Apples and Pears

by Guy Davenport

  Another, O my (Kaatje, thus) of the long paintings with all sorts of things in them, which Adriaan likes so much, ja? As Sander knows, natuurlijk. She admired Jaap’s neck, so straight, like Bruno’s at that age, so improbably tall for a neck, and cylindrical, flourishing out into a round of hair that keeps its whorls and spits inside a circle. Een criticus! Sander said. Keep on. Not in front of Adriaan. Where are you putting my rascals, in this big painting? There at the right, a brother and sister. A knowing look from Kaatje, as if in on a conspiracy. A brother and sister in ruddy tankleuren, nude, glossily but I hope not slickly realistic. Keirinckx’s grandchildren! Some grungy iconographer will discover that in the middle of the next century. Kaatje herded them in while they looked around the studio with quick, sly glances, some of which flicked Sander up and down, as if they’d never seen him before, with smiles of doubt and adventure for me. Ome Adriaan! Saartje said with sophisticated acknowledgment, and Hi, ome Adriaan from Hans with his elfenglimlach. Kaatje made them shake hands with Sander, a lesson in manners, and developed them as a theme (talking about children in their presence, a discourse with two audiences), as creatures she loves, as the special beings children are, a breed of animal committed to a human fate. And, with perfect frankness, as admirable children worthy of being shown off, of being seen by the discriminating. Hans, deciding to be superior to the occasion and knowing that as soon as he had been put through his paces in a polite greeting he was free to explore, strutted around with his hands in his pockets, looking at drawings pinned to the walls, inspecting with interest bottles and tubes of color, brushes, easels, photographs. Saartje chose to be mouse timid, clinging to Kaatje, studying the floor. Her hallo to Sander had been whispered. You’re to be drawn, you demons, Kaatje said briskly, as naked as snakes, so off with your togs. Both at once? she asked Sander. Together? How, Saartje found the boldness to say, is Heer Floris to be? Saartje dear! Kaatje was beautiful with her whoop. Verwonderlijk! I put in, but Saartje was persistent. Is he taking off his clothes, too? Kaatje, falling into my arms, said that she had the smartest children in Amsterdam, and with no warning at all they turn into cretins. Call Heer Floris Sander, wretches. He has studied with Grootpapa and is Adriaan’s friend, and he has been to our house many times, practically a member of the family, and you know perfectly well who he is, except that suddenly you’ve decided to become niddynoddies. Peel, Hansje. Here, Saartje, let me squirm you out of your sweater so that Sander can see what a sexy and pert meisje you are. Sander, sharpening pencils, whistled prettily. Red sweater off, Saartje held out a foot for Kaatje to untie her well-scruffed gymschoenen and fidget down the white game socks she was wearing in obvious imitation of Hans. She took her jeans off herself, and stood there, back arched, comic surmise on her face, pleading sympathy from me, which I gave her with a wink, suddenly cooperative and in the spirit of the adventure, perhaps because Hans had shucked his jeans and briefs with casual unconcern, shirt and undershirt, wadding them into a pile at his feet. Stood there with her thumbs in the waistband of her scrimped underpants slotted midpudge, which, with a shy flirt of eye, she slouched down, slid to her ankles, and handed to Kaatje with the air of one abandoning the wearing of underpants forever.

