next week. Have the driver back in an hour."
"Well you're welcome," Marlene drawled, and she threw Rachel a narrowed glance before climbing back into the car.
The pair stood alone on the sidewalk, the younger staring upward half in awe, half in disgust, the older captivated by the girl minx beside her.
Rachel exploded into the studio as soon as the barricade door was unlocked; having learned that Sophia did not live there, but worked there, she had run up two flights of stairs loudly, ignoring the possibility of disturbing two floors of neighbors as she pounded up. Delighted with the space on the top floor, she stood still for all of a second, before moving quickly to the panoramic view of San Francisco.
"You own this? This view?"
"Of course. All artists need a view." Sophia moved to the kitchen area off to the right, opening up the pristine white fridge and checking to be sure that it was stocked. Satisfied, she moved the stove and put on a pot of water to boil. "I'm making tea. You'll want some, it'll warm you."
"I don't drink tea." Rachel turned around with a ferocious look on her face that said she would not be coaxed into doing anything she didn't want to do.
"You should start. It doesn't stain your teeth and it doesn't give you bad breath." Sophia turned back to the cabinets, reaching for tea cups and saucers. Rachel frowned at her and watched.
"So where do you live?" The girl's voice was even.
"In town. I like apartments in the middle of things, this is too quaint."
"Quaint?"
Sophia turned around and leaned back against the kitchen counter, noting how the dusk outside, with the setting sun, made the girl look younger than she was. She doesn't know much . . . she probably dropped out of school. A runaway?
She asked her question carefully. "How old are you?"
"Old enough."
"Old enough to be naked? In front of everybody?" Sophia asked it softly, bluntly. Rachel colored.
"I'm eighteen. I used to work at the video store but they closed down. I need money."
"Of course you do. We all do."
"Not if you're dead. Or taken care of." The implication there amused Sophia, and she turned away to hide her smile. She knew that Rachel would not appreciate amusement, that she wanted to be taken as seriously as possible.
"You're too young to die. Isn't there someone to take care of you?" Sophia stirred their tea, adding milk and sugar. The tea was a black orange pekoe, simple, like Lipton, something the girl might recognize. She turned and brought it to the opposite counter, closer to Rachel but keeping a wall between them.
"Here. Drink it. It's the only one, I promise. Then you can never do it again if you like."
Rachel stepped forward cautiously, then walked across the honey parquet floors to the counter. She got up on a stool and took her cup with both hands, blowing on the liquid lightly. Sophia had not turned on the lights when they entered the studio and now the entire place was dark. Sophia was waiting impatiently for moonlight.
"I like it." Rachel held another sip of the tea in her mouth for a long moment, then swallowed. "Strange. But good."
"You don't have a place to stay, do you?" It was more of a statement. Sophia watched Rachel's glittering eyes intently.
"No. How do you know?"
"Nevermind. Finished?" Sophia reached out and Rachel handed over her cup.
"More, please."
Sophia moved to make more tea, moving in the dark without hesitation.
"You'll stay here, then. There's a bedroom, bathroom, in the back, I'll show you. And here's the kitchen, of course. There's a television, a phone, and a back patio. There's a computer, but that's for my work-you shouldn't use it unless I'm around. That goes for my other equipment too. I'll expect that you don't abuse the phone, or have people over without asking."
"How long will this be for?" Rachel's voice was sure and strong in the dark. Sophia's reply was low and serene as always.
"However long it takes."
Sophia remembered the girl's face and hands and movements; she held her breath in her sleep that night and woke up tight in the chest, bursting already with ideas. She would make the girl a nymph, a queenlet, she would mold her and create her and divine her, knowher, and expose her as brilliantly as she could. She was excited. She remembered the tattoo of a butterfly, on the naked hip of Rachel, who bent over to untie her shoes as Sophia showed her the bedroom that would be hers for the next weeks and months. The little t-shirt had ridden up an inch, the shorts had ridden down, and a glorious tiny butterfly had burst out across the girl's flesh.
I will give her life-light. The things she does not have.
Sophia was glad to admit within a week that she was obsessed with Rachel. The pair of them knew it; Marlene knew it and wanted to keep it from the press.
"Keep it strictly business, Sophia; I know you've always done it before, you can do it now." Marlene spoke in a pained hush over croissants in a café two Saturday mornings later.
"I don't want to. It's part of it. She needs to be adored for her beauty to exist. I can't make her beautiful otherwise."
"Make her beautiful with the camera. You don't need anything else. That girl . . . well, they're kind don't stay around. And she knows what she's about." Marlene's voice was heavy with meaning and she chewed slowly on her bread, watching Sophia.
"Are you warning me?" Sophia was not offended, only amused. Her small smile appeared again, and Marlene shook her head in fond exasperation.
"Do what's smart, Soph. Getting too involved with her is definitely not smart. You'll regret it. I hate to sound like a nag, but it's true."
