Marion languidly tidied up the apartment after they left, humming and singing to herself. The apartment was small and there wasnt much to do other than clean the cups and coffee pot and put them away. She sat on the couch, hugging herself as she listened to the music. She had the strangest feeling inside, a feeling that was unfamiliar but not threatening. She thought about it, tried to analyze it, but she couldnt quite identify it. For some reason she kept thinking of the many, many madonnas she had seen in the museums of Europe, especially in Italy, and her mind was filled with the bright blues and brilliant light of the Italian renaissance and she thought of the Mediterranean and the color of the sea and sky and how, as she looked at the isle of Capri from the restaurant on the top of the hill in Naples, she suddenly realized why the Italians were masters of light and why they could use blue like no one before or since. She remembered sitting on the patio of that restaurant under the net awning, the sun warming a new life into her and firing her imagination and experiencing what it must have been like to sit there a few hundred years ago in that light and color and listen to Vivaldis strings singing and vibrating through that air, and Gabrielis brass canzones pulsing from the nearby towers, and sit in a cathedral with the sun bursting through the stained windows and gleaming on the carved wood of the pews listening to a Monteverdi Mass. It was then, for the first time in her life, that she felt alive, really and truly alive, like she had a reason for existing, a purpose in her life and she had realized that purpose and would now pursue it and dedicate her life to it. All that summer and fall she painted, mornings, afternoons, evenings, then walked around the streets that were still echoing the music of the masters, and every stone, every pebble seemed to have a life and reason of its own and she somehow felt, though vaguely, a part of that reason. Some nights she would sit in the caf£ with other young artists and poets and musicians and who knows what else, drinking wine and talking and laughing and discussing and arguing and life was exciting and tangible and crisp like the clear Mediterranean sunlight. Then as the grayness of winter slowly seeped down from the north the energy and inspiration seemed to ooze from her as paint from a tube and now when she looked at a bare canvas it was only a bare canvas, a piece of material stretched over a few pieces of wood, it was no longer a painting waiting to be painted. It was just canvas. She went further south. Sicily. North Africa. Trying to follow the sun to the past, the very recent past, but all she found was herself. She went back to Italy, gave away all her paintings, equipment, books and what nots. She went back to that restaurant on the hill in Naples and sat there for endless hours for a week, looking at Vesuvius, Capri, the bay, the sky, trying, with the desperation of the dying, to reawaken those old feelings, trying with jewels of sparkling wine to rekindle the flame that half fired her imagination just a short lifetime ago, and though the wine sparkled in the sunlight, and the moonlight, the once blazing fire was extinguished and Marion finally succumbed to the stone coldness within her. She shivered as she remembered leaving Italy and coming back to the States, back to the grossness of her family, back to the dulled brilliance of her life. She shivered again, involuntarily, as she sat on the couch, looking back through so many miserably unhappy yesterdays, then smiled and hugged herself tighter, not from coldness nor fear nor despair, but joy. All that was in the near and distant past. Over with. Gone. Once more her life had reason… purpose. Once more there was a direction for her to follow. A need for her energies. She and Harry were going to recapture those blues of the sky and sea and feel the warmth of desire that had been rekindled. They were going to a new renaissance.
Sara slowly awakened in the middle of the night and though she tried for many long seconds to fight it, eventually she got out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom to relieve the urgent pressure of her bladder. She tried to blink her eyes open, but they were unyielding to her attempts and so she kept them almost completely closed as she sat thinking thin. Though still partially asleep, her mind clouded and fogged, she was still aware of the water passing through her body and the reason for its abundance—thin, thin, thin — she suddenly straightened up—zophtic, zophtic, zophtic — Why should I settle for second best? Still half asleep she stood for a few seconds watching and listening to the whirling water in the bowl with joy because she knew that not only unwanted pounds were going down the drain and ultimately to the ocean, but an old life, a life of loneliness, a life of futility, of being unnecessary. Sometimes her Harry needed her, but… She listened to the music of the water filling the flush tank and smiled through her haze of partial wakefulness, knowing that freshness was filling her and soon she would be a new Sara Goldfarb. The fresh water in the bowl was crystal clear and looked cool and refreshing, even in a toilet bowl it looked cool. Clean is clean and new is new… Still I/ll drink from the faucet, thank you. Sara went back to bed, a slight bounce to her step. The sheets felt cool and refreshing as she lay down and rubbed her fingertips up and down on the silky smoothness of her nightgown, sinking deeper into a smile, a smile that she saw reflected on the inner surface of her eyelids. She breathed slowly and deeply then sighed long and happily as she floated in the weightless joy between sleep and wakefulness and dozily felt the sensations tingle through her body and then seem to disappear somewhere in her toes as she cuddled into the light fluffmess of her old pillow and kissed herself goodnight and sailed eagerly into the comfort of her dreams.
