Commuter's Notes: Infanta

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“Here it is” the man shifted in his seat, turning the book slightly towards her.

“Her name is Marguerite. And she sits here surrounded by seven bridesmaids. The innocence of her face contrasts with the … That is why she is infanta.”

“Fascinating,” she said, a bit breathlessly. “You know I always hear, Infanta this and Infanta that. And all the while she was right here. Marguerite.”

We merged into the carpool lane. Traffic this morning was especially light. As the car sped by, the thin layer of fog slowly lifted revealing water of the Bay glistening under the rosy pink sky.

“Really beautiful, don’t you think,” she whispered, a bit loudly. He shifted in his seat again, put down the book and looked out the window.

It is always curious to see how casual people are with their conversation, when there is a stranger sitting in the backseat of their car, or perhaps the way that people act overly casually precisely because there is a stranger sitting in the backseat of their car. A curious thing, casual carpool, where absolute strangers are suddenly thrown together for half an hour, 45 minutes, an hour, depending on traffic, as they seek to cross the bridge to the other side. Some mask the awkward moment with loud music and news from the radio, most of which concerns weather and traffic. Others just continue on with their conversation, as if the stranger was not there, so that the passenger, rider, is privy into the dullest and most fascinating conversations. This morning, it is all about art.

“So what are you doing with them today?”

“I am not sure,” she chuckled, again a bit loudly, “but I have an ironing board in the trunk.”

“An ironing board?”

“Yes, I always wanted to give them something to do, the models, so they can hold their pose, and the ironing board, well I just happened to see it. So here it is in the trunk.”

“And you are going to have them iron?”

“Yes, so they can hold the pose, and maybe it will be less awkward for them, the students. You don’t know how uncomfortable they are with the idea of nude. They always are.”

“Maybe it is the fact that the model is nude and they are clothed.”

Chuckle.

The car slowed down and she turned her head towards him, glancing at the book still open on his lap. Her hair was curled into a long bob, with some strands of grey. Horn-rimmed glasses and furry coat collar swaying slightly as the car picked up again.

“You know, I wonder,” the man raised his voice slightly, “what if we reverse the situation and have the students paint the clothed model while they are nude. Or, have clothed students paint clothed models and nude students paint nude models in the same room. Wouldn’t that be fascinating?”

Chuckle.

“Yes perhaps it is the fact that they are clothed, but making them take off their clothes...They are always so uncomfortable about it.”

The car merged left, nearing the less crowded exit to Harrison.

“This is the most curious thing. You know that corner, at Washington. There is never a soul there, every time I go by. But that morning, and it was a cold morning, a bit of fog, you know, like always. Early morning. I had to go in for a meeting, and I just saw that woman standing there wearing nothing but a frock.”

Chuckle, a bit dry.

“Do you know what a frock is? It is a sort of sweater, but with no sleeves and no buttons, just the back and wide open in the front. And her hair was plastered down, probably from the fog, but she wore make up and red shoes. And she stood there, statuesque, absolutely nude but for that frock and the shoes. Just standing there. And there is never a soul at that corner. And I always look for her again, after that, but I never saw her again.

Silence.

I pulled my coat closer around me, grabbed the backpack and stepped out of the car into the cold morning.