"True or not, it'll be worth it I think. She knows I mean art." It was their running joke, to say "I mean art," instead of "I mean business." But Marlene's response was only a weak smile. Sophia gave her a warmer one to reassure her, and leaned forward for emphasis.
"Relax. I have faith in her."
"You don't even know her."
Sophia sighed, and looked away.
The first touch had come in the first few days over another cup of tea; Rachel was in love with the drink and wanted to try all the different flavors available in the studio's kitchen. Sophia made her cup after cup as the days passed, smiling at each expression that traveled like a cloud across her muse's face. Then Rachel had looked up at her suddenly, and spoken in her characteristically frank way.
"Don't you think I know about sex?"
Sophia had been surprised and she knew that her face showed it. "Why wouldn't you?"
Rachel's expression was bright and sly at the same time. "People think I shouldn't, because of my age. I'm not that young. I've had some experience." Her eyes had dropped to Sophia's chest. "I know what you want."
"And what do I want?"
"You're a lesbian. You want me." There was a slight, childish emphasis on the "me" that made Sophia smile. She chose not to be taken aback by the assumption of her sexuality.
"Of course I want you. I want you to pose for me. I'm an artist." Her tone indulgent, she took a sip of her tea, slightly discomfited. She did not want to discuss sex with the girl, she had only thought of her in romantic, ideal terms, not the physical, not the flesh. Flesh was something too close-something that haunted her, in memories, and she could only photograph it, not experience it. The distance through a lense was safe, and quiet.
Rachel's face was loaded with doubt and knowing. "Not that. I see the way your eyes follow me. They follow where a man's eyes follow, only a little different. Like a touch. Like you're-"
"What?" Sophia set her cup down and waited.
She saw Rachel's hands clutch the delicate tea cup she held and instinctively Sophia reached out to protect it. She gently drew the porcelain away. As soon as she set it down, Rachel moved suddenly to take her fingers, to kiss them, bringing them to her lips so roughly that Sophia fell against the opposite side of the counter, her wall of protection. It did not protect her now, and she did not think she wanted it to. Rachel's face was burning brightly, at once exultant and afraid.
"Like you're kissing me. Soft, light-," Rachel whispered, brokenly, and the little girl in her was so evident that Sophia felt more motherly in that moment than anything else. She came around the counter; a comforting hug in the face of Rachel's building tears turning into an embrace, a crush, a slide down to the wooden flooring with only a coarse woven rug to cushion them.
Rachel panted, grasped, Sophia cried out in shock and tried to pull away, but there were things that Rachel knew that even Sophia did not know. Rachel was soft, and demanding, but she did not hurt her, there was no cruelty in her. Sophia succumbed and forgot herself, and she was glad to let go. She no longer cared that this was not meant to be, for she now believed whole-heartedly that this girl, in her arms, was to be her greatest work of art.
She didn't tell Rachel, but she thought about it, those lazy hours where they lay in each other's arms and let the sun hit them through the panoramic windows, no chance of anyone seeing them naked on the floor. She thought about being young, younger even than Rachel, and innocence, something she'd figuratively been trying to reclaim all these years afterward.
It had happened when Sophia was twelve, and on vacation with her parents at the Palisades. It was a country resort that took up several dozens of acres off the Monterey Bay coast, with cottage homes, private pools, and everything leisurely for the wealthy residents. They rented a cottage further inland, for a vineyard feel. This time of year, in June, they'd had a head start on the vacation rush and there were not that many people in the houses along the winding, tree-lined avenue that fronted the hillfront homes. The avenue afforded a spectacular view of the resort and the beach below.
Next door had seemed empty for the longest time; while her parents went golfing or sunning on the beach, she puttered around the house, roller-skated by herself down the street, and eventually crashed herself into the curb after hitting a pebble. Too shocked to cry aloud, a few tears made their way down her face and as she reached up to wipe them, a huge, warm hand stopped them with a brush across her cheek. Looking up, she'd seen a large man with deep-set eyes and thick lashes, and his expression was somewhere between a faint smile and displeasure. He had seemed handsome, if a little bit dangerous, like a bear. His thick eyebrows were sharp and commanding, but his face otherwise expressionless.
He had lifted her up without preamble and carried her easily into the house next door. He sat her on the kitchen table, cleaned up her scrapes, and presented her with a glass of lemonade. They did very little talking. Something about him disturbed her-he looked at her as if he wanted to talk to her, be friendly, but the lack of words between them seemed to show he had no interest. But then on her way out he handed her a beautiful rock, from a few lined along his windowsill, a sparkling quartz the size of her thumb and shaped vaguely like a slivered moon. Smiling up at him, she left the house after shaking his hand, and told no one about the mysterious man next door.
At night, she held the rock up to moonlight while sitting at her window. Her room was on the side of the house next to his and she watched for signs of life. There were few. Occasionally a light would come on, or a shade would lower. She never could tell if he knew she was watching. It was her summer mystery; bored in a land meant to please adults, she needed something to occupy her mind.
