The Colour Black

by Maia Walczak

  I ate a late lunch at the kitchen table, staring into the void of the room. The more I stared, the more sadness I felt. I got up and turned up the radio on the most commercial channel, and I shook away the feeling. I danced like an idiot for a minute and then did twenty star jumps whilst forcing myself to smile. These were the crazy rituals you could have when living alone. You didn’t have to act level-headed or composed, you were allowed to oscillate between emotional extremes. There was no one to judge how insane all this looked. After that I went and cut myself a sizeable piece of carrot cake and brewed the perfect cup of milky tea. I sat back down at the kitchen table, smiled at the snacks. Delicious. Sweet, spicy, creamy, perfect. I reminded myself that I, too, was allowed to be a normal and light-hearted person. Even if things got me down, it was okay, that was just life, a part of life, it wasn’t me, it wasn’t who I was. Sadness was something that just happened sometimes. I didn’t have to take it all too seriously.

  Cake and tea. How normal and lovely and nice. I was now all set for an afternoon of drawing Arthur. Arthur was a mature art student. I had actually once agreed to pose for him too, but only the once. After I’d slept with him for the first time I could tell he was slightly more sensitive than some of the other men I’d dealt with. That’s why I’d refused to sleep with him again for a long time after that. But the sexual tension grew too strong, so I had to make it clear: it was only sex. And it could all stop at any moment. Those were my terms. That was my disclaimer to them all.

  And an afternoon of drawing – not quite in the state of flow as before – and sex ensued. Sex with Arthur was never a given, but today it happened. He was much more affectionate than the others, which I loved, but sometimes felt a little guilty about.

  It was rare for me to get two drawing sessions with two different men on the same day. It felt strange having had sex with both of them only a few hours apart. Sometimes I caught myself wondering how I really felt about all these reckless flings I was having. But nobody was getting hurt, and I enjoyed it, whether it meant anything or not. And what is meaning? Isn’t it just an afterthought we add onto experiences, to try and make sense of our lives? So that life doesn’t end up feeling as pointless as it actually is? I enjoyed those intimate moments while they lasted, and that was meaningful enough for me.

  But, that evening, when I was alone again, I sat down against the cold metal of the radiator and I cried. I had never cried about any of it before. Why was I suddenly feeling so strange about what I was doing with these men? Was I looking for something more seemingly meaningful? God no. That too was all a load of bullshit. I had long ago learnt enough about all that. All that romantic love shit was just an ego thing – people’s insecurity searching for gratification in someone else. Whatever. I didn’t need that. I didn’t even fucking want that. And, most of all, I couldn’t have that.

  I decided to blame this sudden outburst of emotions on the new pill I was taking. Fucking hormones. I’d started taking it a couple of months ago, after I’d skipped a period, found out I was pregnant and had to go through an abortion. Imagine me bringing a child into this world, now that would be really tragic.

  I ran a bath and lay in it for almost an hour, until the water cooled, staring into space. Sometimes, quite often, I liked to submerge myself under the water completely, slowly sinking my head further and further down, keeping my eyes open. It was like disappearing from the world for a moment. A moment of relief. A momentary escape. I was but the blur of a body against a blur of white bath. I listened to the high-pitched ringing in my ears. I breathed out bubbles and watched them rise. Underwater. Submerged. Like a foetus. Sometimes I’d be under there a little too long. Testing… Then I’d rise up, gasping for air.

  The rest of my week would be quite different. For the next two days I’d be completely alone. I had no one booked in, so I would just work on my large-scale abstract pieces – for it was mostly when I worked on them that I encountered those incredible moments of flow. They allowed me to create whatever I wanted without premeditation, without planning. With them my hands and mind were free.

  On Thursday Pete was coming over. He was my plumper client. I’d chosen him because of that. There was no point having all these different men unless they all had different bodies to draw – some tall, some small, some ripped like a marble statue, some fatter than Santa. Pete was in his late fifties, married, and a slightly eccentric hippy. It seemed as though he spent half his time laughing. It was always easy to be around him. He arrived on time, was kind, respectful and left on time. I was always happy with the drawings that came out of our sessions. He was money very well spent. I knew more about him than any of the others, simply because he chatted so much when posing for me. He had once mentioned something about having worked as an immigration lawyer or something like that, but mostly he talked about his personal life. His wife, he’d talk so much about his wife. But, above all, I liked him because he didn’t ask many questions about me. He’d sensed I didn’t like it.

