Finally the mask disappeared. Demand changed to criticism. “You don’t know what you’re doing. How did you ever graduate?” and “I should divide my body and put numbers on it. Then you might make a better likeness.”
She grabbed his brush and began to alter everything that he had just painted. Stunned, Pablo staggered over and sat on the bench that she had vacated minutes earlier.
This isn’t difficult, she thought. Out loud she said to Pablo, “You stay where you are. I’m going to paint you.” She reached for a fresh canvas.
Pablo, too, had difficulty posing. “Stay still!” Her foot stamped the floor. “If I have to come over there, you’ll never move again.”
At first Pablo thought she was joking but it became apparent that she took her role as artist very seriously. Though he had been happy in school Pablo was not blessed with a secure nature. In fact it was quite insecure. Soon Graciella was doing all the painting and then she discarded him as a model. He began to run errands for her and when he wasn’t so engaged he became a sponge, soaking up tirades as fast as she could deliver them.
When she had completed a number of paintings, Graciella mounted her own exhibition which she titled Fighting Cock to Fried Chicken: A Retrospective. Most of her work was inspired by the current relationship and did not impress the critics. One even referred to her painting of a nude Pablo as flaccid. Unfortunately, the negative response was harder on Pablo than it was on Graciella. Rejection passed straight through her, pausing only long enough to pick up a load of frustration before exiting in the form of verbal abuse, which continues to this day. She frequently reminds him that he is a failed artist and if she weren’t associated with his dismal reputation she would be awash in artistic fame and adulation.
Their life has taken on the sameness of a movie rerun — she has tried other art forms but the outcome has been failure. Because of their need for money, Pablo regularly ventures into the streets to sell the small ceramic capons that she creates. His success has been limited and he has taken to panhandling. Every evening he presents Graciella the pittance he has garnered and tells her it is from the sale of her crafts. In order to maintain the fiction, he surreptitiously throws her capons into the lake. She berates him for the small amount of money and he apologizes, promising to do better next time.
Adriana sat for a long time without speaking. “It is a sad tale you spin, my perfidious painter. Graciella received no more than she deserved. Her behaviour makes sense only if there was something to be gained.”
“I agree absolutely,” I said.
I again beg your indulgence, dear reader. Our subterfuge has worked. So I say, thank you, a job well done. Congratulations to both of us.
I waved my empty glass at Adriana.
“You’re like a sponge; you’ve sucked up the entire bottle,” she said over her shoulder as she went to the kitchen to fetch another. “Tell me, old soak, what is your personal experience regarding the three types of women?”
By now, I had drained away sufficient brandy to float my guard down to a level where I found myself, like a sinner in the confessional, disclosing some of my most closely guarded thoughts. “I confess that there have been times when I have let strong drink manage my existence. That experience has not been all negative. A major benefit of inoculating myself with alcohol is that it provides immunity from various maladies including the three types of women.”
“Explain yourself, my vacuous vaccinator.”
“The prospectors are not interested in me because, even if I acquire some money, it is converted to liquor long before they can stake a claim. Architects find it impossible to rebuild an unrepentant drunk — those that try find the foundation too sodden to sustain a new erection. Wardens too, are unsuccessful because their desire to control is weaker than my intransigent nature — I’m a stubborn sot who finds joy in ignoring all imperatives.
“So, you see, the only woman that might have an interest in me is one who has her own money, who is secure enough that she has no desire to redesign me, and who is satisfied with controlling her own destiny rather than mine.”
I left Adriana on her patio and proceeded home. It occurred to me that she knows that I have no money, that she has not tried to change me though she frequently tosses insults in my direction, and that she makes only weak attempts to control my life … and so, were I in need of more than a partner in brandy consumption, she would qualify.
The walk, the story, and the brandy had all conspired to leave me tired and though it was not yet noon, I felt the need to rest. After all, dealing with prospectors, architects, and wardens in one morning can be exhausting and I believed that I deserved a short restorative.
Love Under the Boardwalk
SO WHAT, YOU MAY ASK, IS the outcome of this lifetime? What lessons have I drawn? Which experiences have been valuable in drawing those lessons?
Before I speak of my own travels on the bumpy highways that criss-cross the Kingdom of Love, it is necessary to shift into reverse and retrace some of the route. If we are to engage in discourse on the nature of romantic love then you, the reader, must know exactly what we are talking about. What is love and how do we define it? What are its components? What do we mean when we say we are in love? Is the experience the same for all?
Love has been concocted in many different ways but most would agree that the recipe calls for a mix of ingredients — tenderness, regard, deep affection, liking, caring, and devotion — all stirred into an emotional stew and served with a garnish of delight at the happiness and pleasure of the other. Adding side dishes of intense attraction and sexual desire results in romantic love.
Years ago I discussed the question of love with Adriana. She contributed a few pesos by adopting the role of cynic. Though she no longer spouts the gibberish she did when she was attempting to puncture my personal balloon, it may be useful to replay the conversation in order to illustrate the pitfalls inherent in one of the prevailing views of love.