They would be in the Palisades for about a month; each day that her parents left her alone, she would eventually find her way back next door, knocking at first timidly on the front door, then bravely, as days passed. They went through lemonade and juice, lunch and snacks, and still spoke very little. Once or twice they left the house by the back door and wandered the estates, admired the gardens of his particular lot and shared a bench. Sometimes, he'd take her hand and gently squeeze it, and amazed by the largeness of his hand, she'd let him, to watch. Others, he'd pat her head lightly, but do nothing more.
Abruptly, and with feeling, she'd told him that she was going away in a little over a week and she was going to be sorry not to see him again, that she'd liked being friends with him and would miss him. He had not responded verbally, but had taken her hand in his and brought it to his lips, before letting go. Frowning, she asked him why he spoke so little, wasn't he sorry that she was leaving? He stared hard down at her, sitting at his kitchen table. When he spoke his voice had something in it that seemed to explain the strange way he often looked at her.
He said, "I want you." She had not understood what he meant, and thought he was saying he wished to keep knowing her, that he was sad to see her go. That he wanted her as a friend still. But the way he had said it had not been pleasant. It was as if he were sorry and angry to say it, which offended her. Standing up, she made to go, but he took her arm-
Here, Sophia would hold Rachel the tightest as she slept on her breast. Her eyes wide and staring at her white ceilings, she felt her stomach tighten and begin to cramp. Cold, she would reach for the blankets, turn her face to the sun, and try to find warmth again . . .
He had been far too big for her. He pulled her to him, hugged her, and she returned the hug, but then it turned into something more, something she had not intended or wanted, and his mouth, and his hands, too large for her to fight, and she at first struggled, but his heavy breathing, in her ear, seemed to threaten her. He said nothing. The violation was quick, and terrible; when it was over, he held her tightly but then she began to struggle again, to scream, and she knew that no one would hear, people were out playing, the only house with people was three homes down, and she kicked him, bit him, and suddenly he let her go, she was scrambling away in her rumpled shorts and shirt and the pain between her legs was unbearable. The pain in her heart was far worse.
She never looked at him again. She saw his reflection in one of the windows as she ran to the door, saw him watching her, not angry, not sorry, again silent, saying nothing. His smell was all over her. She stumbled down the front steps, filled with loathing, filled with confusion and wobbly. She ran, down the street, tripping, down the hillfront, far from that blissful avenue of trees, skidding on grass to fall hard and find herself lying on her back again and crying hard. She was somewhere on the grounds with all of Monterey Bay before her, the trees bending down toward her, to soothe her with their sighs.
Since then, men were hard to trust. She had avoided sex altogether. She had learned to do without it, even through high school, college, and adult life. It wasn't necessary to make art. And she had left the Palisades far behind her. Before her parents died, every time they went back she refused to go and stayed with friends, or a relative for the summer. Anywhere but there, anywhere but the memory of that house, and that man, and that beautiful avenue of trees, and a vision of safety that had turned into a lie.
"You're changed, Sophie, you look different." Vincent smiled at her knowingly and nudged her a little with his foot. She smiled back, nodded. "Is it what I think it is? Has Sophia finally gone freaky?"
"Mmm." She smiled at him, then said, teasingly, "But not where you'd expect." She leaned back in her chair, swilling red wine around in her glass. They were sitting on the balcony of her apartment, with a homemade dinner and music playing.
Vince raised his eyebrows in curiosity and took a bite of his pasta. He spoke around the food. "Pray tell."
"A girl. My latest. She's going to be fantastic, I've got dozens of ideas already, I know I'm going to exhaust her before I'm through." Vincent looked absolutely amazed but didn't fail to pick up on the sexual innuendo.
"Exhaust her?" Sophia gave an indulgent smile. Then Vincent's surprise took over. "A girl, Sophia?" He dragged out her name in his exaggerated shock. "What on earth happened? One minute you're a nun, the next-"
"She was amazing. I didn't expect-"
"No one ever expects anything, darling." He leaned back and looked at her assessingly. "I suppose that's the way it works anyway. That's how it was with me. You don't think you are until . . . you are." Vincent knew that she had in a way taken a vow of abstinence, but she had never fully explained her reasons to him. Sophia understood that her sudden change from asexuality to lesbianism must be a shock, but she had been sure he would be able to accept it without too much difficulty. The look of doubt on his face proved her wrong.
"Soph, I could understand if it was someone older, established . . . meaningful . . ."
"This girl is meaningful. She's a person, Vince, not a nobody. We make connections all the time, why should it matter with who? That's life. If I hadn't met Rachel I might never-" She stopped, slid her fork into her pasta and twirled it around. Vince watched her for a long moment, then prompted her.
"Might never what?"
She sighed, gave up on the pasta, and took up her wine. "I might have missed my chance."