  After Pete I would be alone again until next week, when my diary showed that I had a different man coming on each day. Weeks like that were rare too. But then again, I never really had a regular structure. Two of the men coming the next week were men I’d sleep with on occasion.

  I actively avoided attachment, or that thing people called ‘love relationships’. I had seen what it had done to my mother, and even as a little girl I vowed to myself that I would learn from her mistakes. I told myself that if I ever should falter and start wondering whether this ‘love’ thing was actually good, all I had to do was think back to when I was a young girl observing my mother’s bad choices. That couldn’t be me. I simply couldn’t allow myself to be that person – blinded.

  Perhaps all my issues wouldn’t be so bad if I had someone to talk to. But when you’re sworn to secrecy how can you talk, even if you wanted to? Who could I possibly ever talk to? It was impossible. It just wasn’t safe. I had to keep it inside.

  The idea of ‘normality’ was like paradise to me: distant, deceptive and unattainable. I was born never to know the more normal human experience of the people who surrounded me: the people who waited in line with me in the supermarket, the people I painted, the people who rushed around in the city below. If only they realised just how lucky they were.

  The Man With No Name

  I woke up feeling great. The sun was streaming onto the bed cocooning me in its warmth, the sky was without a hint of cloud and I, sitting up on the mattress, felt like a normal person. I felt less guarded and less like I had things to hide. On days like these I liked to brunch at the café to celebrate this feeling, to drag it out.

  I headed to Lenny’s, one of the nicer cafés in the local area. Maybe I could make eye contact with a good-looking waiter or a man sat across at another table. Today it would be the latter: a muscular guy, with dark skin and dark hair, but with the most alluring light eyes. Once we’d made eye contact for the third time I started to wonder if I was making him feel uncomfortable. Before I had chance to ponder it further, he gave me a flirtatious smile. But, before I had chance to smile back, someone had sat down at my table and stolen my attention. It was that homeless man, the one who always seemed to stare. Except now he really was staring at me. He tried a timid smile. I quickly glanced back at the handsome man, but he was gone. I sighed and looked at this man with no name, who I felt I somehow knew. I refused to smile back. I didn’t want to encourage conversation.

  Poor guy, maybe he couldn’t help but stare. I bet he made everyone else feel as uncomfortable as he did me. I didn’t want to just dismiss him. I thought it would be unkind. Something kept me at that table, something more than just wanting to finish my omelette and latte. I was no psychic, or psychoanalyst, but by looking at his face I felt he may just have been riddled with even more pain and secrets than me. Of course, I wasn’t going to pry, I wasn’t going to find out about his life, because I didn’t want to. Above all, I didn’t want him to know about me. Yet I stayed there, and I
surprised myself with how I looked right back at him as though I had no shame. Why should I move?

  ‘Hello,’ he said, and it seemed like he was attempting a smile again, but it still didn’t look quite right.

  ‘Hi,’ I said, stone-faced.

  He was silent for a while; his head drooped down and he was gazing at his hands, interlocked and resting on his lap. There was something about his voice that I didn’t like, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. He looked like he was either in his late sixties or even seventies; his skin was dark and leathery, perhaps the product of having lived on these sunny streets for so long. His hair was long, sparse, messy and grey. He was neither skinny nor particularly big. People-watching was fun but this had begun to feel too close for comfort. He looked up at me suddenly, with a sharp gaze that startled me.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he said.

  I was still stunned, and replied without thinking.

  ‘Silvia,’ I said.

  ‘Silvia,’ he repeated, and nodded slowly, as though deep in thought.

  Oh god, I thought, I know this game – you’re now going to proceed to read my palm and tell me my future, right? Yaaawwwn. But after that he was silent once again, not looking at me. Should I ask him his name? I was about to, but he looked up suddenly with his piercing, sad-kind eyes.

