The Man in the Tree (12 page)

The pipes were to carry the molten bronze to various parts of the
figure, and the vents were to allow air to escape. "Otherwise you get
bubbles. The first time I cast in bronze, there was a. big bubble right
in the belly. And a big pain in my belly, too. If you make a mistake,
it's your fault, not the foundry, and you pay them just the same."
Avila made him build a clay figurine, then copy it in wood. The wood
carving was a botch, because he had tried to follow the shape of the
clay too faithfully. Avila smiled when he saw it. "Now you have learned
something."
Another time Avila had him construct a wooden armature of soft pine, into
which he had to drive curving rows of little brads until the armature
bristled with them like the body of St. Sebastian. The heads of the
brads, Avila explained, had to represent the surface of the clay figure
he was to make; he would be allowed to cover them with a sixteenth of
an inch of clay, no more; and for three days Gene turned the armature
around and around while he stared at it, trying to visualize the clay
volume which did not yet exist. Again and again he tapped some of
the brads a fraction of an inch deeper, pulled others out and started
over. When at last he added the clay, the figure was stiff, mechanical;
he tore it apart himself, without waiting for Avila to do it, and threw
the clay back in the bin. But from this, too, he learned something.
Chapter Ten
Corrupt and abrading, I desire your smoothness
You cool to my hot, tender to my rough
You integral, one curve, I channeled and weathered.
How can you know yourself if not through me?
Let me pay tribute under your skin
Before worm, rot and canker topple us both
Into the luxury of silence
--Gene Anderson
One evening in October there were six of them sitting around the oil
stove -- Avila, Gene, Darío and Peggy, Gus Vlismas and a girl he had
brought; her name was Lillian. They were all bored and restless; rain
was tapping the windows out of an ink-blue sky.
"Let's play los cadáveres exquisitos," said Dario, stubbing out his
cigarette. "żQuieren?"
"Oh, not that again," said Peggy without looking up. She was tearing
a cigarette apart with her fingernails, dropping the shreds of tobacco
into an ashtray and smoothing out the paper.
Darío turned on her. "Just because I say do it, you say no."
"God," she muttered. "Do it, then."
"I don't know what it is," Lillian said. "How do you play?"
"It's a game." Darío went to a cabinet, brought sketchpads and handed
them out. "Like this, you fold the paper in three parts, then in the
top part you draw a head, any kind of head. You don't show anybody. Then
you fold it over so nobody can see it, but you leave the neck showing,
okay? Then the next person, he draws the body and folds it over, and
the last one draws the legs."
Silence fell as they worked on their drawings. Gene drew the head of a
snail with eyes on stalks, and put a top hat on it. He folded it, passed
it to Avila. After a moment Lillian handed him her folded paper. Presently
everyone was done with the heads except Darío.
"What are you doing, making a masterpiece?" Gus demanded. "Finish it
already."
"Wait, be patient," Darío said. He was grinning with amusement.
Gene drew a bird's body with outspread wings; he folded it, leaving four
short lines to show where the legs began, and passed it on.
Lillian handed over another folded paper; Gene drew two hairy legs with
enormous feet. "Everybody finish?" Darío asked. "Come on, Peg."
"Just a
minute
. I'd be done now if you hadn't taken so long."
When they unfolded the pictures, it was easy to see who had done each part.
Avila's drawings were bold, sketchy, and powerful, Darío's fussily detailed,
Lillian's bland. The head Darío had drawn was a satiric portrait of Gene,
with childish lips, eyes like a doll's. Under it Gas Vlismas had made a
female torso with enormous dark-nippled breasts, and Peggy had given it
chicken feet. Darío laughed until tears stood in his eyes. "Perfect!" he
said. "Now whoever made the head has to give it a title."
They passed the papers around again. Under the snail head Gene had drawn
was a seal's body wearing an old-fashioned collar and tie, and under
that two barber-pole legs. He titled it "A Little More Off the Top."
Darío had entitled his portrait of Gene 'El pollito sin huevos,' "little
chicken without balls." Gene wanted to crumple it and throw it on the
floor, but instead he passed it to Avila. Their eyes met; Avila shook
his head slightly.
Darío leaned back and began talking to Gene about his work. "You always
make figures of men, never women," he said. "Why is that? They don't
have women models in life classes Where you go?"
"No, they didn't."
"Maybe because they think it would make a scandal, if they let you see
a naked woman."
