The Tyro, the Tutor and the Triptych

I liked Titian’s Venus of Ubrino, but I wanted a look at Botticelli’s
Birth of Venus before my decision. The room his work hung was well
lighted, more so than the first and I wondered why and if it would make
a difference about deciding what painting would become part of my story.

I knew it would be difficult to decide which was my favorite, the pale
skinned body of Titian’s goddess or the more visually spiritual look of
the Botticelli. I wasn’t aware the exhibit focused on Respighi’s
Trittico and saw not only the Birth but La Primavera and The Adoration
of the Magi also. Titian became a memory. I wanted something, a search
for a mystery that had been plaguing me for several days; an urge
bordering on anxiety that I wanted to know more about or dispel. Yet I
didn’t know which. I think I found it in these three paintings. It came
off each canvas, a desire, a wanting. It was the actual feeling, which
intrigued me not the need. I compared the two Venuses, their sensuous
curves, soft lips and creamy color in a midst of lush fertility and
compared them to the Virgin Mary a figure of innocence and grace
worshipped by a crowd desiring to be part of the joy.  I jotted down
some notes on my pad and noticed a motion out of the corner of my eye.
My gaze drifted to the movement where a young woman stepped up to La
Primavera and stood, relaxed and smiling. I took a quick look at her and
then back to my study, but again my eyes drifted back to her.

She was as beautiful as the women in the paintings, maybe even more. She
wore no makeup. Her skin was creamy and soft, her cheeks had just enough
of a rose tint to them to accentuate the blueness of her eyes. Her lips
were thin, pursed. She stared intently at the painting, her look serious
but childlike. She was a child, many years my younger. Her shiny light
brown hair pulled back in a ponytail gave her more of a girlish look but
her body denied her age. It was curved perfection, voluptuous without
belying firmness, thin without giving up too much.  I became more
captivated with her than the paintings. I saw her glance at me a few
times and smile when our eyes met. Curiosity drove me to ask her name.

“Christina,” she said softy and smiled with straight white teeth. It was
a shy smile but bright and her eyes looked into mine. I was surprised
she answered. I wanted to say something about her remarkable resemblance
to the women in the paintings. She had the same look, gentle curves,
soft eyes, and a captivating enchanting charm coming from her smile like
a light spring breeze. “You have artistic beauty,” I said.

“Oh? And that means?”

Again I was surprised. I thought she would walk away. I continued,
breathless as if she might still do so thinking quickly of the right
words that wouldn’t kill the moment. “Beauty that should be caught on
canvas, or sculpted into marble or written into words; beauty that
should be captured for eternity. Like the women in these paintings.”

She smiled again and looked up at the masterpieces. “You are either an
artist or a very good flirt or maybe both.”

“Both.”

“A painter?”

“A writer.”

She looked back at me inquisitively. “A famous one?”

“To some. And you?”

“A student.”

“You’re young.”

“Eighteen.”

I was figuring maybe twenty-one, which was too young anyway. “The
university?”

“Yes I graduated early from high school and have completed almost a year
here in school.”

I taught at the university but hadn’t seen this young beauty at least
not in the literature building where I gave my lectures. Or maybe I
hadn’t noticed and didn’t want to see so she could be a literature
major, but my guess was, “Art?”

“Yes.”

I smiled. “Ah.”

“Why did you smile?”

“I think we would have met by now if you were in Lit.”

“I’ve been kidding you. I’ve seen and noticed you,” she said. “Some of
my friends take your writing class. They say you’re quite good.”

She knew right off who I was and handled the deception with ease. I
wanted to talk more. “Listen would you like to have coffee?”

She turned back to the painting and glanced over her shoulder to me.
“Okay.” She had a carefree way about her, which I liked.

The day was warm and smelled of spring. I knew a place a short walk from
the museum where the tables at the café would be set outside under the
budding silver maples that lined the walk. She took the chair that put
her back to the street and placed her in the shadow of the branches. I
sat across from her. The walk and fresh air had turned her cheeks
rosier. “I’ll have a cappuccino if they have it,” she said. I ordered
hers and an espresso for myself.

There was a light breeze blowing from the street bringing with it the
scent of her soap mingled with its own freshness of spring. “So,” she
said, “You’re a novelist?”

