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Authors: Milan Kundera
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docility, a passive surface on which the painter projected the image of his desire. And in fact she passed the test, the painter had his rapture and blissfully withdrew from her body. But then, once she was home, she felt as if she had undergone a great struggle, and that evening she wept before she fell asleep.
When she returned to the studio some days later, the painting and picture taking resumed. This time the painter bared her breasts and painted on their beautiful contours. But when he tried to undress her completely, for the first time she denied her lover something.
It's hard to conceive of the skill, even the trickery, she employed, during all her erotic games with the painter, to hide her belly! She would keep on her garter-belt, implying that such seminakedness was more arousing; she would get him to make love in semidarkness instead of in full light; she would gently remove the painter's caressing hands from her belly and set them on her breasts; and when she had exhausted all her tricks, she would invoke her shyness, a trait the painter was familiar with and adored (he often told her that she was the incarnation of the color white, and that he had expressed his first thoughts of her in a painting by scraping white lines with a palette knife).
But now she had to stand in the middle of the studio like a living statue in the grip of the painter's eyes and brush. She resisted, and when she told him, as she had during her first visit, that what he wanted from her was crazy, he answered, as he did then: "Yes, love is crazy," and tore off the rest of her clothes.
And so she stood in the middle of the studio thinking only of her belly; she was afraid to look down at it, but it was before her eyes as she knew it from having despairingly looked at it a thousand times in the mirror; it seemed to her that she was nothing but a belly, nothing but ugly wrinkled skin, it seemed to her that she was a woman on an operating table, a woman who must not think about anything, who must yield herself up and simply believe that all this was temporary, that the operation and the pain would come to an end and that meanwhile there was only one thing to do: hang on.
The painter picked up a brush, dipped it in black paint, and applied it to her shoulder, her navel, her legs, stepped back and picked up the camera; then he led her to the bathroom, where he had her lie down in the empty bathtub and, placing across her body the metal snake with its perforated head, told her that this metal snake didn't spray water but a deadly gas and that it was now lying on her body like the body of war on the body of love; and then he led her out to another spot and photographed her there too, and she went obediently, no longer trying to hide her belly, but she always had it before her eyes, and she saw the painter's eyes and her belly, her belly and the painter's eyes . . .
And then, when she lay stretched out on the rug, all covered with paint, and he made love to her beside the cool, beautiful antique head, she couldn't hang on any longer and began sobbing in his arms, but he probably failed to grasp the meaning of these sobs, for he was convinced that his ferocious bewitchment, transformed into steady, pounding, beautiful movement, could evoke no response other than tears of rapture and bliss.
Mama realized that the painter had not guessed the cause of her sobs, so she controlled herself and stopped crying. But when she got home she was overcome by vertigo on the stairs; she fell and scraped her knee. Frightened, Grandmama led her to her room, put a hand on her brow, and stuck a thermometer in her armpit.
Mama had a fever. Mama had a nervous breakdown.
10
A few days later, Czech parachutists sent from England killed the German ruler of Bohemia; martial law was declared, and long lists of those who had been shot in reprisal appeared on the street corners. Mama was confined to her bed, and the doctor came every day to stick a needle into her
When she returned to the studio some days later, the painting and picture taking resumed. This time the painter bared her breasts and painted on their beautiful contours. But when he tried to undress her completely, for the first time she denied her lover something.
It's hard to conceive of the skill, even the trickery, she employed, during all her erotic games with the painter, to hide her belly! She would keep on her garter-belt, implying that such seminakedness was more arousing; she would get him to make love in semidarkness instead of in full light; she would gently remove the painter's caressing hands from her belly and set them on her breasts; and when she had exhausted all her tricks, she would invoke her shyness, a trait the painter was familiar with and adored (he often told her that she was the incarnation of the color white, and that he had expressed his first thoughts of her in a painting by scraping white lines with a palette knife).
But now she had to stand in the middle of the studio like a living statue in the grip of the painter's eyes and brush. She resisted, and when she told him, as she had during her first visit, that what he wanted from her was crazy, he answered, as he did then: "Yes, love is crazy," and tore off the rest of her clothes.
And so she stood in the middle of the studio thinking only of her belly; she was afraid to look down at it, but it was before her eyes as she knew it from having despairingly looked at it a thousand times in the mirror; it seemed to her that she was nothing but a belly, nothing but ugly wrinkled skin, it seemed to her that she was a woman on an operating table, a woman who must not think about anything, who must yield herself up and simply believe that all this was temporary, that the operation and the pain would come to an end and that meanwhile there was only one thing to do: hang on.
The painter picked up a brush, dipped it in black paint, and applied it to her shoulder, her navel, her legs, stepped back and picked up the camera; then he led her to the bathroom, where he had her lie down in the empty bathtub and, placing across her body the metal snake with its perforated head, told her that this metal snake didn't spray water but a deadly gas and that it was now lying on her body like the body of war on the body of love; and then he led her out to another spot and photographed her there too, and she went obediently, no longer trying to hide her belly, but she always had it before her eyes, and she saw the painter's eyes and her belly, her belly and the painter's eyes . . .
And then, when she lay stretched out on the rug, all covered with paint, and he made love to her beside the cool, beautiful antique head, she couldn't hang on any longer and began sobbing in his arms, but he probably failed to grasp the meaning of these sobs, for he was convinced that his ferocious bewitchment, transformed into steady, pounding, beautiful movement, could evoke no response other than tears of rapture and bliss.
Mama realized that the painter had not guessed the cause of her sobs, so she controlled herself and stopped crying. But when she got home she was overcome by vertigo on the stairs; she fell and scraped her knee. Frightened, Grandmama led her to her room, put a hand on her brow, and stuck a thermometer in her armpit.
Mama had a fever. Mama had a nervous breakdown.
10
A few days later, Czech parachutists sent from England killed the German ruler of Bohemia; martial law was declared, and long lists of those who had been shot in reprisal appeared on the street corners. Mama was confined to her bed, and the doctor came every day to stick a needle into her
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