The Fabrications

by Baret Magarian

  ‘Isn’t it distracting to smoke when you’re working?’

  ‘Oh no, the lines of smoke interest me, they give me ideas, they’re beautiful. The patterns and shapes as they spin away. But the life the smoke delivers on a plate of ash – that’s already there with you. With other sitters, it’s different. Some of them object. I’m always polite. I tell them I need the smoke. I tell them it’s an aesthetic tool. They nod; they don’t really know what I mean, but they sense they mustn’t show their ignorance. It’s amazing where manners and big words can get you.’

  He nodded. Outside a small boy was being taught to ride a bicycle in the middle of the deserted road. His father clutched the back of the cycle and, as he rode, lifted his hands away at intervals. Eventually his father broke away completely while his son cycled on. Oscar could see the boy’s lips moving, as he assumed his father was right behind him, still anchoring his bicycle.

  ‘I’m just going to get another piece of charcoal,’ said Najette.

  After she had left the room Oscar scrambled over to the sketch. He looked younger than he had expected, and the general effect was rich and pleasing; his face was formed of clouds, ethereal forms so fine they seemed in danger of dissolving. As he studied the portrait he noticed a small photograph resting on a desk, almost obscured by various clippings and papers. He dug it out and immediately recognized the stricken figure of Lilliana kneeling down, staring at the broken pieces of a potted plant and next to her another woman who looked oddly familiar. Didn’t he know her? He went back to his chair.

  ‘I love the drawing,’ he said when she returned.

  ‘You weren’t supposed to see it.’

  ‘Another rule?’

  ‘Yes. I like rules.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Keeps the pieces from flying away. Now we have to be silent. But, before the silence, tell me one thing; how’s the modeling going?’

  ‘It’s fine; not much money, about as much as the cinema, and I haven’t returned to painting as we planned. But it’s...cleansing, though sometimes I feel like an idiot.’

  She nodded and resumed her work.

  ‘You’ll paint again, don’t worry.’

  ‘I’m not sure I share your confidence. By the way, why have you got a photograph of Lilliana looking at a broken flower pot?’

  ‘Where did you see that? Have you been going through my things? I suppose it’s my fault for leaving it there. That was taken the day I met her. A woman knocked over one of the potted plants. It seemed to bring them together in quite an interesting way. I thought I might do a study of it at some point. It could make a very good painting if I can capture the way they both opened up even when they grieved. The funny thing is the plant was meant for you. As a belated birthday present.’

  ‘For me?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I seem to have insinuated myself into your life and your art.’

  ‘You have.’

  She smiled at him so seductively and nonchalantly that it seemed to him then as though he were like some half-delirious hunter dying of thirst and she like some enchanted princess who had guided him toward a crystalline lake whose waters were so still and etched that they formed a magnificent mirror and in its compass life loomed up and arched toward the heavens, as if seeking to conjoin with a force that had hitherto eluded it and in the moment of her smile life’s sweetness was ineffable and Oscar felt that just to be near Najette was to be blissfully happy. But then her eyes grew dark all of a sudden. A minute passed, then there was a whisper, a faint shard of sound. Her voice broke the silence once more, though her words hung in the air afterwards and wouldn’t fade.

  ‘It’s love that kills us.’

  Oscar was about to respond, but he stopped himself just in time with the realization that her words did not invite a response, but asked merely to be submitted to. He considered the person before him in a new light, sensing the sadness at the tail end of her exuberance, probably remaining invisible to most of those who came in contact with her, but insistently etched, deep down. Those five words had prized open some more of her personality, the richness of which he was only just beginning to suspect.

  ‘Oscar, that’s good, good that you said nothing. You see, you already know me so well. But soon you’ll find you hardly know me at all, and when that happens, so will other things.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he said.

  ‘Understanding’s overrated. I like riddles as well as rules. Riddles protect me from being caged. See?’