  Hans meanwhile tramped about in grubby socks and sneakers only, looking at drawings. Hansje love, said Kaatje, I don’t think Sander wants to draw you with your weewee between finger and thumb like that, and take off your shoes. Or do you, Sander? We’ve seen your erotic drawings. Woef! These two barbarians, as I was telling Adriaan last week, have begun playing with themselves, met vurigheid, bound to begin sometime, now is as good as any, or I’m just finding out. Mothers are the last to know anything. Bruno, the beast, said they’re probably retarded to be just now discovering what fun they’ve been missing. They may, gewillig, and play with each other I daresay, so that’s all right, though they save their racier turns for when the neighbors pop in or the Mormon missionaries call. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen two of those really ghostly mormoons staring at Hans when he has answered the door with, as he supposes, at least the minimal decency for a public appearance but in fact with his little man perky as the spout of the teapot sprung loose from his underpants. Hans grunted, to acknowledge that Kaatje was telling this right. And kneeling to unlace a shoe, asked how long all this was going to take, his voice wonderfully gruff for a boy his age. Hoe lang duurt het? What manners, Kaatje said. Hans came for me to pick the knot in his other shoelace. Gave him a kiss on the cheek, which he returned on my chin, squeakily, and grinned. He smelled of licorice and Palmolive zeep. Sander picked Saartje up and sat her on his painter’s stool, and tucked her ankles inside the second rung down. He commanded Hans to stand beside his sister, please, in whatever pose felt natural. Hans, as I knew he would, clowned his head against her shoulder, his arm around her waist, laughing, and settled into a shins-crossed, arms-crossed stance against her, with a shove and countershove between them before they balanced. Sander drew swiftly. Don’t have to freeze, he said. Shift about as you need to, but without moving from where you are. Whereupon Saartje jiggled a finger on her navel, and cupped her hand around a breast not yet there. I could see Sander’s block: he was getting line after line as right as Degas, the tender ribby column of Saartje’s torso, lyric thighlines, delicious toes, her puddy crotch so plumply cleft before its scrub of silky hair comes along, vulnerable hollows at the collarbones, innocent mouth, nubbly nose, Hans’ incredibly straight thighs and rich curve of calf. Kaatje made herself thoroughly comfortable in a chair behind them, facing me. Sander kept up a running commentary as he drew: nifty ears, improbable eyelashes, wrist dimples still. Unselfconscious little buggers, not knowing how beautiful you are. Hansje’s fingers strayed to his foreskin, tickled its pucker, slid it from around the glans, wiggled it all, and then decorously pinched it back down, and poked at his chin instead. Careful, said Sander, or I’ll kiss you both until you’re crazy. Saartje gave Hans a fine look out of the corners of her eyes. It was, Kaatje said, Jenny and Jan Sinaasappel who taught these two. They’re a bit older, stunningly beautiful both of them. They, I gather, never quite quit, and were at it when the fast young sporting set here were over one afternoon, not, thank goodness, voor de schijn, which would have struck the naughty note and Bruno and I would probably never have heard about it, but, bless their hearts, as a casual pastime. Saartje cast her eyes upward and pursed her lips, getting a laughing glance from Hans. That’s what caught their imagination and made their eyes as round as florins, Kaatje went on, obviously enjoying telling us all this. The big Sinaasappels are advanced to a fault, scholarly and into things, Danishly modern and properly psychological. The Sinaasappel littles were watching TV when Saartje and Hans went over, or were rather sitting in the company of the damned thing, which is what kids do, in the zitkamer, and Jenny while jabbering about something quite unsexy, I asked, opened Jan’s britches, one wants to say rompers, and trotted his little fellow up and down. It was the insouciance that spoke to my nippers’ hearts and gave them hot pants. Hans smiled agreement, and gave me a wink. His britches, Saartje said brightly, were already open. He hadn’t zipped them up from before we came over. He’d been doing it lots before then, Jenny too. And it isn’t little, but big, like Hansje’s. Sander whistled a catchy tune, keeping a straight face. Hans caught my eye, glanced down and back, and I nodded assurance. He smiled. Yes dear, said Kaatje, as big as Hansje’s, and it was only when Jenny noticed what a sensation she was causing among the junior members of the Keirinckx family that she said, the little teaser, O we’re allowed to, aren’t you? So they sat there breathless and panting until Jan skeeted a driblet. A sprinkle, Mummy, Saartje corrected. Lots of drops. Hans distinctly blushed, a tender pink under his tan, uncrossed his legs, stretched, and faked a yawn. He resumed his pose at Sander’s whispered please, and broke into a good-natured smile, man to man. Maatje, he said, my dingus is going to stand up vanzelf if you keep talking about it. Fine by me, sweetheart, said Kaatje, and Saartje, mischief in her eye
s, slid her hand over and patted it, for which she got an elbow in the ribs. Wat kan dat schelen? Kaatje went on happily. And when they came home seriously excited, liefje Saartje blurted it all out, part scandal, part envy. I’m certain I blushed (you didn’t, said Hans), but there was nothing for it but to give a crisp lesson in playing the loving finger in girls and plying the working hand in boys. I did call Bruno, as all decisions at command level are joint in our house. He, of course, laughed gloriously. They could hear him on the phone and looked like two worried mice until they heard his er op los gaan! and whooshed with relief and fell down unstrung puppets. They both gave an imitation of this, Sander flailing his arms for them to resume their pose. And, Kaatje went on, off to their room they went, skitter scatter, Hans grubbing out his wizzle on the way, and were still there when Bruno came home. Just like him to stride right in and hug them both, naked and doubtless nasty, and kissed them, probably all over. All over, Saartje said with a wild grin. I hope, said Kaatje, all this is getting into the drawing. It’s also getting into me, Sander said, starting a third study. God help Grietje when she comes home. Saartje giggled, and Hans, scratching his pubic fuzz, asked why. You see what I mean, said Kaatje, about the smartest children in Amsterdam doing double duty as idiots.