"It's better to begin with the male body," Avila said. "If the man is
well made, you see all the muscles very easily. In a woman they are
covered up."
"That's true, Manolo, but still, how can a man be an artist who has
never seen a woman?" He turned to Gene. "You should do a female nude in
clay. Don't you think so, Gus?"
"Sure."
"What's wrong with right now?" Darío said, swinging around to Gene
again. "Peggy here will pose for you -- right, Peggy?"
She glanced up at him with a faint smile. After a moment she put out
her cigarette. "Why not," she said.
"There, you see? How about it, kid, let's see how good you are."
"I'd have to make some sketches," Gene said. "I haven't got an armature."
"Armature?" cried Darío. He swung up out of his chair, crossed to the shelf,
came back with a wire armature in his hand. "Here you are, just the thing,
all ready." He set the armature down on a modeling stand. It was the
skeletal framework of a human figure, standing with pelvis thrust out,
hands on hips. Darío turned on the overhead lights, then crossed to the
bin, came back with a lump of clay the size of a baseball, slapped it
down on the base of the armature. "Clay and everything," he said. "See
how easy we make it for you? Come on, Peggy."
"He doesn't need me for the first part," she said, still looking down
at the ashtray.
Gene looked at Avila, who would not meet his eyes. "You do what you
want," he said. "I'm going to bed." He got up and went around the
bedroom partition.
"Okay, kid, let's go, we're waiting," said Darío.
Gene got up unwillingly and approached the modeling stand. He picked up
the ball of clay, tore off a lump, pressed it into the wires where the
figure's torso would be.
The others sat quietly and watched him while he built up the torso,
the arms, legs, head. Once he heard Darío and Gus muttering together,
then the sound of suppressed laughter.
The figure was roughed out, a crude sketch in clay.
"All set, Peggy?"
When he turned, she was standing up with a glass of wine in her hand. She
drank the wine in one long swallow, set the tumbler down, and took off
her sweater. She unbuttoned her blouse, pulled it down over her arms,
laid it on top of the sweater. She unfastened her skirt and stepped out
of it. The others were watching her silently. She reached behind her,
unfastened her brassiere and removed it, then her panties. She sat down
a moment to take off her shoes, then stepped up onto the dais and assumed
the model's position, legs apart, pelvis forward, hands on her hips. Her
heavy breasts rose and fell with her breathing; her hips swayed a little,
almost imperceptibly, from side to side.
Always before, in life classes, there had been something entirely impersonal
in the silence between the model and the students. This was not like
that. Peggy's breasts, her pelvis, thrust themselves toward him with an
insinuating provocation; as she swayed, the muscles of her thighs tensed
and relaxed, tensed and relaxed.
Gene pulled off lumps of clay, began pressing them onto the figure to
round out the thighs, hips, breasts. "Who's timing this?" Peggy asked
after a moment.
"I am," Darío said. "You want to do half an hour?"
"Okay."
The others were muttering together; Gene could not make out the words, but
he knew what they were saying. 'Bet you ten bucks he comes in his pants.'
He concentrated on the work he was doing, the clay in his fingers. Gradually
it got better. "Would you move your left foot a little?" he said.
"Which way?"
"Out. Yes, like that." He worked on the legs, trying to get the figure
balanced properly, weight a little more on one leg than the other. The
figure's breasts were too big; he pared them down with a wire tool, built
them up again. "Turn around," he said.
Peggy turned her soft buttocks to him, took the pose again. "Like this?"
"Left foot out a little more. Little more forward. Okay."
The room was still. He blocked in the buttocks, built up the round
muscles of the thighs.
"Time?" said Peggy after a while.
"Thirty-four minutes. Sorry, Peggy, I forgot to look."
She got down from the dais. "Hand me a robe, somebody." Gus got her
a flannel dressing gown; she belted it on and came over to look at the
figure. "Not bad," she said after a moment. "Am I as skinny as that?"
"I'd rather build it up than take it off," Gene said. Her scent was in
his nostrils. "Anyhow, that's enough for one session."
"Ah, come on," said Darío loudly. "You're not tired, are you, Peg? The
evening is early."
"I can do another half hour. Give me a cigarette first." She sat down on
the edge of the dais, smoked a cigarette, and drank a glass of wine. Darío
and Gus were arguing about something in low voices.
