Free The Bridges of Constantine by Ahlem Mosteghanemi Page B

without revealing entirely. A painter isn’t a photographer chasing reality. His camera is inside him, hidden in a place he doesn’t know himself. He doesn’t paint with the eye, but with memory, imagination . . . and other things.’
    You were staring at a woman whose blonde hair dominated her portrait. There was no room left for another colour except the red of her less-than-innocent lips. ‘This woman,’ you said, ‘why did you paint her so realistically?’
    I laughed. ‘This is a woman who can only be painted with realism.’
    ‘Why did you call her portrait Apology ?’
    ‘Because I painted it as an apology to the subject.’
    You suddenly spoke in French, as if anger or hidden jealousy had revoked our earlier agreement. ‘I hope the apology convinced her. It’s a beautiful painting.’ With a hint of feminine curiosity you then added, ‘It all depends on the sin you committed against her!’
    I had no desire to tell you the story of that painting on our first date. I was afraid it would have a negative effect on our relationship or your view of me. So I tried to evade your remark, which might have tempted me to say more, and pretended to ignore you as you remained stubbornly standing in front of the painting. Can one resist the curiosity of a woman determined to find something out?
    I gave you an answer. ‘That painting has quite a funny story behind it. It reveals aspects of my psychological problems and traces of the old me. Perhaps that’s why it’s here.’
    For the first time, I told the story of that painting. I had friends who taught at the College of Fine Arts, and they would invite me and other painters to life classes to paint and meet the students and amateur painters. The subject one day was a female nude. All of the students were absorbed in painting this body from their different perspectives, while I was stunned at their ability to paint a woman’s body with a purely aesthetic gaze and without sex rearing its head. It was as if they were painting a landscape or a still life of a vase or statue.
    Evidently I was the only person in the class feeling uncomfortable. It was the first time I had ever seen a naked woman in daylight. She shifted her pose and revealed her body without inhibition or shame before dozens of pairs of eyes. Perhaps to hide my embarrassment, I started painting too. But my brush carried vestiges of the complexes of a man of my generation and baulked at painting that body – out of shame or pride, I don’t know. It started painting something else, which turned out to be the face of that young woman as it appeared from my angle. When the session finished, and the girl, who was just a student, had put her clothes on, she walked around to see how everyone had depicted her. She got a surprise when she saw my painting, since I had only painted her face. In a tone of mild reproof, as if she deemed this a slight on her feminine charms, she said, ‘Is that all the inspiration I gave you?’
    To be polite, I said, ‘No! You inspired a lot of wonder, but I’m from a society where the soul still lives in the Dark Ages. You’re the first woman I’ve seen naked in daylight, even though I’m a professional artist. Please forgive me. My brushes are like me. They also hate to share a naked woman with others, even in life classes!’
    You were listening bewildered, as if by surprise you had discovered another man in me whom your grandmother hadn’t told you about. There was suddenly a strange new look in your eyes: wilful seduction. Perhaps it came from a woman’s jealousy at an unknown rival who had once caught the attention of a man who until that moment hadn’t meant anything to her.
    I took pleasure in the unintended situation. I was happy that jealousy should suddenly make you go silent, cause your cheeks to flush slightly and make your eyes widen in suppressed anger. I kept the rest of the story to myself and didn’t tell you that it went back two years and concerned none