The Painting - Excerpt From “A Campus on Fire”

I woke with her sheets twisted around my bare leg and a chill seeping in through the open window. I turned to find the bed empty, just a cool indentation where she’d been.

“Rose?”

No answer.

I got up and looked around for my clothes. I couldn’t find them. They should’ve been at the foot of the bed, crumbled in a mass, mixed with hers, proof of our hectic scramble to undress each other. But they were gone.

Panic overtook me. I don’t know what I thought. I don’t know what I feared. But the fear was there.

I sipped some air and felt my mouth, dry and cracked. I hadn't drank much, but it had been enough to leave a trace. My head pulsed. I turned towards the window, just a trickle of the morning beginning to show itself.

I thought back on the night before, terrified that I'd done something wrong, had turned her off somehow. At one point, she'd taken my hands, placed them around her soft neck, and whispered for me to squeeze. I had, but it wasn't enough. I could tell, her face was coated in disappointment and longing.

But I had mentioned it after we'd finished, and she'd dismissed my concerns. She'd apologized for pressuring me. I'd thought it was done, but sitting in her bedroom alone, I wondered if the disappointment lingered.

I decided not to worry about my clothes. I decided this was another test. Rose was in the other room, waiting, my clothes on the table in front of her. She wanted to see how I’d react.

I saw it as an opportunity. I could be whoever I wanted to be. I could craft a person who she’d desire. I decided Rose would like a woman who strode around an unfamiliar apartment naked after the first date. It would show I was uninhibited. It would show that I was willing to take things wherever she wanted them to go. That next time she wanted something done to her in bed, I’d be open, eager.

I took a deep breath, checked my reflection in her mirror, and strode out into the other room. But she wasn't there either, she was gone. I searched for a note, I checked my phone for a text, but there was nothing. Just an empty, beautiful apartment.

Rose had a one-bedroom all to herself, an unheard-of privilege for on-campus housing. Her kitchen was white and clean and had a set of copper pots and pans hanging from the ceiling. Next to the kitchen, she had a large, circular table, and in the corners, there were two rolling bars — one for coffee and one for alcohol. She had three antique floor-to-ceiling bookcases. I inspected the titles. One was dedicated to the classics, but the other two were full of fiction written in the past forty or so years. Sylvia had her own shelf. I searched for non-fiction. One shelf. Bottom corner. Hidden from view. A few acclaimed histories. I pulled one out, a famous tome on Lyndon Johnson, it was untouched, the pages still crisp, the massive spine unbent. I put it back and turned.

She didn’t have a television. Instead, a painting — modern and striking — hung where the television would be. I knew little about art, but I found myself spellbound. Figures that should've been incidental were placed in the foreground — a man and a boy farming, the boy peering up, drawn to the action. In the background, there was a crowd carrying torches and pitchforks. They were moving along a raised dirt road. You could feel their rage, their violence. In the middle of the mob, there's a woman tied to a stake. And behind the mob run three small children. I couldn't tell if they were supposed to be the woman's children or just three impressionable souls desperate to be part of the violence. I didn’t know which was worse.

The door swung open as I was inside the painting, and I was reminded of my nakedness. I wanted to cover myself but fought against the urge, still determined to play this role.

Rose smiled as she entered and took a long, searching look over my body.

“I didn’t think you’d be up before I got back,” she said after a minute as means of an apology. I could already tell that this was the most I could expect from her. She wasn’t born to apologize. She didn’t have it in her. “I got bagels and coffee.”

My eye traced over to the coffee bar but didn’t linger. I made it look like I was just inspecting the room, taking in the splendor of her apartment.

"Do you like the painting?" she put the coffee and bagels down. She came behind me and placed one arm across my chest, cupping my breast. It felt like we'd been together for years like this intimate act was commonplace.

“I think so,” I said with a smile, trying to calm my racing heart, knowing she could feel it. “Who do you think the children are?”

“The children?”

I pointed to them.

“Oh, those children. What do you think?”

“Well,” I steadied myself. “First, I thought they belonged to the woman tied to the stake, but now I’m not so sure. I think maybe it’s just kids who want to be a part of this, join in.”

