A SPLASH OF COLOR

 

My dream, the one in which I wrote a novel while sitting in a closet, began on a Tuesday night. By Sunday morning, convinced this recurring dream was an omen, I moved a small folding table, one uncomfortable folding chair, and my 1940s Smith-Corona typewriter (I’m a purist at heart) into my Lilliputian-sized closet where the air hung dusty and rank. A naked bulb dangled from the ceiling, creating a sallow ambience. I always believed my destiny had to be more exciting than being blindsided by first graders.

When not in the closet or in class, I on my bed mesmerized by a tan water stain on the ceiling, which occasionally morphed into a face, a man’s face. This face frightened me and at the same time appeased my doubts regarding my muse’s anticipated arrival.

“The Muse,” I’d read in a book on creative writing, would come. When and where this would happen were questions without answers. “Be ready,” the author advised. I took a brief hiatus from teaching and dedicated myself to waiting for those few brilliant words that could guide me into writing a best seller. Showering became improbable since I didn’t want to miss my muse while lathering or rinsing. My auburn hair had sprouted mats. I stashed a box of index cards and a pen next to the toilet, just in case,

Unlike most successful writers I’d read about, ashes from burning cigarettes didn’t fall because I didn’t smoke; I couldn’t get drunk because I didn’t drink.

Wednesday evening, tired of waiting for the moment to find me, I entered the closet un-beckoned, closed the door, and sat at the table-made-into-desk. I rolled a pristine sheet of paper through the hungry platen and typed GELDA KLEBSTEIN in the upper left hand corner. I mulled over this odd name—obviously a pen name—forced upon me by some unknown source. Given a choice, I would have preferred something a bit more romantic and melodious. The stifling air in the closet closed in around me. My head slumped forward.

***

Something grips my breast. Mystified, I look down. A strong, earthy, rustic-looking hand with closely clipped nails edging its broad fingers and reeking of stale cigarettes and turpentine fondles my left breast. A blue-and-white-striped sleeve envelops the arm attached to the hand. Hoping to rid myself of this peculiar illusion, I write:

This evening, while sitting here alone in my closet at my typewriter as I usually do, a hand has gripped my breast. The door hasn’t opened. There aren’t any windows leading into this closet. I don’t know anyone who can lay claim to such a foreign-looking hand. I checked the hand a second time; it’s definitely a man’s hand.

Since it’s difficult to reach over this arm, I stop typing. A full-throated and resonant voice similar to volcanic rumblings says, “Are you glad to see me?”

I detect an accent, but am unsure of its origin. He steps from behind and stands in front of me, legs spread like a deft matador. My eyes crawl further up the sleeve and hesitate at the loose collar encircling a broad, masculine neck, brownish like the hand. The veins in his neck bulge and throb. The undulating blue and white stripes spread across his barrel-chest reminds me of turbulent ocean swells during a heavy storm.

He pinches the nipple of my right breast. “You’re hurting me.” I can barely speak, my voice sounds like a pathetic squeak; I squeal with pain.

“You’re a woman. You’re supposed to suffer. I’m here to help you.” He pushes a matted section of hair behind my ear and leans over. His hot breath scorches my earlobe. Speaking in French, which he quickly translates into English, he whispers, “I want to devour your ear.” He strokes the back of my neck. “What’s your name?” he asks in Spanish, a little of which I understand from a brief encounter with Spanish 101.

“Gelda,….Gelda Klebstein,” I mumble.

He winces and removes his hand as though I have a contagious disease. “How horrid. Experiences will fall at your feet because your name is hideous like a terrible curse. You must continue to write. Your vibrant hair color indicates you are hot-blooded and on the verge of exploding into creative shards, flashing brilliance in all directions. You will experience glory. Your soul will marinate in colors, and colors are  the key ingredient in creating. LOOK!” He shoves his knuckles so close my vision blurs.

“Touch it,” he commands.

I flinch. “Touch what,” I ask with an incredulous gasp. Suddenly, a streak of cadmium red shoots haphazardly across his knuckles.

“The color, of course. What else would I want you to touch? Why, I hardly know you.”

I tap the red streak with my fingertip; grateful that’s all he wants touched. The streak flips over like color swatches one thumbs through in paint stores. A cool Mediterranean Blue turns into Sweet Daffodil Yellow, followed by Lavender Lustre. I pull back from the heat of Sizzling Orange. I swoon and grab the edge of the table.

“This is how I want you to write.” His booming voice reverberates off the closet walls, having the effect of a powerful Dolby sound system in a much-too-small theater. “Use spontaneous splashes of color.”