“Novels, short stories, essays,” I said.

“Should I know them?”  She toyed with her napkin looking down at it and
then up at me. She may know them and be kidding again, I thought.

I shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It’s nice here,” she said her voice soft but enthusiastic her eyes
glancing at me and at the people at the other tables with curiosity.

“Yes, especially now when we can sit outside.”  I liked being outside
but I felt a bit nervous being seen with a student by one of my
colleagues or a friend of my wife’s. I shifted to make sure I could see
the walk in both directions.

The wind blew at her hair drawing it back delicately off her neck that
curved perfectly when she turned to the side following my gaze. “Why are
you looking around so much?” she asked. I didn’t think it was that
noticeable.

“Just looking.”

She gazed at me pensively, as if measuring what she was about to say.

“Are you married?”

I was hoping she wouldn’t ask that but I knew it was inevitable. I wore
a ring but I think my nervousness was showing.

“Yes.”

“I bet she’s pretty.”

“Yes, she is.” She looked away after my response, stared into the
street. When she turned back I could see a flush to her cheeks. She
sipped at her cappuccino.

I wanted to steer away from questions of my marriage; I wasn’t here to
talk about my wife. I wanted to talk about the young lady in front of
me. I knew it was wrong but I didn’t care at the moment, I liked what I
was seeing and hearing “Did you find the paintings beautiful?”

“Very much. I can lose myself in paintings I like for hours. Just look
and marvel at their beauty. You caught me before that happened.”

“I’m sorry, but you did the same to me.”

She drew her eyes to me over her cup sipped at it then gently placed it
back on the saucer. “I’m sorry too.”

“No don’t be. This is a good way to get lost too.”

She smiled and said, “Maybe we can look at them together sometime.”

“That would be nice.”  I wanted to do that now. She seemed intelligent
to me, maturity I hadn’t expected or hoped wouldn’t be there, but it was
and it was making things difficult. It was the eyes, bright and eager
and her easy movements of her body that seemed to glide with casual
ease. “Why were you looking at the Venuses?”

“Because they’re beautiful and because I wondered how the artists
capture the beauty of the subjects.”

My response was natural, fast without having to think. “By feeling it.”
She liked what I said. I knew because one eyebrow rose a bit and her
eyes looked into mine again.

“The artist must feel the person?”

“Know them, understand them, then create everything else you know and
put it into the subject.”

“You do that with your characters?” she asked.

“I try.”

“Do you do it well?”

“Some well, some not so well.”

“Do you write about women?”

“Yes. And men.”

“Which do you prefer?”

“Men. They are less complex.”

She grinned and her shoulders drew upwards. It gave her a simple
innocence that I could feel. It made me smile.

We talked for more than an hour. She told me about her family and her
first lover. I was surprised at her candor, the ease of her
conversation. I walked her to her apartment, which she shared with two
other students. Before I left she hurriedly wrote down her telephone
number and held it out to me. She asked me to phone her if I wanted to
have coffee again. I told her I would, but I walked away, unsure. I
didn’t know where it would go.

***

My wife had left town for a few days to give lectures. The last several
days we had been at odds with each other so the parting was timely. By
mid morning I had polished some stories I had written earlier in the
year and decided I would walk the promenade along the north side of the
river. The breeze was light and blew the sweet fragrance of the locust
trees and its warmth and scent crept into me along with visions of the
Triptych and then of Christina. I decided to phone her.

I fished for her phone number that I had placed in my wallet and stopped
at the next pay phone. I hesitated but touched the numbers anyway. The
day was too fine to be alone. I didn’t like being alone especially at
night when it kept me from sleeping. My friends were gone for the week
and after they left for the casinos I wished I had gone with them.
Everything was too quiet and I didn’t want to think about the past or
dwell about problems. I didn’t want to relive old arguments between my
wife and I, or to languish in the stale thoughts of a near sexless
marriage. I wanted the present. The now. And I wanted something new,
like the coming season. I needed someone near. It’s a fault I think.
When I write, solitude is fine, but afterwards I liked being spoken to
and being in conversation. It gets me close to feeling I belong to
something especially if it is fresh. There’s comfort in belonging, a
respite from loneliness. I felt I belonged to my wife even through our
differences, but when she was away it was like I was cast into a sea
swimming for shore in search of something. I didn’t like it but it was
there, that wandering, exploration of what could be.