  But the enigma had only deepened further. He made no reply, trying to digest the half revelations, the shrouded references she seemed to have a constant supply of. When he finally spoke he cleared his throat with each sentence.

  ‘Najette, I’m not a very deep person, but sometimes I have my moments of insight. I’m not a philosopher, but I could learn a lot from you, if you’ll allow me to. Nothing would please me more than to spend time with you.’

  She stopped sketching.

  ‘Oscar, you do say the strangest things sometimes! Haven’t we been spending time together? Isn’t it clear I enjoy being with you?’

  ‘Well...I suppose so.’

  ‘Well then. Isn’t it silly to ask for something you already have?’

  And with that remark she became less inscrutable and resumed her work. The last few exchanges drifted into buried, secret realms, from where they were destined to emerge again.

  6

  Albert Lush was badly constipated. It was always the same on the days when he was filming: his bowels seemed to fill with lead. Monday mornings were the worst.

  On that particular Monday morning he had Studio 3 booked between ten and three. He had arrived early, a small figure in blue overalls at the back, observing the maniacal activity of those currently running around the studio. Nobody seemed to mind about his cough, and at one point the director had approached him and asked if he would like to be filmed coughing, an image which would sit comfortably with the piece he was making, which was about childbirth. Lush had declined politely, repelled by the director’s grotesque headphones and the oversized rings lodged onto his bacon-tanned fingers.

  He turned his attention to the set, which consisted of a universally orange living room, and to the actors: a pregnant woman was being asked questions by a doctor.

  Eventually a dozen female dancers walked in and were received ecstatically by the producer and the director. When Lush discreetly asked an important-looking woman what their relevance to childbirth was, she declared, ‘Dancing is another aspect of female creativity.’ After that Lush didn’t press her.

  Five minutes later he was astonished to find catering ladies rolling in with trolleys full of champagne which the girls quickly polished off, their reason being that normally they never danced before nine in the evening and had to be warmed up artificially. Once suitably prepared they rehearsed a silent dance routine a couple of times, and then agreed to be filmed. A sumptuous backdrop was positioned behind them: a single enormous opened iris, whose rounded and flared petals reached out and engulfed the girls as they danced, their long legs dressed in red-purple stockings that blended with the color of the iris. Lush watched the girls as they fluttered about, and he was seized with longing. His stomach squirmed with convulsions reminding him of the need to void his bowels but he knew that he was as blocked as a drain rinsed with cement.

  At last the girls finished their routine and walked off the set triumphantly. Some fished about for more champagne, but were unable to dig any up. One, whose hair nearly touched the ground, asked the assistant director for a smoked salmon sandwich. The props girl had to be sent out for one. Meanwhile, the set was re-dressed and became a hospital room, also in universal orange (orange was important to the director because it was more or less the color of the director). The pregnant woman was filmed lying on her bed, perspiring and panting, her belly now miraculously distended, while a doctor explained the meaning of an epidural injection.

  By the
time the director was happy with these shots Lush’s own shambolic film crew had arrived, as had four very old men dressed in crumbling dinner jackets, clutching violin and ‘cello cases, and one or two life models, including Oscar, who was very intrigued by everything, never having been inside a television studio before. He decided to stay close to Lush and not say anything unless specifically asked to. He walked over and waved to him in a friendly fashion. Lush appeared not to notice. Oscar was about to go up to him when one of the prettiest of the dancers approached Lush, put her arms around him playfully, and began to express her concern for his thundering cough. Oscar eavesdropped on their conversation from a safe distance.

  ‘The doctors can’t do anything for me,’ Lush observed, cradling his stomach with his hands, donning a pathetic expression.

  ‘Poor baby. It’s probably all in the mind.’

  ‘Yes, but so is schizophrenia.’

  ‘Are you very rich?’ the girl continued, ignoring this.

  ‘No, very poor. I survive by borrowing and then make documentaries nobody wants to see. Are you still willing to speak to me?’

