Ballroom: A Novel (20 page)

“You’ve moved!” Myra shouted over the bass notes of Mahler’s Fifth Symphony. “Please, I only have so much time before the light changes.”

“This is intolerable!” he shouted, barely able to tolerate the overpowering music.

“I’m working,
ne dis rien
, be quiet.”

“It’s been more than an hour without moving. My arm is asleep.”

“
Ne bouge pas
, lie still. I must finish this.” She shook her pencil at him.

“Must you play that music? I can’t stand it.”

“It inspires my work. Its passion pushes the expression of my line, drives the demons from my brain.” He had no idea what she was talking about. He would have preferred Whitney Houston or Santana.

“My drawing is not going well today. The proportions are askew. My lines are weak and tentative.” She threw her pencil across the room. “I need a drink.”

“You’re getting irritable.” He stood, stretched, and went toward her to hold her. “Let’s make love.”

“That’s the problem between us, Gabe. All you think of is making love. You don’t understand me or my work.”

“Let’s go out, then.” He particularly enjoyed it when they dressed in white linen, walked along the port, and sat lazily drinking espressos at a taverna, admired by passing tourists.

“Go on without me. I’ll join you later.”

M
yra had an innate sense of style, but she was unaware of her effect. She naturally chose the perfect colors to complement her skin, hair, and eyes; her selection of accessories was always spontaneous. Even her fragrance, La Chasse aux Papillons, with its notes of jasmine, linden, and orange blossom, was distinctive and suited to her.

Gabriel worshipped all things of elegance—beauty, clothing, and design. He liked recognizing people on the style pages of magazines and the society pages of
W
. Now, for the first and only time in his life, he barely noticed other women, though Mykonos was the place for beautiful people.

While he preferred the nightlife scene, Myra chose quieter settings. Her friends on the island, artists, writers, and musicians, were not interested in diamonds and going dancing. Instead they spent evenings in cafés discussing their work. Gabriel joined them for Myra’s sake, but felt an outsider.

I
am having a difficult week,” Myra told her Parisian friends, Françoise and Bernard, as they sat in the Sunset Taverna on Agios Ioannis Beach at sunset that evening. “I want to feel the passion. The music. The way it feels when my work is going well.” She swayed as she spoke.

Gabriel looked out across the turquoise waters to the island of Delos in the distance.

“I want to bring something noble to my drawings and then my paintings,” she continued. “So far they’re static. I want them to live and breathe, even though the model appears to be asleep.”

“‘The model’? I do have a name, darling.”

“That’s not true, Myra,” said Bernard, as though Gabriel weren’t there. “I saw your preliminary drawings on Wednesday. They’re marvelous. And noble. Almost tragic.”

Gabriel had observed that whenever Bernard spoke, he would remove his statement glasses, the black-rimmed orbs meant to suggest some serious-mindedness, while letting his artistic leanings be known. He would hold them in the air until he had finished whatever he wanted to say and then put them back on.

“Yes, you’ll have no problem bringing Gabe’s masculinity to the canvas!” Françoise smiled in mock flirtation in his direction. “Gabe, no ouzo? Wine?”

He noticed Myra and Françoise make eye contact. He wondered if they had been discussing him. They were always on his case because he wouldn’t drink with them.

“I prefer my wine with dinner.”

“Let’s not start that, please, Gabe. You, too, Françoise! What I’m trying to do is break down the traditionally male-defined spectatorship of the nude, create a male version of Ingres’s
Grande Odalisque
. I want my paintings to be about the female looking at the male, if that’s even possible.”

Gabriel was bored with the conversation. He wanted to swim or run, watch sunsets or simply walk along the port, watching the tourists disembarking from ships and private yachts, not listen to these tedious discussions.

Françoise poured herself another drink. “Most paintings of female nudes are intended for male spectators. They are all about the exercise of male sexual fantasy.”

“Françoise, you hate that we men fantasize about beautiful women!” Bernard held up his glass for a refill. “Don’t we, Gabe?”

“I have no need to. I have Myra!”

“No one
has
me,” Myra snapped, her smile vanishing. Gabriel felt humiliated.

“I like the way Myra’s twisted the torso, the way that light and dark shimmers on the shoulders and hips. Asleep, he seems . . . What? Conquered? Yet at the same time erotic.” Françoise ran her fingers through her highlighted hair again and again, a gesture that irritated Gabriel.

