I upset you?” he asked.
“You told me there’ve been hundreds of models,
but only one of you.”
“Yes.”
“I understand why now. One’s enough. Too
much.”
He sighed and dropped the apron from around
his neck. He looked at the floor and gave a dismissive wave.
Infuriated, she asked, “We’re all interchangeable?”
“At times, yes.”
“No one special?”
Karl poured some thinner into his palm, wrung
his hands, and wiped them on his apron. “I’ll
rephrase. Special enough that when I see a painting, I know the model, remember the model, and
remember what I was trying to accomplish.”
“So we’re eras. Movements.”
“Part of the era. Yes. That’s an excellent way of
describing it.”
“A tool? A means?”
“Let’s say ‘muse’.”
“Quaint.”
“I’ve never been accused of that.”
“You’d act differently if you had children,”
she said, and she knew that whatever bend the
conversation took from there, it would change
everything.
He regarded her, and for the first time since
that first day, there was suspicion in the set of his
jaw. “I do. Many, apparently. The profiles tend
to dwell on that.”
“How many?”
He began to shrug again, but stopped, dropped
his hands into his pockets. “Why don’t you tell
me?”
Nina hugged herself tighter and said nothing.
“What’s your game, my dear? How did I wrong
you?” His emphasis, on the you, made it less an
accusation than an expression of weariness. How
did I wrong you?
“What do you do when a lover approaches you,
or a lover’s child?” she asked.
“I assume they’re is telling the truth. Barbara
writes a check. I don’t fight it.”
“Gallant,” said Nina.
“Quaint and gallant. Someone did a crossword
today.” Karl took a step back and then forward,
an impromptu box step. “There have been more
than I care to keep track of. I accept so little of
this life. I don’t believe in the natural way of
things. But I accept that.”
“You accept that?”
“I don’t really have a philosophy about it. I’m
not proud of it, nor ashamed.”
“You’re a walking stiff-dick.”
“I’m almost eighty. I take that as a compliment.”
Her shoulders were at her ears and her arms
crossed. Nina’s nails dug into the palms of her
hands. She forced herself to drop her hands to
her sides, crack her neck. He looked abashed. It
was attractive. “Aren’t you curious?” she asked.
He smiled too quickly. “What could be the
possible value in keeping track, at this point?”
Tell him, she thought. “Don’t you feel incomplete?” she asked.
He closed his eyes and dropped his head
back. “Incomplete. Another good word.”
“You could do something about that.”
“Why would I want to?” He box stepped again
and then used the momentum to carry him a few
feet closer to her. She pulled the belt on her robe
into a tighter knot. “Perhaps it’s something none
of us escape. Perhaps it deserves to be pursued.”
“Entropy?”
“Mystery.” He w as a foot away. “Not knowing.”
“Sounds like bullshit.” She had not anticipated
the husky scrape in her voice, how difficult it was
to talk when he was so near.
“I think it’s the most honest thing in the
world. Nothing is as strange as we are to ourselves.”
“An excuse for--” she searched for something
clever. Nothing came. “Bad behavior.”
“Whom have I hurt?”
“Seriously?” She barked, astonished.
“I’m always serious.”
“You can’t know.”
“I know!” She blanched. He’d never yelled
before.
“I think—I think you’re selfish,” she said.
“Guilty.”
“Self-involved.”
He pulled at the knot on her robe, and she let it
fall open. “I am a mess of moving parts,” he said.
“Incomplete.”
“A worthless contraption. Spinning gears and
wheels, chugging along to no purpose.”
“Sound and fury.”