Blood Water Paint
Page 5
When Malachi did not return with his fellow scout, Judith was certain he must have infiltrated Assyrian ranks, searched for a way to take out their captain and thereby halt the onward Assyrian march.
Finally, though, Judith faced the truth: Malachi would not return. Her only comfort was the thought that his death would serve a purpose. Bethulia’s leaders would have to make a choice—flee or fight, it hardly mattered. As long as there was action. A reason for her heartbeat’s death.
But now—now!—she’s learned the only plan is hunker down and die. They could have done that without Malachi’s sacrifice! Without Judith’s sacrifice!
The servant pricks herself. A drop of blood blooms on the smooth pad of her finger. It’s nothing. The servant would continue with her labors if she weren’t concerned with staining the dress. But Judith swoops in as though Abra has been stabbed. She dabs the blood away with the hem of her skirt.
Abra sighs. One more stain to remove.
“Are you listening to me, Abra?”
The servant whistles the tune Judith’s mother used to sing before Judith left for Malachi’s village, taking with her only Abra, her righteous anger, and her love.
Judith stills Abra’s hands, meets her eyes. “I know you heard me.”
Abra doesn’t have so many years on Judith. She’s more older sister than wizened aunt. But no matter her age, she’ll always be a servant.
“The Assyrians. I heard. And what business is it of ours?” Abra resumes her stitching as Judith resumes her rant. The pinprick of a moment before is forgotten as a much deeper stab of worry slices through Abra’s heart. Judith isn’t only outraged. Judith is planning something. There are things she can do, as a woman, Judith insists, that no man would think of, much less pull off.
When Judith finally takes a breath, Abra sets aside her mending. “Leave me out of it.”
Perhaps the world has taught Abra she has nothing to offer but mending, cooking, cleaning. But Judith must do this thing that’s only just beginning to take shape in her mind. Because she is not small. She is not weak. She will never, ever be feebleminded.
And above all, she is outraged.
The world will tell you not to be outraged, love. They will tell you to sit quietly, be kind. Be a lady.
And when they do? Be Judith instead.
29.
No matter
how many layers
of paint pile on,
I will always be
the sketch beneath.
Useful, even crucial,
but never what’s
admired by the world.
If Father gave me leave
I’d fly away from here,
gone before he’d rinsed
the charcoal from his hands.
But where to go?
No answer to that
question, no point
in even asking.
Instead I pull out my Susanna,
the one I’ve hidden from my father
for fear his criticisms will dissuade me.
If one of the elders
leering at Susanna
should bear a slight resemblance
to Orazio Gentileschi
as he leers at a young woman’s form,
that’s just
a trick of the eye.
If the viewer sees a spark
inside Susanna’s fear,
a hint she may be capable
of more than any man
has ever dreamed,
the faintest whisper
that at any moment
she might risk everything
to whirl around
and stare them in the eye,
that’s just
a flight of fancy.
30.
i.
Why so blue?
Susanna pulses
through me
so entirely
I do not feel
the
world
tilting
until a hand
rests on my shoulder.
Artemisia, why so blue?
I allow my heart to surge
at Tino’s voice, concern.
One man, finally
who is not here
to use me.
But I do not
let him see
my pleasure.
Instead I stare, petulant,
at the canvas before me.
Do you have
another suggestion
for the sky?
I meant your temperament,
my dear.
When you paint,
you glow.
You radiate like the sun.
And there,
he’s done it.
Hoisted me out
of the depths,
turned me
on my head
again. I fight a smile.
I’m not blue.
You are positively
cerulean.
I consider him,
his face a blank canvas,
my next words
the paint.
But he is here
to be my teacher,
not my confidant.
I pick up the brush,
consider Susanna.
She’s naked, too.
It’s my father.
Tino’s movement stutters.
Truly? He bears
an uncanny resemblance
to Susanna in the garden.
I meant—
You are remarkable,
to have survived
your lout of a father
this long with such grace.
He turns to Susanna.
If Orazio cannot see
what you are doing here,
cannot understand
the risk you take when you
paint Susanna in a new light,
then do something
for me.
Anything.
Cast him out of your mind.
He’s your father, yes.
But you are the artist in this house.
You want to experiment?
Try something your father
doesn’t approve of?
You trust your heart.
He speaks of my Susanna,
how I’m trying to capture
her fear
rather than
her beauty.
How I’ve made her
attackers handsome
wise
respected,
rather than vulgar
and obvious.
He understands!
ii.
Trust your heart,
he says, but his words
make me want to reach
deep inside for that piece of me that trusts,
dusty, unused
since my mother’s death,
and hand it over,
rust and all.
My father hasn’t seen
this Susanna.
I watch Tino
take this in.
He turns, waits,
like nothing is more important
or more pressing in his day.
I tire of being his model.
His brow wrinkles,
confusion blurs
his usual certainty.
Until finally:
Ah.
I don’t mean
to pour myself
out before him
and yet.
If he’d let me do the painting myself it would be
better than his clumsy efforts
to reproduce my form.
From what I understand,
you do most of the painting
anyway.
And yet he insists on the nudes.
iii.
His face falls
into shadow,
a Caravaggio
without the light.
I’ve overstepped.
For all our jokes,
familiarity,
I never should have—
Your father . . . ?
He takes a paintbrush
from my workspace,
turns it over
in his hands.
I step closer.
We’ve stood
this close before,
but always with
our gazes trained
on the canvas.
Now we’re
face to face,
heart to heart.
Your father . . .