"For what? Love? Or sex? You honestly think you're in love with her? And if it's sex, you could have that any time-"
"Not on my own. I would never . . . she came to me, Vince, that was something I'd never act on, I wasn't even thinking of her that way." Silence. Vincent mulled it over, the nodded.
"I hope she's everything you say she is. She's either that or a really clever one."
"Thanks for your vote of confidence." Sophia saluted him with her glass, her mild manner revealing anger by the cut of her tone. Vince grimaced, then leaned forward, trying to explain.
"Look, it's not that-I just never imagined you'd be so easy to persuade. One minute you're against sex the next-"
"You should be happy for me, Vince. This isn't a movie, I shouldn't have to say it."
His face went guilty, and he nodded, leaning back again. "I know. I'm sorry. I do hope you're happy, Soph. I just hope you don't get hurt."
Sophia spoke to Vincent over the phone a few days later, thrilled with how the work was going.
"She's magnificent, Vince. All scrubbed up or all dirty, she's a vision. I took some test shots the other day, I swear to God they were nearly printable! I could put those on the computer right now and edit them and they'd be selling like crazy."
"Is she really that amazing, I wonder?"
Sophia made a frustrated sound, and he quickly added, "Not that I don't believe you, but maybe you need an objective opinion. Plus, I'm curious. I mean, who is she, where does she come from?"
"That doesn't matter. She's homeless, a runaway, who knows, who cares?" Starting to get fed-up with everyone's doubt, she allowed herself a growl of frustration. "None of that matters, she has no baggage, I don't worry about it. I have her. I have her on film and in my head all day and all I can even deal with is her and that's all I want to do. Give me the freedom to enjoy my newfound sexuality, God, I thought you of all people would cut me some slack!"
Vince let his breath out in a blast. "You're really into her, aren't you?"
"Yes. Yes I am. Now I want you to apologize."
The pictures were dazzling. Sophia took so many early on that she had to pace herself, aware that she could use up all her time and energy and film and not even have the best of what was to come. She took her time, steadying herself, spreading herself out carefully and cautiously, trying to remain in control of passion, using it productively so as not to waste her fountain of inspiration.
Rachel lay spread out before her naked, lovely, flowers in strategic places, littered and spilled like stars in the heavens across luxurious silks and pillows. Rachel's pale skin glowed by morning light, by afternoon sun, by sunset and moonlight, and Sophia forgot herself, and gloried in each flash of the camera, each pose, each angle, so that a day became weeks, became months. Two months-of pictures, digital photography, editing the photographs on her computer so that Rachel became an angel, a goddess, the nymph that Sophia dreamed of. Rachel leaned over her shoulder while she worked with the mouse and screen and marveled at the changes, her hands caressing, reaching. She drew her away from her work, to the bedroom, to the mussed and rampantly Bacchanalian bed, to a fireplace in the cold of a San Franciscan winter. She lived less at home now and spent more and more of her nights in the studio with Rachel.
Sophia took Rachel outside, to the pier, to works of art, to restaurants and strolls down the streets; she kissed her in shadows, in soft and gray daylight where no one else walked, and found joy in Rachel's smiles, sharp and sarcastic and indulgent and elfin. The girl was magical, mystical; she had a new wardrobe, they ate out almost every night, they both knew that Sophia would give her anything and everything that she wanted.
She is taken care of-by me, may it always be me.
"Sophia, darling, come out with me tonight." Vince moued petulantly into her ear one afternoon in February and she laughed him away, took his hand, squeezed it. They'd happened to cross paths downtown and he'd forcibly stopped her with a hug. Pulling away, she kissed him on the cheek and allowed him to keep her.
"Alright. I want you to meet Rachel-I can't believe you haven't seen her yet!"
"Don't invite that rabid Marlene. You know I can't stand her."
"She can't stand you either," Sophie replied affectionately, and with a light parting hug she hurried to the studio to tell Rachel the news. Rachel was averse to the idea but was curious to meet Sophia's closest friend.
"He's the gay one, right? He owns a hair salon?"
"No, that's a stereotype; he works for an ad agency. A good one. He makes a lot of money."
"Good for him. Why the hell do we have to see him?"
"He wants to meet you. I want you to meet him. Very simple." She paused, leaned over and kissed her softly on the temple from behind. "Make me happy, why don't you?" She began to rub Rachel's back like she would a cat, and smiled into the girl's warm hair.
"You're too damned happy. You should be a suffering artist."
Sophia closed her eyes and buried her face further into Rachel.
"Oh I am, darling, I am . . ."
Vincent's eyes snapped immediately to every apparent feature of Rachel's body as soon as she was visible to him, his face changing slightly, the difference almost unnoticeable, if only Sophia had not known him so well. She knew he saw something he did not like.