  Grietje, as it turned out, swirled in when Sander was doing a sixth study, stunning in her brown beret, eyes merry. Hans and Saartje were posed facing each other, his hands on her hips, hers on his shoulders. Nu ja! Grietje said, with a kiss for Kaatje, who rose to hug her, and a kiss for me, smack on the mouth, and a warm one for Sander, with a smidgin of tongue in it. These two make you draw, Alexander, they make you draw. Schoon! Marie Cassatt! Ingres! Och, what beautiful children. She darted a kiss onto Saartje’s nape, and ran a hand across Hans’ butt before flouncing off to make coffee. I can’t stand it if you won’t sit on my lap, Saartje sweetheart, pretty please, Grietje beguiled her, laying out cups. Hans assumed his dinky briefs and scruffy socks before joining us. I’m certain, Hansje, that Sander adores your raining cookie crumbs all over his drawings. They’re neat, he said. They look like us. You could make my peter bigger, ha! You draw hands and toes real good. Grietje held Saartje, still naked, in a lovely hug.

  3 THERMIDOR

  The tarpan of Lascaux. Redrawn standing like a Stubbs with groom, as if by Chao Meng-fu or Hiroshige. Its rider, dismounted, a gracefully lean boy with amused eyes and fuddled hair, is patting its willing nose. The meaning of the painting is in the sweetly dumb coquettishness of the tarpan’s eyes.

  Le couple angélique goûte en hypofoyer le bonheur d’être l’objet d’idolâtrie du public, d’être pivot de favoritisme. Ce n’est point une idolâtrie chancelante dangereuse comme chez nous celle de la faveur populaire.

  Sander asks to go to the island, he and I and Grietje. To work out a structural problem, to let the long paintings go unfiddled with, so that all the changes to be made will be obvious when he returns. This after I had seen Max about the exhibition, and the gallery manager, who was miffed because he hadn’t met the artist, and incredulous that apparently he wasn’t going to. Turned up at the studio: Sander painting, Grietje working on interior designs for an imaginary house which she says will be given to her by forces and powers she believes in, Kaatje darning, Sarah and Hans posing. At the end of the pose he cupped his hand over her sharebone and kissed her openmouthed, tongue out. Gunst! Kaatje remarked, to get a ha! from Hans, a hum! from Saartje.

  4 THERMIDOR

  Hansje, being drawn by Sander, tells me about his friend Jan, who is keurig, knap, goedgezind, vriendelijk, geestig. He makes geometric figures out of dowels and string that are tight and bouncy and look as if they shouldn’t hold together at all. He has been to Sicilië. His sister is always rootling in his pants. He has books and books of maps. He can say everything in French and English. He’s a terrific gymnast. Is it welvoeglijk to kiss if it’s only on the corner of the mouth? Absolutely, Sander says. It’s also wellustig. At this Hansje laughed merrily, squidged a chaste kiss upon an eidetic Jan’s crimp of a grin, mimed a scruple, and repeated the smooch. You can practice on me, Sander said, but don’t dare move just yet. Hans was posing standing with legs in a parted stance, his hands in the pockets of docked white denim jeans, a blue cadet cap all else he was wearing. I can kiss Adriaan, Hans reflected soberly, because he’s my uncle, and because I love him, and I can kiss Sander because he said so, and I can kiss Saartje because she’s my sister and I love her, and I have to kiss Mama and Papa, and I can kiss Jan because he’s my friend. I’ve got to pee.

  5 THERMIDOR

  That too, Sander said of my remark that the coins and moths in his long canvases are scriptural, the treasure stored up on earth which thieves break into and steal, and the moths that corrupt, Sint Mattheus 6:20. I give it in Greek, me thesauridzete kai ta loipa, making Hansje’s eyes round and Sander’s left hand twirl over his head. One’s art, the other’s nature. Both are little, both cunningly made. I’m not to explain to the critics, you say. Well, I can’t. Money and bugs, Hansje said, relaxing his pose and being shouted back into it by Sander, whose ferociousness puts a smile of innocent patience on his serene face, for me, and a jutted tongue for Sander. Money and bugs, goats and sheeps, boys and girls, fruits and vegetables in a paaskorf, all like a big long poster. Your pictures, Sander, are gek but neat and bright, and I’m in them, and Saartje and Jan, ondeugend and nifty. Tell about working on the baby, as part of my pay. Grietje lies on her back and you stick it in and slide it in and out till you come, heb ik gelijk? Neen, konijn! You kiss and sigh and feel and nudge and whisper and laugh. It’s love, wasbeer, it’s all heart. I think I’m blushing, Hansje said. You are, Sander said, it’s charming. Let’s all take five.