I remember how adamant she was. “It’s a sensation we get and it crops up purely by chance,” she said. “It occurs when you meet the right individual and it’s impossible to predict who that might be. When that person appears, love will happen, even to you, old man … as surely as extra brandy causes your features to improve and your words to disguise themselves as wisdom.”
In accord with previous practice, I chose to ignore her insult. “You claim that we are helpless in the face of love, that we have no more influence on when it happens than we do on when the wet season will begin. Well, you’re dead wrong, my scintillating sensation.”
“Then enlighten me, oh proselytizing purveyor of pith.”
“Very well, but you must listen. Love is not just a feeling that suddenly appears. It takes time. There are stages in its development — three of them — sometimes called A, B, and C for Aching, Bewitching, and Coupling. Aching is what causes one to initially leave the safety of isolation. It is akin to lust and the fuels that jump start it are testosterone and estrogen. The B or Bewitching stage is achieved when there is an attraction that causes you to focus on sex. This stage is fuelled by the chemicals that kick the brain into the pleasure mode and screw up other functions like your heart rate, your sleep, and your appetite. Coupling is the attachment or bonding stage where people learn to tolerate each other. It is sometimes wishfully called commitment.”
Adriana slid forward on her chair. “You’re twisting my ankle, old man. Love may indeed pass through three stages. Call them A, B, and C if you like, but they’re not the ones you describe. The couple enters the first stage when they can’t keep their hands off each other. The A could stand for sex Anywhere at Anytime. The B or Bland stage occurs later when sex becomes routine — when it occurs only in the bedroom and only at certain times. It is symbolized by expressions like, ‘not now, dear, I have to weed the window box or your mother is on her way over’. The C or Cussing stage is reached much further along in the relationship. It could also be called the ‘expletive’ phase an
d it is characterized by the couple issuing copulatory imperatives to each other as they pass in the hallway.” She leaned back grinning at her own wit.
“Well done, my lilting liver spot. Tell me, what’s the acronym for The Woman Is Thick? You’ve missed the stage where one runs for cover when one-half of a duo prattles on.”
Adriana had unwittingly stumbled upon one of the two most prevalent views of love — that it is a spontaneous sensation or feeling. The other thinking portrays love as a deliberate act of choice. The gulf between them is such that were each view held by opposite halves of a couple, the distance across their king-size mattress would become infinite.
When I mentioned this, Adriana stood and waved her finger at me. “You haven’t let me finish what I was saying … and you also misunderstand. Although it’s impossible to predict who your love-struck lumpkin will be, you are not a passive bystander when it comes to romance. There are steps you can take that will better the odds. You must obtain the qualities that the other person deems important. For men, there are two options: acquire power or acquire money. For women there is only one: become attractive or at the very least, generate some sex appeal. Taking any of these steps makes one more desirable and vastly increases one’s chance of finding love.”
“That’s extremely cynical, my sexy showpiece. Do you actually see the goal as getting someone to love you, to be loved rather than finding someone to love?”
“Yes, I do, and the goal is exactly the same for men as it is for women — to get a good deal. We want a bargain — someone who has all the necessary qualities but also exhibits bonus traits. It’s not unlike purchasing a dozen eggs at the market and later finding thirteen in the bag.”
“So finding love is like buying eggs. It’s more likely that you’ll discover a broken mess in the bag when you get home.”
“No,” she said. “I mean good qualities that come as a bonus — desirable ones — like when a rich or powerful man falls in love with a woman — it’s a bonus for her if he is good looking or kind or has a sense of humour. Of course, he is a bigger bargain if she only has to give up a minimum of herself.”
“That sounds like a solid foundation on which to build a relationship — give up your identity. Go ahead, tell it all. What’s your prescription for men?”
“For men the best bargain is to get an attractive woman, ample sex, and as many other free goodies as possible — goodies such as an amicable nature (but not too amicable), intelligence (but not too intelligent), lively personality (but not too lively), plus the ability to cook, to be a good homemaker, and to be a superb hostess. All these are bonuses for a man, and he will proudly exhibit them, just as she will exhibit her over-sized engagement ring.”
“Spoken like someone who has bounced, too many times, on the matrimonial mattress. You have to be rubbing my knee.”
Adriana sniffed. “There’s too much wool in your skull to penetrate. What is it about free trade that you find difficult?”
“If I were to summarize what you’ve said, it’s that basically rich and powerful men offer goods and services for attractive women … and for their sexual favours. I can’t think of another word but prostitution. You make every woman a whore. Implicit in your argument is that women are only interested in economics and not sex, that their libido is as flaccid as a naked man in an Arctic storm. If what you say is true, why have men wasted so much time trying to control women’s bodies and hence their sexuality? They’ve tried everything: chastity belts, ridicule, mutilation, witch burning, mandatory face covering, insults, and medical goofiness. Everyone who has had even the most cursory relationship with a woman knows that it’s all a lie. Except, perhaps, during Arctic storms, women visit Hornyville as often as men. They just drive slower cars to get there.”
“Slower cars, my backside! Why should men set the standard? Maybe women are right on time. After all, our tanks are still full when men run out of gas.” She poured herself another drink. “Go on, my frosty friend.”
