My greatest inspirations are the word-blendings of Gabriel Garcia Marquez, William Faulkner, Cormac McCarthy, JM Coetzee, Aleksandar Hemon, Toni Morrison, Thomas Bernhard, Herta Muller, John Irving, Lidia Yuknavitch, Marin Preda, and many others.
Mahogany
Published in The Willow Review and in Eureka Magazine
The entrance door closed with a wooden thump. He listened to the floor creak, creak, and soon his wife was in the studio.
"Al – "
"I know. It's eleven," he said.
"They're asleep." Her voice did not accuse. She looked around.
"Working on some new pieces?"
"Yeah I am. The kids asked for me?"
"No, they just – They watched TV. They wouldn't shut up about some show. They said there are these Buddhist monks who make amazing paintings on rice, then they destroy them. Crazy, isn't it?"
He looked away.
"I've heard of them."
She walked to him and closed the top button of his jacket.
"Soon you'll see your breath here." She pulled her own coat tighter around her body, with a small shudder. She saw his eyes resting on the large stain on her coat. "What, I don't wear this in town." She took a step backward.
"Careful."
A black hardwood mallet lay among the wood shavings, at her heels. She let out a small, emphatic breath through her nose:
"You could be more organized. Or you could let me put all these on the shelf."
"They are where I need them."
"On the floor?" Her eyes narrowed.
"On the floor."
She drew a long breath:
"It's cold as hell."
"I'm not cold."
"You should be."
He reached with his hand and grabbed the back of the only chair in the room. He leaned on it. It was a walnut chair – a comforting, streaked brown.
"Don't wait up for me. I'm not done. Don't worry, I won't wake them up," he said.
"I understand if you skip dinner with us, and they don't care. But you'll get dizzy again if you don't eat."
With her chin, she pointed at the wrapped sandwich on the table. He looked at it without interest.
"I'll eat it right now if it makes you happy."
"It's not about making me happy."
His eyes rested on hers for a second. He stepped to the table and took the sandwich. It rustled.
"How can you stay here without a fire?" She watched him chew, big mouthfuls, big gulps. "Do you know how cold it's gotten? It will be below freezing overnight. They said so."
"Yeah," he said, chewing still. "I'll make a fire at some point."
In the corner of the room, the metal stove looked lonely, abandoned.
"No, you finish eating. Where do you keep the wood again?" She looked around, and her eyes fell on the small stumps lined up by the wall.
His eyes grew wide:
"Are you crazy?"
"Relax, I know that's not the firewood. Is it in the closet?"
His eyes quickly turned to the door of the small closet, opposite the corner with the metal stove.
"It's not there. I just bring it from the pile outside. I don't keep any in the studio."
"Fine, fine, I'll get it," she said. "I wasn't going to burn your cherry woods, your – your mesquites, your whatevers, your basswoods. Not after you spend that kind of money on them."
"Money."
"Yes Al, money. Money is real."
He looked down, his jaw tightening.
"Don't get upset now," she said. "I'll bring the firewood." She stepped carefully among gouges, chisels, and pieces of wood.
"I keep them where I need them, remember?" he said to the open door of the studio. Then he relaxed and sat on the chair, slumping. He looked at the closed closet door. Gaze fixed, he lifted his square chin slightly. His eyelids half covered the dilated pupils, and he drew a deep breath.
When she stepped back into the room, carrying a pile of wood, he straightened himself and looked at her:
"Thanks. Please don't mix those with my wood."
"I know, Al."
"You know."
"All these years, and you think I don't?"
She arranged the twigs and left breathing room for the fire. Then she put in the thicker wood. She groped behind the gray stove, finding the box of matches.
He walked to the window. Outside, the small path to the main house glittered in the night. A few moments later, she joined him, and her hand rested on his shoulder. He did not move.
"I feel as if you don't want me in the studio," she said. "There was a time when we would come here, to hide from the kids."
"Yes. But now you can see –"
"Sure. You have so much going on here. I'm just a pest." Her hand fell from his shoulder to her side.
"Oh, don't start with that." He took her hand and squeezed it slightly, and he let go just as fast.
"I like how you can always see when someone's coming from the house. Nobody can surprise you."
Still watching the house, he nodded.
She turned around. She looked at the various small tables, each with a different project on it. Abstract shapes on a twisted log with roots on it. Half of it human-looking. Small birds taking flight, encased in shapes that suggested cubes and spheres. A big bust carved in heavy, kiln-dried boards glued together.
She sighed.
"Are you seeing someone, Albert? I'm tired of asking, but are you?"