She stubbed the cigarette out, took off the robe again and stepped up
on the dais. "Which way now?"
"Sidewise." He glanced at his watch. "Give me your left profile."
He worked on the figure, adding clay and taking it away, trying to get
the cant of the torso right. "Elbow a little forward." Standing under
the lights with her body in profile, she was no more now than a model;
he could not see her eyes, but her expression had changed.
"Time," said Darío.
Peggy stretched, picked up her robe, and came down off the dais.
Darío and Gus were muttering together. "Listen," said Darío, "we're
going down to Tony's and get a table. Come on down when you get dressed."
"Okay."
When they were gone, there was a deep silence in the loft. Gene became
intensely aware of the darkness around the lights, the emptiness. Peggy
was putting her underwear on. Gene sat on a high stool and watched her,
unable to look away. She buttoned her blouse, stepped into her skirt and
adjusted it, pulled her sweater over her head. She rummaged in her bag a
moment, found a comb and pulled it through her hair. When she was done,
she put the comb back, picked up a compact and lipstick. Staring intently
into the little mirror, she carefully drew the shape of her upper lip. She
closed the lipstick, dropped it and the compact into her open bag. She
moved toward him, rubbing her lips together, then separating them with
a smack.
"That's really not bad," she said, looking at the figure. She was standing
so close to him that her hip touched his thigh; he could smell the scent
of her lipstick. She turned to face him; now her expression had changed
again. There was a faint smile on her lips, and her eyes were narrowed.
"You don't like girls?" she asked.
"I like girls."
"Do you?" She moved still closer, and her hand came up between his
legs. Gene tried to squirm away, but he was trapped by the stool and
her body. "Don't -- " he said. "Let me -- " He put up his hand; she
brushed it aside. She was standing so close now that her thighs were
pressed against his, while her hand, between them, went on stroking him
through the cloth. Gene realized suddenly that he could not hold back
any longer, and then it was too late: he felt a painful contraction and
a spurt of wetness.
She kept her hand there a moment longer, then patted him and moved away.
Through a haze of tears, he saw her pick up her purse. When she was
almost at the door, he said, "Why did you do that?"
She turned and looked at him across the loft. "I don't know," she
said. "Sweet dreams." The door closed behind her.
Gene looked at the clay figure. He took it in both hands, Squeezed the
clay, ripped it off the armature and threw it in the bin. When he turned,
Avila was standing there, his face mournful.
"John, I am so sorry," he said. "It is my fault, I should have prevented
it."
Gene's muscles were twitching; a sob came up into his throat like a
fist. "She -- she -- "
"I know." The older man's arm came warmly around him. "It was Darío,
he does it to hurt me, and Peggy -- maybe to hurt him, who knows? Come
on." He led Gene to the sink at the end of the room. "Take your pants
off." He ran water on a washrag, squeezed it, gently mopped away
the stickiness on Gene's leg, then dried him with a towel. When Gene
reached for his trousers, Avila said, "Leave them, they'll be dry in the
morning. Come on." They were in the bedroom. "Now the shirt, I'm going
to rub your back. Go ahead, take it off. Now lie down on your belly."
In a moment the mattress sagged with Avila's weight. "This is just some
oil," his voice said. There was a shock of coolness between Gene's
shoulders; then Avila's strong hands were kneading the muscles of his
neck and shoulders, loosening and relaxing them, molding them as if his
body were sculpture. The tension ebbed; Gene began to feel a delicious
comfort and drowsiness.
The hands worked down his body, the arms, back, buttocks, legs, turning
his flesh into butter. Half asleep, he felt his shoes and socks being
pulled off, heard Avila say, "Now the other side."
He rolled over with an effort. Avila, straddling him again, began to
knead his chest, his biceps, then his sides, belly, groin. When the
first kiss came, it seemed natural and unsurprising.
Afterward Avila pulled the sheet over them and lay against his
back in a warm embrace. "Now you can sleep," he said. "It's okay,
grandulÓn. Sleep."
Chapter Eleven
Three days later, when he came into the loft early in the morning, Avila
and Darío were sitting beside the stove and he heard their voices, low
and serious. They did not look up as he came in. And as he stood watching
them, Darío said in the same low voice, "Me cago en tu lástima," I shit
on your pity. He got up then and started toward the door; he looked
through Gene as if he were not there, and as he passed, Gene saw that
his eyes were blind with tears.