He shook his head. “No roz.”
“Oh, but you do, dear. Symbolism, as you have explained to me about art. But it has to be Boss’s symbols. Nudity doesn’t mean a thing to our generation. But it does to Boss. If I leave off that scrap of nylon, then by his symbols I’m not just a sweet girl, naughty-but-nice; I’m a whore.”
“Whores okay. Angela one.”
(A clumsy one, she said under her breath.) “Sure they are. But not to Boss. The hard part is to guess what-his symbols are. I’m twenty-eight and he’s over ninety and I can’t possibly roz his mind. If I push it too far, he might be angry—even very angry; he might fire me. Then what would we do? We’d have to give up this lovely studio.”
Still in Lotus, she looked around. Yes, lovely. Aside from the Gadabout parked near the door and the bed in the corner all the rest was the colorful clutter of an artist’s studio, always changing and always the same. The steel grid over the high north windows made a pretty pattern—and was so strong that she never worried. She felt warm and safe and happy here.
“Eunice my darling—”
She was startled. Joe used short-talk so habitually that she was always surprised when he chose to shift idiom, even though he could use formal English as well as she could—well, almost, she corrected. . . but he was quite grammatical for a man who had bad only a high school practical curriculum. “Yes, dearest?”
“I roz it perfectly. Wasn’t sure you did. Just testing, Beautiful. Not ninety myself but any artist understands figleaf symbol. Could happen you crowd Mr. Smith’s symbols too hard, don’ know. But we’ll do it. Figleaf so that his mind can lie to itself—’No, no, mustn’t touch; Mama spank’—then I paint you like sex crime looking for spot marked ‘X.’
“Oh, good!”
“But never worry about job. Sure, this pad is righteous, good north light, I like it. But we lose it, who cares? Broke don’t scare me.”
(It scares me, dear!) “I love you, darling.”
“But we do it for nice old boy dying, not to save studio. Understand?”
“Roz indeed! Joe, you’re the nicest husband a girl ever had.”
He did not answer and got a pained scowl, which she recognized as birth pangs of creativity. So she kept still. Presently he sighed. “Down off ceiling. Problem what to do for Boss solves inspiration that put me up there. Tomorrow you’re a mermaid.”
“All right.”
“And tonight. Upper body sea green with rosy glow showing through on lips and cheeks and nipples. Lower body golden fish scales blending at waist. Undersea background with sunlight filtering down. Traditional sea bottom symbols, romantic. But upside down.”
She hesitated. ”So?” (Hard to know when to ask, when to keep quiet, when Joe was creating.)
He smiled. “Fool-the-eye. You’re swimming. Diving straight down to bottom, back arched, hair streaming, toes pointed—main light dapple-scrimmed for water. Beautiful. But can’t wire you, even if had wires—no way to hide harness, and hair would hang down and buttocks and breasts would sag—”
“My breasts don’t sag!”
“Chill it, Jill. You got beautiful breasts and you know I know. But masses of flesh sag and artist sees it. Everybody sees, just don’ realize. Something wrong, don’ know why. Eye not fooled. Has to be real dive, or it’s fake. Bad art.”
“Well,” she said doubtfully, “if you borrowed a stepladder and dragged the mattress under your background, I suppose I could dive off and roll out and not hurt myself. I guess.”
“I don’t guess! Break pretty neck, little stupid. Dive up.
Not down.”
“Huh?”
“I said. Background upside down. So jump straight up in air. Like going for hot return in volley ball. I shoot stereo stop-action, a thousandth. Shoot six, seven, eight, nine times till just right. Turn pic upside down—lovely mermaid diving for sea bottom.”
“Oh. Yes, I’m stupid.”
“Not stupid, just not artist.” He started scowling again; she kept quiet. “Too much for one night. Tomorrow paint background, tonight paint you for drill. Then maybe stereo-mug some jumps against any background, more drill. Bed early, up early—paint you again for Boss.”