A ROMANTIC PORTRAIT
by
Roger Harvey
He
could not be certain that she was in love with him. He would surely appear very
old-fashioned to Caroline and she could only have a vague knowledge of his work,
although they had begun to talk about it and she had seemed genuinely
interested. They had developed a friendship, now warmer, now tinged with
desire--his desire, at least. It was now blossoming to love--his love, at
least. Yet whatever he could offer her might not appeal.
He
had come to limited prominence more than a decade ago with a portrait of his
sometime muse and lover, the dancer Felicity May. It had her reclined on a
sofa, after David’s Madame Récamier. Exhibited in
Glasgow and Dublin and finally London, it had created a minor fashion. Terence
and Felicity had split up, but the style had endured. He received commissions
to paint other dancers and actresses. Even pop singers, more used to electronic
promotion, had paid for their portraits in oils with that distinctive Gaine
romance and its whiff of the tastefully erotic: the evening gown with its strap
fallen off one shoulder, the shoes not worn but carried by their slingbacks,
the loose hair combed by firelight, the lips pouting in a dressing-table
mirror. All were executed in meticulous super-realism that stole from, but also
transcended, anything a photographer could do. All had a gloss of
Twentieth-Century glamour, as if, just beyond the canvas, limousine and
airliner were ready to sweep sitter and spectator into Hollywood spotlight or
Monaco sunshine, Dior or Givenchy in the wardrobe, Gershwin or The Beatles on
the soundtrack. It had been a seductive combination of pop art and classic
portraiture, of über-romance and
retro-chic, and it had paid. And beyond their sleek technique, Terence Gaine’s
portraits succeeded because they were sincere. They were at least one
accurately rendered aspect of how the sitters wanted to see themselves. They
were also his own romantic view of women.
It
was, he mused on his way to the café, a view Caroline might not share. He was
unlikely to be her idea of a lover or a husband. Even if she found him
attractive, he was now considerably poorer than his image suggested, and
poverty might outweigh romantic vision. He received few commissions these days.
He taught--not at a college, his style and scope of experience being considered
too narrow--but on courses promoted by himself on the Internet. These did
produce a few students at his annual classes and a welcome if unpredictable
income, but it was no great career.
This
day the café was quiet. Terence Gaine’s favourite table was free and Caroline
came to chat to him. The proprietress walked over to them.
“You
know Mister Gaine,” announced Caroline unexpectedly.
“Terence,
please.”
“Of
course,” came a businesswoman’s smile, “one of our best customers; a regular.”
“Oh
no, highly irregular,” he joked weakly.
Caroline
was being persistent.
“Did
you know he did that famous painting of Fizz May?” There was an uncomfortable pause.
“You know, Felicity May, the ballet dancer. Everyone calls her Fizz.”
“Oh
yes, she used to be on television, didn’t she? To be honest, I don’t think I’ve
seen the painting. What are you having today?”
“I’d
better get on,” said Caroline.
How
sweet she was, thought Terence. Sweet, with just a hint of cheekiness; always a
little more forward than her demure looks suggested; and beautiful, beautiful
from her hair down. She returned to the table when Terence had finished his
lunch. Amazingly, there was no-one else in the café and he took his chance.
“I
know you girls all have bare arms and tie your hair up for work…”
“I
like my arms bare.”
“So
do I,” he smiled. “Your skin is very beautiful. It’s one of the first things I
noticed about you: your beautiful skin. But when I paint your picture I think
you should be in quite a prim blouse; you know, a few Victorian frills against
a serene blue background, like a Winterhalter, but your lovely hair loose;
perhaps you’re brushing it in a mirror.”
“Got
me all worked out, eh? I’m looking in that mirror. ‘Who’s the fairest of them
all?’”
“You
are, of course. Now I think about it, perhaps fairer still with nothing on your
arms and shoulders, just a sparkly necklace, hugely sparkly, really overdone
against your beautiful tender skin. If you haven’t got one I’ll buy you one.”
She
finished wiping the table and looked into his eyes.
“Imagining
me with nothing on is routine stuff. Think I don’t know what goes through men’s
minds in this place? But if you start buying me sparkly necklaces everyone will
think you’re in love with me.” There was going to be a brisk laugh between
them, but she sat down with a tender smile, the most tender he had seen in more
years than he could remember. “I already know you are.” His world spun. “I
think I might be in love with you, too.” His world also stopped.
“You
know, Caro,” he put down his coffee without drinking it, “you know I could only
make you unhappy. I could paint you a wonderful portrait in which you’d be
beautiful for ever but after that I would only make you unhappy.”
