| The Fine Art of Romance by Gregg Dean Despite the glare of the sun reflecting directly off the glass, I could make out the portrait in the shop window. Not that the painting itself was remarkable; the subject was a girl in her late twenties, demurely dressed almost to the point of dowdy, hands folded on her lap like La Gioconda. There was no enigmatic smile but there were the eyes. I slowly paced the shop's façade watching the eyes follow my movements. I had seen this before in a number of paintings but these eyes were not only following me, but were seeing me with such deep incisiveness and penetration that I felt guilt and pleasure in the same moment. The shop owner was a portly man whose right hand preoccupied itself with the repetitive task of pressing his glasses to his face using the bridge. "I don't know who she is," he panted, looking sidelong at me, "ghastly picture which refuses to sell." "And the artist?" "A woman calling herself Romance." "She paints well." I commented. The man grunted and shrugged. "The subject's a bit - well you know…well she's not glamorous is she Sir?" "No. But those eyes. Can you see them?" "Can't say I can - well not beyond the service of affording their owner the luxury of sight." "How much?" I asked. He addressed a small book which he took from his pocket, and gave me a figure in lira, francs, sterling and American dollars - this being an age before the Euro turned the luxurious texture of colourful currency into a pale whitewashed impression. I whistled softly and again he shrugged his shoulders. "The artist has set the price. I deal with the agent only." There was a long pause during which he gathered his breath. "I personally would not pay more than the canvas and frame expense, monsieur." I arrived at my pension in the dark and made a small fire which raised the spirits of a cheerless room. I sat and brooded as I listlessly spooned a thin soup around its bowl. I knew to the last centime what I had in my meagre account. Even if I sold the Rolex my father had given me as part of his legacy, I would be short by a long margin. I took stock of the spartan apartment at my few possessions mentally realising and totalling their value. I was still short by about ten thousand francs. I sighed. A bank loan was certainly out of the question. I pondered the problem till I fell asleep. The girl coming out of the sea was unmistakably Romance - the girl from the painting. As she strode powerfully against the waves her brown shoulders broke through the surf. She entered the shallows, the water running in long rivulets down her rounded breasts, coursing her stomach and thigh, her legs making a wake in their passing. Finally she stood in ankle deep water, forcing water from her long hair with her fingers. She put her hand behind my neck and drew my face to her own. "What are you thinking?" she asked in a low voice. "Are we - that is - am I dreaming?" "Yes. Of course." She drew my face to hers and painted a soft salty kiss on my mouth. She withdrew her lips just far enough to tease before placing them over my own again with gentle passion which she injected with her tongue. I caught my breath and ran my hands through her damp hair, over her shoulders. It was as cool as the sea she had come from and smooth making the journey to her back and buttocks a natural and sensual route. Romance kissed me more deeply now, sighing, hands behind my head, pressing her lips more firmly to my own. Gently kneading the flesh of her buttock, she responded by drawing her leg along my side and I could allow my hand to complete its journey to her soft mound. My fingers touched gently on her warm flesh and she broke the kiss to sigh gently. Her hands ran under my shirt, across my shoulders and down my back. Then suddenly I was naked. There was no actual time I removed my clothes - but it was so right that I suddenly wasn't wearing them. Her thighs pressed against mine with an urgency and we sank down to the soft sand. I kissed her lips individually, her neck, her shoulders as my hand gently teased between her legs. She raised he head to allow me to nuzzle against her throat, while her hand quested in the space between our bodies. With blessed ecstasy, her hand closed around my erection. My mouth, now on her shoulder, moved downwards. My hand was already covering one of her breasts and I uncovered it as my mouth took her nipple inside, to play, to suck, to tease. The spoon I was holding fell from my hand, clattering on the ceramic tiles. Even as I awoke Romance's final words crossed between the states of my slumber. "You can yet afford me." It was about 2.30 in the morning as I pulled on a rain mac and stepped into the cold night. I turned my collar against the drizzle and walked in quick measured strides. The avenue was almost dark except for the lights from the gallery where footlights shone onto the window display. I stood and looked at the portrait again which due, maybe to the night lighting or something intangible - as yet undefined, had taken on a new character. The eyes, as soulful as ever, looked back with the certain knowledge that we had met. I stood for long moments staring at the face, oblivious to the water running down my own. A sharp rapping sound caught my attention. "Monsieur." The owner rapped on the glass door