The waiter brought another bottle. There was a lot more talk and ouzo. Gabriel ordered another espresso.

“Men are preoccupied with women’s bodies, with little regard for identity,” said Myra, waiting for Gabriel to light her cigarette. “I want to make paintings of male nudes for women to desire.”

“Male nudes without identity?” Françoise suggested slyly.

“Do you like hearing this, Gabe? You’re awfully quiet.” Françoise laughed. “Our tragic hero!”

Bernard lifted his glass. “Here’s to desire!”

“I don’t mind being seen and appreciated as noble and erotic.” Gabriel straightened his spine, hoping to recapture his dignity. “But tragic? There’s nothing tragic about me.” He hadn’t been paying attention to their tiresome intellectual babble. But Françoise’s sarcasm had caught him off guard, infuriating him.

Myra put her arms around his neck and kissed him passionately, then laughed. “Gabe, you handsome darling, my paintings and drawings are not about you.”

“And as to your drawings, Myra, I’ve watched you at work.” Françoise interrupted. “And I’m envious how you lose self-consciousness in your connection between mind, hand, and paper. Your line work is lyrical. Believe me, your show in Paris will be a smash!”

“And will you put that in writing in your review after the show, Françoise?”

O
nce Françoise had told him just how renowned Myra was in the Paris and Berlin art world, Gabriel was willing to give up his need for partying. Until he met Myra, he had known little about the art scene. While he would have preferred to spend time on the beach, at bars, and parties on yachts and discos, he enjoyed the idea of being immortalized, and the social recognition Myra brought.

He was used to conquering women, but somehow the struggle for Myra’s attention fueled his arousal. Consumed by her work, she often resisted his advances, and the more she refused, the more ardent his pursuit became. Initially their lovemaking was wild, but soon it became perfunctory.

Y
ou only want sex,” Myra told him.

“That’s not true. You never have time for me. All you do is work.”

“You don’t even try to excite me. There’s no foreplay. You’re selfish, Gabe.”

“What is it you want from me?” He felt completely beaten down. “Nothing I do pleases you, Myra.”

“Slowly, slowly. Make love to me slowly.”

“No one’s complained before.”

“Oh, my pet. You are so handsome when you’re cranky.” She’d moved closer to him in bed to caress him. “Next time I’ll show you what I want.”

Insulted, he turned away from her and fell asleep.

G
abriel didn’t like Myra’s criticism, but he had rarely stayed this long in a relationship. He’d always preferred one-night stands.

He did everything to win Myra’s approval and her love, drawn to her despite the discomfort she caused him. His longing knocked him off balance. The two months with her left him feeling inadequate. He’d never struggled so hard to appear under control. He began to secretly worry that she might leave him.

When he least expected, she would reward him with tender words, touches, or expensive gifts, yet they were always unexpected. He imagined it was the way a gambler felt. As though she
almost
loved him, that she was
almost
available to him. But he wanted
all
of her attention. He needed her to stroke his ego, admire his special qualities, his success, clothes, intelligence, and good looks.

A
t the end of August, two weeks before the opening of her exhibition, Gabriel and Myra flew to Paris and stayed in her apartment in the seventh arrondissement. Their evenings were a social whirlwind. Even Myra seemed to enjoy the glamorous spotlight. But then, she was at its center. During the day Gabriel was able to take care of some business, searching for and negotiating for diamonds while she worked with the gallery.

Going back generations, the Katz family had established themselves in the upper echelons of the international diamond industry as
diamantaires
, highly skilled artisans responsible for purchasing, cutting, polishing, and transforming rough stones into finished gems. Before the exhibit opened, Gabriel had flown to Antwerp’s Diamond Quarter to meet with a master diamond cutter. He selected a stone and created a ring, which would be ready in time for Myra’s opening. He planned to surprise her. If they were married, he believed, she would be more attentive, even pliant. Especially if he got her back to the States and away from friends like Françoise and Bernard, whom he detested.

He extended his vacation to attend her exhibition, which was the talk of the city. There were twenty large paintings of him sleeping. Reviewers praised the model as well as the artist, compared her work to Caravaggio.

