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| Cezanne's "Apples" |
Eliza dipped her
paintbrush into the light golden acrylic and applied a thick stroke to the canvas.
The man she had
been trying to avoid came up behind her and cleared his throat.
It’s a beautiful
day for painting, he said. Nothing like the Jardin du Luxembourg in the spring.
She nodded
without looking up. It was in fact a very beautiful day, with the lawn clipped
short and bright green, begonias bursting in reds and fuscias around the edge
and the palace humming with happy tourists. Yes, a very beautiful day, she
agreed and added a blush of orange to the painting.
He didn’t leave.
She could feel him shifting weight behind her. His elongated shadow loomed over
her canvas.
Eliza, please
come home, he said.
She bristled at
the name. I haven’t lived there in two months, she said. It’s not my home
anymore.
I made a mistake.
You made more
than one.
I made many.
Eliza added
thick, golden hatchings to the canvas, adding layer upon layer to make the
apple gleam.
It’s not about
her, she said. It’s about me.
You can’t be
serious, he said. It was always about
her.
No, not really.
I could have eventually forgiven you for her.
Then what’s the
problem?
His voice had
risen slightly, and Eliza felt the stares of passersby. She nodded curtly,
willing them back to their own business.
You’ve never
appreciated what I do, she said.
He laughed.
That’s ridiculous, Eliza.
No, it’s not,
she said. Now, for instance: I’m out for a lovely morning of solitude work, and
you –
Work? He
laughed. I don’t call this work.
That’s what I
mean. You could try at least.
Fine, he said. What
are you painting?
Apples.
You’re always
painting apples.
No, sometimes I
paint other things.
Oh?
Like pears and
gourds.
I see. But these
don’t look much like apples.
They certainly
do, she said. She drew back to survey her work. I don’t follow your meaning,
she said.
She swirled the
brush, applying thick layers of paint to modulate the apples, to give them nice
fleshy curves.
Apples are red,
he said.
And green and
yellow.
But yours are
gold.
She turned to
face the man. Excuse me, but you’re in my light.
He stepped aside
but remained near. Your apples, they’re very Cezanne, he said.
Is that a
compliment? she asked. I can’t tell.
Of course,
Cezanne was known for his apples.
I know.
And he was
French.
Aix-en-Provence, she said, naming his birthplace.
American women
always want to be like the French, he said. They think it’s romantic.
Do they? she
asked. Funny, I’m not like that.
You don’t like
Cezanne?
I don’t like the
comparison, no.
But as a still
life painter, to be compared to Cezanne –
I’m not just a still life painter.
But you’re
painting apples, aren’t you?
To you, these
are just apples.
And a jug of
some sort.
Yes, and a jug.
But to me they are much more.
I see.
But do you?
If you’d like me
to, then, yes, I do.
She turned
toward him, but couldn’t bring her eyes to meet his. She stared at his brown
loafers, which needed polishing.
What do you
think? she asked. Should I stack three or four apples in a bowl? Should I make
them rot?
The classic
misunderstood artist.
Another
prototype, how lovely.
Eliza, I’m
trying, really I am.
You’re acting
strange, she said. Are you trying to
act strange?
How about lunch?
I’m painting
mine.
My treat.
Then definitely
not.
Eventually, you
have to come home, at least to get your things.
Yes, eventually.
But I think I’ll tour the palace first.
For old times
sake, then? he smiled. We’ll go together.
She thought of
the two of them walking the halls together, arm in arm.
No, I’d prefer
to go alone, she said.
I see. So that’s
it, then?
Essentially.
Essentially?
Yes, this is the
essence of over.
She could feel
him walk away, turned slightly to watch his shadow retreat down the gravel
path.
She dipped her
paintbrush in the red, mixed it with green and added a muddied crescent right
below the apple’s stem.
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