‘There is nothing to it. Are you ready? Shall we begin?’
‘At once.’
‘The model!’ cried Drioli. ‘Come on, Josie!’ He was in a bustle of enthusiasm now, tottering around the room arranging everything, like a child preparing for some exciting game. ‘Where will you have her? Where shall she stand?’
‘Let her be standing there, by my dressing-table. Let her be brushing her hair. I will paint her with her hair down over her shoulders and her brushing it.’
‘Tremendous. You are a genius.’
Reluctantly, the girl walked over and stood by the dressing-table, carrying her glass of wine with her.
Drioli pulled off his shirt and stepped out of his trousers. He retained only his underpants and his socks and shoes, and he stood there swaying gently from side to side, his small body firm, white-skinned, almost hairless. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘I am the canvas. Where will you place your canvas?’
‘As always, upon the easel.’
‘Don’t be crazy. I am the canvas.’
‘Then place yourself upon the easel. That is where you belong.’
‘How can I?’
‘Are you the canvas or are you not the canvas?’
‘I am the canvas. Already I begin to feel like a canvas.’
‘Then place yourself upon the easel. There should be no difficulty.’
‘Truly, it is not possible.’
‘Then sit on the chair. Sit back to front, then you can lean your drunken head against the back of it. Hurry now, for I am about to commence.’
‘I am ready. I am waiting.’
‘First,’ the boy said, ‘I shall make an ordinary painting. Then, if it pleases me, I shall tattoo over it.’ With a wide brush he began to paint upon the naked skin of the man’s back.
‘Ayee! Ayee!’ Drioli screamed. ‘A monstrous centipede is marching down my spine!’
‘Be still now! Be still!’ The boy worked rapidly, applying the paint only in a thin blue wash so that it would not afterwards interfere with the process of tattooing. His concentration, as soon as he began to paint, was so great that it appeared somehow to supersede his drunkenness. He applied the brush strokes with quick short jabs of the arm, holding the wrist stiff, and in less than half an hour it was finished.
All right. That’s all,’ he said to the girl, who immediately returned to the couch, lay down, and fell asleep.
Drioli remained awake. He watched the boy take up the needle and dip it in the ink; then he felt the sharp tickling sting as it touched the skin of his back. The pain, which was unpleasant but never extreme, kept him from going to sleep. By following the track of the needle and by watching the different colours of ink that the boy was using, Drioli amused himself trying to visualize what was going on behind him. The boy worked with an astonishing intensity. He appeared to have become completely absorbed in the little machine and in the unusual effects it was able to produce.
Far into the small hours of the morning the machine buzzed and the boy worked. Drioli could remember that when the artist finally stepped back and said, ‘It is finished,’ there was daylight outside and the sound of people walking in the street.
‘I want to see it,’ Drioli said. The boy held up a mirror, at an angle, and Drioli craned his neck to look.
‘Good God!’ he cried. It was a startling sight. The whole of his back, from the top of the shoulders to the base of the spine, was a blaze of colour – gold and green and blue and black and scarlet. The tattoo was applied so heavily it looked almost like an impasto. The boy had followed as closely as possible the original brush strokes, filling them in solid, and it was marvellous the way he had made use of the spine and the protrusion of the shoulder blades so that they became part of the composition. What is more, he had somehow managed to achieve – even with this slow process – a certain spontaneity. The portrait was quite alive; it contained much of that twisted, tortured quality so characteristic of Soutine’s other work. It was not a good likeness. It was a mood rather than a likeness, the model’s face vague and tipsy, the background swirling around her head in a mass of dark-green curling strokes.
‘It’s tremendous!’
‘I rather like it myself.’ The boy stood back, examining it critically. ‘You know,’ he added, ‘I think it’s good enough for me to sign.’ And taking up the buzzer again, he inscribed his name in red ink on the right-hand side, over the place where Drioli’s kidney was.
The old man who was called Drioli was standing in a sort of trance, staring at the painting in the window of the picture-dealer’s shop. It had been so long ago, all that – almost as though it had happened in another life.