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he walks. He is determined to win the battle against this giant
labyrinth of cobblestone. If he could only reason, he thinks. His
thoughts begin to form at an accelerated pace, to match the movements
of his feet. Now, it is not optimism he is experiencing; it is
forceful will. He recognizes a few street signs, and the red towel
hanging from the laundry line across the alley from his hotel.
Finally, he wins. As James ascends the staircase to his room, his
hand dives into his pant’s pocket. His mind is still racing
even though he is seconds away from being safe in his room. Suddenly,
it is clear to him that he must find an outlet for his growing
inner turmoil. In the archives of his mind he searches for the
solution to his deeper problem: how can he use his elevated awareness
to produce great art in clay or stone. He yanks out a brass key from his pocket like a cowboy draws his gun. He is proud of his arrival, his victory against chaos. Then, he glances at the celestial woman sitting by his door, blocking the keyhole. “Am I dreaming?” he asks himself. “I wait for you long time, ah? She says with two stretched out arms and open palms. James gathers himself and stands straight. He glances down at her thick brown hair falling like fettuccini and curling playfully around her shoulders and chest. Her olive skin is the same tone as the door behind her. James focuses on her voluptuous lips. He can see the many vertical lines in her upper lip, it is curled upward towards him. Her long skinny legs are gathered in her hands. Her scabbed knees kiss each one of her breasts. “I am René. I come to model. You are sculptor, no?” James smiles widely, as if he is receiving morning sun on his face. His head is not tilted to the sky, though; it is glancing down at René. He is struck by the title she gives him, “sculptor.” Everyone at the Art Student League knows him as the ex-consultant. All his |
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