He looked at her, tilting his head backward. His upper lip lifted, vaguely revealing the white of front teeth. His eyes were filled with some kind of sorrow, like that of the branches that shook in the winter wind outside.
"Do you want me to stop working on my art? Is that what you want? This is the only thing I do outside the house. Do you ever see me going anywhere?"
"I do go to work, don't I? I don't know what you do –"
"My whole life is in here. And you don't complain about the money."
"You have a life in the house, too. No need to shout." She reached for a chisel on the shelf. It had a wooden handle, darkened by use. She dropped it back absently, and it rolled for a second among other chisels.
He sighed:
"What do you want me to say, except I'm not cheating."
"You don't even touch me anymore. The kids have noticed."
He bent his head. With the tip of his shoe, he cleared a small space among the shavings, on the wooden floor.
"You just hate to see me work," he said through his teeth.
"Come on, you know I love your work. Ok?"
"Yeah...
She moved away with sudden cheerfulness, stepping close to look at a sculpture of twisted wooden flames. She caressed it with her fingers. It was red, a layer of wax polish making it shine under the two lamps.
"Is this the one you're closest to finishing?"
"Kind of." He smiled, pushing his weight away from the windowsill. "Yes, I guess it is."
"You said it's supposed to be a woman?"
"It's a dance... It's a woman dancing."
"Oh. It's beautiful. It will sell fast."
"Um-hm."
He let out a laugh, startling her.
"What's funny?"
"The life it will have," he said, "on someone else's shelf. That's what's funny. People will gawk at it when they visit, and someone will dust it every week. Because someone will buy it, who has dusting habits. Don't you see?"
"It's sad, it's not funny. You have no control over the life it will have in that house."
"Yes. It will be like an adopted child."
She wrapped her fingers around the red sculpture, protectively. She looked out the window, toward the house.
"I guess it must be like that to you," she said. "Maybe that's why those Buddhist monks destroy their work. Or is it because of their religion?"
He shrugged.
"Could be."
"Well, I better go back. I hope you won't be here all night."
"No. Maybe I'll just finish up this one."
Her shoes made no noise on the floor until she reached the hallway. He listened to her steps, to the door closing, and then he looked outside. Her back shuffled toward the house, smaller and smaller, and dark. He pulled the blinds down.
***
He went straight to the closet and opened the door. He bent, lifting a heavy object covered in a white sheet. He brought it to the only empty table, and he set it there with infinite care. His fingers trembled as he took off the sheet, like a dress. He smiled lovingly.
The sculpture was a woman. Her whole body, unclothed and unashamed, was soft with the red of warm mahogany. He'd made her of one large piece, the most expensive piece of wood in the studio. She sat with one leg tucked under her, leaning one elbow on the folded knee. The other leg hung over the table's edge, like a child's. Her stylized, unrealistically narrow back curved in a long serpentine to the right, smooth and serene like the water of lazy rivers. Her small hands half covered her round, hardwood breasts as she leaned forward with her head bent above the floor.
Her head was wild, oversized. It was how this obsession had started: that singular image of the girl bending over the counter, her hair falling carelessly around her head as she scribbled something on a piece of paper. He'd never seen the girl again after that, and he wasn't sure he'd even fully seen her face.
The mahogany woman looked down at him as he kneeled in front of her. Kneeling, he searched for that perfect angle from which her body did not look out of proportion. She had the eyes of creatures of the woods, pure and shining without layers of polishing wax. He had smoothed her mahogany skin with his razor sharp chisel to take away the edges. He had rounded her curves with the sculptor's spoon. The fishtail had vanished any impurity, and his ferrule had made her skin glow. The sander had caressed her, the buffer had teased her, the oil had turned her lustful. His febrile fingers had reassured her he'd been there all along.
And now he was looking up at this piece of wood, this miracle. She bent toward him, pouring her love upon him, filling him from top to bottom with that unrestrained, untamed mahogany devotion, until his body began to shake. Not with cold, no. He could finally take his jacket off. And his sweater, and his shirt. His pants. He had to be as bare and honest before this creature of his soul, as she was before him.
He reached up with both hands. Her head was fragile between his trembling fingers, and she did not recoil from his touch. He traced the waves of her hair, the roundness of her cheek, the long, long neck. When his hand reached her curved back and felt its smoothness, his hand stopped, and he started crying. He cried with abandonment, never covering his eyes, so she could see him cry.
***
It was three in the morning when he was kneeling in front of the metal stove, and his hands entrusted her body to the fire. He watched the flames take her, consume her, love her in a way he simply could not. It was vital that he said good-bye now, not later. Not even a day later.
