Fugitive Colors, page 3
Instead, he stole another glance at the woman. She was moving about now. Through her drab dress, he could see the bouncing silhouette of her full breasts. She was not young, at least ten years older than he was. She was not beautiful either. Her eyes were closely spaced, her nose was too narrow, and her lips curved into a natural frown. Yet, it was the way she held herself, proud and haughty, as though she were a princess and not a peddler.
The woman began shouting at potential customers; her voice was shrill and slightly irritating as she tried to sell her grayish-looking potatoes. Yakov wished she would be quiet. He just wanted to look at her, to focus on the subtle curve of her neck. He could practically feel the smooth flesh as though it were silk rubbing against his fingertips. And so many colors at once—white, peach, gold with flecks of rose. He squeezed his hands into tight fists to prevent himself from reaching out to touch the moistness of her skin as the sun danced over it.
Someone was tugging at the back of his coat, demanding two bundles of socks for twenty cents. The same guy again. Yakov dismissed him with a sharp flick of his wrist. Couldn’t the man see that he had no time for socks? No time for bargaining games.
Not anymore.
Yakov’s heart pounded beneath the thick layers of his dark clothing. How he longed to tear off the binding uniform—the overcoat, the jacket, the white shirt, the tzitzis, the vest—the same colorless uniform day after day, season after season. How he yearned to stand beside the woman as she stood naked in her tub. Not to touch her. Simply to paint her.
But that, too, was forbidden.
The urges lately had become unbearable, and he could no longer sleep through the night. Yakov felt he was losing his mind. He had to paint out in the open, freely, or he would die. It was not just this woman that Yakov yearned to paint. It was many women—old, young, fat, ugly, beautiful—it didn’t matter. Each had some unique quality that stuck in Yakov’s head. He would see these women on his way to the yeshiva, at Shabbos dinner, at weddings and bar mitzvahs, at the grocer, on the street. Faces, postures, looks, and gestures—all of them passing through his head day and night, so that he was on the verge of exploding.
The woman turned slightly, peering quickly over her shoulder at Yakov, as though she understood. His mouth dropped open. How could she possibly know what he was thinking? No one in the market understood him—his unquenchable desire to paint not peddle, paint not study, paint not pray. He shook his head. No, she could not know any of that. He squinted back at her, and she smiled. Was she teasing him? Had he imagined that too?
His heart raced, and Yakov knew if he did not do something immediately, he would erupt right there in the middle of the market, against the hated bundles of black socks.
He pushed the cart forward, looked around, and then reached inside his overcoat. He pulled out a charcoal pencil and the special prayer book that he had received from his parents on his bar mitzvah. The items trembled in his sweaty grasp. He could have found something else to use, or even another place to do this where no one would see him. But then, he thought, nothing would change. He knew that once the pencil left the camouflage of his coat, there would be no turning back.
After all these years in hiding, it was time.
Exhaling as though each escaping breath were his last, Yakov opened the prayer book and began to sketch the woman’s image right there inside the slim margins where the Hebrew letters ended and the white margin of space began. It was the worst kind of sin: desecrating God’s name inside the Holy Book. But if there were indeed a God, Yakov reasoned, He would understand why it had to be done precisely this way.
It was his farewell sin.
People began to surround Yakov as he drew, and the woman looked frightened, yet she tilted her head slightly, posing in full view, defying them. But why, he wondered? She owed Yakov nothing. Perhaps deep down she, too, must want something more out of life than potatoes.
All around him, Yakov was being assaulted by shouts and threats to tell his father, his mother, the rabbi. Yet nothing mattered to him but the drawing. He drew voraciously, until everything—including the woman—lost all shape and form, until the surrounding sounds melded into one long, abstract, meaningless drone.
Suddenly, a rough hand clasped like pincers onto his left shoulder. Yakov glanced briefly at the hairy knuckles squeezing his jacket. An angry mouth then pressed against his ear, shouting in Yiddish to leave the market and never come back. Then came the tomatoes, potatoes, onions, carrots, and fruit being thrown at him from all sides.