and opened it. I gratefully stepped inside. "You are working late - or very early." I commented. "And you are out walking late." He countered. I stood feeling wet and foolish in the shop foyer looking at the shop owner in his pyjamas and robe. Finally he smiled and reached into the pocket of his robe, drew out a scrap of paper. "I have good news for you on this painting. The artist is reconsidering." The paper had a single price - only in francs - still shy of what I had in my account. I shook my head and passed back the note. Even with mortgaging my precious watch and all my other possessions I was not going to make that figure. It was admittedly less distant than before, but a man who cannot swim is as dead dumped a mile from the shore as he is ten miles. The man shrugged and again I told him that he was working late. "I was asleep monsieur, then I was not. I was lying awake and then next, walking down the stairs." Again that gallic shrug. It was an odd explanation that seemed to suit him. Sleeping till ten the next day I was too late for work and frittered my time watching the shop. I watched people come and go and the owner periodically look out at me, over the top of the display paintings, pushing back his glasses in a compound gesture of sympathy and reproach. It was mid afternoon when the painting was removed from the window. Shocked, I strode across the road, narrowly avoided being hit by a car, and with a single motion opened the door and entered the shop. The small shopkeeper was wrapping the painting in brown paper and a tall man in a pin striped suit was counting money out from a large wallet. "You cannot!" I protested hoarsely. "Cannot what, Monsieur?" The customer asked. "You can't buy it. It's mine - that is - I intended buying it." The customer turned to the shopkeeper. "And you have made an arrangement with this man?" he asked. "No. He wants the picture, but cannot afford it." It was simply put and quite correct but I couldn't believe it. Didn't want to believe that this was probably the end of my only chance to own the portrait. "I only want the frame. The picture . . ." he spat contempt at the canvas, "I shall possibly burn it." "No, no. I'll buy the canvas." "You don't understand Monsieur, I own it all and I shall do what I want with it." I returned to my small pension and lay down. I felt cheated and desperate, but mostly I felt guilty. I was letting her down, I had allowed another man to take her. There was no sea this time. Just a small room with a tiny window high on the wall. The floor was stone, as were the walls and the bareness of the room was punctuated by a small table and a single bed with a thin mattress. Romance was perched on its edge, naked and miserable. Bringing her knees up under her chin, she was clutching her legs to her chest. The site was all at once erotic and desperate. "Romance?" she didn't look up but rocked herself slowly making a thin keening sound. "Romance," I persisted, "what can I do?" She stood up, noticing me now for the first time, padded across the floor. Again that glorious kiss and again I shed my clothes. She sank back onto the mattress and drew me to her. Our stomachs touched and I could feel her womanhood against my hard erection. Then the walls were too close and the floor too hard, the air too chill and the room forbidding. "This won't work." I rolled off and stood up. "You didn't get the money then?" Her voice was querulous with fear and disappointment. I shook my head miserably. "And he doesn't love you like I do. He wants to . . ." Romance placed her fingers over my mouth and hissed. "Shhh! I shall think of something. Can you wait?" "Oh yes." She placed her lips over my mouth and pressed her tongue deep inside. I found my breathing getting harder but I didn't want it like this. I wanted to tell her that but I woke with a start, the sheets soaked in sweat. Again the voice on the edge of sleep though I couldn't tell what it said. There were no more dreams and over the nest few days my thoughts and moods were dark and brooding. That cell haunted my waking hours and I found work difficult. I visited the shop on the ridiculous off chance that the painting had been returned but it was a forlorn and childish notion. The shopkeeper was excited by my visit and reached into his pocket. "This morning the servant of the artist called. He said I was to give you the artist's card." "Where does he live?" "About 10 kilometres away. I don't know for sure - I have never actually met him. He sends his work to me and I send back his money ." Gratefully, I seized the card and left. The house was closer to 15 kilometres away and I walked all the way, arriving exhausted and sweating in the sun. The artist's house was old and ramshackle with louvered shutters hanging loosely on their broken hinges. I knocked and walked around the perimeter of the place. Finally a small man opened the back door and emerged blinking the light. "What does monsieur want?" he queried. "It's about your painting - the one in the market gallery." He nodded and led me inside. "I am, sir, not a artist. I only serve the need of one. Follow me." He led me into the building. The size of the place viewed from outside was clearly deceptive as we walked along a long hallway. The walls were lined with paintings. Dark