Harry was still wired when he got back to Marions pad. She gave him a couple of sleeping pills and they sat on the couch for a while, smoking a joint, until Harry started to yawn and then they went to bed and slept through the dreary heat of the day.
Today the hair was perfect. Such a color. It was so gorgeous it makes you want to jump out a window. Now you should hurry up and get on the show before the roots grow out. Believe me, I want to, but Im glad theyre waiting until I lose more weight. When I walk across the stage its a hush youll hear. I/ll look over my shoulder and say I vant to be alone. So now youre Swedish American? They chuckled and Sara went back to her apartment to see how her red dress would look, now, with her red hair. She put it on, and the gold shoes, and posed and twisted and turned in front of the mirror, holding the back of the dress as close together as possible. It seemed to come a little closer. She could feel that she lost weight. She wiggled and squealed and smiled at her reflection, then threw herself a kiss, Youre gorgeous, a living doll. She wiggled and squealed again, kissed her hand then grinned at her reflection, A Greta Garbo youre not, but youre no Wallace Beery either. She looked over her shoulder in the direction of the refrigerator, See, Mr. Smartypants, Mr. Fancy Dancy Herring Tidbits? Already its almost fitting. A few more inches, more or less, and I/ll fit in nice and snug thank you very much. Keep your herring. Whose needing? I love my egg and grapefruit. And lettuce. She posed and pranced for a while longer, then decided to eat her lunch and go out and get some sun. She took the egg, grapefruit and lettuce out of the refrigerator, an expression of smug superiority on her face. She tossed her head contemptuously at the refrigerator and hit the door with her tuchis. So, hows by you Mr. Big Mouth? You see how I look and youre speechless. She vamped in front of the refrigerator then proceeded to fix her lunch, humming, singing, wiggling, feeling safe and cocky. When she finished her lunch she washed the dishes, put them away, got her chair and, before leaving the apartment, kissed her fingertips and patted the refrigerator, Dont cry, dolly. As my Harry would say, Be cool. She chuckled, turned off the television, and left the apartment and joined the ladies sitting in the sun. She put her chair in a good spot and closed her eyes and faced the sun like the others. They didnt change positions as they talked, but continued to look straight ahead in the direction of the sun, turning their chairs occasionally so the sun would always be shining directly on their faces. Know yet what show? Are you hearing anything? How could I hear? I just mailed it yesterday. Maybe tomorrow. It might even be longer. So whats the difference what show? Thats how I feel. Its the television thats the important thing. Theyll let you know ahead of time? What are they going to do, tell her after the show? You can bring friends? Sara shrugged, So how should I know? They should let you bring at least a schlepper. Whose going to carry all those prizes? Believe me I/ll get them home. Especially Robert Redford. For him I dont need a schlepper. The women chuckled and nodded as they continued to stare at the sun, and women who were walking by stopped to talk with Sara and by the time she had been sitting there for half an hour all the women in the neighborhood were knotted around her talking, asking, chuckling, hoping, wishing. Sara felt warmed not only by the sun but by all the attention she was suddenly receiving. She felt like a star.
Marion bought some sketch pads and pencils and charcoal. She also bought a sharpener and a spray can of fixit. She wanted to buy some pastel chalks, but for some reason what they had didnt appeal to her so she let it go for now. She could always get them later. Maybe in a few days she would get down town and roam around the large art supply stores and smell and touch the canvas, the stretcher strips, easels and brushes and just sort of browse. She had no intention of buying any oils until she had a studio, but she did want to do some watercolors. Thats where her head was really at right now. She could feel that light, delicacy within her that she knew she could transform into beautiful and fragile watercolors. Yes, that was what she liked most about watercolors, their fragility. She couldnt wait. She had this incredible urge to paint a single rose standing in a slender vase of translucent blue, Venetian glass, or perhaps lying on a piece of velvet. Yes, that would be lovely too. With just a hint of shadow. So delicate and fragile that you can smell its fragrance. Well we/ll see. Perhaps in a few days. But for now some sketching to help to reanimate the eye and hand. She felt an almost uncontrollable urge to draw everything she saw as she walked the street, everything had such a vibrance, such a life. She quickly noticed the shapes of noses, eyes, ears; the planes of faces, the cheek bones, chins; the curve of necks; and hands. She loved hands. You can tell so much from hands and the way the fingers are shaped and primarily the way people hold and treat their hands. She was quite young, a child, the first time she saw a picture of Michelangelos Creation and when she saw the detail of God giving life to Adam the image was immediately and irrevocably implanted in her mind. The more she studied painting in the later years the more impressed she was with the simple conception behind that image and the incredible story in the attitude of the two hands. It was an attitude that she tried to incorporate in her work and every now and then she felt she had succeeded, at least to some degree. She wanted to simply, and directly, tell the viewer something about the painting with the attitude of the object whether human or otherwise, to transpose her inner feelings to the surface of the canvas… to express her attitude through her art, to have her sensitivity seen and felt.