We had very little intimacy. When we did there was no fire in it, no
lustful kisses, no passionate embraces, no spontaneity. And although we
enjoyed the comfortable companionship molded from the years of
struggling with everyday life everything we did seemed planned, routine,
mundane. When she was gone, and this was happening more and more, I
searched for company and the intimacy that was missing. I didn’t like
myself when I did this. I wanted to run and hide, bury myself away from
the temptations. I did that too, many times with whiskey, drinking until
the early hours of morning with my writing friends, forgetting the
search, satisfied with silliness and laughter, which sometimes brings on
more temptations. I often wondered if I would ever step out of my youth,
my recklessness.

Today, I felt alive, eager for company, youthful companionship that
would let me listen to expectation and optimism. I wanted to see hopeful
eyes, absorb fresh smiles, and listen to innocent understandings of
life; someone right in front of me looking forward. I wanted to feel
attached to something, now, today. I didn’t want to be alone, I wanted
to feel the heat of flesh, the taste of a kiss, hear the sound of soft
moans. I knew it was wrong. But the urge was too powerful.

Christina was very receptive more so than I expected. There was
enthusiasm in her voice, excitement when she rattled off her schedule to
herself and it stirred me and I knew then I was glad I phoned. She was
busy for the afternoon so we decided on dinner. She met me in the early
evening when it was still warm even though the sun had just buried
itself behind a building in a splash of brilliant orange and purple.

She felt like eating Italian so I took her to my favorite Italian café,
where it was known for its wine list and it’s perfection of risotto. We
sat outside with good views of the street and the walk.

“You come here often?” she asked. Her hair was down and it made her
girlishness go away. She wore a light blue silk blouse with no bra and
her nipples showed through it distracting me in a very nice way. I
didn’t want to look to long and be obvious but she dressed that way for
a reason.

“Yes, it’s a clean well-lighted place.” I wanted to see if she knew the
reference to Hemingway.

She looked around and nodded. She didn’t know.

“And the risotto is the best in the country.”

“I never had it or heard of it.”

“It’s a rice dish, my favorite when I lectured in Italy. I’ll order it
and you can try mine.”

“No, I’ll have it too. You lived in Italy?”

“Yes. Several years.”

The waiter came to the table a good-looking man with black hair and
smooth skin tall and thin moving with graceful youthful cockiness.
Christina looked at him. They would look good together I thought. I
ordered Ricasoli Chianti for myself and she asked for water and lemon.

“Did you write today?”

“Yes, some.”

“What did you write?”

“About the triptych in the museum.”

“Ah, yes, that’s great! May I see it?”

“When it is done if I feel it has merit I’d love to have you read it.
You know of the three paintings put to music by Respighi?”

“Yes, the Botticelli Triptych. I played violin to it in our senior
spring concert at high school.” There it was. Her eagerness burst forth
in her smile that widened to a grin when she saw me watching her. The
night was already worth the decision. “I had class today. I thought of
you while I was in it,” she said oblivious of my thoughts.

“Oh?”

“We had an exercise to describe a character from which we would be able
to learn things and then put the person as we saw them on canvas. I
described you and I’m going to paint you.”

“That’s very nice. I always write what’s in front of me at the moment. I
try to capture the words when they happen as they flow. I don’t wait,
nor reconstruct, something always gets lost. It must be the same in
painting or sculpture.”

“That’s very good. I think it’s the same. You were in front of me at the
moment.”

“Good. Get it down before it leaves because when it’s gone it’s very
difficult to get the moment back perfectly. Never wait for tomorrow.
Tomorrow is always too late.” The waiter came with our drinks. I wanted
to give her some wine but she didn’t seem to mind her empty glass. I
poured more for myself.

“I had to describe you without really knowing you but your face was
right in front of me.” She was watching my response with curious eyes
and as if I were the only one at the restaurant. “You have an
interesting face.”

“Oh?” I liked when she looked into my eyes. She was making me feel good
being there.

