I’ve been thinking
about what you said
last time.
I almost thought he’d forgotten,
or worse, I’d imagined
what he offered.
But no, at my words
he transfigures
before my eyes.
I’ve thought of nothing else.
Truly?
Look what you’ve accomplished
in this horrid space.
To emphasize his point,
he twirls around,
arms outstretched,
nearly knocks
the easel over.
We both lunge to right it,
laughing.
Imagine what you
would accomplish in my studio.
I have an excellent imagination.
Yet I can’t imagine
the great Agostino
would share a studio
with anyone.
He laughs, a boisterous thing
that bounces off the walls.
You think me arrogant.
His hands encircle my waist.
And you’re not incorrect.
The tip of his nose
brushes mine.
But the things we could do together!
Marriage
is the only possible
reason he could utter
those words—there is no other option.
My father ignored propriety
by teaching me to paint.
But Tino knows
I could not share
an outside studio, unmarried.
Do you mean—?
He twirls me around,
creates a music
only we two can hear.
And if you shared my studio . . .
I wait, heart
in my throat.
This is the missing color
I’ve never managed to blend,
never thought possible
from the choices on my palette—
Let us just say:
I would make better use
of my live model
than your father does.
44.
The Holy Mother
cradles her son’s lifeless body.
Greedy Tarquin
grips the terrified Lucretia.
Hands on bodies
have no in-between.
Love
or possession.
I have been such a fool.
His arms are still around me.
Possession.
I’m torn between
the need to scream
and grab my brush
to finally get Susanna right.
This is the moment
we’re truly one.
I disentangle
from Tino’s grip,
stumble back,
grope for a brush
I do not find.
Have I shocked you?
Anyone
would be shocked
by that.
He draws near again—too near.
But surely not my cerulean one.
Anyhow, cerulean
is not your color.
I would paint you in
cream and chestnut,
rose and—
His hands have reached
beneath my skirts
and travel up my legs.
My nighttime explorations
turned to nightmares.
I wrench myself away.
Tino!
I’m saying no!
He blinks.
I’m not behaving
like his smitten girl
devoted student,
I have a mind
a will
a vote.
He straightens up,
runs fingers through wild hair.
Very well.
His eyes shift
to my canvas.
Your shading is extremely poor.
I doubt even I can fix it.
45.
First I mix the oil
with hot water,
taking extra care
not to scald myself.
I have been such a fool.
If I burn my hands
I’ll only have myself
to blame.
I shake the oil and water then wait
for the liquids to separate.
I built up hopes on nothing.
The oil rises as it should—
some elements of craft are art
but this is science.
It can be relied upon
to do what is expected.
He never truly wanted me.
I peer carefully
into the mixture of oil and water,
making sure the impurities
settle
at the bottom.
Not as an artist or a wife.
My father rails
about the process,
preparation.
And this is where he’s right:
if there are impurities in the oil,
the painting will be ruined.
But nothing has really changed.
Next I remove the oil,
wash it in clean water.
(Susanna at the bath)
Once it is exposed,
the air will form a film
and so it must be stirred.
I’m only back where I started.
46.
A Susanna’s never terrified.
Father told me so
when finally he
took the time to look.
The men who’ve painted
her a million times before
will always see her through
distorted lenses of their sex.
But I know
what it is to be watched,
to be leered at
what it is to be a thing.
The only thing Father understands:
my Susanna’s different.
She’s raw but skillful
—a tempting novelty—
and just might fetch a handsome sum.
(Everything produced
by this studio
is his property, after all.
Including the apprentice.)
And so he ushers
men into my inner sanctum,
to talk about my work
as though I am not there.
To value it, and me.
(Evaluation: worthless.)
Word on the street: I didn’t paint it.
A girl my age could never
accomplish such a thing.
They say it’s from his hand,
his brush,
his mind.
They call me words enough
to fill a book I cannot read.
I know the words, though—
words they hurl at any woman
foolhardy to force herself
into a world of men.
My father claims
to give me credit,
but I am never in the room
and my faith in men
is all dried up.
He says I shouldn’t bother
with talk of the street.
After all, I know the truth.
What else matters?
What an interesting question,
coming from Father.
Wouldn’t it be co
nvenient
if I stayed forever locked here,
turning my head
as he signs his name
if anyone knows
who actually bled
onto the canvas?
47.
Tino lurches through the door
all stumbling boots and flailing arms.
No hint of smooth sophistication,
no wooing charm.
I wasn’t sure
he would return
since I spurned his offer
(such an offer).
Now relief and irritation
do battle in my heart.
She had it coming.
He staggers closer,
nearly knocks Susanna
off the easel.
Look at her
on display,
the tease.
This battle’s not
just in my heart.
I spread my arms, shield Susanna
from yet another man
consumed by greed,
crazed with power.
What’s wrong with you?
I ask, though any fool
could smell it on his breath.
Students who never learn, to start.
Though he is drunk,
perhaps he simply needs reminding.
I flutter lashes,
become Susanna made by men.
What happened to
your cerulean one?
I don’t know.
Lilting charm was not the answer.
You tell me.
This is about the commission.
It must be.
He’s fallen behind.
But I could still help—
If you bring me on now, I—
He pushes past me;
I tumble off my stool.
He did not mean to shove
me down, but neither does he stop
to help me up.
He flings a hand
at my Susanna.
What is this shit?
Have I taught you nothing?
All planes must be perpendicular
or parallel to you in order
for the perspective to—
I let out a stream
of the foulest words
I’ve heard in this studio,
as I scramble to my feet,
right my stool, place myself
in the path of his rage
to protect Susanna.