Rose turned my face towards her and kissed me. It was a forceful kiss, our teeth scraping, reminding me that we were not yet one, not yet aware of each other’s bodies. Then we separated, and she went to the kitchen to get plates.

"I got everything bagels with cream cheese, is that alright?" This too felt intimate. Her ordering for me as if she knew me.

“They’re the best,” I said.

I sat down at the table, feeling the rich, expensive wood on my bare skin. Then I stood back up, realizing she might not want me sitting here, naked.

“Something the matter?” Rose ran a finger along the outside of the bagel, pulling off the excess cream cheese and tossing it into her mouth before sucking on her finger.

“No,” I sat back down. If this was a game of chicken, I wouldn’t blink first. “So, do you agree?”

“Agree?”

“The children in the painting?”

"Oh, that, well yes and no. Like many great works of art, it's a mirror. What you see in it, what speaks to you, says more about you than the work. For example, some people focus on the father and son in the foreground. They focus on the boy being drawn to the mob. Others are fascinated by the mob itself. Some think of the woman and what, if anything, she's done. And still others, like yourself, fixate on the children trailing the mob."

“And what about you? What do you focus on?”

"I focus on it all," she took a bite of her bagel, taking her time before continuing. "But I get to look at it every day… I will give you some background. The painter was raised by Nazis. Her father and mother were both party members, so it may have been her way of showing how the young are corrupted and drawn to the violent crowd."

I chewed, trying to process the information. "Her parents were Nazis?"

“Yes.”

“Like active members?”

“Very much so. She even attended rallies as a girl. There’s a photo of her when she’s three or four on her father’s shoulders as Hitler passes. Her face is pure joy. Her arm extended in salute.”

The bagel solidified in my mouth. I took a sip of coffee to soften it and swallowed, feeling the hard lump trace down my throat and lodge in my chest.

"She was five when the Soviets took Berlin. Her father was killed in the city's defense, and her mother was raped by various members of the red army before she threw herself off a building. The painter lived through the occupation with an aunt and managed to get out through an uncle in England. She learned to paint there, and her work grapples with loving her parents and hating everything they stood for."

I stared down at my plate, frozen. It was too much to process all at once. The scope and trajectory of a life like that. The history and violence and loss that went into her work.

“Do you think I could listen to that recording?” Rose said as if we hadn’t’ been mid-discussion.

I felt my face flush. The recording that jumped to mind was the one I made last night.

“The interview with the fascists?” she said, and I exhaled.

"Oh, well," I shouldn't. It wouldn't be ethical. And beyond that, I was embarrassed by the recording. I didn't want her to see me that way. But when I looked up and took in her shimmering presence, I knew the answer. "I guess, but you can't, you know, it has to stay between us."

“What do you mean?”

"Well, it's just that it's not ethical for me to show it to you."

“Why not? You told me what they said yesterday. You’re going to play it for your editor. I’m not sure I see the difference.”

She had a point. I had told her everything they said. But still, it felt wrong, like a violation. It felt dirty.

“I guess, bu—”

"And they're fascists. Do you think they deserve some sort of ethical protection? Do you think they'd give you the same consideration? It's not like I'm going to tell them you played it for me or something."

“No, I know.”

“But if it’s too much of an imposition for you. If you feel that your loyalty to these fascists is paramount, then of course I understand.”

It was a remarkable performance. I can see that now. But in the moment, I was ashamed, horrified by my hesitation. I thought I’d ruined it. I thought I’d destroyed our prenatal relationship. And for what? To keep the mad ramblings of a bunch of fascists private.

"No, no," I'd become conscious of my nudity and longed to be able to retreat into the familiar safety of clothing. I felt as if I was being watched, judged, by a thousand unseen eyes. "Of course, you can listen to it, sorry, I was just… habit, I guess. I trust you, and like you said, they're fascists."

She smiled, and I felt the knot in my stomach loosen. I sent her the recording, careful to ensure it was the correct one. She listened to it without a word, her eyes wide and her mouth covered.

She said nothing when it finished, just took my hand and led me back to bed.