“You have a rough look but you have kind, gentle eyes. I love brown
eyes. They’re softer and show more emotion than other colors. I like
your skin and the color of it. You don’t look like a writer.”

“What does a writer look like?”

“I don’t know, I always had the image of white hair, full beard, gray.”

“I see. What do you think I look like?”

She scrunched her nose, pursed her lips and stared right into me. “I
think more of a  --,” she stopped and giggled. “You won’t be mad?”

“No, you have me interested.”

“Well I think you have the look of a hustler, a criminal maybe. A
handsome one.”

“Really? I use to be a prizefighter. I quit after almost killing a man.
Does that qualify?”

“Wow. See I was close.”

“Yeah, I fought in college and afterwards before attending grad school.
I’m a counter puncher and this guy kept coming at me for more and more.
In the third round I threw a combination that sent a clot to his brain.
He came out of the coma a week later. I quit. I took up hunting with my
friends. I couldn’t get the thirst of the challenge from my system and
substituted punching men for killing animals. I liked it for a while
then one day I watched the life drain from the eyes of a big racked buck
I shot in the neck. It made me wonder why I enjoyed killing and I found
I could no longer answer the question. The competition and challenge no
longer meant anything to me. I gave it up. Found I didn’t like it
anymore. I looked elsewhere.”

“Was I wrong about you being kind and gentle?”

“I’m always kind and gentle, unless threatened or attacked.”

“Then you counter punch your way out,” she said leaning forward wanting
to hear more. The excitement poured from her eyes.

“Never back anyone into a corner.”

“What do you do for challenges now?”

Christ, that was a good question. It made me see why I was here. She was
my challenge but I couldn’t tell her that.

“Writing.”

It satisfied her I think.

“May I ask you something about me?”

“Yes, of course.”

“How do you see me?”

The student was coming right at me. “I see you as young.”

“Is that all? I know I’m a lot younger than you. I don’t see you as old.
I see you as a man.”

And I was beginning to see her as a woman. I was about to tell her when
the waiter came and asked for our order without taking his eyes off
Christina. I didn’t blame him; she sat looking beautiful and seductive
from the light. It made me feel good being seen with this young beauty.
I told him risotto and fresh greens.

“He’s handsome,” she said looking after him.

“Yes. Do you like the type?”

“I don’t know. I’d have to talk to him. I like his looks but something
has to move me. Like you. You had something about you, your rugged look,
your soft voice. I knew quickly I was interested, like an instinct”.

“Oh?” I was flattered. It was what I wanted and tried to pretend to
myself it wasn’t so. But it was. She was making me feel good and I liked
it.

“Sometimes I wish my youth was finished and I knew where I was and were
I was going.”

I think I was glad the subject changed. “That never happens. There is
always not knowing.” Right now I was not knowing why I was with this
young lady and it added to the challenge. Not knowing felt well at
times. It places you in the hands of something more powerful than
yourself. It humbles you and keeps you alert.

“But you have a confidence about you that makes me feel comfortable, a
knowing confidence.” She looked at me intently. She wanted me to tell
her it was so. Was she also lonely?

“Confidence is tricky. It’s always good to show it whether you have it
or not. It gives people the impression of strength. Fish and animals are
preyed upon very quickly if they show weakness. Just like humans. It’s
imperative to seem strong.”

“Are you strong and truly confident?”

“Most times I’m strong.”

“Against temptations?”

She was coming at me again. “It depends on the moment.” My pretending to
myself about my intentions was eroding fast.

“Now, this moment. Suppose I tempted you.”

She didn’t realize she already had.

The waiter came with the risotto before I answered. “We will have the
greens when we are finished with this,” I told him.

“Si,” he nodded his head and smiled at Christina. She smiled back. I
poured more wine for myself.

Christina looked at the yellow rice. “Saffron makes it that color,” I
told her. “It’s a Milanese dish.” She nodded. “There are porcini
mushrooms in this, dried and imported from the hills in Tuscany.”

“Tuscany?”

“Where Botticelli is from. He spent time there, in Florence, a beautiful
city. The paintings were for the Medici.”

“I’ve never heard of them. Should I?”

