“Would you like a studio?”
“Why would I want to paint a studio?”
“No,” she said with a smile. “A studio in which to paint.”
“Why would I want to paint a studio?” he asked again. “Nothing happens in a studio.”
She assumed he had misheard her. “A studio where you can paint in peace. A large, well-lit area in which to work.”
“I don’t paint studios,” he insisted, obstinate and intractable.
She heaved a sigh. “Where do you want to paint, then?”
“I paint life,” he said. “Life is life. It is found where you find it. What life is in a studio?”
She exhaled. “Oh. I wasn’t understanding you.”
“There isn’t anything in a studio that interests me. To paint life, you must find life. Life lives in the open. In the busy places. Places teeming with energy and people and things to see and do. Life is life. Lifeless is lifeless. Why paint a lifeless painting? Such is the opposite of reason.”
His face lit with a holy glow. She found herself transfixed by his reverence, and felt a stab of jealousy at his conviction. Passion radiated from him in discernable waves. He broadcast it like a television signal she couldn’t quite tune to. She was jealous. She was also powerfully turned on. Life boiled from him like radiation. She could feel it on her skin, penetrating her being.
“You’re sure you’re from Wisconsin?” she asked again, voice hushed.
“Why do you ask me that?”
“You don’t seem…”
“Stupid?”
“No,” she blurted. “I didn’t mean that. Just-”
“Backward? Uncultured?”
She stopped protesting, ashamed by his penetrating insight.
“I grew up there. Everyone comes from somewhere. I didn’t want to be there anymore, so I left.”
“You just walked randomly?”
“Of course not,” he said, disdain clear on his face. “I knew where I wanted to go. I’ve always known.”
“How?” she asked him, watching his eyes.
“I read a book that said São Paulo was one of the busiest, most human-laden cities on earth. More people live in São Paulo than anywhere else on the continent. That’s what I wanted to see. What I wanted to be. One of millions.” He scrubbed a hand in his curly hair. “It wasn’t something I could decide. It just is.”
“You chose São Paulo because of the number of people?”
“No. I needed to see what millions of people look like,” he said. “I wanted to see them breathe and move and live. I wanted to see life living.”
“And a picture wouldn’t do?”
He gave her a mild glare.
She smiled at him. “I feel the same way. I’m from Ecuador, but São Paulo is my heart’s home.”
He took a bite of fish and chewed. “May I sleep with you?” he asked around the mouthful.
She stared at him, mouth dropping open. How did he mean it? she wondered. She hesitated, but said, “It’s… it’s possible.”
“Thank you, Muse,” Ossirian said solemnly. “It is an honor.”
“It’s all right. I’m flattered. But it’s not an honor.” She blushed.
He took her hand. “It is. You are lovely, my water nymph. Your eyes, your skin, the way your hair moves when wet… you are a wonderful subject. To paint you; a privilege. To see you is a gift. To sleep with you is an honor. It’s my honor.”
Carolyn blushed, her eyes flickering to the tabletop and back to his piercing green ones. “Thank you, Ossirian.”
He took another bite pushed the plate away. He stood. “I need to piss.”
She was caught flat-footed again as he wandered to the back of the café and found the right door. The waiter approached and offered her a scrap of paper. She fished several bills from her purse and handed them over, accepted her change. As he left Ossirian came out of the bathroom zipping his fly. She watched him walk toward her, his hands each spreading away from his body to sample the surfaces of everything within reach, his touch feather-light. His eyes flickered halfway shut as he absently touched the textured walls, the sticky tables, the rough fabric of the chairs as he came back to her.
“We can leave now?” he asked.
“Oh… I suppose,” she said. She hadn’t finished her meal, but decided that if what he wanted more than food was to go to bed, she was certainly willing to leave the table. He seemed so eager.
“Take me to your rooms?” Again, it was a question.
“Of course. It’s not too far to University.”
He nodded absently, disinterested in details. She watched his eyes restlessly comb the café, cataloguing whatever it was he could see that she could not. She left a couple of real for the waiter’s tip and gestured to the door. Ossirian skipped nimbly down the two short steps, appearing more boyish than ever. She followed, smiling at his back.
She led him through the quiet streets to her dormitory, unlocking the front door with one of the two keys that hung on a rough cord around her neck, one silver and one bronze. He watched her use the bronze key. With glittering eyes, he stared as she tucked it back into her cleavage. She smiled at him when his eyes rose to find hers; a tiny, flirtatious, cat-like grin.
Her room was on the third floor. She didn’t bother with the elevator; the power would be out this time of night. She led him up the three flights of stairs. She pointed to the third door on the right. “That’s me.”
He put a hand on her chest where her shirt was cut low. “No, Muse,” he murmured. His palm seemed to sear her skin, and she could almost feel the ridges and loops of his fingerprints. Her heart galloped and her breath roughened as he said, “This is you. That is just a place.”
Before she could move, he had slid his fingers under the cord and lifted the keys from between her breasts, dragging the body-warmed metal across the slopes. He lifted it reverently from around her neck and unlocked the door with the silver key. She shivered as he gently lowered the cord around her neck and slid the keys into the valley between her breasts. Her cheeks grew warm. He opened the door for her.
