Naked Angels. Judi James
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and crept back into the studio. Claude arrived a few minutes later with a jug of fresh coffee.
‘Did you like the photos?’ he asked. ‘What do you think?’
Mikhail shrugged, ‘I don’t know. I wouldn’t know good from bad. They look nice enough.’
Claude took the photos from him.
‘Do you think you could do better? I could pay you to model for me.’
The coffee was too sweet on an empty stomach. Mikhail took the bacon sandwich Claude offered him and grease ran down his chin as he bit into it. Claude had fed his father first – he still smelt of the sickroom. No wonder he wore such expensive colognes; the stench of illness clung like wet fog. It reminded Mikhail of the mortuary.
‘Did you pay that other boy?’ he asked. Claude looked down at the shot.
‘That one? No. He is a relative. My nephew.’
‘How much?’ Mikhail asked.
‘What?’ Claude looked surprised.
‘How much will you pay me? For artistic shots?’
Claude pulled a face. ‘Twenty forint? You have a roof over your head too now, you know.’
‘Twenty-five, or I tell your father.’ Mikhail looked him straight in the eye.
Claude looked disappointed. OK,’ he said, ‘if you like.’
Cape Cod
Miss Clayburg tried her best and so did Evangeline. They painted rainbows and they painted castles and they even painted the sea, but nothing Evangeline created showed any flair whatsoever.
They went down to the beach together to collect driftwood and then returned to the studio to draw it.
‘Your grandmother said you brought driftwood home before,’ Miss Clayburg said. ‘She told me it was something your stepfather used to do when he was young. Would you like to draw it, Evangeline? Find a nice big stick of charcoal and see what you can do.’
But Evangeline did not use the charcoal because she had found it made the paper messy. She picked a pencil out instead and spent a long time sharpening it. Then she made a few small marks on the paper but proceeded to rub them out. Miss Clayburg smiled but her eyes went narrow.
‘I thought I told you not to use the eraser, Evangeline,’ she said. ‘What is that you are drawing?’
Evangeline turned the page round. It was a tiny detail of a piece of bark.
‘What about the shape of the whole thing?’ Miss Clayburg asked.
‘I’ll get to it,’ Evangeline told her, leaning over the paper again before she caught the look of exasperation in the tutor’s eye. It was no good. They both knew it was no good. Only Grandma Klippel wouldn’t be told, and so Miss Clayburg stayed on – for her sake as much as anybody else’s. Evangeline looked down. Her sleeve had dipped into some paint and the paint had made a crimson smear across her clean white paper. The smear would never clean off. She began to cry silent tears.
Mikhail stood self-consciously on the backdrop, staring at his fingernails. The nails were dirty. The rest of him, on the other hand, was scrupulously clean. Claude had suggested he go for a scrub before the session and he’d spent an hour in the tub, wasting time, trying to delay things.
Claude was whistling again, busying himself behind the camera and pottering excitedly. He’d put Mikhail in a black kimono. Then he’d covered some wooden crates with a sheet and told him to drape himself over them. Draping yourself was more difficult than Mikhail had thought. He felt awkward and stupid, like an upturned insect that can’t right itself again.
‘What is that song?’ he asked Claude. Claude stopped pottering and looked up, surprised.
‘What song?’ he asked.
‘The one you are whistling.’ It was getting on Mikhail’s nerves. He felt anxious and he hated himself for it. Claude had insisted on having a three-bar electric fire in the small room and Mikhail could feel the sweat running down his back. The lead from the fire was plugged into a lamp socket in the hall and he kept wishing Claude would forget and trip over it.
Suddenly Claude seemed ready. He pushed his glasses to the top of his head and beamed at Mikhail.
‘Is everything all right?’ he asked. Mikhail nodded. Twenty-five forint. It was all he allowed himself to think of. Living in the apartment meant he could save some of the money, too. How long would it be before he had enough to get away from Budapest? A flash went off and he jumped, squinting.
‘Try to relax,’ Claude crooned. He waited until Mikhail was still again and then took another picture.
‘Why are you nervous?’ Claude asked.
‘I feel stupid,’ Mikhail replied.
Claude smiled. Mikhail had never seen him smile so much. ‘You look terrific,’ he told him. ‘I wish you could see how good you look. If you did you wouldn’t worry. Here – this is what you look like.’ He held a book out to Mikhail. The book was an old one, the pages yellow at the edges. Mikhail supposed the pictures were works of art. Most of them were etchings of young boys in togas. Their faces were beautiful. Mikhail closed the book and put it down carefully.
Claude took some more shots before suggesting Mikhail have a break. The cooler air in the passage felt good. Claude went into the kitchen to make them some tea. Mikhail followed him.
‘What happens next?’ he asked.
Claude looked alarmed. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Is this when you fuck me?’ Mikhail had never used the word before but Tincan used it all the time.
Claude dropped a teacup onto the floor. As he bent to pick it up Mikhail noticed that the seam of his trousers had split. Claude reached out for the cup but his hand missed and he stayed there where he was, as though frozen to the spot. Mikhail could not see his face but, when his shoulders started heaving, he assumed the older man was crying.
‘Shit!’ Mikhail whispered. It was another Tincan word.
Claude moved across the floor on his knees, his glasses misted with his tears. When he reached Mikhail’s feet he bent double and kissed them. His mouth felt wet. Mikhail kicked him away and he rolled like a dog.
‘Don’t hate me!’ Claude said. He was sobbing properly now, his belly rising and falling like a child’s. He would wake his father. Mikhail put his hand out to stop him and Claude grabbed it.
‘Please don’t hate me,’ he whispered, pressing his lips against the centre of the palm.
‘I can’t afford to hate you,’ Mikhail said quietly. ‘If I don’t live here I’ll die.’ He knew that. He had no option. That was the way things were in his life. If you wanted to stay alive there were certain things you had to do: steal; sell drugs; pose for pictures; get fucked by old men. That was how it was, he understood that. Nothing was for nothing – it was a fact of his life.
Claude was groaning at his feet, soft little whelps, like an animal in pain. Mikhail undid his robe and the moans grew more intense. Mikhail blocked out what was happening and thought about the money.
Twenty-five forint. It seemed like a fortune. He would save it all for a plane ticket and then he would fly off somewhere where there was no snow. America was a good place, Andreas had told him that. You could get everything there; everything you wanted. Andreas had planned to go to America to get a record deal