“No. They were powerful banking family, patrons of the arts. You’ll
learn and see. There’s plenty of time.”

“That’s what I want to do. Travel. Travel all over the world and see
things, learn things.”

“Yes. It is most important.”

“You didn’t answer my question about temptation.”

“I don’t know is my answer.”

“Oh come on. Surely you know.” Her smile was bright, mischievous. You’re
attracted to me. Why don’t you just say it? I’m attracted to you
otherwise I wouldn’t be here.” She tasted her risotto. “Emmm… it is very
light tasting.” I thought of leading the conversation in another
direction but didn’t. She was enchanting, her smile, directness and
candor. And she was right, it was pure attraction.

The light from the post behind her cast a shadow across the right side
of her face and neck making her skin on the left seem whiter. She was
Venus, both the birth and the spring version. I was staring again and
she knew, so I tasted the rice and it was perfect like the evening. “Now
you know risotto.”

“I’d like to try some wine. You seem to be enjoying it so much with the
risotto.”

I poured her some and she sipped at it. “That’s nice too.” She placed
the glass down and again tried the rice. “What do you think is the most
important quality a person should possess?”

Her eager thirst for understanding stirred me. It added more to the
magic. “Intuitiveness.”

“Ah. That’s interesting.”

We ate in silence for a while, savoring the food. The greens came and
were fresh and crisp and dressed nicely. After the waiter left she wore
the impish look again and asked, “So does your wife know you are here?”

“She’s away on lectures.”

“Oh, she teaches?”

“Yes, philosophy.”

“I won’t ask any more about her.”

“It’s okay.”

“Do you love her?”

“Yes very much.”

“Would she be mad if she knew you were with me?”

“I think it would depend on my intentions.”

“And what are your intentions?”

Who was I fooling? I wanted her. No matter how I tried to disguise it
the reason was simple, I was lonely and she was lovely. The romance was
gone from my marriage and that’s what I wanted. I wanted to taste the
beauty of a kiss, the feel of flesh. I wanted it now not in the future,
not in dreams. I wanted this young lady with her youth and beauty and
eagerness. And she knew it. I didn’t need to answer she saw it in my
eyes, in my glances at her face and body. The waiter came at that moment
and asked if there would be anything else. We decided to walk instead.
We moved into the darkness and turned toward the river near the stringer
bridge. She took my hand in hers. “Your hands are softer than I
imagined.” She looked at them but couldn’t see the scarred knuckles in
the dark. The breeze picked up but it remained warm and from the south.
We stopped at the bridge under a streetlamp that held the last blooms of
yellow daffodils in a hanging basket. The bridge curved to the northeast
so the other side disappeared into the night.

She kissed me. It was a light kiss but it surprised me and I withdrew
from it. I don’t know why I did. It was what I wanted. Then she took my
face in her hands and kissed again this time fuller. It was a hungry
kiss and poured forth vibrant passion. I kissed back just as hungrily.
Her lips were as soft as her skin. She pulled back and looked into my
eyes. The kiss and her eyes poured through me like a river spilling its
banks washing away everything but the moment. It was a beautiful moment,
a timeless moment. I gazed upward into the ink of the sky and caught the
bright point of Venus alone, suspended in a black sea. I placed her hand
in mine and guided her away from the bridge the glow from the lamp
following us along the floodwall.

“Why are you with me?” she asked with a tone that sounded like she
already knew the answer.

“I’m attracted to you. When I first saw you I was captivated. I still
am, more so actually.”

She stopped and turned towards me. “Then why did you stop? You did the
same to me and I think we have the same intentions.”

She kissed me again and I kissed back and became lost again, her breath
warm, our tongues delicately touching, her breasts tight against my
chest. I was losing it and didn’t care. My instincts were taking over. I
slid my hand up her blouse and touched her nipple lightly. It was
already erect and combined with the feel of the silk sent shivers
throughout me. I knew if I didn’t stop now I wouldn’t stop at all. But I
didn’t want to, I wanted to continue either right where we stood or on
the grass just beyond the wall, take her and kiss every part her body,
taste her, savor her moistness, become lost in her youthful charm and
beauty. She stopped and looked into me. “Let’s go to my apartment. No
one is there.” I nodded.