His unpainted hand grabs my right breast. This sudden move catches me off guard. My head juts back. I’m staring into large, piercing eyes, black and meaty, like Spanish olives. He glares down at me, eyes full of passion. I know him. Impossible, I can’t know him: his face looks like the water stain face on my ceiling.

“You’re Picasso.” My voice is barely audible.

“Pablo, to you, lovely lady.” He fondles both my breasts, pausing, squeezing, as one might test two lemons before purchasing them. His right hand holds my left breast and his left hand claims my right one. His arms cross at the elbows. He seems not to mind the awkwardness of this position.

“Aren’t you dead?” A cold shiver flares through my body.

“Dead? How am I dead? I made a big splash! I created a chasm in the world of art and then filled it with miracles! I imbue a canvas or a discarded piece of wood with spirit and soul and passion! I put life into a glob of wet dull earth! How could I be dead? I shall never die! Ha! I never wrote a will! Isn’t that proof enough that I shall never die? I don’t believe in death. There’s only life, and, then, leaving home for a short time. At least, I hope I’ll be gone only for a short time. There is still so much to do, unfinished paintings cluttering the basement, fresh canvasses waiting for their special story.”

Not knowing what else to do, I shake free from his clutch, turn and position my hands over the typewriter keys. He looks over my shoulder. My fingers pummel the keys as silhouetted golden yellow, orange, and violet trees dance against an azure sky enriched with streaks of vermilion, interrupted by floating, lilac-tinted clouds. Then, without warning, my protagonist, a stunning young man, standing on a hillside, morphs into a strange shade of Phthalo Green and grows another face with a bulbous nose penetrating from his lavender forehead. I stop and gasp for breath. I look up.

“Good.” Pablo grins and kisses my forehead. “Now, distort the truth, and from such a distortion you will discover reality.”

“Please. Sit down. You’re making me nervous. I just turned my hero Phthalo Green and gave him two faces and an ugly, misplaced nose.”

Picasso sits at my feet and gazes up at me. “Yes, yes, how wonderful. If you look deep into the recesses of my painting of Dora Maar, the one with her nose jutting out from her ear, you’ll see life, you’ll see passion, and you’ll see love. Continue.” He presses his face into my inner thigh, clenching a significant chunk of flesh between his teeth.

“Ouch! What’re you doing?”

“Beginning to eat you,” he laughs as he shoves his hand between my thighs.

“Listen, time out. Why don’t I fix you a sandwich? You seem to be hungry.” I move away from his nomadic appendage.

He stands, towering over me, vying for a position of power.

“A sandwich? I can’t eat. I’m supposed to be dead. But, I can still fuck. I think. I hope. Anyway, I haven’t tried since I, well, sort of left home. What do you say? Are you game?” He forces my head against his bulging crotch.

I push him away. “You’re clumsy. You scratched my ear lobe with your zipper.” He smiles and grabs my ears. “Stop. Why, I hardly know you.”

“That’s my line.” He walks toward the door, then turns abruptly. “Don’t copy everything I say and do. Look at your story, yellow there, black here, a splash of red here, noses sticking out everywhere; this looks like a cheap imitation of one of my toss-a-ways. Never, never copy. Be original. Now, what do you say? How about a little sex? It’ll give you inspiration. Sex always worked for me.”

I scrutinize his somber, brooding face. “Impossible,” I whisper, unsure as to which is more unlikely: having a dead Picasso here in my closet or having sex with him.

“Why is it impossible? I don’t understand. I am Picasso. Well, Pablo to you. Women fall to their knees in front of me.” He grabs his crotch as if to protect it from some unseen destructive force. “Having sex with me is like making love to the Louvre. How can you resist?”

“Listen, Picasso—Pablo. I’m Jewish and you’re dead. Spanish-Catholic-dead, I might add. This isn’t such a terrific combination for me. Do you understand?”

His right hand strokes the inside of my left thigh. An image of a hairy, ugly mole clinging to my inner thigh suddenly projects on the far wall. I quickly remove his hand. Is my discomfort due to the un-plucked hairs and bumpy mole, or are his caresses exciting me?

“No, I don’t understand. What’s the difference between Jewish sex and non-Jewish sex? I know all there is to know about satisfying a woman. Don’t be afraid, you’re in good hands.” He winks and attempts to unzip his fly.

“No, no, no. I don’t engage in un-Jewish sex. My parents would never approve. Besides, what are you doing here?”

“I’m here as your Muse to light your fuse.”

“A Muse is supposed to be a woman.”

