It was of a man in his forties. He had a cruel mouth and quizzical eyes. He looked to have been caught out in a lie and Marco had chosen the moment before the man had come up with a satisfactory explanation. The next was another man, dark skin, warm eyes and a smile on the edges of his mouth which made Emma also smile, as though they had just shared a joke. Starkly realistic, Marco’s portraits captured something unique in his sitters. Some part of their character which Marco, in his twenty minutes or so with them, had uncovered. The next was a young woman who stared blankly out. The next was an older woman in a hat sipping a drink through a straw. She looked up at Emma with an unmistakeable longing. And on and on. In every portrait Marco presented a character study. His style did not vary. He was able to paint what he saw. Standing back you could mistake them for photos, but when Emma looked closer she clearlysaw there were large brush strokes and deft uses of colour.
‘These are amazing, Marco. You could exhibit them. Do any of these people know you have painted them?’
‘No,’ he said.
‘You have their names. It wouldn’t be that difficult to track some of them down.’
He made no comment. He was preparing to start painting though Emma could not see what needed to be done to the elderly woman on the easel. It looked as complete as the other portraits.
‘Are these finished?’
‘No,’ he said, and switched on a small CD player. The volume was low, some jazz was playing.
‘Are those?’ she asked, pointing at the copies of Renaissance paintings.
‘No.’
‘And those?’ She nodded at the hundreds of canvases she had not been shown.
Marco turned and looked at them, thinking.
‘I no paint,’ he said, putting down the brush he was holding.
Emma went over to the divan and sat on the edge. The mattress was harder than she expected.
‘What will you do?’
‘ No lo so .’
‘May I take off my boots?’
Marco nodded and then watched her intently as she unzipped them, pulled them off and placed them neatly side by side at the edge of the divan. She wore pink and white striped socks.
‘Will you sketch me?’ she asked, suddenly. And having mouthed the words she blushed. Being alone with him in his studio, sitting on his divan, she felt like she had just asked him something else. They had only just met. And yet …
‘No.’
‘Why no?’
Marco was obviously disconcerted by her presence. He was agitated. He wouldn’t look at her. He gave her no answer.
‘Do you sleep here?’ she then asked, arranging the pillows. She could smell his scent. She could imagine stripping naked for him. She wouldn’t hesitate. She’d never been sketched before, not nude. The situation was drenched in possibilities which left her tingling all over. She lifted her feet up and folded them under her.
‘ Si ,’ he said, and then added, as if the right word had suddenly come to mind, ‘sometimes.’
‘Alone?’
‘ Si, sempre .’
His reserve was exciting. He was restraining himself, she felt certain.
‘May I have a glass of wine?’
He looked at her with dark, serious eyes. He could not say no. He could not say yes.
‘Do you want me to go?’ she asked, sure of his reply, though. She was watching him. His eyes could not hide his feelings. They were expressive. Open. Honest.
He walked over and poured her a glass of wine and stood over her for a second or two, just looking at her frankly. She noticed his lips. They were full lips. She wanted to kiss those lips. He handed her the glass and then retreated to the safety of the canvas.
‘You stay. I paint. Si ?’
She took a sip and stared at him without saying a word.
And then he did what he said he would do. He painted. He barely said a word. She sat back on the pillows, watching him. An hour passed. Emma asked him a few questions for which she received monosyllabic replies. She opened an art book and flicked through its pages without reallylooking. She
‘These are amazing, Marco. You could exhibit them. Do any of these people know you have painted them?’
‘No,’ he said.
‘You have their names. It wouldn’t be that difficult to track some of them down.’
He made no comment. He was preparing to start painting though Emma could not see what needed to be done to the elderly woman on the easel. It looked as complete as the other portraits.
‘Are these finished?’
‘No,’ he said, and switched on a small CD player. The volume was low, some jazz was playing.
‘Are those?’ she asked, pointing at the copies of Renaissance paintings.
‘No.’
‘And those?’ She nodded at the hundreds of canvases she had not been shown.
Marco turned and looked at them, thinking.
‘I no paint,’ he said, putting down the brush he was holding.
Emma went over to the divan and sat on the edge. The mattress was harder than she expected.
‘What will you do?’
‘ No lo so .’
‘May I take off my boots?’
Marco nodded and then watched her intently as she unzipped them, pulled them off and placed them neatly side by side at the edge of the divan. She wore pink and white striped socks.
‘Will you sketch me?’ she asked, suddenly. And having mouthed the words she blushed. Being alone with him in his studio, sitting on his divan, she felt like she had just asked him something else. They had only just met. And yet …
‘No.’
‘Why no?’
Marco was obviously disconcerted by her presence. He was agitated. He wouldn’t look at her. He gave her no answer.
‘Do you sleep here?’ she then asked, arranging the pillows. She could smell his scent. She could imagine stripping naked for him. She wouldn’t hesitate. She’d never been sketched before, not nude. The situation was drenched in possibilities which left her tingling all over. She lifted her feet up and folded them under her.
‘ Si ,’ he said, and then added, as if the right word had suddenly come to mind, ‘sometimes.’
‘Alone?’
‘ Si, sempre .’
His reserve was exciting. He was restraining himself, she felt certain.
‘May I have a glass of wine?’
He looked at her with dark, serious eyes. He could not say no. He could not say yes.
‘Do you want me to go?’ she asked, sure of his reply, though. She was watching him. His eyes could not hide his feelings. They were expressive. Open. Honest.
He walked over and poured her a glass of wine and stood over her for a second or two, just looking at her frankly. She noticed his lips. They were full lips. She wanted to kiss those lips. He handed her the glass and then retreated to the safety of the canvas.
‘You stay. I paint. Si ?’
She took a sip and stared at him without saying a word.
And then he did what he said he would do. He painted. He barely said a word. She sat back on the pillows, watching him. An hour passed. Emma asked him a few questions for which she received monosyllabic replies. She opened an art book and flicked through its pages without reallylooking. She
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