Free 69 Barrow Street by Lawrence Block Page B

me,” she persisted.
    “Well,” he said, “I’d rather do you nude. Otherwise the clothes sort of get in the way. The artist spends as much time getting the folds right in a skirt as he does on the person he’s painting. It’s a pain in the neck.
    “Besides,” he added, “I’ve always been able to get more of the subject across with nudes. But it’s entirely up to you, Susan.”
    “I’m not embarrassed,” she said. “And it might be fun, in a way.”
    She disappeared into the bedroom. When she returned a few moments later he had to catch his breath. She was stark naked—and she was far and away the most attractive woman he had ever seen in his life.
    It took him a moment to realize that he was staring at her, and as soon as he realized it he flushed. “I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I didn’t mean to stare.”
    She didn’t say anything.
    “You’re almost unbelievably beautiful,” he said. “I couldn’t help myself. It’ll be a pleasure to paint you.”
    “Thank you.”
    Suddenly he was all business. He moved the easy chair about twelve feet from the window and set up the easel midway between chair and window. He raised the shade all the way and flung the window open.
    “Good light,” he said.
    “Do you want me to sit in the chair?”
    He nodded. “For one thing, I don’t want to give you a difficult pose. It’s hard enough to remain in a comfortable position for a long stretch and there’s no sense looking for trouble.”
    “What’s the other thing?”
    He looked at her.
    “You said for one thing. What’s the other?”
    “Oh.” He walked to the chair and showed her how to sit in it, facing the easel head-on with both feet on the floor and her legs spread slightly. He had her fold her hands and rest them over her groin.
    “This is the other thing,” he explained. “This pose should be perfect for you.”
    “How do you mean?”
    “A pose is very important, Susan. It has a lot to do with the effect that the artist is trying to capture. Keep your back straight—that’s right. You see, whatever the painter is trying to get across in a portrait, that effect is either enhanced or destroyed by the way he poses his subject.”
    “What effect are you trying to put across?”
    He hesitated. “It’s an emotional thing, of course. It’s hard to translate it into a word.”
    “Can you give me some idea?”
    “Well—innocence.”
    She smiled. “Really?”
    He nodded.
    “Is that how I impress you?”
    “Yes,” he said. “Sort of an inner innocence, if you know what I mean. As if nothing has ever really touched you. A knowing innocence, but an innocence nevertheless.”
    “Wow,” she said. “I feel as though I’ve taken off my skin as well as my clothes.”
    He grinned. “That’s perfect,” he said. “Hold that pose. And don’t smile like that—I don’t want to make you look too knowing.”
    Maria walked to Stella’s side. Hesitantly she reached out with one hand and touched Stella on the shoulder. Then she jerked her hand away, fearing that she had done something wrong.
    Stella woke up at once.
    For a moment she stared at Maria without recognizing her. Then she smiled.
    “Oh,” she said. “It’s you.”
    Maria nodded.
    “What are you doing here?”
    “Larry threw me out,” she said. “I was a bad girl and he threw me out.”
    “What did you do that was so bad?”
    “I don’t know.”
    Stella considered. “Well, where are you going to live now?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Do you have any money?”
    The girl shook her head.
    “How about your family?”
    “They would never let me come home,” Maria stated solemnly. “I’m a bad girl. My mother would never let me come home.”
    “I see.”
    “And I don’t have any place to go.”
    Stella closed her eyes for a second, thinking. “There’s a vacant room in this building,” she said. “It’s just a room with no place to cook, just a single room. Would you like to live in it?”
    “I would like