It didn’t matter. Yakov understood their anger and took it. Despite the attack, he kept drawing and did not move—even when someone began throwing his own rolled-up black socks at him. He welcomed it all, because this was the day that Yakov Klein would officially cease to exist.
When the food throwing subsided and he was fully covered with tomato juice and slop, Yakov quietly placed the Holy Book on top of his father’s cart as evidence. Tears of relief ran down his face.
What was done was finally done.
The enraged crowd opened up for his exit, shouting that he was a gonif—a thief—who had stolen their honor and rejected their cloistered, predictable world for the one outside. But as he slowly moved through the mud-caked aisle, Yakov held his head high even as more tomatoes were flung at his back. He was free, that’s all that mattered. The chains were now severed, and he was no longer a prisoner, but a fugitive—on the run from a life he never should have been born into in the first place.
But there were still more sins to come.
Later that night, gazing up at the familiar cracked ceiling of his bedroom, Yakov reflected on what had happened in the market, and knew that he had brought dishonor upon his family. When he had returned home, his parents would not speak to him. His mother did not offer him dinner, did not look at him. Instead, his father had handed him a suitcase, and then both watched him pack in silence. His mother’s bright green eyes were red, her face splotchy from hours of crying. She could not hide her shame at having been betrayed by her only child before the entire community, before God. She had always known about his art, but their unspoken deal was that it was to remain a secret. Yakov knew that what had happened in the market was unforgivable. But he would do it all over again. In that single moment, his life had finally become his own, marking his true bar mitzvah—his passage into manhood.
Yakov punched his pillow and sat up, deciding there was no point in waiting for morning. He would leave now. It would be easier on everyone.
He rose from the bed, put on his trousers, and opened his suitcase. He gazed at the bundle of drawings that had once been concealed beneath his floor, but was now neatly organized on top of his clothes. He would no longer have to draw in secret. He gently lifted the bundle. Under it was a small black leather case. Inside was a razor that he used periodically to trim his hair. He removed the razor from the case, walked toward the small mirror hanging on the wall, and stared at his bearded reflection. He tried to picture the smooth skin under the thick light brown facial hair and payis. He imagined that he might be quite handsome without all the hair. He had seen the way the secular girls eyed him at the market, especially when he smiled. And he had heard through friends at the yeshiva that the religious girls were always discussing his potential as a husband. The thought had embarrassed him, but now he was excited to see what all the fuss was about.
He dipped the razor into a cup of water that had been left out on his desk, and then pressed the blade against the dangling six-inch lock of hair and cut it off. First the right side, then the left. He stuffed the two sidelocks into his pocket, sparing his mother the additional pain of finding them in his garbage once he was gone. He stared at his new self in the mirror and admired his changed reflection. He felt new, different. He smiled guiltily: Goodbye, Yakov Klein.
He packed up the razor and a few scattered belongings, picked up his suitcase, and closed his bedroom door behind him. Tiptoeing through the kitchen, he paused before a wooden cabinet in the far corner of the room. He knew that in the back of the cabinet, hidden behind the meat dishes, stood a large pickle jar in which his mother kept money that she had been saving for him since the day he was born. She was planning to give it to him on his wedding day.
Yakov knew that exactly three hundred and sixty-two dollars were stuffed inside that jar. His mother would announce the weekly accounting every Sunday night with pride. He carefully opened the cabinet and reached in back of the dishes for the jar, promising himself that he would take only half the money and return it as soon as he could.
As he counted out the bills and change on the kitchen table, his heart beat heavily. He suddenly felt guilty about all the socks his mother had to roll to earn the money. He tried to push the feeling away. He was just borrowing the money, he reminded himself, not stealing it.
Stuffing the wad of bills inside his coat pocket and replacing the jar, he picked up his suitcase and headed for the door. The train station was half a mile away. The night was warm; it would be an easy walk.