No one would own her, tame her. Not even him.
He left the studio like a drunken man.
Published in The Willow Review and in Eureka Magazine
The entrance door closed with a wooden thump. He listened to the floor creak, creak, and soon his wife was in the studio.
"Al – "
"I know. It's eleven," he said.
"They're asleep." Her voice did not accuse. She looked around.
"Working on some new pieces?"
"Yeah I am. The kids asked for me?"
"No, they just – They watched TV. They wouldn't shut up about some show. They said there are these Buddhist monks who make amazing paintings on rice, then they destroy them. Crazy, isn't it?"
He looked away.
"I've heard of them."
She walked to him and closed the top button of his jacket.
"Soon you'll see your breath here." She pulled her own coat tighter around her body, with a small shudder. She saw his eyes resting on the large stain on her coat. "What, I don't wear this in town." She took a step backward.
"Careful."
A black hardwood mallet lay among the wood shavings, at her heels. She let out a small, emphatic breath through her nose:
"You could be more organized. Or you could let me put all these on the shelf."
"They are where I need them."
"On the floor?" Her eyes narrowed.
"On the floor."
She drew a long breath:
"It's cold as hell."
"I'm not cold."
"You should be."
He reached with his hand and grabbed the back of the only chair in the room. He leaned on it. It was a walnut chair – a comforting, streaked brown.
"Don't wait up for me. I'm not done. Don't worry, I won't wake them up," he said.
"I understand if you skip dinner with us, and they don't care. But you'll get dizzy again if you don't eat."
With her chin, she pointed at the wrapped sandwich on the table. He looked at it without interest.
"I'll eat it right now if it makes you happy."
"It's not about making me happy."
His eyes rested on hers for a second. He stepped to the table and took the sandwich. It rustled.
"How can you stay here without a fire?" She watched him chew, big mouthfuls, big gulps. "Do you know how cold it's gotten? It will be below freezing overnight. They said so."
"Yeah," he said, chewing still. "I'll make a fire at some point."
In the corner of the room, the metal stove looked lonely, abandoned.
"No, you finish eating. Where do you keep the wood again?" She looked around, and her eyes fell on the small stumps lined up by the wall.
His eyes grew wide:
"Are you crazy?"
"Relax, I know that's not the firewood. Is it in the closet?"
His eyes quickly turned to the door of the small closet, opposite the corner with the metal stove.
"It's not there. I just bring it from the pile outside. I don't keep any in the studio."
"Fine, fine, I'll get it," she said. "I wasn't going to burn your cherry woods, your – your mesquites, your whatevers, your basswoods. Not after you spend that kind of money on them."
"Money."
"Yes Al, money. Money is real."
He looked down, his jaw tightening.
"Don't get upset now," she said. "I'll bring the firewood." She stepped carefully among gouges, chisels, and pieces of wood.
"I keep them where I need them, remember?" he said to the open door of the studio. Then he relaxed and sat on the chair, slumping. He looked at the closed closet door. Gaze fixed, he lifted his square chin slightly. His eyelids half covered the dilated pupils, and he drew a deep breath.
When she stepped back into the room, carrying a pile of wood, he straightened himself and looked at her:
"Thanks. Please don't mix those with my wood."
"I know, Al."
"You know."
"All these years, and you think I don't?"
She arranged the twigs and left breathing room for the fire. Then she put in the thicker wood. She groped behind the gray stove, finding the box of matches.
He walked to the window. Outside, the small path to the main house glittered in the night. A few moments later, she joined him, and her hand rested on his shoulder. He did not move.
"I feel as if you don't want me in the studio," she said. "There was a time when we would come here, to hide from the kids."
"Yes. But now you can see –"
"Sure. You have so much going on here. I'm just a pest." Her hand fell from his shoulder to her side.
"Oh, don't start with that." He took her hand and squeezed it slightly, and he let go just as fast.
"I like how you can always see when someone's coming from the house. Nobody can surprise you."
Still watching the house, he nodded.
She turned around. She looked at the various small tables, each with a different project on it. Abstract shapes on a twisted log with roots on it. Half of it human-looking. Small birds taking flight, encased in shapes that suggested cubes and spheres. A big bust carved in heavy, kiln-dried boards glued together.
She sighed.
"Are you seeing someone, Albert? I'm tired of asking, but are you?"
He looked at her, tilting his head backward. His upper lip lifted, vaguely revealing the white of front teeth. His eyes were filled with some kind of sorrow, like that of the branches that shook in the winter wind outside.