The paintbrush snaps.
I startle at the crack.
His eyes meet mine,
shift from rage
to soothing silk.
I’m sorry,
my darling.
I must—
Your father’s never . . . ?
My skin crawls.
My father’s never laid
a hand on me.
It’s true, he orders me to strip,
to be his model
puppet
slave
but I am not—at least—that.
I tear my eyes
from Tino’s,
mumble to the floor:
No.
And then
(I did not think it possible)
Tino draws yet closer.
Good.
If anyone ever hurt you . . .
He drops the broken brush,
grinds the pieces
to splinters
beneath his boot.
I lift my eyes to meet his,
grope for words.
For all the men
who populate
my world, there’s never been a one
who wished to be
my champion.
I can survive, a solitary creature.
I have thus far.
But just the thought that someone else
might care what fate befalls me—
it changes everything.
His fingers worry
the lining
of his blouse.
But then,
you do not need
me to play
the older brother.
Some force compels me forward—
not my will, not his.
I stand so near
I see the very brushstrokes
of each eyebrow,
the unsubtle scrapes
of the sculptor
who formed his jaw.
So don’t.
Inhale.
Exhale.
And then his lips
are one with mine.
PART III
31.
The house is a still life.
Except, perhaps, for the mice
no doubt scampering
through the pantry,
all is motionless.
Father’s returned from his revelries,
drunk on all he gets out there
he cannot find in here
and dead to the world
until he must wake
to face his disappointment.
Tuzia’s sculpted from marble
on the cot next to mine
(though not so silent).
The boys float through the dreams of those
who’ll never have to fight to be heard.
I slip from bed
to studio
as silent as the mice.
We thieves in the night
steal what we must
when no one is watching.
The candles lit,
I search behind old canvases
and stretching bars until I find
my prize: a dusty mirror,
once my mother’s and
last in use when time and again
I sketched my own face,
working out proportions
my father couldn’t explain.
His grasp on female form—
a woman’s body—
is even less precise.
But Susanna deserves better
than a man’s idea
of what a woman should be.
I set the mirror on the easel,
listen again for footsteps, judgment.
Then, satisfied I am alone,
expose a shoulder to the air.
32.
Reflected in the looking glass,
neck curves into shoulder,
one shade blends into another.
As I lean closer, the glass reveals
a constellation of freckles
I’ve never noticed.
Emboldened by discovery
I let the fabric pool around my waist.
The midnight air
sends shivers up my spine.
My nipples tighten
against the creeping draft.
Even the greatest painters
portray a breast as though
it is one thing and then another:
a tiny, perfect drop of pigment
atop a milky dome.
But even in the guttering candle’s light
I see something different,
more complex.
All around the pinkest tip
the color pools and fades
by gradual shades
into my ivory skin.
My fingers wander up, explore.
A breast rests in each palm,
the weight surprising.
The way men paint them
I might have thought
they’d float away
if they weren’t tethered
to my earthly flesh.
I lean to the side,
Susanna cringing from the elders’ gaze.
In my mother’s mirror,
my breasts follow.
They’re not half spheres, unyielding,
behaving how a man believes they ought.
They shift and change,
they’re form and function, and
they’re mine.
33.
Back in my cramped room,
beneath my sheets,
I know I should sleep.
But my mind hums.
My hands don’t stop exploring.
How have I lived this long
with my own body
in darkness?
The disconnect of men
to women’s bodies
stands to reason.
They’d have to care enough
to see the other as a subject
worthy of their earnest study.
My own oblivion horrifies me more.
I’ve been here all along
but somehow not.
And now there’s Agostino.
I can’t pretend
these new discoveries
are solely for the sake of art.
Though every time he’s near
it feels like brushstrokes
on a canvas, light, provoking,
transforming me to something new.
My
fingers flutter lower
toward the pulse
I’ve steadfastly avoided.
Until now.
34.
When Tuzia grunts
to rouse me,
I startle from
the most delicious dream,
then hide under
my blanket, ashamed
of what she’d think
if she could read
my mind.
If Mother were here
would I tell her
how I woke heart pounding,
skin ablaze, ask eager questions,
drink up every answer?
Instead, there’s only Tuzia.
We’ll take a carriage to Mass.
35.
My cheeks still flame
inside the carriage
as we jolt along
the cobblestones,
a hired ride
our luxury
when Father’s been out
drinking late
and does not come to Mass,
so Tuzia shames him
into paying for our fare.
We’ve only just turned
onto Via della Lungara
when the carriage stops,
nowhere near our parish.
Tuzia leans forward,
puffed with temporary power
of being served
and not the servant.
We say our Mass
at San Giovanni.
Why have we stopped?
You’ve room for more.
The voice is not
our carriage driver’s.
Tino! I exclaim
and if I thought
I’d flushed before
my face must now
be carmine red.
What nerve (of his!)
to flag our carriage down
as we are on the way to Mass!
What nerve (of mine!)
to call him by his name
as though we are united!
Tuzia’s eyes cannot decide
if they should glare at me
or at our interloper.
Tino makes a move
to climb inside our carriage—
a violation of the rules
of decency, our code, our social order.
A moment’s hesitation
—I should not touch him
as though we’re so familiar
but neither do I see another way
to stop him so—
my hand shoots out
and grabs his forearm.
I feel his muscle, power, spark
and drop him as the fire
of my nighttime discoveries
jolts through my mind.
You must not join us,
sir.
I’ve never called him sir before.
I try to tell him
with a glare
what I cannot say plainly.