Read Online My Tango With Barbara Strozzi by Russell Hoban - Free Book Online Page A

my shop, All That Glisters, just up the street.’
    I said, ‘I pass it every day on my way to work.’
    ‘Small world,’ said Grace. ‘No unknown places any more. Except perhaps in people.’
    ‘I’d like to do a portrait of you,’ said Brian. ‘Will you pose for me?’
    ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ said Grace. ‘But I don’t do nudity unless it’s essential to the plot.’
    ‘Sometimes a plot can take you unawares,’ said Brian, and raised his glass to her. He’ll flirt with whatever female comes into his field of vision. He and Grace exchanged phone numbers and Brian and I said goodbye and got up to leave.
    ‘See you,’ said Grace. ‘Have a good whatever.’
    It was twilight when we came out into Berwick Street. ‘Where to?’ said Brian.
    ‘Cheyne Walk?’ I said.
    ‘Bertha, you read my mind,’ he said. He hailed a cab and off we went. Hearing him call me Bertha made me think of Phil with a little twinge of guilt. Not a big twinge, just a little one. Phil and I still didn’t really know where we were with each other, but with Brian I knew exactly where we were and I was comfortable with it. No commitment, no problems, just a good time in bed in a beautiful house. Was I being amoral? Well,you know what they say: there are parts of the human body that have no conscience.
    But the part of my body that
has
got a conscience is my brain. And lying there beside Brian I was feeling guilty about what I’d done and hadn’t done with my life so far. Here I was, thirty-seven years old and painting artificial eyes. Back when Brian was my teacher he’d told me to loosen up and I’d done that, but not on canvas. Then my attempts to develop as an artist had gradually faded away while my talents as a mistress improved all the time. Was it too late to find out if I could be any kind of a painter other than an eyeball one? On the other hand, if I’d had any real talent I’d have done something with it by now. It’s not just a matter of talent – you’ve got to have the drive and the character to do something with it, whether it’s painting, snooker, or tennis. Brian was asleep and snoring. ‘Cheryl,’ he mumbled. That wasn’t his wife’s name.
    After a while I fell asleep and dreamt that Grace Kowalski offered to lend me her bat. ‘He ain’t heavy,’ she said. ‘He’s my Irving.’ But it
was
heavy, I could hardly lift it. I woke up and the room wasn’t as dark as it had been. There were framed sketches on the wall. Me, nude. No clothes but I hadn’t felt as naked when I posed as I did now.

5
Phil Ockerman
    She was with another man; that was a certainty. It was as if I could feel his weight on her as he enjoyed what was now denied to me. I ground my teeth and tried to move my mind elsewhere. Without much success.
    I could see a space without Barbara stretching out in front of me for miles and miles: a desert. And I was two vast and trunkless legs of stone standing in the middle of it with my shattered visage, half-sunk, lying nearby. Well, that’s how it is sometimes: boundless and bare, the lone and level sands stretch far away. Deal with it.
    Ordinarily I get through each day by finding things to look forward to, like a mountain climber moving from one handhold to the next: breakfast;
The Times
; the post; scanning the TV schedule and setting the timer to record films that look promising; sending and answering e-mails; lunch and the first beer of the day; a few pages of Elizabeth Gaskell with my sandwich; then a nap. In between I put in some time staring at
The Scent of Water
,my lonesome title with no first line under it. That part of the day I haven’t really been looking forward to, and I do it again in the evening. And there are the classes I teach at Morley and the private workshops that use up three afternoons and two evenings every week.
    If I could follow the advice I give my students I might possibly achieve even a whole first paragraph. I draw on haiku heavily for this. A common