“I wore a white dress with yellow polka dots so I could escape unnoticed from wherever it was I’d landed after leaving my atelier. I’ve never seen such a hideous frock. Besides, blue and white are my colors. The worst part is I’m stuck in some awful place with men, only men. How exhausting, talking, talking, talking, no fondling.” He fumbles with the buttons on my denim shirt.

“Stop!” I push him away. “You had plenty of women here, and wherever you are now, you must have plenty of women there. I don’t believe you’ve wound up in a place without women. I’ve read about you. You don’t like women. You use them. When you were alive you philandered, so, why would you be different now? Tonight you’re with me, tomorrow night you’ll probably sneak up on some other unsuspecting poor thing and maul her. I don’t like men who behave this way, alive or dead.”

“Those women didn’t love me; they wanted to get their greedy little hands on my paintings.” His lower lip drops and trembles. “You don’t find me attractive? Not even a little?”

“Okay, Okay, I confess. Photographs of you turn me on. Just a glimpse of your long upper lip gets me here.” I pound my solar plexus area. “Right here.”

As I am about to pound again, he grabs my hand. “Please, be careful, don’t hurt yourself. I must do the hurting. I’m more experienced at doling out pain. Don’t deprive me of one of my earthly pleasures.” He kisses me. I push him away.

“Pablo, tonight is the first time since I made the decision to become a writer that words flowed like warm honey across my page. You’re a famous artist, a genius, tell me what to do.”

“First my dear, you must make yourself lovely. Take a shower, comb your hair, and put on something mauve and sexy. Smell fresh, like a gardenia. And, for God’s sake, leave this depressing closet. Discover life. Then art will follow. Magic will attach itself to your ass like a tiger’s tail.”

I look down at my clothes. I reach up and feel the matted mess on my head. I smell my armpits. Wheee. Horrible. Like stale sweaty socks wrapped around a month-old discarded fish. The man has a point.

“Gelda, I want you to write for me a foot so the resonance of that foot stomping through autumn’s fallen leaves sends shivers of fear down my spine. I want you to write for me a breast so the aroma of its expelled fresh milk meant for the hungry lips of a newborn baby makes my saliva overflow like a pregnant river. I want you to write for me a deliciously sweet, young, female derriere so my fingers ache to . . . ”

“Now wait a minute, no hanky-panky stuff.”

“Okay, so poke out my eyes, cut out my heart, castrate me, only then will I be able to forget about the beauty and excitement of women. But Gelda, remember, life without sex isn’t worth living. Sample many different love scenes then write about them so your pages sizzle and sweat. These are memories your readers will savor.”

I sit on my folding chair, confused and nervous. I stare at the blank wall. “I’ll never be able to write a simple, poignant sentence. Picasso reaches for a piece of paper and a pen, then with one swift continuous stroke, draws a perfect dove. “Watch, with one line I created a dove. However, the difference is that your lines must create words that in turn will create images. As I read about your dove, the brush of wind from his wings should caress my face as he takes flight to meet life. That’s poetry; that’s literature.”

I glance up at my Muse. “How do I start? All you have to do is swish a brush through a color on your palette, plant it anywhere on a canvas and, voilà, there is truth. I need words, the right words. It’s much more difficult. Here I sit, night after night, waiting for electrifying words and phrases to jump from my fingertips splaying (splashing across the whiteness  themselves across page one waiting appear on my paper. Tonight I typed a pen name and you appeared. Will this happen every night?”

“No. You will receive tonight all that I have to offer. Now that I’m between this world and the next, my time is filled with Musing appointments, one to a customer, instead of titillating rendezvous with tender, vivacious ingénues, mes amours. The following is my gift to you. I believe in line and form before color. However, for you as a writer, line and form are in the shape of the word and by carefully choosing exciting words, you will add color, intriguing tales will follow, then passion will bloom. Always remember, there is no absolute truth in art, not even mine, only lies. Therefore, Gelda, lie, lie, lie and in so doing, a fresh, exciting truth will be born. It will flutter free from your fingertips like the small bird when, upon discovering the tiny hole in the wall of his cage, escapes to freedom.”

***

I sat up. My neck felt stiff, twisted and strained. My right cheek and right hand were wet; a steady stream of dribble had worked its way down from my gaping mouth as I slept. The closet felt closer than usual; overcrowded. A heavily-accented voice roared, “I want to devour your ear.” Pablo Picasso came to mind; I tried to remember if I’d read something about him recently.