He took one last look around the small dark kitchen. He should leave a note—something, he thought. He found a pencil and paper and started to write, but then tore up the paper. What could he possibly say to his parents? Instead, he opened up his suitcase and pulled out the bundle of drawings. He sifted quickly through the artwork until he found the picture of his mother that he had sketched over a year ago from memory. In the image, she was standing over the stove cooking Shabbos dinner, wearing her fancy lace apron over her good black Shabbos dress. Her face was peaceful, her shoulders and body relaxed, her lips were closed, but she was smiling.
Yakov kissed the drawing and then left it on the table. He felt a lump forming in his throat and swallowed hard as he quietly shut the front door behind him.
Don’t look back, or you will turn into a pillar of salt.
As he approached the end of the street, he could sense his mother behind him, feel the weight of her presence pulling at him.
Keep going, he warned himself, but knew he would turn around.
And there she was, his mother, standing at the kitchen window, the streetlight illuminating her presence. She wore her white nightgown, only without her robe. The gown was unbuttoned at the top, revealing her neck and the top of her chest. Her hair was disheveled, hanging loosely around her face. Yakov had never seen her look like that. Even at breakfast, she always remained modestly dressed in front of him, her long dark hair always pulled back into a bun. He could see that she was holding his drawing and the pickle jar. She then touched the window with just her fingertip, moving it slowly along the glass, as if to trace the image of a son she would never see again. Her hand dropped, and the drawing was gone from his view. She then pressed her face hard against the glass, her mouth and nose flattening violently against it. She opened her mouth wide—a silent scream. It was too much for him to bear. Yakov tried to look away but could not stop staring. If only he could paint her like that—her green eyes wet and glistening with fear, her pale forehead pleated with worry, her full lips opened and filled with blackened words that no one would ever hear.
Yakov reluctantly turned away and moved forward, a skinny shadow against the night, just as his mother began to cry.
“Julian, are you okay?”Adrienne squeezed his arm and pulled him away in the opposite direction of the vendors. “You’re Jewish, right? I am too, and so is René—although no one would know it.”
“That’s because I’ve never stepped foot inside a synagogue.” René pulled Adrienne in close. “Besides, art is my religion, and Adrienne is my goddess.”
“Oh, please. Haven’t we all had enough stupidity for one night?” Adrienne pointed across the street and looked at René lovingly. “Well, we’re here, and I’m exhausted. I hope you understand that I need a good night’s sleep.” She touched his arm. “I’ll see you and Felix at the studio tomorrow.”
René tenderly kissed the top of her head. “Of course I understand.”
They followed Adrienne inside the exquisitely manicured courtyard of an ornate gray stone building covered with ivy, and Julian understood that his new friends were not starving artists like himself.
Adrienne kissed Felix goodnight and then turned to Julian, clasping his clammy hand inside her soft, cool one. “It was lovely meeting you, Julian. We must do it again.”
“I would like that,” he said, trying to keep his face blank, but he could feel his cheeks redden at her touch. He quickly released her hand and walked back toward the gate where Felix was standing. But from the corner of his eye he watched René kiss Adrienne passionately at her doorstep. The kiss was long and hard. Adrienne’s eyes were closed. Her skin was illuminated by the moonlight. Julian tried to look away, but she was so natural and beautiful.
“Don’t get too attached,” Felix commented sharply from behind him. “They are planning to marry.”
Was he that obvious? “René is definitely a lucky guy,” Julian said.
“More than lucky,” Felix said tersely, and Julian caught a fleeting spark in Felix’s cobalt eyes. “Adrienne and I were together for a short time, that is, until she met René. Just a warning, my friend: Never bring your girlfriends around René. They all fall in love with him. He’s too pretty.”
Julian eyed Felix closely as René slowly walked over to them. “That must have been hard.”
Felix’s gaze became cloudy. “It took a few models at the studio and I was cured.”
Before Julian could respond, René joined them. “Well, my muse is off to sleep.” He patted Felix on the back. “What’ll it be, Von Bredow?”
