The Chinese Painter (2009)

The Chinese painter wiped her bristle brush with an old rag, swept her hair out of her eyes, and in so doing deposited a smear of paint on her forehead. She plunged the painting brush into a jar of spirit, wiped her hands brusquely then walked quickly and quietly to the door, fastened the bolt and glided to where her model sat.

While placing one finger on his lips, to silence any protest, she fumbled her dress with the other hand and hoicked the fabric high enough to enable her to climb aboard him. Deftly she released him from the zip and smoothly, moistly lowered herself onto him.

When she was done, she let her dress fall into place and threw a towel at her model, replaced the door bolt and proceeded to wash her paintbrush.

In the adjoining room her husband strained to catch unfamiliar English words, emanating from a small portable television, sprawling amidst cigarette packets and dishevelled bedclothes, blithely unaware of his wife’s lust and its satiation.

The affair, if that was what it was, stretched a two year period, from before her husband had arrived from Xian, to after his departure back to their homeland and the inevitable recriminations regarding their actual marital status.

The model had become embroiled in her life through an act of charity, guiding her in her quest for political asylum, and remained involved long after he needed to be. She, the artistic creator, used her model to slake her lust, to satisfy those moments of her need, anywhere, anyhow regardless of husband, later brother, who may remain innocently asleep or casually watching programmes in the room next door.

There was little in the way of romance, fewer promises, as this liaison continued throughout her painting period and into that of life size charcoal sketches. Casually she would abandon the textured Fabriano paper, lay the worn charcoal on her table, check the door handle and almost soundlessly lower herself on his naked model form.

Once, while taking pleasure, her telephone rang, and without missing a stroke, she answered the call; continuing both actions, simultaneously, until they both were finished.

He was a tantric carousel for her forbidden pleasure, an amusement, a diversion from creativity. Meaning as little to her, after, as an empty cellophane noodle wrapper, so easily discarded in the evenings when she would prepare dinner and drink Riesling.

It was a conditional relationship, one which existed solely for her pleasure. He was to arrive when summoned, model when needed and perform his other duties if and when required. Should he quarrel, dissent, then he would be cut out of her life for days, weeks until he recapitulated, apologised and was welcomed, conditionally, back into her favours.

There were times when they went out together, entered society at private views, or openings and he was proud to be seen with this slight, elfin woman who always donned a tight black dress for such occasions. His pride kept him bonded to her, her lust loosely tied her to him, but the ties were ultimately ephemeral.

The Chinese painter changed apartments, gained a new, young neighbour.

The model cycled the same roads, the same paths he had cycled before, but now, on occasions, she was absent from her home. The model would knock, no answer, so he would wait until, tired of waiting, he cycled off.

The knocking and the waiting became more frequent, as did her absences, until days had drifted to weeks and then months passed by without him seeing her, then, one day he noticed her - she stood, in the street, outside her apartment, stretching her head up to talk with her neighbour, his hand stroking her long black hair.