The Nude

Seeing a Portrait while visiting Sausalito

In creating a story, I first discover a fantasy playing out in my head. I hear the character’s speech, learn the mannerisms, blank outside noise, and set reason aside.

The telling of the story arrives as an answer to my curiosity. It is at first a dream. I don’t want to lose the idea, so I focus on it, follow it, hang on to it, later digging through grammar rules, feeling vulnerable to a lack of knowledge. How many adverbs, subordinate clauses, will remain hideous, hawkish, and insipid?

I am in Sausalito today. Tomorrow I am meeting a friend for lunch in Petaluma. Leaving the city earlier, crossing the Golden Gate, I make a late decision to dive down into Sausalito. It’s Tuesday, so the holiday weekend crowds, sun-burned, glowing with freedom, have left the town. Instead of driving up to Mendocino and back down tomorrow, I decided to stay overnight. The breeze is blustery, cool at times, but it is yet early. I like to amble, browse, muddle my way through the day, thinking about several ideas for a short story. This morning, after coffee at Poggio and having reserved a room at the Madrona Hotel, I walked and enjoyed the town. I like to browse art exhibitions, and Sausalito is not short of attractions.

The painting that attracted my attention was a portrait of a naked lady. The beautiful nude had a mane of copper-colored hair. She was standing against the light of a window, through which the masts of moored yachts are visible. The window in the portrait overlooks the Sausalito marina. It would be interesting to determine through which exact window such a view is revealed. When the proprietor approached, I enquired as to the artist’s name. He was a local man, that’s all he knew. I felt my suspicion confirmed.

That set my curiosity alight. It flamed. I could devote my time wandering around the marina to see if those yachts might still be moored. It shouldn’t be difficult, looking at the landscape of Belvedere across the water, I had a good idea of the vicinity in which the yachts would be. I acknowledged the proprietor before returning to the painting. It was large, and the detailing of the yachts and their masts was as perfect as the lines and shadows of the nude’s body. I left the exhibition, tipping my hat to two elderly ladies entering. The Californian town of Sausalito has its comparisons with those isolated Greek fishing villages or looking toward the hills, the homes on the French Riviera.

The yachts were moored next to each other — a sloop, a cutter, and farthest in the portrait, another sloop. The nearest of the three had a pennant atop the mast — Sausalito Yacht Club.

Something strange occurred after I left the exhibition. Passing by the ferry pier, I had the unnerving feeling of being followed, that I was drifting away from reality. I didn’t turn around to quash this delicious idea, having spent many enjoyable evenings in Sausalito. It has fine restaurants, antique shops, and up-market clothing stores. It is a town that exudes artistic circles from all the arts. Summers can belong in Sausalito, and on this second day of summer, I wondered how long before I felt an unendurable nostalgia for rain. Once again, the litter bins are full, discarded fruit peels, crumpled daily newspapers, takeaway food packaging. The sign of life returning as the epidemic ebbs from our shores.

Entering the marina, I took out my cell phone. The proprietor of the exhibition had allowed me to take a photo of the portrait. I used two fingers to magnify the image. If those three yachts are in the marina, they shouldn’t be hard to find, considering the angle and perspective the painter saw.

That was the moment I turned my head. Things happen to writers, just as they do to female executives, blowing their noses with pink paper tissue. For writers, whether what happened was real or a diabolical vision sent to stimulate the extraordinary.

The woman, tall, with slender legs, had copper-colored hair. I looked down at my phone, let two fingers widen the photo, and then zoom into the portrait’s figure. The truth fluttered on the breeze. The woman, smiling, is challenging me. I smile back. She takes up the pose of the woman in the photo.

The salty water is falling asleep in the Bay. The woman comes closer, taking a seat on a wooden bench. Curiosity has gripped me. Sitting at her side, I wondered who will speak first.

“You were admiring me for a long time,” she said. Her voice that of poetry falling apart. It is common, perhaps southern, Carolina maybe, a friend of all people. “Did you feel the artist captured my beauty?”

“I was admiring the rigging,” I said at once hearing myself. “I mean, sorry, the mast rigging. The yachts in the background. But yes, I’m sure the artist caught the beauty of you.”

It would have been okay if the real world exploded at this point. I am farthest away, or nearest the idea that is unconsciously playing with my imagination.

“My name is Charlie,” she said.

I’m thinking to myself, why now. Why not later, party in the moonlight, and free drinks at the bar. I’ll soon know if the artist caught the turns and the curves of what is under her summer dress. But here I am, sitting on a wooden bench at the ferry pier, in broad daylight, people licking ice cream, taking snapshots, walking dogs, filling waste bins with rubbish.

Charlie, from Carolina. Men are standing in line waiting to dance with her back home, or they’re welcoming her aboard a private jet in Nantucket. Here on the ferry pier, people make their rendezvous, heading to San Francisco and Market Street.

“You were posing for the artist at a window overlooking the marina, perhaps from that direction?” I suggested, pointing.

“We booked a room at the Madrona Hotel. I didn’t know the artist. I met him in a bar in Petaluma. He sketched my face in pencil on a beer mat. It was beautiful. He was an older man. His complexion gray and livid. He asked if I would pose naked for him. He would paint me. It would be framed and put up for sale. I would receive the sale price for my posing for him. He said he would not live long enough to enjoy the fruits of his labor. I did think his eyes, which I’m sure were once a startling vivid blue, had a vague and dying appearance. The artist then brought me to Sausalito and had me stretch out naked on a hotel bed, not saying a word, busy in his work. Finally, he told me the pose on the bed did not work, that I should stand naked in front of the window. It was like he put the last of his energy into the work. When the time came, he wouldn’t let me see it. He told me he would get it framed, and within the week, it would be for sale at the exhibition. I’ve been waiting for it to sell so I can return home. I thought you were the one. You took so long viewing it. Asked about the artist. Then you walked away. I had to follow. What disappointed you when seeing me naked on canvas? Was it the price? Tell me, would you have paid the price for the real thing?”

Whatever utterance I’m about to make should be considered. In creating a story, I first discover a fantasy playing out in my head. I hear the character’s speech, learn the mannerisms, blank outside noise, and set reason aside.

“I’m married to a woman of striking beauty; she cost me nothing but attention.”

The woman’s green eyes suited the yellow undertone of her complexion. Her first glance would sweep most men off their feet, causing them to utter a few meaningless words. Had I not been intimidated by the beauty of my own? I may well have fallen prey to this woman. Yet, she was not very sure of herself, though she tried to give that impression. These encounters, the language, the body mannerisms always take place when any outcome is uncertain. On another day, in another year, in different circumstances, I would have taken her home, loved her, and looked at her every day with appreciative eyes.

“I enjoyed hearing your story. I hope a buyer for your portrait will appreciate your beauty and pay the price requested.” I tip my hat, reluctantly taking my leave. In walking away, it felt like a dream. I didn’t want to lose the idea, so I focused on it, followed it, and hung on to it. I’ll take it home, dig through it, catch the verbs, sift the adjectives, and look for subordinate clauses.

In the hotel room, the window overlooked the Sausalito ferry. She was easy to spot, her copper-colored hair flowing down her back. Even when we might have kissed and embraced, our shyness prevented us from sharing anything but the most innocent pleasure. I looked back toward the bed and the wrapped portrait. I wondered if my wife would appreciate the woman’s beauty. Or wonder if I paid too much?