Rachel sat down with a humph of air and a flip of short, silky skirt; she dressed her age and somehow looked sophisticated and childish at the same time. Sophia watched her fondly, reaching out to tug lightly at an errant curly framing her model's face. Rachel smiled at her before brushing her hand away. She took up the menu, ignoring Vincent's expectant gaze.
"Well," he finally said, in a measured tone, to the back of Rachel's menu, "nice to finally meet you, Rachel. I've heard so much about you."
"I'm sure." Her tone was even, and she gave him a brief but insincere smile over her menu. Vince's mouth twitched and Sophia laughed, reached out to pat his arm.
"Don't take her too seriously. She's grouchy because she'd rather lay around in bed all day than be civilized in the outside world."
"Exactly." Rachel said it with a decadent sigh, then went back to her menu.
Dinner was painful for Vincent, irritating for Rachel, and an ambivalent mix of pleasure and displeasure for Sophia. Towards the end, after Rachel left for the bathroom, Vince sat and stared heavily at Sophia before stating his verdict.
"You can tell what I think."
"Then say it. Tell me why."
"She does have baggage. What it is, I don't know, but it's going to bite you in the ass, not her. Though I hate to admit it, Marlene is right. You might be better off with someone older, and better for you."
Sophie gave him a sad smile, and lifted her glass of wine to him. "And what if I don't want to?" She took a sip, and set the glass down. "I want her." The deeper meaning of those words made her shiver, and she looked toward the tables where Rachel would eventually emerge.
Vince suddenly leaned forward, his tone intense. "How much work have you produced, Sophia? What the hell have you been doing up there, in your studio? Wasting your time."
"I've got tons of pictures, what are you talking about-"
"And you haven't brought one of them to Marlene. You want to live in this little dream of yours forever? She doesn't take you nearly as seriously as you take her. And why aren't you finished yet, if she's so great, if she's your masterpiece?"
"Because I'm not done!" The exclamation stopped even her, and she paused, calmed herself. She knew that their dinner neighbors were watching. "Listen. She may not love me, but I can live with that. She's a kind person, and she cares."
"Promise me one thing." Sophia could see Rachel coming and gave him a meaningful look. He hurried on, his voice furtive. "I know you. Just take all your pictures and go home and stay away from her for a little while. Assess your progress then, okay? Then you can tell me how wonderful she is for you."
Rachel finally arrived and sat in her seat with a flourish. "Here I am. Did you miss me?"
There was something missing.
Sophia took the photographs home and spread them out, pinned them up, eyed them and inspected them. She did not answer the phone when it rang; she knew that it was Rachel and she did not want to be persuaded away from solitude. It had been such a part of her once, and now suddenly she could not live without this girl, this girl with wide, knowing eyes, a touch like silk, a bite like the stab of a searing brand, a clutch that made Sophia feel wanted, and owned. In a gentle way, a way uncruel and loving. And though she felt owned, she did not own in return.
The pictures were beautiful, all of them, but they did not contain the missing element, the serenity that should be there, that was suggested in the poses, the trimmings, the additions and shifts and alterations. The lighting did not bring it, and neither did the attempt to change ideas or settings. All her props, her imaging manipulation, could not bring that missing element of intensity that she thought she had captured, the burn in Rachel's bright eyes. Sophia had believed she'd captured her muse, but Rachel remained as unattainable and enigmatic as ever.
When Sophia finally returned to the studio, two days later, she found it full of material things and empty of what she wanted. Rachel had taken only what she had come with. Sophia stood staring, disbelieving, her hands at her sides, unable to react, until a voice filled the room, chilling her to the bone.
"She left. Ran away. As usual. Did you think that she would stay?"
A man about her own age, late twenties, reclined on a red paisley silk divan that Sophia had used with Rachel the week before. He had dark brown, almost black hair. His eyebrows were thick and sharply angled, as though he were angry, bent on violence, but his lips were serene bows of candied calm. She backed away instinctively, her eyes scanning the room for a weapon. I want you, the voice whispered in her ear, heavy, hot, and inescapable.
"How did you get in?" He lifted up, stood, unfolded his large, full frame and revealed faded black-jeans, trench coat, t-shirt, sneakers. His presence was huge, stifling, and she backed away, frightened by his face. His eyes were feral, unnatural, black and cat-like and absorbing, he smiled at her loosely and she knew that he could sense her fear. This was not the type of man she would ever deal with if she could help it; he looked far too familiar, far too dangerous.
"How do you think? She let me in. It wasn't very hard to find her. I've known she was here for weeks. At least a month, maybe. She didn't want me to come around, though I had every reason." He paced the room, a little to the left, then back toward her. He stopped when he saw her tense. "Do you know it was me who was supposed to be there that night, at San Rafael? I asked her to go and keep my place, even paid her a little cash. I thought maybe she could arrange an appointment, since I couldn't make it that night-and she got the job!" He smiled, sharply, did not move any closer but seemed to be approaching her anyway. Sophia tried to catch her breath, suddenly lost without her backbone of calm, and fumbled for the counter.