Her room was small; a desk, a single, narrow bed, a smallish wardrobe behind the door held her clothing. Dark, polished wood walls reflected the scant light from the window. She flicked the light switch to no effect. The power was always a gamble this late, and he found the candles and matches by long practice. As the match flared to life, Ossirian closed the door and stood with his back to it as he examined the room.
She set the candles on the desk and dropped her purse between them. She tucked a piece of hair behind her left ear. She stared at the floor, watching Ossirian out of the corner of her eye.
His gaze traced the edges of the room, the single wide window that looked out at a dark square. The bed, the books piled on the desk, the small mound of laundry in the corner. She bit her lip.
Ossirian’s gaze catalogued the room, filed it away, and came to rest upon her. She was not vain. She worked at staying slender, her bare arms were rounded but firm from swimming. Her long hair curled at the ends the way it had since she was a girl. She didn’t think herself beautiful, merely cute, with the apple cheeks and cupid’s bow of a mouth that reminded her of an infant’s before they lose the suckle-shape to age. She thought she looked childlike and too young.
He went to her and reached out a single fingertip. He traced the curve of her ear, of her jaw, the slope of her neck. She shivered at a touch so light she could almost imagine it was a breeze, instead of his finger.
She looked up at him and his blazing eyes, lit to fathomless depths by the candlelight, seemed to pierce her. She shivered.
He peeled off the wash-faded t-shirt he wore, casting it carelessly aside. His chest was smooth and bare, hairless and unscarred. She bit her lower lip as her gaze traced over his skin. His nipples were umber, almost black, and tightly crinkled with excitement. His ribs were prominent, as was his collar bone. His tight, smooth belly vanished behind the button of his faded, pain
t-spattered jeans. He reached a hand down, thumbed open the jeans and let them slide away. He was bare beneath. The jeans slid down skinny legs and pooled around his feet. He stepped from the jeans and kicked them aside. He stood before her, bare skin seeming to move and dance in the flickering candlelight. His penis rose from a sparse cloud of pubic hair dark and curly as the mop atop his head. He held his arms wide and asked, almost shyly, “Am I acceptable, my Muse?”
She was put off-guard by the tentative, almost fearful question. He’s offering himself to me as though I might refuse, she thought, eyes widening. He’s letting me decide?
She put a hand on his chest. He shuddered at her touch. She pressed against him, put her lips to his and kissed him. His kiss was firm but like his question tentative, fearful. She smiled against his lips. It occurred to her that she’d never been fully clothed with a naked man before.
She frowned. Leaning back a moment, she asked him, “How old are you?”
Ossirian blinked, shook his head as if to clear away the cobwebs. “I’m almost eighteen, my Muse.”
She hesitated, almost pulled away, but shrugged. He was almost four years younger than she. The wary look on his open and boyish face charmed her. She leaned in to kiss him again. His eyes closed as her hands slid around his narrow waist. She could feel the bones of his hips. She closed her eyes and kissed him hard, one hand slipping between his legs. She gripped him and he groaned against her mouth as she opened her lips in a smile.
His hands remained at his sides as they kissed. She broke the kiss and leaned back. He stared, feral, a starving man at a banquet.
She peeled her top off and dropped it. She wore a plain brassiere, neither lacy nor sexy, but his eyes bugged as he stared unabashedly. She untabbed the skirt, letting it slide to the floor. She almost laughed aloud as he licked his lips. She stepped out of her flats and they were almost the same height. His hands opened and closed, as though he were touching her already.
She reached back and unhooked her bra, sliding it down her arms and dropping it. She felt more naked before him, clad in just her panties, than she had felt with any man bare.
She hooked her thumbs in the edges of her plain blue panties and slid them down. She stood up and put one hand on her hip, modeling for him.
He gasped, stared at her, eyes traveling the length of her body from feet to hair, until he once again stared into her eyes.
She held out a hand. He took it. She had entertained several of her fellow students in her room, in her bed. Sex had become something very enjoyable to her for reasons that had nothing to do with the physical pleasure, and since his bluntly charming question she had been looking forward to this moment; when they would be together, bare of body and soul.
She pulled him closer, their arms and legs entwining. His hands glided over her body, caressing, memorizing. She moaned against his ear as his teeth tested the skin at her neck. She could feel him pressed against her own damp curls and she drew him to her narrow bed and down.
CHAPTER SIX
“That was your first meeting?” Brent asked. He felt his cheeks grow warm again.
“Yes. We met, we ate, we slept together.”
“What made you declare yourself his manager?”
Carolyn appeared pleased by his less obvious question. “It was a spur of the moment inspiration. I knew Ruffiero. I had been to his gallery several times to see artists I knew or enjoyed. He had a reputation for being somewhat unfriendly when it came to paying his artists. But of course, when one is obscure and broke, one takes what is offered. Ossirian was neither famous nor rich, but he was startlingly prolific. A gallery showing may result in two or three sales, sometimes four or five. To sell every painting? Unheard of! But I knew Ruffiero would rob him blind, so I blackmailed him with a scandal to free Ossirian. He would hardly have done it himself. It wasn’t difficult to see the boy wasn’t worldly.”
