Nude Men

paints. And then she says she’s finished and teds me I can see the painting.
    I look at it, and a hurricane of chills courses through my body. I have felt this way only one other time in my life, that time long ago when I made my first wish on the little white elephant and found the coin.
    The painting I am staring at is of me and Sara, combined in one person. Our “being” is naked but has no sexual organ; just smooth flesh, like a doll. I cannot determine whether the face is mostly mine with Sara’s soul shining through, or the other way around. The hair is unspecific, blurry. Henrietta was able to capture Sara’s innocence and mischievousness and combine it with my dullness, insecurity, and frailty. The effect is so subtle and seamless that I cannot help but question my own sanity. Could I be hallucinating? Could I be imagining a resemblance to both of us when in fact it is just me, or just Sara? I look away, close my eyes, and look back. The resemblance to us both strikes me more forcefully than before. I cannot take my eyes off this creature, ourself, which, despite its mischievous air, looks sad. Our past is contained in its expression; it knows everything. I am suddenly reminded of the monstrous, diabolical painting in The Picture of Dorian Gray. This seems as supernatural, though perhaps not as malefic or demonic. It is the most superb optical illusion Henrietta has ever created. Unquestionably a masterpiece. But one that I hate. The portrait frightens me, as does its creator. I cannot help but feel that Henrietta is trying to control me, trying to cast a hypnotic, imprisoning sped over me through her painting. I am deeply disturbed and feel faint. I must leave her apartment immediately, or rather escape, before ad trace of willpower is drained from me.
    “Goodbye, Lady Henrietta.” I haven’t called her by her full fake name in a long time. I am shaking and my hearing is numb as I walk to the elevator, so I barely hear ad the things I suppose she must be saying. “Goodbye. Goodbye,” I say a few times more, not very loud, not looking at her, mostly to myself.
     
    I think I should not see Lady Henrietta for a long while. She’s insane, and I guess she has become obsessed with me, so it would do her good not to see me for a while. Therefore, I am going to France with Laura. We are going to spend two weeks with some of her friends, on their boat in the Mediterranean.
    My mother has agreed to cat-sit Minou while I’m gone. As I’m packing her in her box, Minou says: Did you ted your mother to give me heavy cream at least once a day?
    I never agreed to that. Three times a week at the most, I answer.
    Stingy. Wed, did you ted her?
    Three times a week; yes.
    And did you tell her that I don’t like baths? Last time, she gave me a bath simply to amuse herself.
    I’ll tell her.
    And also that I’m not particularly interested in meeting other cats. If she knows one who is dying to meet me, then I don’t mind sitting with him or her for ten minutes, but she must not arrange a second visit without my approval.
    How will you give her your approval?
    If I like the cat, I’ll touch him or her at some point during the initial visit.
    I suddenly stop what I’m doing, perplexed. My cat is talking to me. I stare at her, in search of that wonderful dumb look she has given me these past few months, but it’s not there. She’s overflowing with intelligence and knowing. I try not to wonder what this signifies about my life.
    Okay, I’d tell her, I answer.
     
    O n the friends’ boat, Laura and I share a cabin. When we unpack our bags, I carefully remove the Mickey Mouse mask that I brought along as a souvenir of Sara. I nail it to the wall.
    The first two days of the trip are predictably pleasant and relaxing. On the third day, I receive a disagreeable shock. I’m alone in our cabin, dressing for dinner, when I put my hand in the pocket of my jacket and find a photograph of Henrietta’s latest painting of me, the one that horrified me so much. I also find a long blond hair, which I almost don’t notice. Henrietta must have slipped these things in my pocket the last time I saw her, doubtless in a feeble, pathetic attempt to trouble me. And it works. I am troubled and frightened. A photo and a hair. Makes me think of black magic, voodoo. But I won’t let myself stay upset. When I leave this cabin in five minutes to go to dinner, I will be fine. I put the photo and the hair in a drawer.
    As I should have