“The usual. Paint, drink, paint, and drink some more. Are you game, Julian?”Without waiting for an answer, Felix snatched Julian’s portfolio out from under his arm and started to run.
“Hey, give that back!” Julian chased after him.
“I want to see your oeuvre—what you’re made of,” Felix called out into the wind, and then he slowed down.
“Damn you,” Julian said, as he quickly caught up with him. “That’s personal.”
“Nothing’s personal.” Felix walked briskly toward a nearby bench and sat down.
Julian knew he had a choice: rip the portfolio out of Felix’s hands or let it pass. He walked toward Felix, and then stopped. Why should he feel ashamed? It shouldn’t matter what Felix thought about his work. He was good enough to get into the École des Beaux-Arts. But as Felix turned each page, Julian stared down at the ground, anxiously awaiting a verdict.
“This one isn’t bad,” Felix proclaimed finally. “It is kind of surreal. Nice use of color. What is this, anyway?”
“A baseball field.”
“What? No flowers or fruit in a bowl? So this is what they teach in America?” He held up the book. “René, have a look.”
René joined Felix on the bench, and Julian was forced to watch them both sift through the pages. After ten minutes, Felix looked up with a taunting grin. “What do you call this one—Man On Blue Mound?” He indicated another of his many drawings of Yankee Stadium.
Julian lunged for his portfolio and snatched it out of Felix’s hands.
Felix kicked up his feet onto the bench. “Sensitive, ay? I like you, Julian. And your work is good.”
Julian started to walk in the opposite direction when René grabbed him by the sleeve. “Ignore him. Felix acts like a child—but he’s right. Your technique is really good, Julian. But if you want to know the truth, you don’t go far enough.”
Julian stopped in his tracks. What made René an expert?
“Really?” He turned angrily. “And how far is that?”
René shook his head. “The portraits are exact, but there is no emotion. The baseball players, for example, look like statues. And the field is precise but empty.”
“Empty? I bet you have never even seen a baseball field.” Julian knew he sounded defensive, like someone’s kid brother out to prove himself.
“Actually, I have. My father is an art dealer. I have traveled to America with him on several occasions,” René said. “Look, the field is geometrically correct. Perfect, actually. The colors work. But I want to feel the game, not see it. I can’t feel it at all.”
Julian turned once again to go, but René stopped him.
“Paint with us,” he insisted. “One night. It won’t kill you, I promise.”
“I make no such promise,” Felix declared, and then gestured across the street. “Anyway, here we are.”
Felix and René entered the apartment ahead of Julian, who stopped at the doorway and stared inside in awe. The room was an enormous studio apartment that was at least five times the size of the hole that he had lived in back in New York. And it was a pigsty. Hundreds of jars of paint, clusters of easels, half-finished canvases and stretchers were strewn about the hardwood floor. Clothes were everywhere, covering the bed, the couch, and the large desk. Dirty coffee mugs, wine bottles, and paint rags claimed any leftover space. The whole place reeked of turpentine.
“Get the hell inside, Julian, before my neighbors complain,” Felix yelled from the kitchen area. “And lock the door while you’re at it.”
Julian entered the apartment, placing his things near the door, and then slowly walked around the room. He noticed Felix watching him with interest.
“So, you like my apartment?” Felix asked. “My ancestors are probably rolling in their graves. As you can see, I’m not only the cursed second son, but a slob as well.”
Julian walked toward the couch where René was sitting. He gestured toward the painting hanging over René’s head and whispered, “Van Gogh?”
“A self-portrait,” Felix answered nonchalantly from behind him. “It belonged to my grandmother.” He strolled over to the painting, cocked his head to the side, and then removed the picture from the wall.
Julian could not believe that Felix possessed an actual van Gogh. He stared at the painting, which was now on the floor. He longed to pick it up and protect it somehow.
René smiled at Felix, as if they both shared an inside joke. “Not the wall again, Felix. How unoriginal of you.”