  ‘Where are you from Silvia?’

  This time I didn’t feel so startled; after a little thought I decided that if I was going to tell anyone a bit about myself then this odd random stranger could certainly be that person. I smiled, almost laughed.

  ‘Mexico,’ I said, ‘but my mother was Norwegian.’

  Fuck. Why did I add the bit about my mother? I could have just said I’m half Norwegian, half Mexican, the usual spiel. Why did I have to go and mention her? Did it even matter? Why would it matter? He was just an old man who roamed the streets after all.

  A strong gust of wind sent my napkin flying off the table, my body automatically followed to catch it. Suddenly the sky opened and rain started to pour down. I felt a sudden need to escape and the rain provided a perfect opportunity to do so. I looked back at him. He looked at me. I didn’t say goodbye. As I ran home, attempting to shelter myself by weaving in and out under shop and restaurant awnings, I wondered about the rain and about the man and his tired, sad old eyes.

  Meeting Jack

  Thursday at noon I picked up my ringing phone and saw Pete’s name come up.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi sweety, so sorry to do this last minute but I can’t make it today after all.’

  ‘Oh shit. Really?’

  Damn, I’d really wanted to draw Pete today. I’d hyped myself up for it. But it was hardly a big deal, I’d just work from some previous sketches of him, or maybe do some more abstracts.

  ‘Okay. No worries,’ I continued.

  ‘Yeah, but I do have someone who’s keen to take my place, if you’re interested?’

  Oh, this was interesting. I wondered if this someone was plump, like him.

  ‘He’s a great guy. A friend of mine. He’s a lawyer.’

  ‘Okay. Yes. Actually that would be great.’

  ‘His name’s Jack. Really nice guy. I’ll send you over his number in a sec.’

  ‘Yeah, okay, thanks Pete. Any friend of yours is fine by me. You know where to send him.’

  *

  The doorbell rang at 2:04. Slightly late. Typical for a newcomer. I waited a few seconds and then went to answer it.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Are you Silvia?’

  ‘Yep, and you’re Jack, right?’

  For some reason I must have been expecting to open the door to a stocky, suit-clad middle-aged guy – a lawyer-type person – because I was more than a little surprised when I saw the man in front of me. He wasn’t plump like Pete at all, he was tall and athletic looking. Maybe early thirties, thereabouts. His hair was dishevelled and dark, and he had an unshaven stubbly face, slightly crooked teeth, but a big wide smile. He was wearing a plain white loose t-shirt, dark tracksuit bottoms, trainers and a backpack. Perhaps he’d just come from the gym.

  Usually, when I first met a guy, one of the first things I thought was whether I could imagine us having sex. Not because I was sex-obsessed but because friendships weren’t an option in my life, so sex was the only pleasant thing a man could offer me. But today, I have to say, I didn’t seem to care so much. Maybe it was because of that stupid pill. I’d opened up the leaflet that morning and had read the long list of potential side effects. Loss of sex drive was one of them. Depression and teariness were also thrown in there for good measure. Great.

  ‘Come on in.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Thank you for stepping in for Pete by the way, especially at such short notice.’

  ‘Oh no, that’s totally fine. It’s kind of a random thing for me to do, but I like random. I’ve actually often thought this is something I’d like to try in the future,’ he paused and smiled at me, ‘especially since Pete said he’d started doing it.’

  I smiled back.

  I liked him. It’s not that I found him immediately attractive or anything like that. That’s not what I mean. I liked his way of being. There was something relaxing about his presence, something I couldn’t put my finger on, something that made me feel… good, that’s all.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘so long as you feel comfortable being naked, I don’t think we have a problem.’

  We both laughed.

  ‘Well I can’t say I’m not a little bit nervous, but yes, totally fine being naked.’

  ‘Ah, there’s a first time for everything,’ I said, and then thought it sounded quite stupid. ‘In any case you can turn the heater up and down as you please,’ I continued, ‘God, I remember the first time I ever did it I was freezing, so I vowed to myself that no one I ever drew would have to go through that!’

  Oh god, was I rambling?

