The lock started clicking but the door remained closed. A transparency flashed on the walclass="underline" PLEASE WAIT. Joan stood in front of the door peep, wondered if Joe was scanning her. (Eunice, will he let us in?) (I don't know, Boss. You shouldn't have come. But you wouldn't listen to Jake... nor to me.) (But I am here. Don't scold me—help me.) (I'll try, Boss. But I don't know.)
Through the door, not as soundproof as her own doors, Joan heard a high voice: "Joe! Joe!" (Who's that!) (Could be anybody, Joe has lots of friends.)
The door opened, she saw Joe Branca standing in it. He was dressed in much-worn shorts which had been used repeatedly for wiping paint brushes. His face showed nothing. A girl, a wrapper pulled sketchily around her, looked out from behind him. "See? It's her!"
"Gigi—get back. Hello, Ski. Hi, Fred."
"Hi, Joe."
Joan tried to keep her voice steady. "Joe, may I come in?"
He finally looked at her. "You want to, sure. Come in, Ski. Fred." Joe stood aside.
Dabrowski answered for them. "Uh, not this time, Joe. Thanks."
"Roz. Other time, any. Welcome. Too, Fred."
"Thanks, Joe. See you." The guards turned to leave as Joan started to enter—she checked herself, remembering that she must do something. "Boys!"
Fred kissed her quickly, nervously. Dabrowski did not kiss her; instead he held his mouth to hers and said almost soundlessly, "Eunice, you be good to him. Or, damn, I'll spank you."
"Yes, Anton. Let me go." Quickly she turned, went inside past Joe, waited. Slowly he refastened the hand bolts, taking an unnecessarily long time. He turned and glanced at her, glanced away. "Sit?"
"Thank you, Joe." She looked around at the studio clutter, saw two straight chairs at a small table. They seemed to be the only chairs; she went to one of them, waited for him to remove her cloak—realized that he was not going to do so, then took it off and dropped it, sat down.
He frowned at her, seemed uncertain, then said, "Coffee? Gigi! Java f' Miss Smith."
The girl had been watching from the far end of the room. She tightened her wrapper and went silently to a kitchen unit beyond the table, poured a cup of coffee, and prepared to flash it. Joe Branca went back to an easel near the middle of the room, started making tiny strokes on it; Joan saw that it was an almost finished painting of the young woman addressed as "Gigi." (That's a cheat pie, Boss.) (A what?) (Project a photo onto sensitized canvas, then paint over it. Joe does them if someone wants cheesecake, or a cheap portrait, or a pet's picture——but claims they aren't art.)
(Can't see why, Eunice; it's still an original oil painting.) (I can't, either—but it matters to an artist. Boss, this place is filthy, I'm ashamed, of it. That bitch Gigi.) (She lives here, you think?) (I don't know, Boss. Could be Joe's sloppy housekeeping. He likes things clean—but won't stop to do it. Only two things interest Joe. Painting...and tail.) (Well, he has both, looks like. I see he's kept your Gadabout.) (I'll bet it won't run by now. Joe can't drive.)
Gigi fetched coffee, placed it on the table. "Sugar? Isn't any cream." She leaned closer, added in a fierce whisper, "You don't belong here!"
Joan answered quietly, "Black is fine. Thank you, Gigi."
"Gigi!"
"Yes, Joe?"
"Throne."
The girl turned and faced him. "In front of her?"
"Now. Need you."
Slowly Gigi obeyed, untying her wrapper as she moved, dropped it as she stepped up onto the throne, fell into pose. Joan did not look, understanding her reluctance—not modesty but unwillingness to be naked to an enemy. (But I'm not her enemy, Eunice.) (Told you this would be rhino, Boss.)
Joan tried the coffee, found it too hot—and too bitter, after the delicately fragrant—and expensive—high-altitude brew Della prepared. But she resolved to drink it, once it had cooled.
She wondered if Joe recognized what she was wearing. La Boutique had reconstructed, at great expense, a costume Eunice Branca had once worn, one in last year's "Half & Half" style, scarlet and jet, with a tiny ruffle skirt joining a left-leg tight to a right-side half sweater. Joan had hired the most expensive body-paint artist in the city and had rigidly controlled him in reconstructing the design Eunice Branca had worn with it, as nearly as memory and her inner voice could manage.
(Eunice, was Joe too upset to notice how we dressed?) (Boss, Joe sees everything.) (Then he's gone back to painting not to notice us.) (Maybe. But Joe wouldn't stop painting for an H-bomb. That he let us in at all is a blue moon—in the middle of a painting.)
(How long will he paint? All night?) (Not likely. He does that only for a real inspiration. This one's easy.) It did not look easy to Joan. She could see that the artist was working from an exact cartoon, one that looked like a dim photograph of Gigi as she was posed—but he was working also from his model, yet he was not following either model or photograph. He was enhancing, exaggerating, simplifying, making flesh tones warmer, turning flat canvas almost into stereo, realistic as life, warmer than life, sensuous and appealing.
Perhaps it was not "art"—but it was more than a photograph. It reminded Joan of a long-dead artist Johann had liked. What was his name?—used to paint Tahitian girls on black velvet. Leeteg? (Eunice, what do we do now? Walk out? Joe doesn't seem to care either way.) (Boss, Joe cares dreadfully. See that tic on his neck?) (Then what do I do?)
(Boss, all I can tell you is what I would do.) (Wasn't that what I said?) (Not quite. Any time I came home and found Joe working from another model, I kept quiet and let him work. First I would get out of my working clothes, then shower and get off every speck of paint and makeup. Then tidy things—just tidy, heavy cleaning had to wait for weekends. Then I would get things ready to feed them, because Joe and his model were going to be hungry once they stopped. They always did stop; Joe won't overwork a model. Oh, he sometimes painted me all night but he knew I would ask to stop if I got shaky.).
(Are you telling me to strip down? Won't that upset him still more?) (Boss, I'm not telling you to do anything. This visit wasn't my idea. But he's seen our body thousands of times—and you ought to know by now that nakedness isn't upsetting, it's relaxing. I felt that it was rude to stay dressed when a model was nude—unless I was certain she was easy with me. But I'm not telling you to do this. You can go look out the peep and see if Anton and Fred are still there—they will be—and unbolt the door and leave. Admit you can't put Humpty-Dumpty together again.)
(I suppose I should.) Joan sighed, stood up—kicked her sandals off, peeled the half-sweater down, shoved the ruffle skirt down, and got out of the tight. Joe could not see her, but Gigi could—Joan saw surprise in her eyes but she did not break her pose.
Joan looked at her and put a finger to her lips, then picked up dress and cloak and sandals, headed for the bath unit while avoiding (she thought) Joe's angle of vision—hung her clothes on a rack outside the bath and went in.
It took only minutes of soap and shower to rid her body of jet and scarlet. (Face makeup off, too?) (Forget it, you don't wear as much as I used to. Towels in the cabinet under the sink. Or should be.)
Joan found one clean bath towel, three face towels, decided that it wasn't fair to grab the last bath towel, and managed to get dry with a face towel, looked at herself in the mirror, decided that she was passable—and felt refreshed and relaxed by the shower. (Where do I start?) (Here of course. Then make the bed but see it if needs changing. Sheets in the box with bed lamp on it.)
The tiny bath took little time as scouring powder and plastic sponge were where they almost had to be. The toilet bowl she was forced to give up on—she got it clean but stains left by flushing water did not respond to scrubbing.