I held out my glass. “First, tell me how two people can come to love each other under your scheme, if one is looking for cheap goods and the other is cheap goods?”
“Again you misunderstand. Both are looking for bargains. They fall in love when each considers that he or she has found the best catch available considering their own intrinsic worth. Doesn’t that make sense?”
“Only when trading a burro for a milk cow, my burdensome beast. Everything you’ve said is designed to cause failure. The fallout from your approach is disappointment and divorce. It’s like buying a costly vehicle only to discover that there is no engine under the hood. Your phrase, ‘falling in love’, implies that one has no control as to if, when, and why one tumbles, and with whom one shares the descent. Every time it’s uttered, a divorce lawyer somewhere moves to a more desirable neighbourhood and Hollywood cranks out another movie.”
Adriana motioned me to silence. “Enough of this ‘doomed to failure’ rhetoric. Before you proceed, my licentious litigator, let me tell you about a young American couple whose acquaintance I made years ago right here in Aguas Profundas. They are an example of the happiness that surrounds people who plunge into love.”
I retrieved a pillow and settled in to listen. Adriana’s stories are often long and a chair can become very uncomfortable by the time she finishes. “Go on if you must,” I said. “I’ll try and stay awake.”
She scowled in my direction and then told the following story.
Harold and Cecilia Wildebeest led lives that were the envy of everyone. In all aspects of the human body, spirit, and personality, each was a credit to his and her individual gender. Harold was tall and broad shouldered with dark wavy hair. His steady brown eyes exuded a quiet competence that signalled the ability to see the fundament in any situation. His smile was genuine and exhibited even white teeth below a nose that was neither too long nor too short and rested right where it should, in the middle of his rugged tanned face. Dimples appeared in his cheeks when he smiled, which was often for he had a sunny disposition that lit up every personal proceeding. He had a melodious voice and had once crooned “Under the Boardwalk” at his cousin Eigil’s birthday party after consuming a number of Green Buddhas, drinks constructed mainly from crème de menthe. Females were prone to swoon when he entered a room and most of the time, the girdle he wore under his open-necked cowboy shirt was barely visible.
Cecilia inhabited a body that was a collage of schoolboy dreams. She was neither tall nor short with generous proportions in the right mathematical distribution so that she attracted the attention of every passing male. Long strawberry-blonde hair framed deep blue eyes that were capable of perforating any soul. Her beguiling countenance was enhanced by a quick smile that radiated good humour. It was also enhanced by glistening teeth, red lips, and a complexion that daily was enticed to glow by massive applications of makeup. It mattered little where she travelled her road and her face were always paved.
It was a foregone conclusion that, if both of them were not to be extraordinarily cheated, each would have to wed the other. And this they did. Perfect beings are rare outside of heaven and if not exactly a miracle, it was at least downwind from a miracle that they both experienced the phenomenon known as ‘love at first sight’ when they glanced into each others eyes at cousin Eigil’s party. It happened while Eigil was entertaining his guests by flexing a large pair of pectorals which were clearly visible under a tight-fitting pink glitter shirt. Harold was singing “Under the Boardwalk” and Cecilia was distributing cocktails.
The effect of that glance was so powerful that Harold momentarily forgot the words to his song, and Cecilia dropped her tray, dousing the cigar that Eigil was smoking and splashing Green Buddhas across his pink shirt completely soaking his perfect pecs.
Adriana paused to sigh. “They were a beautiful couple,” she said. “Their marriage was flawless. They were always together and their love went on forever.”
I could restrain myself no longer. “Stop right the
re,” I said. “I too knew the Wildebeests. Yes, it started well but their marriage didn’t last.”
Adriana looked startled. “I lost track of them. They were so much in love. What happened?”
“Initially, the trouble seemed as minor as a passing cloud on a sunny day. It should have disappeared as quickly.”
“Enlighten me. I can hardly believe they are no longer together.”
It was a long time ago. I had joined them for drinks after they had attended a concert by the Drifters with their friends Bill and Wilma Barnacle. Cecilia hadn’t liked the concert very much. “They may as well have been drunk, the way they sang,” she said.
Harold, who had been a fan forever and considered the Drifters just slightly above perfection, took immediate umbrage. “I understand why you feel that way,” he said. “If musical taste was water, you’d be permanently dehydrated.”
Everyone laughed including Cecilia. Then she turned away, formed her mouth into a hyphen, and sat in silence until Harold finally asked, “Just what group do you consider greater than the Drifters?”
Cecilia didn’t hesitate. “The Chipmunks,” she responded. “There’s no contest.” This time Harold didn’t laugh. He sullenly sipped on his brandy and eventually muttered, “As I said, if musical taste was money, you’d be in the poorhouse.”
I checked myself from pointing out that he hadn’t said that at all.
An awkwardness settled over the table and I left early. When I saw them the following week, all appeared normal. However, as I soon discovered, life for them was anything but normal.
Cecilia spent the week brooding and thinking about other men — men with refined tastes, men who appreciated women with refined tastes, men who would never dream of taking her to a Drifters’ concert.
The Greatest Lover of Last Tuesday Page 19