"Do you want me to stop working on my art? Is that what you want? This is the only thing I do outside the house. Do you ever see me going anywhere?"
"I do go to work, don't I? I don't know what you do –"
"My whole life is in here. And you don't complain about the money."
"You have a life in the house, too. No need to shout." She reached for a chisel on the shelf. It had a wooden handle, darkened by use. She dropped it back absently, and it rolled for a second among other chisels.
He sighed:
"What do you want me to say, except I'm not cheating."
"You don't even touch me anymore. The kids have noticed."
He bent his head. With the tip of his shoe, he cleared a small space among the shavings, on the wooden floor.
"You just hate to see me work," he said through his teeth.
"Come on, you know I love your work. Ok?"
"Yeah...
She moved away with sudden cheerfulness, stepping close to look at a sculpture of twisted wooden flames. She caressed it with her fingers. It was red, a layer of wax polish making it shine under the two lamps.
"Is this the one you're closest to finishing?"
"Kind of." He smiled, pushing his weight away from the windowsill. "Yes, I guess it is."
"You said it's supposed to be a woman?"
"It's a dance... It's a woman dancing."
"Oh. It's beautiful. It will sell fast."
"Um-hm."
He let out a laugh, startling her.
"What's funny?"
"The life it will have," he said, "on someone else's shelf. That's what's funny. People will gawk at it when they visit, and someone will dust it every week. Because someone will buy it, who has dusting habits. Don't you see?"
"It's sad, it's not funny. You have no control over the life it will have in that house."
"Yes. It will be like an adopted child."
She wrapped her fingers around the red sculpture, protectively. She looked out the window, toward the house.
"I guess it must be like that to you," she said. "Maybe that's why those Buddhist monks destroy their work. Or is it because of their religion?"
He shrugged.
"Could be."
"Well, I better go back. I hope you won't be here all night."
"No. Maybe I'll just finish up this one."
Her shoes made no noise on the floor until she reached the hallway. He listened to her steps, to the door closing, and then he looked outside. Her back shuffled toward the house, smaller and smaller, and dark. He pulled the blinds down.
***
He went straight to the closet and opened the door. He bent, lifting a heavy object covered in a white sheet. He brought it to the only empty table, and he set it there with infinite care. His fingers trembled as he took off the sheet, like a dress. He smiled lovingly.
The sculpture was a woman. Her whole body, unclothed and unashamed, was soft with the red of warm mahogany. He'd made her of one large piece, the most expensive piece of wood in the studio. She sat with one leg tucked under her, leaning one elbow on the folded knee. The other leg hung over the table's edge, like a child's. Her stylized, unrealistically narrow back curved in a long serpentine to the right, smooth and serene like the water of lazy rivers. Her small hands half covered her round, hardwood breasts as she leaned forward with her head bent above the floor.
Her head was wild, oversized. It was how this obsession had started: that singular image of the girl bending over the counter, her hair falling carelessly around her head as she scribbled something on a piece of paper. He'd never seen the girl again after that, and he wasn't sure he'd even fully seen her face.
The mahogany woman looked down at him as he kneeled in front of her. Kneeling, he searched for that perfect angle from which her body did not look out of proportion. She had the eyes of creatures of the woods, pure and shining without layers of polishing wax. He had smoothed her mahogany skin with his razor sharp chisel to take away the edges. He had rounded her curves with the sculptor's spoon. The fishtail had vanished any impurity, and his ferrule had made her skin glow. The sander had caressed her, the buffer had teased her, the oil had turned her lustful. His febrile fingers had reassured her he'd been there all along.
And now he was looking up at this piece of wood, this miracle. She bent toward him, pouring her love upon him, filling him from top to bottom with that unrestrained, untamed mahogany devotion, until his body began to shake. Not with cold, no. He could finally take his jacket off. And his sweater, and his shirt. His pants. He had to be as bare and honest before this creature of his soul, as she was before him.
He reached up with both hands. Her head was fragile between his trembling fingers, and she did not recoil from his touch. He traced the waves of her hair, the roundness of her cheek, the long, long neck. When his hand reached her curved back and felt its smoothness, his hand stopped, and he started crying. He cried with abandonment, never covering his eyes, so she could see him cry.
***
It was three in the morning when he was kneeling in front of the metal stove, and his hands entrusted her body to the fire. He watched the flames take her, consume her, love her in a way he simply could not. It was vital that he said good-bye now, not later. Not even a day later.
No one would own her, tame her. Not even him.
He left the studio like a drunken man.