  6 THERMIDOR

  Gelijktijdigheid. Hansje, delivered by Kaatje, who with a cordial whack on his butt dismissed him as a vexingly cherubic monster, made for the phone as soon as she was gone and had a recklessly frank exchange with Jan. Then, roguish fun in his eyes, he slid his hand inside his trousers, nothing shy, and poked about looking at books and prints, asking the occasional question such as why does Kierkegaard look such a gowk. And wasn’t it time we set out for Sander’s and Grietje’s? What was I doing?

  7 THERMIDOR

  Expedition with Hansje, rather Erewhonian. Kaatje called (interrupting Sleutelbloem in my office wringing her hands over Kant) and asked if I could take him to Sander’s for posing. Also, would I take him by a winkelzaak in herenmodes and see if they have a boy’s size onderbroekje naar de laatste mode, what Hans describes as a handvol boldriehoek front and a dubbelhandvol of seat. Delighted. We drooled through the stamp dealers first, buying rather more than Kaatje would have allowed, then the haberdasher’s, where the clerk was properly scandalized, especially as Hansje was precociously sophisticated with chic chitchat about the scantiness of underpants. We got to Sander’s by way of puppies, kittens, and hamsters in a pet-shop window, a display of marzipan at a bakery, the vibrators, dildoes, and magazines in the vitrine of a sex shop (I had to answer questions), a puppet store, and a quick zip down the slide in a park. Sander working on a handsome still life, abstract, geometric, late Corbusier, wonderfully harmonic. A hug for us both. First business was to see if the underpants fit. Het kan nog net was Sander’s remark, niet vereist mine. No blush from Hansje, but much finicking with the set, swiveling of hips, and off to look at himself in a mirror. Sander gave us coffee and milk, a rest for him between the still life and drawing Hans. The room splendidly sunny. Hans sipped his milk, leaving us to talk about the canvas on the easel, padding about in his new slip. Neither of us was quite prepared for his coming up to Sander and poking with his index the ronding of his jeans klep, a prominence which even the most pure-minded must note. You’ve drawn my peter over and over, he said. Can I see yours? But absolutely, Sander said, unzipping. In een wip he flopped over the lowered waistband of his briefs all lucky 25 cm of it. Gossie! said Hansje, and whistled. Och, Sander said, but see him up.

  8 THERMIDORr />
  An exemplary bontwerkerisch day, Sander said when we arrived at the studio, Hansje and I. A still life’s blocked out, we have jogged, fetched groceries, and worked on the baby, like twice, and I see how this pastoraal wants to go. That lordly old buck in the zoo with the curled horns, stringy wool down to his ankles, and balls like two Perrier bottles, is to stand here. Hansje naakt here. Mattioli’s lavender here. Jan in the Sicilian straw hat here, with four sheep. A line or two of Virgilius, perpendicular, an herleving typeface. Worked on the baby? Hansje asked, holding up his arms for me to draw off his sweater. Pairing, said Sander, in the bed, omhelzing. You’re going in charcoal direct onto the canvas, liefje, legs apart, knuckles on hips, chin over left shoulder. Hansje, leukweg, in his sly way, delved through all of his pockets until he ran down a toffee while I undid his buttons, zipper, and shoelaces, and stripped him. An amused pursing of lips and tickled eyes, a gape of indignation when Sander combed his hair.

  Jan. Hans introduced him to me with a surprising formality, and we shook hands. Sander swooped him up and hoisted him onto his shoulders and undid his sneakers’ laces, Jan handing down his soccer shirt to Hansje. Leaning daringly back, he pushed his pants down off his hips and in a maneuver worthy of an acrobat, seesaw on Sander’s shoulders, got one leg out and then the other, leaving him in a neat blue slipje which Sander, heaving him from astraddle to midriff hug, slipped off. Ziedaar! If you’re going to be dikke vrienden with Mijnheer Hans, Jan mon vieux, you’ll also have to be intiem with my esteemed comrade Adriaan here. He and Hans are lifelong friends, from when their relationship was Hans looking gaga at his learned uncle, and waving his arms and legs about, and Ome Adriaan burping Master Hans, changing his diapers and wiping his drool from his Givenchy tie. Besides, I’m going to put de filosoof there, on this side of this long canvas, naakt, with Hans on one knee, Saartje on the other, and Jan and Jenny too, climbing up an arm, astride his neck, and maybe more kids, heaps of them. Fourier and the Hordes. Teacher and pupils. A scene from Wouter Whitman. Hoera, ja?