  The girl considered the question for a moment, then stared at him, with something like longing in her eyes.

  ‘You look like someone who’s very different to me, like a chimpanzee with a top hat. Poor baby.’

  Lush wasn’t sure if this remark was intended as flattering or not. Thinking about it only muddied the issue. In the past he had been rejected by women so often and in so many forms he decided one more rejection could do no harm and so, in his most charming voice, asked, ‘Can the monkey buy you supper?’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Sure. So long as I get to wear the top hat. And choose where we go.’

  Did she really just accept? His mind was already forcing her answer into the realms of fiction, unused as he was to such a positive response. There must have been a catch. Was she really a man in drag? She probably had a bulldog boyfriend, whose meaty hands would soon be forming a circle around his neck.

  ‘All right, you choose.’

  ‘Do you know The Omcat? It’s in Mayfair,’ she asked.

  ‘No, but I gather it’s a little on the pricey side.’ That was the catch, then.

  ‘Let’s go there. I think it would be fun to dress up and drink cognac, cocktails, eat a little, talk a little, have a couple of cigarillos. You poor, poor baby.’

  Lush instantly began to regret his generosity, rapidly engaging in some mental arithmetic, considering what necessities he would now have to do without for the next three weeks in order to buy dinner for both of them. If he didn’t eat for a week he might be all right. Besides, he said to himself – immediately transmuting the bleakness of the prospect into a happier scenario, with the incurable optimism that always accompanied him even in his worst moments – not to eat might be a blessing and might clear his system out, which he had been planning on doing for some time.

  ‘All right. We’ll do it. By the way, my name is Albert Lush. What’s yours?’

  ‘Do you want my stage name or my real name?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘My stage name is Polly French. And my real name is Tracy Fudge.’

  ‘I think I’ll stick to Polly French.’

  At this point a bedraggled janitor approached Lush, who had been so swept up in the conversation that he hadn’t noticed the studio was gradually emptying, and barked, ‘You got ‘til 3:00.’

  Lush turned to the girl and said hurriedly, ‘This Saturday, eight o’clock suit you?’

  ‘Sure, poor baby,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll see you there then.’

  Lush walked off, glowing like a solar panel. My luck’s changing, he thought.

  Oscar, trying to catch up to him, noticed his grin and said inoffensively, ‘Will you be needing me for very long, Mr. Lush?’ To his surprise, Lush, buoyed by his recent triumph and oozing generosity of spirit, yelled, ‘Oh yes, you’re the staaaar!’

  ‘I am?’

  ‘Now, meet Sasha, the make-up girl,’ he said, taking Oscar by the hand with adroit mastery, chaperoning him around the studio, avoiding the props, planks of wood and lights being positioned about them. Sasha shook his hand, said, ‘Ciao,’ and immediately walked off to attend to important business elsewhere.

  ‘What I will require from you, later on,’ Lush continued, speaking rapidly, so much so that Oscar didn’t really absorb anything, ‘is some brilliance, a few penetrating remarks about your profession that go beyond the soporific observations of these’ – he gestured to the other models – ‘birdbrains and toads. Oscar, I feel that you and I are very much alike.’ He broke off to cough. ‘Life has denied us a voice, even though we have much to say. Now I’m offering you a chance to say it. I’ll ask you a few questions. Just speak naturally. Start with modeling, but expand, experiment, if you like. We’re working with a ratio of sixteen to one, for the first time in my life, I should add. Glorious film, that is, not phony digital crud. Now go and get made up.’

  He waltzed off, leaving Oscar to find Sasha again. She was sewing buttons onto a taffeta jacket with miraculous speed. When she had finished she applied various cosmetics to his skin and he found himself luxuriating in a mixture of comfort and arousal. The lights were switched on, the camera was set up on its tripod and the set cleared of rubbish. Oscar was told to sit down by a backdrop of Michelangelo’s David.

