“Joe knows he’s not Goya or Picasso or Rembrandt or any of the masters—and doesn’t want to be; he just wants to paint his symbols, his way, and sell enough for us to eat. Oh, sometimes I get so mad, knowing that if he would paint just one frimp scene as grabby as he so easily can, it would keep us eating for months. But I’ve given up suggesting it because Joe just shrugs and says, ‘Don’ paint comic books, you know that, Gigi.’ Joe is Joe and doesn’t give a damn what any other artist does or whether his own work makes him famous or a lot of money or anything. He cares so little—well, many of our friends are artists or call themselves artists but Joe isn’t interested in what they paint and won’t talk shop. If they’re good people, warm people, good vibes, Joe likes to go see them or have them here… but Joe wouldn’t waste a floor cushion on Rembrandt if Joe didn’t like the way he behaved. Joe just wants to paint—his way. And not have to sleep alone.”
Joan said thoughtfully, “I don’t suppose Joe has had to sleep alone very often.”
“Probably not. But Joe wouldn’t sleep with Helen of Troy if he didn’t like her attitude. You mentioned your Brink’s boys—the two who brought you here, and there are two more, aren’t there? One a big soul? Hugo?”
“You know Hugo?” Joan asked in delight.
“Never met him. He sounds like an African myth. I know just two things about him. Joe wants to paint him. . . and Joe loves him.
“Spiritual love, I mean—although I’m sure Joe would sack in with Hugo if Hugo wanted to.” (He’ll have to stand in line! I saw Hugo first.) (Shut up, you bang-tail.) “Can never happen, I gather—and Joe never makes a pass. Never made one at me, I never made one at him; we just sacked in our first time without a word and combined as naturally as ham and eggs.” (Hmm! Some girls have all the luck. 1 had to trip him.) (You’re the eager type, sweetheart; Gigi isn’t.)
(You’ll pay for that crack, Boss.)
“I’m sure Joe never crowded Hugo about posing; he would rather have Hugo’s friendship than have him as a model—though Joe told me he has two pix in mind. One would show Hugo on an auction block. Historical background and honkie ladies in the crowd—close shot, full figure, Hugo looking patient and weary, and just heads and shoulders of the honks . . . and the honk females just barely not slobbering.
“But Joe says he can’t paint that one; it would stir up old trouble. The second he really aches to paint—just Hugo, big as a mountain and no sex symbols at all—except that a big stud can’t help being sexy, I think—just Hugo, strong and wise and solemn dignity—and loving. Joe’s words, pieced together by me. Joe wants to paint it and call it ‘Jehovah.’”
“Gigi! Maybe I can help.”
“Huh? You can’t just tell Hugo to pose for Joe; Joe wouldn’t like that. Wouldn’t hold still for it.”
“Dear, I’m not foolish. But maybe I can make Hugo see that it’s all right to pose for Joe. Can’t hurt to try.” (Boss, let Hugo know that you have been posing naked for Joe. Then let it soak.) (Of course, Eunice, but that’s just the gambit.) (Twin! You’re not thinking of trying to seduce Hugo, are you? Damn it, I won’t stand for it! You leave Father Hugo alone.) (Eunice, I’m not that much of a fool. Hugo can have anything I’ve got; he killed the creep who killed you. But I would never offer what he won’t accept. If I did, I think he’d quit—and then pray for me. I vote with Joe; I’ll take Hugo as he is, never try to twist his arm.) (You couldn’t. His arms are bigger than our thighs.) (I meant ‘psychologically,’ twin, and you know it.)
“Just one thing, Gigi— Joe would have to give up that title for the pic.”
“You don’t know Joe, Joan. He won’t change the title.”
“Then he’ll have to carry it just in his mind. Hugo is as firm in his rules as Joe is in his. He won’t let a picture of himself be titled ‘Jehovah.’ It would be sacrilege in his eyes.