Gabriel had decided to surprise her by proposing at the opening, in front of a wall-size nude painting that one critic described as “an electrifying image that captures a languid time; a portrayal of the dark powers of seduction. Her magic is his magic, an astounding portrait.”

“Myra embodies all that diamonds stand for.” Gabriel placed the large yellow diamond, one of the most perfect he’d ever seen, on her finger. “Myra is fire, life, and brilliance. Like fire, she disperses light in a rainbow effect. Like life, she scintillates and sparkles in motion; and like brilliance, when she is still, she reflects light.” He’d found this quote in an article about De Beers. High on champagne and compliments, a surprised Myra accepted his proposal.

For several weeks curators, collectors, artists, and editors wined and dined them, but Gabriel began to look forward to returning to the States.

B
aby! He’s lying on the patio. I think your father’s dead. What should I do?” Lila had discovered Hy’s body when he didn’t come in for supper one summer night, three days short of his sixty-eighth birthday. Her first reaction was to call Gabriel in New York.

“What do you expect me to do? I’m in New York, in a meeting. Call the police.”

“I need you here, baby.”

“I can’t drop what I’m doing. I’m in the middle of an important sale. Manage.”

“What will I say? He’s not dressed. He’s in his shorts . . . his underwear.”

“Call nine-one-one. Tell them your husband is dead. It’s simple, Mother.”

H
e and his new bride flew to Florida the next morning. In the Jewish tradition, the burial was that afternoon, and within two days his mother had hired a professional cleaning service to come in. Much to her chagrin, in the last five years of his life Hy had taken to smoking his Cuban cigars in the house. They were his territorial marking, like a male dog peeing, announcing his presence in Lila’s chintz and satin den.

“Tell them to park around the corner,” she pleaded.

“What’s the difference where they park?” Gabriel hadn’t seen Lila in quite a while, and was disappointed in how she had aged. She had developed a widow’s hump, which he found quite unattractive. He reminded himself to stand up straighter.

“I don’t want the neighbors to see me cleaning when I should be sitting shiva.”

“They’ll have to carry everything around the block.”

“That’s what they get paid for,” she snapped.

W
hy, I didn’t imagine you were such a big girl,” his mother had exclaimed as she opened the door to greet them when they arrived from the airport. “Gabe, dear, do you smell cigars?”

He thought Myra rather gracefully ignored his mother’s tactless mention of her height.

“Come in, come in. Gabe tells me you’re a stewardess, Myrna.”

“I’m a painter, Mrs. Katz. It’s Myra.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I must have confused you with someone else.” His mother continued to call her Myrna the entire afternoon.

“My girl Sonia is off today. I’ll get the drinks. Can I get you something to drink, dear? Iced tea, Scotch and soda, white wine, soft drink?” Lila indicated a chair for Myra; then, taking Gabe’s hand, she led him to the couch.

“White wine would be lovely, Mrs. Katz.”

“Baby? Diet Coke, six ice cubes, as always?”

“You know what I like,” he granted as his mother went into the kitchen.

When she returned with a tray, Myra’s wine wasn’t on it.

“You forgot Myra’s white wine, Mother.”

She sat down next to Gabriel on the couch. “Oh, so I did. Sorry, dear. You know, baby,” she said, taking his hand, “we will have to decide what to do with all your father’s clothes. Perhaps you could take care of that for me, Gabe. This is all quite unpleasant.”

“What would you like me to do with them?”

“Well, the painters are coming in next week, and I would like to have the closet empty by then. You decide, baby. I need to have all my dance clothes cleaned. I worry they smell of cigar. Myrna, do you dance?”

“It’s Myra, Mrs. Katz. No, I don’t. Why do you ask?” Myra looked puzzled.

Gabriel was annoyed that his mother was bringing this up.

“Well, Gabe is such a marvelous dancer. He never told you? Oh, I miss dancing with him.”

“No, the subject has never come up.” Myra’s expression was one of derision, touched with surprise.

Lila seemed incredulous. “Why, he’s the absolute best. No one dances like Gabe. His father was just adequate. I’ll never forget the night Gabriel and I won the trophy at Roseland in 1978. Remember, baby?” Placing her hand on his knee, Lila moved her manicured fingers in a caressing motion. “It was the night before your high school graduation.” She paused, reached over to pat Myra on the hand. “Oh, dear, you never got your drink. I’m so thoughtless.”