The figure was roughed out, a crude sketch in clay.
"All set, Peggy?"
When he turned, she was standing up with a glass of wine in her hand. She drank the wine in one long swallow, set the tumbler down, and took off her sweater. She unbuttoned her blouse, pulled it down over her arms, laid it on top of the sweater. She unfastened her skirt and stepped out of it. The others were watching her silently. She reached behind her, unfastened her brassiere and removed it, then her panties. She sat down a moment to take off her shoes, then stepped up onto the dais and assumed the model's position, legs apart, pelvis forward, hands on her hips. Her heavy breasts rose and fell with her breathing; her hips swayed a little, almost imperceptibly, from side to side.
Always before, in life classes, there had been something entirely impersonal in the silence between the model and the students. This was not like that. Peggy's breasts, her pelvis, thrust themselves toward him with an insinuating provocation; as she swayed, the muscles of her thighs tensed and relaxed, tensed and relaxed.
Gene pulled off lumps of clay, began pressing them onto the figure to round out the thighs, hips, breasts. "Who's timing this?" Peggy asked after a moment.
"I am," Darío said. "You want to do half an hour?"
"Okay."
The others were muttering together; Gene could not make out the words, but he knew what they were saying. 'Bet you ten bucks he comes in his pants.'
He concentrated on the work he was doing, the clay in his fingers. Gradually it got better. "Would you move your left foot a little?" he said.
"Which way?"
"Out. Yes, like that." He worked on the legs, trying to get the figure balanced properly, weight a little more on one leg than the other. The figure's breasts were too big; he pared them down with a wire tool, built them up again. "Turn around," he said.
Peggy turned her soft buttocks to him, took the pose again. "Like this?"
"Left foot out a little more. Little more forward. Okay."
The room was still. He blocked in the buttocks, built up the round muscles of the thighs.
"Time?" said Peggy after a while.
"Thirty-four minutes. Sorry, Peggy, I forgot to look."
She got down from the dais. "Hand me a robe, somebody." Gus got her a flannel dressing gown; she belted it on and came over to look at the figure. "Not bad," she said after a moment. "Am I as skinny as that?"
"I'd rather build it up than take it off," Gene said. Her scent was in his nostrils. "Anyhow, that's enough for one session."
"Ah, come on," said Darío loudly. "You're not tired, are you, Peg? The evening is early."
"I can do another half hour. Give me a cigarette first." She sat down on the edge of the dais, smoked a cigarette, and drank a glass of wine. Darío and Gus were arguing about something in low voices.
She stubbed the cigarette out, took off the robe again and stepped up on the dais. "Which way now?"
"Sidewise." He glanced at his watch. "Give me your left profile."
He worked on the figure, adding clay and taking it away, trying to get the cant of the torso right. "Elbow a little forward." Standing under the lights with her body in profile, she was no more now than a model; he could not see her eyes, but her expression had changed.
"Time," said Darío.
Peggy stretched, picked up her robe, and came down off the dais.
Darío and Gus were muttering together. "Listen," said Darío, "we're going down to Tony's and get a table. Come on down when you get dressed."
"Okay."
When they were gone, there was a deep silence in the loft. Gene became intensely aware of the darkness around the lights, the emptiness. Peggy was putting her underwear on. Gene sat on a high stool and watched her, unable to look away. She buttoned her blouse, stepped into her skirt and adjusted it, pulled her sweater over her head. She rummaged in her bag a moment, found a comb and pulled it through her hair. When she was done, she put the comb back, picked up a compact and lipstick. Staring intently into the little mirror, she carefully drew the shape of her upper lip. She closed the lipstick, dropped it and the compact into her open bag. She moved toward him, rubbing her lips together, then separating them with a smack.
"That's really not bad," she said, looking at the figure. She was standing so close to him that her hip touched his thigh; he could smell the scent of her lipstick. She turned to face him; now her expression had changed again. There was a faint smile on her lips, and her eyes were narrowed. "You don't like girls?" she asked.
"I like girls."
"Do you?" She moved still closer, and her hand came up between his legs. Gene tried to squirm away, but he was trapped by the stool and her body. "Don't -- " he said. "Let me -- " He put up his hand; she brushed it aside. She was standing so close now that her thighs were pressed against his, while her hand, between them, went on stroking him through the cloth. Gene realized suddenly that he could not hold back any longer, and then it was too late: he felt a painful contraction and a spurt of wetness.
She kept her hand there a moment longer, then patted him and moved away. Through a haze of tears, he saw her pick up her purse. When she was almost at the door, he said, "Why did you do that?"
She turned and looked at him across the loft. "I don't know," she said. "Sweet dreams." The door closed behind her.
Gene looked at the clay figure. He took it in both hands, Squeezed the clay, ripped it off the armature and threw it in the bin. When he turned, Avila was standing there, his face mournful.
"John, I am so sorry," he said. "It is my fault, I should have prevented it."
Gene's muscles were twitching; a sob came up into his throat like a fist. "She -- she -- "
"I know." The older man's arm came warmly around him. "It was Darío, he does it to hurt me, and Peggy -- maybe to hurt him, who knows? Come on." He led Gene to the sink at the end of the room. "Take your pants off." He ran water on a washrag, squeezed it, gently mopped away the stickiness on Gene's leg, then dried him with a towel. When Gene reached for his trousers, Avila said, "Leave them, they'll be dry in the morning. Come on." They were in the bedroom. "Now the shirt, I'm going to rub your back. Go ahead, take it off. Now lie down on your belly."
In a moment the mattress sagged with Avila's weight. "This is just some oil," his voice said. There was a shock of coolness between Gene's shoulders; then Avila's strong hands were kneading the muscles of his neck and shoulders, loosening and relaxing them, molding them as if his body were sculpture. The tension ebbed; Gene began to feel a delicious comfort and drowsiness.
The hands worked down his body, the arms, back, buttocks, legs, turning his flesh into butter. Half asleep, he felt his shoes and socks being pulled off, heard Avila say, "Now the other side."
He rolled over with an effort. Avila, straddling him again, began to knead his chest, his biceps, then his sides, belly, groin. When the first kiss came, it seemed natural and unsurprising.
Afterward Avila pulled the sheet over them and lay against his back in a warm embrace. "Now you can sleep," he said. "It's okay, grandulÓn. Sleep."
Chapter Eleven
Three days later, when he came into the loft early in the morning, Avila and Darío were sitting beside the stove and he heard their voices, low and serious. They did not look up as he came in. And as he stood watching them, Darío said in the same low voice, "Me cago en tu lástima," I shit on your pity. He got up then and started toward the door; he looked through Gene as if he were not there, and as he passed, Gene saw that his eyes were blind with tears.
Later Avila said, "Don't worry about it. It is very bad, but there is nothing to be done."
After that Darío did not come any more; Avila said he had gone back to Uruguay. Peggy turned up once, with another man, at a party in the loft; Avila spoke to her briefly, and she left with her escort.