We walked in silence to her building and I stopped. She looked at me
quizzically and the turned and we kissed again but only briefly. I
couldn’t do it. The moment passed, something wedged its way into my
passion. “What happened?”

“I don’t know.” I really didn’t.

Her lips turned down almost into a pout. “Why?”

“I think things can get out of hand.”

“Would that be bad?”

“It’s difficult to tell. I really don’t think it will work.”

“Why? Because of your wife?”

It had to be the reason. What else could it be? I had to weigh that
against the lust. “Yes, that and because sometimes getting involved
makes things more complex than not getting involved.” I knew this from
past experiences and questioned myself again why I brought myself once
again this far along in temptation. Everything was racing through my
body and mind, thoughts, passions, desires.

“But what about the now? Your words. Here we are now. Tomorrow doesn’t
matter, or were you just saying that?” Her lips turned upwards and she
hunched her shoulders in the way I was growing to love.

“No, I meant it.” I did and I wanted to go with her. That was the whole
point, nothing else, now, not tomorrow like she said. And what about
her? I tempted her and didn’t deliver. That’s what she wanted. That’s
why we were together. Then why didn’t I? What was I afraid would happen?
Guilt? No, there’s no guilt in the now. It didn’t feel right. It was the
wrong desire; it was desiro for which I was searching, not for her but
for the bridge to something. Maybe there wasn’t a crossing. Maybe there
was just nothing. No. Not now.

“Not now.” I kissed her forehead.

She didn’t give up. “Isn’t it like writing? Shouldn’t you put it down
when it’s there in front of you? Won’t the moment be lost forever and
difficult to get back unless you act?”

“Who was teaching whom?” I thought. “ No, that’s not true when it comes
to passion or desire. They breed moments like these. I wanted to leave
before it was too late. “Goodbye.”

“Don’t say goodbye,” she said wistfully.

“Okay, farewell.”

She drew near me and looked into my eyes hers wide and eager, the
innocence gone. “I enjoyed being with you tonight, I want to do it
again; have more moments.”

I nodded. I wanted to see her again, but I didn’t know if it would
happen. I wanted to say something but knew if I did I would stay. I
touched her cheek with my fingers and it made them tingle. Then I kissed
her forehead and withdrew. I tried smiling but didn’t know if it showed
in the dark. Then I turned and walked north towards the river again. I
kept my shoulders squared and tried to show some dignity in my gait. I
wondered if taking it this close I had any at all.

I went to a bar near the river where I took a table next to a large
window overlooking the black water. Reflections from the city spilled
into it near the edges but the middle was dark and empty. I thought of
the paintings and the images brought back Christina’s face. I questioned
myself whether it were a sin thinking of the Virgin Mary in that
context. I wondered what Botticelli thought as he painted the
masterpiece and who he used for the model. The waiter brought me a
double scotch and I drank it fast and ordered another. Then I scratched
something down on the napkin about her and folded it and placed it in my
shirt pocket. Then I drank more, well into the night leaving the bar for
the riverbank where I sat with my flask until early morning until the
sun rose and turned the river from black to gray to pink and purple.

I couldn’t get threes out of my head. Why is everything in threes and
not twos? Trittico, triptych, trinity, in the name of the father, the
son and the holy ghost, Hail Mary, full of grace. Mysteries. Maybe
there’s magic in three. No, magic is found in youth. Chris-tin-a. That’s
where the magic is until age reveals the tricks, the smoke and the
mirrors and the black cold iron of reality closes the curtain on the
illusion. Maybe it’s found in both, threes and youth and that’s the
combination, the path to somewhere. Then why am I here, alone with the
new day, the beautiful dawn? The warm air blew the coolness away, the
nightingale’s melody replaced by the coo of mourning dove The wind
rippled the river catching the sun, with glistening jewels riding to the
bank and played the boughs of the trees like strings on violins. I
walked back to the apartment to shower and to write, the sun warm on my
neck the breeze fresh on my face lost in a swim to shore hoping the
Venuses or Flora or the Virgin Mary would help me. I pulled the paper
with Christina’s number on it from my pocket then placed it back in
again. There was something I needed to write so I quickened my pace.

Contributor: Phil Pisani