I heard the clicking of castanets. The robin’s-egg-blue wrapper I found lying next to my typewriter began to trill. The large white lettering outlined in black—GAULOISES—held feathered fans, swung wide petticoats, and danced the Can-Can. From somewhere overhead I heard humming—The Galop from Jacques Offenbach's Orpheus in the Underworld accompanied the dancers. How did I know about The Galop? Oh, yes, my Muse. I inserted a piece of paper into the typewriter and spun the platen with a quick twist of my wrist. Attack!

Today I made love with a famous writer. We fell asleep in each other’s arms. I dreamt my mother, in the form of an ugly orange toad, approached the bed. I smiled, swished a silver, diamond-studded wand over her head, and turned her into a beautiful green flower with a purple stem and golden leaves.

***

“Darling, you must hurry, don’t want to be late.”

My hand shook; my right eyebrow looked somewhat askew.

“Who’s that?” The voice, close behind me, sounded weaker, the rasp heavier.

Startled, I look past my image in the mirror. Over the years his ghostly presence had faded to a sketchy grey, fog-like blur. There were times when I’d hope he would permanently disappear, and then there were those moments when I could hardly wait for his return.

“That’s young and handsome Robert.” When he crossed a room it was like watching a radiating, waltzing bouquet of sunflowers; everyone smiled. He’s number, well, let’s just say his name followed triple digits on my list, which by the way was still growing.

“He’s new. That last one was, let me see, Giovanni, no, Claude, no, ah, yes, Spiros, the mad Greek. Your life has been like the de Gaulle airport. They arrive from all over the world, they are serviced and service in return and depart. You have left yourself without heirs. A mistake, no?”

“No, no mistake. My choice. You were weak. Did you think if your art didn’t provide you with a legacy, your children would? My thinking, my art will last forever, and if not, so be it. I am the stronger one, women don’t care about legacies therefore we live according to our desires. Some of us anyway.”

“The line over your right eyebrow, it’s not in line with the other.” He grabbed my ass. “Getting somewhat flat there. The young ones don’t mind?”

I slapped his hands and turned to face him. “I knew you’d show up today. Couldn’t resist a chance to gloat, could you.”

“Ah, my little pigeon, my little old pigeon. I didn’t want you to forget your beginning at such a prestigious honor. You must remember to mention my name. Every one here knows me. Of course, what I’m trying to say is everyone in the world still recognizes my name and honors my work. What did the last one sell for, several million?”

“Something like that. Have I ever forgotten you? No. Yet you still show up and remind me. Why is it successful men can never stop reminding the successful women they’ve influenced, (she must forever be grateful to them) they were the reason behind her success? Women don’t do that to men.”

“Because, we are and always have been the more powerful force in the world of art.”

“Ah, Pablo my jaded friend, things are changing.”

“And, I’m not there to watch these changes. Guess there is something to be said in favor of death.”

He flung the window open and took a deep breath. “Well, this place is lovely, still not much bigger than your ill-lighted closet, but look at the view.” He leaned out, way out, much farther than I would ever have chanced, until he was almost floating above the street. “Yes, I remember this street. And, of course, this street remembers me. It was at 15 Rue ….. where Fernande Olivier first captured my imagination.” His voice drifted away from the present.

“Pablo, I have to go, I’ll be late. It isn’t the Pulitzer, but, hey, it’s an award.”

“Go my cherub, you’ve learned your lessons well. You don’t need me anymore. You haven’t needed me for a very long time, but as you said, I love to gloat. I love to caress my work, bask in its glory. Go, the world is now yours.”

“Hurry, the taxi is waiting.” Robert’s anxiety had reached high soprano pitch.

“I’m ready, oh, please, Robert, shut the bathroom window for me. It’s stuck, like something is blocking it from closing.”

Robert rushed toward the bathroom. I caught a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror. I ran my fingers through my sleek page-boy-bob, no more mats for this gal. Mane Stay Coiffeurs kept my special color mix under lock and key. I was the only woman in the world with hair the color of a clear desert sunset.

 I chose a fragrance from the many I kept on a table by the door. Expensive colognes, the best Paris had to offer. I sprayed my neck, my shoulders and parts unseen, for the moment.

The taxi pulled up in front the Shakespeare and  Company book store on Paris’s left bank. Throngs of people had gathered and several cameramen rushed forward as we stepped out of the taxi. Robert laced my arm through his. He tended to be shy at public functions.

“Oh, they just love you,” he whispered in my ear and brushed my cheek with a much-too wet kiss.

Yes, they love me not because I write great literature, but because I titillate. I write about lovemaking and raw sex as they dream it, not as they live it. I’ve combined the Kama Sutraa with Boccaccio’s The Decameron and outdone those male writers. True, the Kama Sutra authors are unknown, and believed to be men, but why not stretch the known and trust the possibility that women might have written it.

