“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.
