Hubert stared at Jill. She looked back, unabashed.
The play wasn’t as silly as it sounded, she said, at any rate it was perfect for the guests. And she got a kick out of being onstage again. It was only here that I realized how heartily sick I was of the arts scene in the city.
She asked Hubert what he had done in all that time. He talked about his teaching job and the fact that he had almost stopped painting. I don’t know why that is, he said. Maybe I’ve just seen too much bad art, my own included.
By now the sun had disappeared behind the mountains, and the shadows were creeping up the slopes.
I’m cold, said Jill, shall we go inside?
Hubert followed her into the house and then into the kitchen. She opened the fridge and looked uncertainly at what little it contained. I’m afraid I haven’t bought anything wonderful, she said. What do you feel like eating?
Perhaps I just need to reconcile myself to the fact that people want pictures to hang on their walls, said Hubert, and watched as Jill washed lettuce and cut a carrot in slivers. It’s not a crime. But I think I’d rather work on a building site or wait tables than make commercial art.
Stay here, said Jill, I can make inquiries at the hotel. You could offer drawing classes to the guests, I’m sure that would go down well. She was facing away from him, and for a moment he thought she meant it. She turned and passed him the salad bowl with a grin.
During the meal, Jill talked about the club, and meetings with hotel guests, personnel difficulties, and the one big family they were.
When I began here, I looked so horrible, I’m surprised they gave me a job at all. Hang on.
She brought out another bottle of wine and went over to a small desk by the window, opened a drawer, and pulled out a cardboard folder that she laid in front of Hubert. She sat down beside him and opened the folder. He saw a photograph in which she looked more or less as he saw her now. She went on, and from page to page her face changed. It looked as though it was crumbling, even though it was always the same face. Sometimes Hubert clutched Jill’s hand and asked her to go back one. Then there was a picture of Jill’s nose, which looked like a large red potato, and another in which her whole face was cut and bloody. It was so swollen around the eyes that he could hardly see them, and everywhere there were patches of raw flesh. There was no nose.
That’s what I looked like after the accident, said Jill. They took the photos in the hospital.
Hubert turned away. It wasn’t the last picture, but Jill dwelled on it for a long time before turning the page. The next was a portrait of her as she was at the time Hubert had met her. Her face had an expression of vulnerability, as though she sensed what was in store for it. But it was only when he saw the next picture that he realized where these pictures came from. Jill was sitting naked on a chair in his studio, her hands in her lap, a pose he had cribbed from Edvard Munch. These were the pictures he had taken then. They were better than he had thought at the time. He remembered accusing Jill of not being there and of being stilted. He picked up the rest of the pictures, laid them on the table side by side, and stood up so he was able to see them all together. A few were shots of her upper body, or her face.
Do you like them? she asked.
Hubert suddenly remembered her provocative question to him when she had taken her clothes off. Do you like what you see, then?
Yes, he said. Presumably something could have been done with these.
He also spread out the photos of Jill’s injured face.
They have more to do with one another than you might think, she said. If my husband hadn’t seen these shots of yours, the accident wouldn’t have happened.
She refilled their glasses and lit a cigarette. That’s a frightening thought, isn’t it, that you’re capable of killing someone with your art.
He put the photographs on the table into two piles: the nude shots and the injured faces.
Do you want me to exhibit these?
I don’t know, said Jill. You’re the artist.
She had been smoking one cigarette after the other, now clouds of smoke hung under the low ceiling. Hubert wanted to open a window, but when he stood up he almost overbalanced and had to grab hold of Jill’s chair. She stood up as well, and the chair fell over. They held each other.
Come, she said. He looked in her eyes, but their look was expressionless. It was chilly in the bedroom and smelled of wood and old smoke.
When Hubert awoke, he felt giddy, but at least he didn’t have a headache. He was dressed. Next to him lay Jill, apparently asleep. She was wearing a short silk nightdress, which had ridden up a little. He stroked her, felt her coming around, though she didn’t move. After a time she turned and looked at Hubert.
What time is it?
Without answering, he laid his hand on her stomach and went on stroking her. Jill smiled. When he slipped his hand down between her legs, she gripped it tight.
Draw me.
Hubert groaned.
There’s a pad and pencils on my desk downstairs, she said.
He groaned again, got up, and went downstairs. When he came back, she was undressed. She was lying on her stomach, her head pillowed on her crossed arms.
Hubert sat on a chair and drew her. As soon as he stopped, Jill changed position, and he turned the page and started a new sketch. She lay on her side; with her upper body raised; kneeling, hands behind her back; standing with folded arms by the window; sitting on a chair, legs apart, hands on her knees.
After he had done about twenty drawings, Jill went up to him and propped her hands on her hips. Let’s see what you’ve done.
Hold that, he said and sat on the bed to go on drawing.
Turn around.
He made a couple more drawings until Jill said she was hungry and had to have a cup of coffee and a cigarette. They ate breakfast in the sunshine outside.
Well, that seemed to work all right, said Jill.
Hubert shook his head. Those were just finger exercises.
Jill leafed through the pad on the table in front of them.
I like your drawings.
Of course I can knock out a couple of nudes, said Hubert, but that doesn’t prove anything.
I think I expected to be told something about myself from your pictures, said Jill, but then I saw you didn’t see me at all. That’s what made me undress. The notion that a human being should be something sealed off like a table or a chair is nonsense. Eventually I was reconciled to the thought that I didn’t really exist.
She went on leafing through the drawings.
The thing about the drawing lessons here, by the way, I meant that. They don’t need to be life classes. If you’re going to be spending more time here. You’d be paid for it, maybe it would inspire you.
Hubert was pushing buttons on his phone. There’s no reception here either, he said.
He spent the next several days driving around the area, even though he felt tired and unwell. He took photographs of the landscape that he knew he would never use. It was pleasant and warm. Sometimes he parked his car and walked some way up a slope, but he never went very far. When he ran into Arno, Arno always looked at him reproachfully. Once, Hubert asked him when the other artists were arriving. Arno shrugged and said they were delayed, he had no exact information.
On Thursday Hubert took the train down into the valley and spent the weekend in the city without getting in touch with Nina or Astrid, or taking in the diploma exhibition. Arno tried to speak with him once or twice, but each time Hubert refused the call. Instead, he called Jill and made a date for Saturday.