The interviewer, a perfect specimen of a French jeunne homme glided toward us and interrupted my entertaining thoughts about women writing the Kama Sutra .

“Oh, madam, how do you do it? How do you stay so young?”

He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. A golden aura surrounded him.

I smiled, I dropped Robert’s arm and reached out toward the young man’s hand. “And, what is your name?” My voice husky, dripping with sensual intent.

“Jean Marie, at your service.” He grabbed my hand, clicked his heels kissed both my cheeks. His scent was of a fine wine, which brought to mind a bathtub teeming over with Pouilly Fusee, surrounded by flaming aromatic candles and bottle of Krug, Clos du Mesnil, 1995 chilling in a 17th century French ice bucket. Somewhat high for my budget, but why not dream. Flirty Debussy’s Clair de Lune teasing the delicate ambiance.

Still holding hands, I asked, “Jean Marie, have you ever considered that the Kama Sutra might have been written by women?”

“Excusez-moi, madam, the what?”

“Never mind. We’ll get back to that later. To answer your question, I make love five times a day, more whenever possible. And, I fall in love with someone new almost as many times.” No need to mention my quick change before leaving my apartment from a stunning dawn-grey Chanel into a risqué, what did the saleswoman call it, ah, yes, arabesque rouge-colored Dior dress with a semi-conservative décolletage and a soft, floral printed scarf draped around my neck and gently flowing across my chest hiding all those show and tell etched details decorating my neck and bosom. And, the two face-lifts? No, No, No.

Random snickers and giggles rippled through the crowd; happened every time I spoke to a mixed crowd. An eighty-year-old woman still loving love and sex embarrassed young people and intimidated old people. But not if they weren’t standing next to each other.

“But, madam, your books, your poetry, your paintings, so many, many of them. How do you find the time? I am in love and I make love several times a week and barely have enough time or energy to go to work.”

 “But how do we know if it’s the right kind of love or not?”

“Trust your instincts, Mon Cheri. Your lover’s touch or swift scent will invigorate you. Time will expand into infinity. Your energy will explode. Your soul will fly across the sky, reaching for the sun and touching the moon.

“Picasso once told me, sex is inspiring, creating liberating, and his formula has worked for me. You’re present lover is either not for you or your not creating enough art.”

“Aren’t you too young to have known Picasso.”

“Yes, and no. We met under peculiar circumstances and our relationship evolved, well, I must say, we met ethereally.”

A young woman, resembling a young Jacqueline Roque raised her hand. Standing next to her, grinning like a heroic matador, beret at a rakish slant and black eyes ablaze with delight, Picasso winked at me. His image emerged clearer than I had seen it in years.

“Madame, I have read all your books. You are my hero, but have you never known real love or had a lasting relationship?”

“No and no.” My answer, brief as it was, said it all.

“But, then how do you write so convincingly about such delicate subjects? Your characters always seem to succeed against all obstacles.”

Picasso’s words rang through the Parisian air, “Therefore, Gelda, lie, lie, lie and in so doing, a fresh, exciting truth will be born. It will flutter free from your fingertips like the small bird when, upon discovering the tiny hole in the wall of his cage, escapes to freedom.” And so I did, and still do.

“I write fiction, Mademoiselle, not non-fiction. One can create miracles by just telling a few lies, consistent lies. The truth is born from these lies. Our worlds rotate on lies until the truth flattens itself against our souls and we succumb to our dreams. And, that’s what they are, dreams. If we could all sustain that view of life, we’d all be happy forever, and that’s where non-fiction climbs on stage and the fantasy is over.”

Picasso winked again and stroked the young woman’s long, auburn ringlets. She reached up and brushed his hand away; presumably believing it must be a fly or possibly a butterfly. He kissed her cheek. She blushed. Bad sign, he’d be all over her like oil on a hot skillet.

The present owner of the bookstore emerged carrying a few papers, sporting a toothy grin, and lunged toward me as though he might be preparing to dive off a diving board. I had been awarded the Prix Femina, a French literary prize created in 1904 by twenty-two writers for the magazine La Vie hereuse, now known as Femina. An exclusively female jury decides the prize each year, although the authors of the winning works do not have to be women. The ceremony began. Sylvia Beach, Hemingway, Pound, Joyce, Stein, Ginsberg, Corso, they’ve all been gone for decades, but the charm and significance of this literary icon, Shakespeare and Company lives on. My knees shook, my heart pounded, is this really happening to me, Gelda Klebstein (pen name) from the Bronx, or is it a lie, a lie I’ve told myself over and over again until this has become my truth.