There’s absolute silence.
“Why?” I ask again. I turn back to the image. Examining it, I theorize out loud. “Diva’s there, andsheis naked. She is special. Her image to you is sacred, yet Diva is covering her. Why are there no F-holes?”
Blinking slowly, I run my fingers over her again, scouring my brain. I am desperately trying to think of why. Why didn’t he include her tattoos, not only here, but on any of the final four? I am so involved in my own thoughts that I don’t even notice when he moves. His shadow falls over me from the opposite side of the canvas, alerting me of his presence.
“Why are there no F-holes?”
“It is not my fault that when you look at the images, you see something unhealthy and disgusting. That’s all on you,” he says, reciting from her journal verbatim.
Everything slowly starts to fall into place. The pieces I couldn’t fit together from just moments before join as one.
“You were there that day,” I say softly. “That day she argued with her mother, you were there, listening to her. Why?” I shake my head. “Why didn’t you tell her you knew about the argument? What significance was in leaving them off?” I finally stop my rapid-fire questions and stare at him, anticipating an explanation. I allow him time to explain this strange revelation so it makes sense to me.
Closing his eyes, he turns, pushing his hands into his pockets. Slowly, he moves to the open window and stops. I wait impatiently, having learned that it is best to let Phillipe talk than to push him.
“I could tell when I first met her parents months earlier that they didn’t approve of me or of us.” Clearing his throat, he looks at me over his shoulder. “They thought I had seduced her. Her father told me so the first time I met him. He didn’t understand that she was a woman. She was a grown woman who had feelings and desires. All he saw was the little handicapped girl he had raised.”
Turning to face me fully, he leans back against the window, and his hair falls forward as the wind catches it.
“They didn’t want to let her go. I understood that.” He pauses again. “I don’t want to either.”
Glancing down at the image before me, I lick my lips and move away from it, walking around the easel to stand in front of it. I leave nothing between him and me—well, nothing except forher.
“That doesn’t explain why you left the tattoos off,” I point out.
Closing his eyes, he shakes his head. “AfterSolitary, since she had permanently tattooed herself, I decided that I could give them this. I could leave her untarnished for them.”
I realize that I’m fidgeting with my hands, so I clasp them in front of me and tilt my head to the side.
“When I came back from town and heard her on the phone, I knew it was her mother. She was shaking with anger at whatever her mother was saying, but I could also tell by the flush on her face that some of what she was hearing rang true with her.”
I find myself captivated by his story and also baffled by the thought of his believing the tale he was telling me. Before I can voice my reasoning, he continues.
“I decided not to add them out of respect—respect for her parents, respect for her, and respect for the music I defiled. After all,Iturned her and her music into something lurid and depraved.”
Eyes full of conviction challenge me as I step toward him.
“You are so wrong,” I say.
He straightens away from the window and wall.
“She wasn’t embarrassed, not at all. Didn’t you hear and read what she wrote about you?”
I search the face I have now grown so passionate about. How can he not see what I see? He’s so wrapped up in her and all that he thinks he did that he doesn’t even see what she left behind to show him.
Taking a huge risk, I reach up and gently cup his cheek. He doesn’t move, except for his jaw tightening beneath my palm.
“She loved you, Phillipe. She was so proud to have those marks on her skin. She wasn’t embarrassed at all.”
His nostrils flare as he leans down so we are eye to eye. “You weren’t there. She was agitated, and she looked humiliated.”
Shaking my head, I stare right into his eyes to get my point across. “Well, we all know that looks can be deceiving. Don’t we?”
“You want me to paint you how?” he asked me again, sounding slightly confused.
“I want you to paint me looking at a wall covered with sheet music,” I stated again.
There was a long silence in the room.