  At this point Lush instructed the four disintegrating musicians to get ready to play. They found some chairs and music stands, and began to tune up, looking hot and agitated under the glare of the big lights. Without further ado they launched into something dark and dramatic until Lush implored them to wait a minute. He disappeared and returned a few moments later, his small figure dwarfed by that of an exotic-looking woman dressed in high heels and a buttoned-up white raincoat. Her bare legs were immaculately waxed. This mysterious person slid into a corner, undid some buttons and did nothing more except smoke listlessly.

  Lush then explained to the musicians, who were all a little hard of hearing, that the woman in the corner was a professional actress used to displaying her body in public. Furthermore, she was now going to stand in the middle of them while they played. Furthermore, she wouldn’t be wearing any clothes. They weren’t to notice her and to behave and play as if she wasn’t there. It was likely, he informed them, that they might be a little distracted at first but they would soon get used to it. When one of them asked why Lush wanted to film a naked woman and a string quartet simultaneously, Lush was obliged to explain something about the nature of his documentary. He told them his film was about nude modeling and the context that made it permissible in a civilized society. In order to do this he had to examine contexts in which nudity was not permissible: viz., a naked woman standing next to a string quartet presents a bizarre sight, but when she is put into an art room she becomes commonplace. They nodded but didn’t really understand. Lush explained that in certain places nudity can be perfectly normal – the sauna, for example, a public shower, or indeed the art class – but what if nudity somehow slipped into chamber music? They still didn’t really see the point and Lush started getting impatient.

  With a single, majestic movement, the exotic-looking woman removed her raincoat, revealing an already-naked and sensational body. She stepped effortlessly out of her high heels and planted herself in the space formed in the middle of the string quartet. Most of them hadn’t seen a naked woman in over ten years. They found their brows were moist within seconds and that their eyeballs were straining to pop out and achieve a life separate from their bodies, a perspective that would allow for a more comprehensive view of her shapeliness, her frictionless chestnut skin, her shapely breasts. Their hearts pounded frantically. There came a spectral recollection of their youthful lust. Had it always been so oppressive – so confusing – this business of arousal? Had it always been entwined with nausea? After a few minutes they calmed down and the camera began to roll on Lush’s instructions. Unfortunately the cont
inuing proximity of her flesh, limbs, and hair caused the musicians’ intonation to collapse and they produced a whining sound as painful as the first scratchings of beginners. Lush asked Sasha to get them all glasses of water and as they sat slurping the crew took in the sight of a terrifyingly beautiful human form. Oscar tried to look away but couldn’t. Apparently, the woman was oblivious of all the attention she was receiving. It mattered little to her that every inch of her body was now being scrutinized by all the men, including Lush. It would have neither pleased nor displeased her if she had known the cameraman was zooming in on her nipples. And if she had realized the women considered her to be the shocking embodiment of all the dreams they had for their own bodies, she would have been neither gratified nor flattered.

  After several trial runs the octogenarian musicians were at last able to play more than three bars without making an unspeakable sound and Lush made do with these few seconds of footage.

  An easel and chair were set up, an artist sitting between them, and the naked woman repeated her performance on a raised dais, this time assuming a more expressive position, bending her supple body this way and that. The camera came in for a lingering close-up of the canvas, as the drawing began to take shape. Meanwhile, the old men sat in a corner, some hyperventilating and turning various shades of green, others munching on restorative biscuits and marveling. Oscar watched them, almost as equally mystified. Eventually the artist and the exotic woman retreated to the back of the studio where she got dressed again before the two went off together. The set was cleared. Lush went up to Oscar, still seated beside the backdrop of the David and said, ‘This is it, Oscar. It’s your turn now, my boy.’

  Oscar blinked rapidly and was given a final polish by Sasha.

  ‘Number one ready? Right, let’s roll.

  ‘Oscar can you tell me a little about your calling, your vocation, as it were, and tell us something about why in the past nude modeling has all too often been overlooked?’