dramatic landscapes, sleepy warm meadows and towering mountains. In each painting there was a mood so completely captured in its creation that you could hear every sigh of every breeze, feel the warmth of every sun-dappled view, smell the baking and the kitchens, feel the joy of the children. They were stunning in depth and time, space and feeling. Somehow every possible dimension known and unknown to man was imbued in every stroke. A whole world - a complete enclosed universe was encased, enclosed by canvas and frame. "Ingenious." I breathed. I dragged my pace, making myself dizzy as I drank in every nuance that I could. Eventually we descended a staircase down into a cellar and the air grew cooler and more dank. "The muse says exactly where an artist paints," he told "now the muse says despair and misery so all work is now done here." He led me to a door which I instantly recognised. He bowed and left. The room was larger than in my dream and the window larger - although still high up. The floor was stone and the bed was larger and more comfortable. But dominating this room, in the centre of the floor was an easel. It was facing me so that the light came over the artist's shoulder. I heard the sounds of brush on canvas and coughed politely. "Monsieur." I said and coughed again. The easel scraped aside on the stone floor. "Mademoiselle." She corrected me and I gasped, "Romance!" "We have to wait - watch" She turned the easel so that I could see clearly her work. The painting was simple made from a small number of bold defining strokes. There were only two items in the picture - a fireplace and a roll of canvas lying on the unlit coals. "He hasn't burnt it yet." I noticed. "He will do - he'll keep that promise." Who is he?" "he is a great painter. Greater than I can ever be. He was my mentor and teacher and lover and now he seeks to destroy me. He has acquired all my paintings and those I have painted of my self, he delights in burning them." "And what will happen?" In answer I saw an orange glow on her face. She turned her attention to the canvas and the painting and the surface writhed in flame. I could feel the heat and the light swelled to fill the small room. The fireplace in the picture glowed brightly as the canvas which fuelled it turned to ash. "I don't know." Romance said honestly, "we shall wait." I watched the outline of her beautiful face dim as the last of the flames died. Romance looked at her hands and picked up the brush. It looked awkward in her had. Even to my untrained eye I could see before she told me that something had happened." "It's over. I shall never paint again." "I'm sorry." She led me to the bed, where she undressed us both. Unhurried and languid she ran her hands over me and it seems no less real than my dreams. She lay on the bed and I kissed her buttock, stroked her long elegant back and lay between her legs. She raised herself and I entered her from behind with ease. My arms enfolded her and cupped each breast as she rocked back and forth, my cock moving inside her with the rhythm. He breathing became harder, a ragged edge appearing in each breath. I knelt back, held her hips and pulled her hard onto my erection. Pulled her back against my groin. She sighed deeply and moaned. I felt her tighten inside and felt my own desire and longing mount. I took up a movement in counterpoint to her own and allowed myself the release of passion and love. We lay awake on the bed, looking at the ceiling. She raised her hands into view and looked at them "Free." She whispered. "Excuse me?" I asked? "Free. He loved me after all." She knew I wanted an explanation so she enlarged. "My work is more than just painting. I am - I was a cursed artist. Each time I started I would attract into my soul the lives of those from the picture. The suffering and torment of those not even visible in the picture. The history and the future of every landscape. The ecstasies and heartaches, the fulfilments and longings, the pleasures and anguish, the unbounded joy and the black, deep misery. When these were lodged deep in here, bruising my heart, then I could paint." I had seen those paintings - I understood. Such creative power couldn't cheap. "Now the paintings can be sold - they are no longer tied to me. I can no longer paint - which is not something I shall regret. And for the time I have you." She kissed me again. Deep and long and sensually. Gradually night crept into the room making dark corners and shadows. When I awoke there was a new painting in the easel. A self-portrait with a finality about its work which made me realise that I'd never see her again. Romance's servant made me breakfast and I went to leave. "Your mistress wishes the paintings sold, monsieur." I told him. He nodded. "She has gone n'est pas, monsieur?" I nodded. That was a few years ago. The portrait is in my bedroom and watches over me, laughs at my folly, glories in my achievements with me, commiserates at my failures, reproaches my foolish hopes. But mostly it enhances my dreams, loves and cherishes me during my slumbering hours where I can see her again and each time is new and different, rich and textured as only a waking dream can be. She lays me down, makes me special when I am no longer myself but her more than willing canvas. Copyright Gregg Dean 2002