  ‘Would you like a tea or coffee before we start?’

  ‘No, I’m fine thank you,’ he said, ‘I have some water in my bag.’

  ‘Ah okay, you just come from the gym?’ I asked, continuing the pointless chit-chat.

  ‘No, no, I’m not a gym person. I actually just came from an interview.’ He glanced down at his clothes. ‘I mean I dropped by home to get changed into something more comfortable. I hate suits. I have to wear them so often. It’s silly really, no idea why they make us wear that stuff. Anyway… interview… yeah I’ve been working freelance for a while and now I’m looking for something more permanent. Yeah, so no, I wasn’t at the gym.’

  Now he was rambling.

  ‘Oh yeah, you’re a lawyer, aren’t you? Pete mentioned.’

  I immediately regretted saying it. I didn’t particularly want to get into a conversation about what we did and who we were. He nodded and looked as though he was about to say something else, but I got there first: ‘Okay. Well let me introduce you to the stage,’ I said, faking a laugh.

  I walked towards the large studio area: white sheets laid out across the floor and over the different levels of tables, stools, chairs and a mattress that made up the area where my subjects posed. Next to it stood a fan heater.

  ‘This is a nice place,’ he said.

  That’s what everyone said.

  ‘Do you live here alone?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, and then added, ‘I won’t be a minute!’

  I rushed off to the bathroom to avoid any further questions. I didn’t feel like being my usual blunt self with him, so this momentary escape from the situation felt like my best option.

  That was always the way: I don’t need to know much about you, and you don’t ask questions about me. Shallow stuff is okay, like what kind of tea I drink, or if I like it when they put jalapeños in salads, or if I think Leonardo DiCaprio is hot. That’s fine. Trivial stuff is totally fine. If you’re lucky I might even tell you I’m half Norwegian and half Mexican, but that’s only if you dare ask, of course. What a
n interesting mix, you’ll say. But other stuff, you know, stuff about my past, about my parents, how they met, if they live in this country, how on earth I afford such an expensive penthouse apartment… Don’t bother. Yet I knew they all wondered. I knew they all wanted to know how the hell a twenty-four-year-old girl could afford to live in such a place all by herself and still pay her clients a reasonable rate. I mean it’s not like I was an overwhelmingly successful artist. Not that they had to know that, of course.

  When I returned after a couple of minutes he seemed to not have taken my sudden departure as weird in the least bit.

  ‘All right, so should I start getting, er, naked?’ he said.

  ‘Yes please!’ I said as I reached over for some charcoal. ‘And for the first sketch just do whatever you feel most comfortable with. Lie down, sit down, whatever, I honestly don’t mind.’

  He was new to this, and I liked him, so I definitely wanted to make sure he felt comfortable.

  ‘I’ll just let you know later on when and if I want you to change position,’ I added.

  ‘Okay, great, so I suppose you’ll be forcing me to get into some kind of crazy yogic poses later then.’

  ‘Oh yeah, obviously! I’m just easing you in.’

  We laughed.

  He stood there naked, looking down at the white sheets and hesitating for a second because he didn’t know where to go. Then he chose the mattress and lay himself face down, propping his head up with his hands and staring out the window at the sky. That way, I got a view of the whole length of the left side of his lying body and a profile of his face. I could see how this would have been a comfortable option for him. There was no chance of his eyes meeting mine. At least he wasn’t cocky – Max had been overly confident from the start, keen to have his penis staring at me confrontationally from the very first day.

  He carried on staring at the sky for ages. It was interesting to watch him. He didn’t say a word, but the silence wasn’t awkward and it didn’t seem to be coming from any kind of shyness or nervousness on his part. He didn’t tell me anything about himself and didn’t ask me any questions. It was interesting, and yet so strangely pleasant. I don’t know why, but I just felt so happy and relaxed watching him. What an odd and surprising feeling it was. I had to watch myself though, what if he suddenly turned to look at me? I didn’t want to be caught gazing and smiling at him. He’d think I was a pervert. But this had nothing to do with that. I just felt so untroubled and relaxed, like a child. How strange, yet how… lovely.