“Rubbish.
I think we could make each other very happy.”
Suddenly,
he seemed to be looking down at the scene: she was a young waitress, he was an
old customer. It was all wrong; wonderful, but wrong.
“Even
if we did for a while, I couldn’t support us together. I can barely support
myself these days.” Why did he have to sound so old and boring as he listened
to his own pompous declarations? Because he was old and boring, he told
himself. This was hardly a speech from Terence Gaine the romantic portrait
painter. No, this was an escape-clause from an old and boring man unfit to be a
lover or a husband. Then he heard Caroline’s voice, young and eager and
innocent.
“I’ve
got a good job here.”
“For
Heaven’s sake, Caro, that’s not enough. It’s not the point anyway. I’d never
wish to inflict my poverty on you.”
“You
don’t want me then.”
“God
knows I want you!” He gripped the edge of the table. “I love you too, which is
more important. And because I love you I’m going to stop wanting you.”
“How
on Earth does a man do that?” She looked wantonly at him, an irrepressible
smile lighting her sad face, then down at the table. “A bucket of cold coffee?”
“I
mean I’m going to stop myself doing anything about it--for your sake, dear and
lovely Caroline.” He recovered a little, settled back in his chair. “Some of
the young people who come in here, the students, you should fall in love with
one of them.”
“You
can’t say who you’ll fall in love with.”
“Of
course not.” He looked embarrassed and felt worse. “I should never have
insulted your intelligence and your grace by saying such a thing. I do
apologise…no, please, I must. That was a stupid and degrading thing to say, to
you of all people. But I’m not right for you, Caro. Look. People used to say ‘Terence
Gaine: didn’t he paint Fizz May on that couch?’ Not too many people, but some.
But now I suspect very few people say it, or care very much if they’re not
quite sure who Terence Gaine is or was. But none of that really matters. Lack of
fame and money aside, if I thought I could make you happy--really happy, not
just while we have the passionate affair everyone at this café must have
suspected for weeks--I’d marry you tomorrow. But I know I can’t make you happy,
not properly. I’m heading into old age. You don’t want to be burdened with
that.”
“This
is ridiculous. You haven’t even got your pension yet...”
“I
wish I had! I could do with it.”
“…you’re just sixty.”
“And
you’re just twenty-three. Twenty-three for God’s sake! I’ll have to content
myself with loving you as the daughter I never had.”
“I’ve
already got parents.”
They
were being jokey again. It might be all right; it just might.
“So
that blocks that route to fulfilment. And what would they think of me? Don’t answer
that. I’ll have to settle for being like an old uncle to you.”
“Old
uncles who look at girls your way get locked up.”
“Exactly.
That’s why this whole thing isn’t right, and you know it isn’t.”
“Let’s
stop being silly.” She could be very practical. It was always devastating. “Don’t
be my parent or my uncle, just be yourself and I’ll be me. You know the story
of Dante and Beatrice. He was an older man and she was a very young girl. He
saw her and fell in love with her and some great work of art came out of that,
didn’t it?”
He
had never expected this from her. Dante and Beatrice: it was almost funny, then
it was not funny at all.
“Yes,
I know that story. But we must assume she found happiness with someone else.
Dante and Beatrice married other people.”
“But
he spent the rest of his life writing about her. He wrote great things, famous
works, he was in love with her for the rest of his life.”
“Indeed
he was.”
“Well
then!”
“Well
I’m not quite Dante--although you would make a lovely Beatrice.” He looked into
his cold coffee. “Don’t let me paint you, Caro. Don’t let me; not just for your
sake, for my sake too.”
Now
there were tears on her cheeks.
“All
right, we won’t do the portrait.”
“But,”
he declared, resisting the urge to wipe her face, “I shall paint you for the
rest of my life. I’ll paint the dream of you; I can only paint dreams, anyway.
The real you is for someone else, someone better than me. And I’ll stop coming
here.” He kissed her smooth forehead. “It’ll be the only decent thing I’ve done
for years.”
Roger Harvey - Poet, novelist,
playwright and scriptwriter Roger Harvey was born in 1953 and lives in
Newcastle. He was the first poet to read on BBC Radio 1 and his coast-to-coast
reading tour of the USA is chronicled in POET ON THE ROAD. His latest books including
the ROOM FOR LOVE trilogy, MAIDEN VOYAGE, THE SILVER SPITFIRE and PERCY AND
DINAH are available via Waterstones and Amazon UK. Further details about his
publications and current work are at
RogerHarvey—writer.blogspot.com.
No comments:
Post a Comment