"I won't hurt you." Silence. He waited, staring at her, and she saw that his hands were open and bare at his sides, loose. She looked up at him again, trembled, sat down on a stool.
"Who are you?" Her voice shook and she made no attempt to control it.
"Her brother." He said it with a slow, easy grace that made her check his face again. His expression was absurdly kind, unthreatening. She instinctively distrusted it. I want you.
"What do you want then?"
"A chance. I've seen your work. I've followed it, even. I knew you'd think twice if you looked at me, had a good look at me. You could use me, I know it. You know it. But you still don't like what you see, do you?" He frowned, thoughtfully noting her face.
Sophia looked queasy and horrified and had some trouble controlling her breathing. "I have what I need. I do not need . . . your type." He looked surprised by this but shrugged it off.
"You have what you need? I don't think so. I know all about you and Rachel. She really had you going, didn't she? A girl like that, she would, I guess. She's always had a way with . . . people."
"I want you to leave." Catching her breath again, Sophia straightened up and looked at him sternly. "Tell Rachel . . . tell Rachel that unless I hear from her, I'll publish the pictures. They're mine anyway. And she hasn't been paid yet . . . tell her . . . tell her to meet me, I'll-I'll pay her, she must want her money, she's all alone-"
"A girl like Rachel is never alone for long, Sophia." He said her name softly, tenderly, in a way she had never heard it before. "She doesn't need your money, really. She could certainly use it, but she has so much to use. Do you understand me?" He said this quietly, and she felt threatened, as if he were warning her. The air between them seemed riddled with sharp points, barbs of meaning, the potential for words that could do harm.
"I don't know where you've come from, or who you are, or what you want . . . but I'm asking you to leave." Sophia looked up at him, slowly, carefully, drawing every ounce of courage and anger out of her nauseated gut.. "I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me where she is. You don't have to. I'm sure I can find her on my own."
The man sighed, turning away for a moment to look across at her windows. When he looked back, he nodded, as if understanding her. He seemed to have given up trying to talk to her. "The corner of Newton and Caroll. Over the coffee shop, she's staying with old friends." He watched her face carefully.
"Thank you. Now--" Sophia raised her hand to gesture to the door, and he started to go, but just as he passed her, he turned.
"I'm warning you, she won't be happy to see you." He gave her a tight smile. "She may even refuse to see you. Are you sure you want to do this?"
Sophia's jaw tightened and she met his eyes, her own gaze as forceful as she could make it. "I need to know for myself."
"Alright. Have it your way." Rachel's brother left, closing the door loudly behind him.
"I'm a wreck, honey. I drove by the place three times this week. I want to go--I don't want to. She's in there, with a lover, with friends, with people I don't know--"
"I told you being anti-social would never pay off." Vince's voice held no humor, and she knew he was displeased to see her moping.
"Shut up. This isn't helping." Sophia dropped her head in her hand and rubbed her forehead fiercely.
"Darling, darling, it's alright . . . You'll be alright. Why don't you go on vacation, go to Cancun, to Rio, to Spain--anywhere. Get out of here and forget her."
"I can't, I can't--"
"Hush." Vincent rose from the elegant wrought iron chair on his patio and moved through the French doors. He came back with another bottle of wine and a box of chocolates. "Here. This should help!" Sitting back down again he poured Sophia more wine and forced a chocolate on her.
"Vincent," she said around a mint truffle, "I need to see her again."
Vincent gazed back at her with a pained but loving expression. He traced his finger lightly over her wrist, smiling softly, and when he spoke, his voice was heavy.
"I told you she was trouble, Sophia. This girl is not good for you, or your work. This muse you're looking for--try looking again! Try anything, but don't focus on her alone! Art is creation, searching, trying and failing. You told me yourself that the photos don't cut it. What more proof do you want? Call another audition, try again! Fail again, but do something else for God's sake!"
Sophia watched his thumb circling the inside of her wrist, and closed her eyes, comforted by the sensation. She looked up at Vincent's eyes, how large and worried they were. He was right. She was going downhill, wasting the energy she was supposed to put into things she knew would deliver. But the memory of Rachel continued to tumble through the back of her mind, and she could not let it go. Maybe it would fade with time.
"Okay. Do something? I'll call another audition . . ." Vincent sat back, satisfied, a stronger smile of hope on his face. His smile wavered at her next question. "But then I can visit her, right?"
A month had passed. The auditions came, and Sophia arrived as she always did, mysterious and withdrawn. But there was a change.
It had become apparent in an interview with a popular arts and culture magazine; Sophia seemed more demonized; she had lost her veneer of serenity and had gained a pallor. She seemed feverish, ill, tortured. She hid it very well under her old skin of calm, but small signs of it still shone through. It was in a new strain, and the way her eyes seemed to constantly scan the horizon, as if looking for something, or someone.