“You felt protective of him.”
“I did. He had a quality that made you want to protect him. To care for him.”
“To mother him?”
She gave him an opaque look. “In a way.”
“To fuck him?” he asked, trying to shock her, curious how she would respond.
“Violently.” There was no hesitation and a girlish playfulness in her response.
He snorted laughter. “Oh?”
“Sex with Ossirian was… primal. Without hesitation,” she said. She grasped for the words. “It was…”
She trailed off. He waited.
She gazed at him, her lashes half-covering her smoky eyes. “It was very Brazilian. Very… immediate. When he was making love he wasn’t thinking about anything else. He opened himself up to the experience. Every experience. Any experience.”
Brent cleared his throat. “Is that rare?”
“I’ve encountered it but once in my life. Ossirian was singular.” She said with a throaty chuckle.
“So he was a good lover?” Brent asked, somewhat piqued and looking to jab her a bit.
“He was adequate. He wasn’t fantastic. What made the experiences wonderful was the way he focused on the pleasure and tactile intimacy. There might be better lovers in the world, but none are what he was: all yours when he was with you, without reservation. He opened himself up to you in a way no one else ever would. It was a singular experience, every time.”
Brent considered this.
Carolyn sipped her drink. “It’s getting late. We’ll want to get to the house before it’s too dark to see the road.” She signaled the waiter.
“Too dark?”
“The road up the mountain is… challenging. And I’m eager to see the house once more. I’ve spent the majority of my life away,” she said. “But it always pleases me when I return.”
“Why is that?”
“You’ll see.”
She navigated the darkened streets as though guided by rails. He relaxed into the ride, letting go of the safety bar and studying the passing scenery. The buildings, crowded shoulder-to-shoulder along the narrow streets gave way to winding, climbing roads. They ascended into the hills that overlooked São Paulo. Headlights lit the jungle in a Polaroid series of still-framed trees, bushes, and the occasional twin glare of an animal’s eyes as they wound through twisting mountainous passes wide enough for two vehicles to pass, but just. Twice she pulled to the side to let a pickup truck through first.
She explained, “They won’t stop, and they’ll weather a crash better than we.”
For two hours they drove in silence. A widening road led them into a darkened village. There were rows of buildings that led up to the edge of the jungle on each side, and lights in some of the houses. She turned off into a narrow access road and they tilted precariously, ascending a rutted dirt path. Carolyn grinned as she urged the car faster up the slope. The vehicle jounced and rocked as she navigated the washboard outcroppings of dry mud and stone. As the angle became steeper Brent wondered what the tipping point of their car would be- and then they came into a clearing and the land leveled off.
A full, bright moon illuminated the house and surrounding forest. The house occupied the exact center of the wide manicured lawn, a full acre of cleared land. Carolyn parked. They sat listening to the engine tick as it cooled.
“That’s some driveway.”
“It’s not always accessible. When the rains come, it can be impossible to get in or out.”
The cooler air of the car was swallowed by steam and heat of the jungle. Brent began sweating as he got out of the car. Carolyn climbed the short steps to the door and put her hand on the knob. She closed her eyes and seemed to be uttering a prayer. Her face was reverent and serene, strangely penitent. He waited.
She broke her reverie and gave him a half-smile over her shoulder. “Sorry. I was thanking the Lord it was still here. I haven’t been back in nearly three years.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t want to come back without Ossirian,” she said, and her voice dropped. “That’s no longer po
ssible. I decided that he wouldn’t mind.”
She opened the door and stepped aside. He entered the darkened foyer. She came in after him and closed the door. After a moment in darkness he asked, “Are there lights?”
“I wanted to warn you before I turned them on.”
“Warn me? About?”
“It can be… unsettling the first time.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” he assured her, puzzled. “And if it’s messy or whatever, we’ll make do until -”
“You don’t know what this place is.” Her sudden anger lashed over him. “Or you’d be more circumspect with your words.”
“Where are we? Exactly?”
“This is the house in which Ossirian and I lived while in São Paulo. We first found it on a hike through the jungle. It became our home.”
Brent felt like he was missing the point. “I don’t understand yet.”
He heard her smile as she said, “That’s why I’m telling you. Because you know enough to say ‘yet’.”
He chuckled. “You’ve been informative so far in helping me understand. I trust you.”
Unsettled silence fell between them. “You may regret that.”
“It might be a mistake, but I’ll never regret it. You have my word.”
“Very well,” Carolyn said. “Before I turn on the light, I need to remind you: I’ve not seen this house for years. I… I find I’m afraid of seeing it again.”
“Why are you afraid?”
“Oh,” she said, exhaling. “Because memory is sharp enough to cut.”
Carolyn took a deep breath and spoke.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“I refuse.”
Carolyn crossed her arms. “I thought you might, Mr. Ruffiero.”
“Then you’ve wasted your time,” Ruffiero told her, and shuffled some papers on his desk. “Now if you do not mind, I’m busy.”
“Busy packing and shipping my client’s artwork to the new owners.”
“Busy with my business,” Ruffiero said diffidently. “Not yours.”
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