Lanark_ a life in 4 books - Alasdair Gray [146]
“Yes.”
“You needn’t have asked. I knew you wanted to. Any girl would have known and let you do it.”
“I see.”
“And to a certain extent it’s the same with kissing. When a girl feels you’re worried and frightened she gets upset too.”
“Like life models who only feel embarrassed when an embarrassed student draws them.”
“Yes, it’s like that.”
He stopped and gripped her arm. “Marjory, can I draw you? Naked, I mean?”
She stared. He said eagerly, “I won’t be embarrassed—my picture needs you. The professional models are good to practise on but they come out like film actresses. I need someone who’s beautiful but not fashionable.”
“But Duncan … I’m not beautiful.”
“Oh, you are. If I paint you I’ll show you you are.”
“But Duncan, I … I … I have an ugly birthmark down my side.”
He shook his head impatiently. “Surface discolourations aren’t important.” He gave a slight, helpless laugh and added, “You ought to do it, to make us equal again. I stripped naked in front of you just now, in words.”
“Oh, Duncan!”
She gave him an affectionate pitying smile and sighed.
“All right, Duncan.”
They walked on.
“Good. When? Next week?”
“No, the week after. I’m very busy just now.”
“Monday?”
“No. Well … Friday.”
“Good. About seven?”
“Yes.”
“And should I keep reminding you till then?”
“No, I … I really will remember, Duncan.”
“Good.”
At the garden gate she tilted up her mouth. He brushed his cheek on hers and murmured, “We’re not mature enough for mouths. Mine hardens when I touch you with it. Please hold me.”
They clasped, and her ear against his cheek made a point of tingling excitement. He began breathing deeply. She whispered, “Are you happy, Duncan?”
“Aye.”
A car stopped at the kerb. Glancing sideways they saw the profile of the professor sitting immobile behind the wheel. They broke apart, laughing.
The enlarged landscape would show Blackhill, Riddrie, the Campsie Fells, the Cathkin Braes and crowds from both sides mixing around the locks in the middle. Over 105 square feet of canvas he wove, unwove and rewove a net of blue, grey and brown guidelines. He was contemplating them glumly one night when McAlpin entered and said, “What’s wrong?”
“I wish the shapes weren’t so restless.”
“A landscape seen simultaneously from above and below and containing north, east and south can hardly be peaceful. Especially if there’s a war in it.”
“True, but I’m making a point of rest in the middle foreground: Marjory, looking at us.”
“What expression will she have?”
“Her usual expression. I hope you remember she’s posing tomorrow. I don’t want interruptions.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll be left to yourselves. What exactly do you expect from tomorrow evening? You seem to be building a lot on it.”
“I expect an evening of good sound work. I’ll be glad to get more but I’m not hoping for it so I can’t be disappointed. I love the slight gawkiness in her. She doesn’t seem to feel she has breasts and that emphasizes them. She’s pretty, isn’t she?”
“Yes. Mind you, she could dress to show it more.”
“What do you mean?”
“Her clothes are a bit schoolgirlish, don’t you think?”
“No, I don’t think that.”
“You don’t? I see.”
“My grapes are not sour, you foxy plutocrat.”
“Sour gra—? Why, you shabby socialist!”
They laughed at each other.
Next morning he prepared his drawing board, brought in a bottle of wine and carefully set the fire so that it would flare at the touch of a match; but he was restless and went to school for the coffee break. In the refectory he met Janet Weir and asked if she had seen Marjory.
“No, Duncan. She’s not at school today.”
“Did she—yesterday, I mean—look a bit tired and ill?”
“I don’t think so, Duncan.”
He returned to the studio and at half-past six lit the fire and sat by it trying to read. The doorbell rang at ten to eight. Making an effort not to run he strolled down and casually turned the knob. It took him two or three seconds to see that the