They had been unable to book the school again and this time held auditions in the gym of a local community center. It seemed that the same number of people, if not more, had shown up, likely due to the hype about Sophia's mysterious new project--one she had promised to deliver but had withheld. What about the girl she'd picked, what had happened to all the weeks in her studio? Wasn't there any work produced? Was the well running dry?
Sophia felt resigned. She walked in feeling that there was no hope; there was no way she would ever find the muse, the one, anyone to compare to Rachel. And if not even Rachel had managed to capture what Sophia searched for, how could anyone else? Marlene walked slowly beside her, her face tense. She had been upset for a while that Sophia had not produced any photos, and was worried that things were indeed going to dry up.
"You alright?" Marlene laid a light hand on Sophia's shoulder, and Sophia nodded, distracted, her eyes paying more attention to the interesting old stains on the gym walls than the people in it. "You've got the gym until they close. Nine o'clock." Marlene gave a pained smile. "But, you know, we're all waiting."
"Yes. Yes, of course." Sophia nodded and walked away. People were milling about, conversing. They were aware of her, but they had been waiting for over forty-five minutes as she absently floated through them, and by the shuffling of their feet and their mumbled sighs it was obvious they were beginning to wonder if this was a waste of time.
"Decided to move on? I was wondering if you had it in you." A voice, familiar but out of context, assaulted her ear, and she turned suddenly, to bump into a tall man wearing a well-kept black leather jacket. She immediately backed away, wary.
"What?" Her question was more a reflex than a real inquiry. His eyes caught hers as her gaze flickered across him, assessing him. She was in a public place. Nothing could happen here.
The man smiled in reply, and gestured to the crowd. "Can't keep them waiting forever. Can you?" He seemed to be talking about something else, something secretive between them--she remembered that Rachel had taken his place, that he had wanted a second chance.
"Yes, I--I know. Fine. Well--I don't think tonight's a very productive night, I haven't found what I'm looking for--"
"You're sure of that?" He smiled down at her, and she drew her eyebrows together in confusion. He seemed to be forcing her into a decision she did not want to make. She shook her head, and started to turn away, but just at that moment Marlene intervened.
"Thank God, Sophia, have you found him? Is this him, will he work?" She looked highly relieved and gave a harried laugh, her hand on both their forearms.
"Wow, I was beginning to wonder if this wasn't going to work, we've got a very tight schedule and it's about time Sophia's produced something--"
"No--no, I haven't picked--" Sophia lifted her hand, her mouth open in protest, but he interrupted her. His eyes held hers as he spoke.
"Yes, I know, I've kept an eye out for her work and the last book was what, over a year ago, wasn't it? It's about time."
"That's the truth!" Marlene relaxed visibly, turning to Sophia. "So, shall we make the announcement? Are you ready?"
Sophia stared at Marlene, watching the mouth move, making no sense of things. She felt trapped, overwhelmed--her eyes met his fierce and triumphant gaze, and a vague impression of him spread naked on a white sheet--with feathers, with wings--flashed into her mind. Michael, the angel Michael, she could make him into that. When she spoke, her voice was nearly inaudible, but Marlene heard what she wanted to hear.
"Yeah, sure--"
Marlene interrupted her, eager to get on with things: "Alright, everybody, she's made her choice, thank you so much for coming . . ."
They stood in the middle of the studio, the dark night a brilliant and rare canvas of stars through her panoramic windows. She had not yet turned on the light, and as she moved to do so, she had second thoughts. Her nails scraped the paint on the wall as the lights flooded on; blinking, she turned around and stood facing him, taking a moment to grab what sense of her thoughts she could.
"Look, maybe this is a mistake, maybe--" She finally blurted, raising her hand to her cheek, feeling how cold it was, feeling disconcerted and aimless as the stone she felt like.
"Hey, calm down." His voice, measured and kind though it was, still suggested that he expected her to obey it. Resentfully, slowly, she brought her eyes to his face, and found that what little strength she had was fading fast. Her mind could not deal with this. "You never did go to see her, did you?"
"How do you know that?" She stepped away, began walking toward the view. The windows were cold; she put her hands to the glass and tried to become calm, still, like she had been once . . . it didn't work.
"I still keep in touch with her. I asked and she said you hadn't. And I'm glad." She opened her eyes and saw a blurred reflection, indistinct, of him far behind her. He looked tall, lean-like and unlike the man who's reflection still occasionally haunted her memory. He stood relaxed, as if none of this were strange, as if it were natural for him to be here, in this room, with her. But now she was older, stronger. She did not have to give in. This situation was no more natural than it had been two months ago, this stranger intimidating her in her own studio. And Rachel . . . how dare he bring up Rachel?
She frowned hard at his reflection in the glass, and knew he likely couldn't see it. "Well, I'm not. And I will see her . . . eventually. This is . . . this is just a business arrangement. I'll attempt to produce some pieces, and . . ."