Somehow that seems
the most important thing.
Oh-ho!
He laughs, a fleck of spittle
landing on my cheek.
Look who’s learned
a thing or two
in her father’s house!
He knocked me off a stool
—a girl, a student—
and I’m the one who’s vulgar?
I shake my head and turn away.
Deliver me from drunken men, I pray.
I face Susanna.
I’m standing far too close
to see her with perspective
but I pretend to study her,
wait for him to take his drunken rage
to someone else who cares.
(I care.
I care about Susanna more.)
You’re drunk,
I’m working.
Come back
when you can
teach me something.
Instead of leaving, he sidles closer,
his breath crowding my cheek,
hands on my waist.
You want me
to be your teacher?
If I wait it out, he’ll go.
I learned this as a child:
When boys pull your hair,
it means they like you.
Just ignore them.
But I can’t stop my heart
from hammering in my chest
as his hands slide higher,
hover just beneath my breasts.
Tears spring to my eyes.
But still I cannot let him see
he’s reached inside me,
yanked hard on something soft and tender.
I’m done being your pupil.
Ah, but my darling girl.
His breath is heavy in my ears,
his hands clamp down and squeeze.
There’s plenty we could
teach each other.
I twist out of his grasp,
unable to feign calm
a moment longer.
Get out!
And don’t come back!
So we’ll lose our shot
at the commission.
I’ll find another way.
A better path.
I curse myself
for ever thinking
this man could be my chance.
He studies me.
I wait, wonder
if he’ll strike.
But when his arm darts out,
it’s not at me. He yanks my canvas
from the easel.
My heart is in my throat.
Susanna.
Start over.
This time with some perspective.
He wrenches the canvas
from the bars it’s stretched upon.
He pins me with his gaze
while calloused hands
rend my heart
like it’s nothing.
Like I’m nothing.
And then Susanna’s lying on the floor in shreds.
48.
Susanna did not let
those monsters
maul her and I can’t leave
the pieces of her story
on the floor.
But as I gather shredded canvas,
hold her to my breast,
I see a righteous woman,
pure and virtuous.
She was all that.
She also fought her parents tooth and nail
when they betrothed her to Joaquim.
(This isn’t in the scriptures
but my mother told me so.)
I can’t quite grasp
why she would fight
against the chance to leave
her parents’ house.
There can be no worse captor than my father.
Even a man
who drinks and
shouts and
shoves
would get me out.
Mother never told me tales
of girls
who settled
for the least
appalling option.
But Mother isn’t here now.
Don’t be hasty.
But until Susanna’s been used to grind pigments
and stretch canvas when she has more talent
than he could ever dream of . . .
It’s so dangerous.
Be careful.
But she stayed behind a wall
and still they found her.
I’m done being careful.
Tame
Careful, love. If we’re not quiet, we’ll wake the boys. And then I won’t be able to tell you what happens next for Judith. Because this story is only for you. The boys have all the tales they need of brave warriors and army captains.
It takes Judith and Abra surprisingly little effort to get past the captain’s guard—a lifted skirt, a saucy smile, a promise to deliver exactly what the captain needs. With nothing more, the women pass
inside the tent.
When their eyes adjust, they make out the captain hunched over maps and battle plans. He barely registers their presence. But Judith will wait as long as it takes, Abra at her side.
(This shows you her determination, love, for Judith is no more patient than you are.)
Finally the captain grunts, pushes back from his maps, and glances into the darkness. “Don’t just stand there. I haven’t got much time.”
Judith steps forward, into the circle of light cast by his lamp.
He drinks her in, mistakes the blaze in her eyes for something else entirely. “Then again, I was just about to take my supper. Please sit down.” He shouts toward the outside of the tent, “Bring this young lady some wine.”
“No, sir. Thank you. I have brought my own provisions. I mean not to inconvenience you in any way.”
A slow smile melts across his face, where a scar runs from his right ear, across his cheek to his upper lip. Judith lingers on what sort of blade made that cut, how much force it took. She allows herself the fleeting fantasy that Malachi reached this very spot, left that mark, and now she’s here to finish what he started.
It barely matters if it’s true. The thought’s enough to still her shaking knees.
“I don’t think that will be a problem.” The captain’s eyes flicker to Abra. “Your girl can wait outside.”
Judith feels Abra’s hesitation, but this is not the time to be more sister than servant. One sharp glance at Abra and Judith is alone with the captain of the Assyrian army. How many soldiers before her tried to get here? How many failed at the end of his sword?
But Malachi’s here too, and that will get Judith through whatever’s coming.
“I think you should know,” she begins, then falters. Judith summons her courage. It’s a gamble to show her hand but something tells her this man will enjoy the game more if she does. “I am a woman of the Hebrews.”
The captain startles, recovers quickly. “It will be a shame to have to kill you.”
Judith paints on a mask of cunning. She bats her eyelashes, curls her lips in girlish coquetry. The words she must say are hardly pillow talk, but if she plays it right, they just might have the same effect. “I’ve fled from them to you, to show you how to get through the mountains without the loss of a single soldier.”
The captain pays attention to her words. He also pays attention to her neckline. “And why would you do that?”
Now is the time to spread before him a banquet he will not refuse. (He could, but he will choose not to.) “I have heard of your wisdom, your policies, and your excellence is reported in all the earth, that you are mighty in knowledge and wonderful in feats of war.”
Judith has drawn close enough to straddle him. He is a beast to tame before the slaughter. There’s something twisted about doing this for love, but this is war and everything is twisted.
She lowers herself onto his lap, steadies her breath as his rough hands slide up her legs.
“Your words are as beautiful as your form.”