was something about him now, in his moment of slight weakness, that unleashed some ire, truant and vandalistic. I had been misled.
“Why did you buy it?” I asked, my voice hard.
“Oh …” Carefully, he placed the photograph back in its former position. “I’ve collected a number of photographs over the years. I have a rather good collection … an Arbus, and—.” He stopped. He purposely arrested himself, aware that he was not answering the question. His hands went to the expanded prayer position and he looked down. I noted that he kept a close watch on himself, observing his movements as closely as he observed mine. He would not let himself waffle, not as I did. He looked up. “I liked the image. I liked the form and the chiaroscuro. I thought it evoked sensuality, eroticism even, without being tootitillating. It struck the right balance. With Page 3 girls and all the rest, I think it must be increasingly difficult for photographers to use the female form. Johns has succeeded here. Also …” There was slight hesitation. “I thought the woman was very beautiful.”
My wits were like razors ready to slash out across the table top.
“Some photos are more flattering than others,” I said.
I thought he might say something dreadful like “some women are more beautiful than others” that would have made the world groan, but he did not. The tone of the exchange suddenly altered. There was a gravid pause, large with his thoughtfulness, with embryonic ideas of how the conversation should now proceed. The excitement was over. But what had he wanted?
“I keep this upstairs as a rule,” he said, “with other photographs, in a gallery that’s almost devoted to that medium. All these antiques can become stifling after a time.”
“Yes,” I said, with a sidelong look to the ogre.
“So you used to model regularly?” he asked, sitting up to return to a more chatty mode. I felt there was now something disconcertingly abrupt about him. Was it nerves? Outwardly, he seemed composed, but was he? Why the shaking hands? I felt his thoughts racing, but what were they?
“That was how I earned my money when I first came to England, before I began selling second-hand books.” My attitude remained calm. “I also worked as a barmaid. Life modelling for painters was easy, but it’s boring and not that well paid. Photographic work was better because youcan keep moving, and believe me, if you’ve found a pose and you get cramp in your tendon, no one thanks you for curling up in a ball.” Introducing a wry note did not help the peculiar atmosphere between us.
Then, one of those awkward silences that one only really feels at such times gaped between these words and the next utterance. He needed to take stock of his position, and clearly felt no qualms about causing the hiatus. Curl up in a ball like a hedgehog, I thought. That was what I wanted to do. Beware of the spikes.
The silence grew wider and wider. In fact, it was probably not long, but under the circumstances it seemed an eon. Mr. Prain was not perturbed by it. He poured himself another cup of tea. I lifted my hand to indicate I did not want another. He was momentarily lost in pensiveness, lost, that is, to me; down a secret tunnel that I could not peep into, not of fantasy, but of cogitation. I was not musing. I was painfully conscious of the multiple noises of which we are normally not aware: a plane flying overhead, a cat yowling in the distance, my intestines making a pernicious rumble, the birds, and then the sound of someone trying to start a motor. Looking through the window, I saw that the gardener was back. He had placed a tool kit down on the ground, and was giving the motor another try before settling down to take the engine apart.
I snapped a glance back at Mr. Prain’s thoughtful face and saw his eyelids flutter enough in my direction to indicate that his attention had returned to me. I made a decision. Now I would ask what I should have
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Unknown
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