"And then you're free to go after her?" His voice went flat, full of disapproval.
"What does it matter to you anyway?" Sophia pulled away from the glass and swung around, moving past him into the kitchen. Tea--tea could occupy her for a little bit. She began to open the cupboards, searching for the sugar. She hoped he would stay on the opposite side of the counter.
"Listen. I know that you think you love Rachel. And maybe you do, I don't know." He took a few slow steps toward the counter and she shot a foreboding look over her shoulder as she turned on the stove. He paused by the edge and leaned forward over it, his eyes wide and earnest, his voice low.
"Rachel is a fun person. She's not evil. But she takes from everyone around her-she lives for satisfaction, she lives for the moment. She will always be that way-she'll always run and she'll always pose and flitter around the world like the butterfly tattooed on her ass. That's her game. That's her world. Do you still want that?"
"I don't want to talk about this." Sophia leaned back against the opposite counter and folded her arms over her chest, trying to sound reasonable and in control of her temper and emotions. She barely made it. "Listen. We'll work. I'll work. I'll make up something. Even if I can't finish the pictures I made with her--"
"Why can't you?" His eyes, black as night, narrowed and the timbre of his voice intensified, as if he were interrogating her. He leaned hard over the counter, intent on her answer, watching her face closely.
Sophia internally pulled back from the microscope he'd put her under, but the question sent her mind into more confusion than ever. She suddenly remembered that it had been Rachel who'd let him into her studio the night she returned. Had he seen her work? Had he come to the studio before and seen her failure, seen she didn't have the skill to capture Rachel at all?
"That's not any of your business--and what I want, or do, with Rachel is not any of your business either--"
"She's my sister."
"Does she poke her nose into your love life? Into your professional life?" Sophia spoke tersely, her voice sharp and jagged with frustration at the conversation and with a strong desire to make the man as uncomfortable as she could. "I doubt it."
He nodded, but kept on. "True. But if I'm going to work with you, why wouldn't it be my business? It's on your mind. It haunts you, affects your work. The changes--they're obvious. You're not the same woman." He sat down on a stool and she opened her mouth in amazement.
"What, do you stalk me? Is that it?" She raised her chin, her eyes wide in anger and nervousness.
"No, I do not stalk you." His voice was heavy with sarcasm. "But I do follow your work. And I've seen you around." He paused, then pointed to the water nearing the boiling point on the stove. She resented his helping her do something so simple as make tea, and she ignored his gesture and continued to watch him, leaning against the counter.
"I did see some of what you did with Rachel," he went on, "and it was good. But not your best, right? It lacked emotion, that final connection."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Look, I enjoy art. And it's not your work alone I admire. I'm not an art major, but I do know a thing or two about the messages a piece can convey and those it's fallen short of delivering. And I'm thinking that maybe what's missing in your work is yourself."
"Please!" She snorted. "I put everything into my work--"
He cut her off. "You put everything into Rachel."
They stared at one another for a long moment, and in the silence the teakettle began to shriek. Reaching to cut it off with an irritated jerking motion, Sophia barely missed knocking it off the stove. She looked back up at Rachel's brother and spoke slowly.
"There's no difference. This was a masterpiece of self. It doesn't matter where the self is, so long as it's invested. I invested it in Rachel--Rachel was the work. She was the masterpiece--"
"And the masterpiece is empty. The photographs and maybe the live model. I don't know, maybe your investment theory works under other circumstances, but if that's the case, all I can say is that this only proves Rachel didn't give a shit about your investment and had no intention of reciprocating it."
Sophia bit her lip and turned back to the sink counter, reaching for two cups out of habit, pouring the hot water over the chrysanthemum leaves in a tea strainer. She stirred, adding a little bit of sugar to hers and the other, staring down into the pale yellow depths of the little Asian tea cups. She had stopped drinking chrysanthemum tea ages ago. Rachel had not liked it because it looked like urine.
She turned back and stared down at the cups of tea in her hand. Resigned to her fate, she offered him one, and he looked at her for a moment, as if to be sure she was certain. She nodded, and he took it carefully, as if afraid to touch her fingers, or to drop the cup. He brought it to his lips as she watched him, nursing her own scalding cup in her freezing palms.
"Sophia--"
"You know my name and I still don't know yours."
"Mark."
"Ah." She nodded, taking a sip of her tea. It soothed her insides, brought her closer to calm, but only briefly. The taste of serenity faded with the hot liquid down her throat, and she lifted the cup again to search for it. "Mark. Look, I'll try my hardest. And we'll work together, on something else. Just let me--just let me deal with the rest, all right? That's my business anyway. So long as we can produce some good work, I shouldn't be henpecked by you for anything other than what we--you and I--are working on. Alright?"
He stared at her for a moment, then looked down at his tea. "Alright. You're the boss." That made her proffer a rare smile.
"We'll start next week."
flesh part 2