career.”
Well, he would hardly call it that; he did get jobs but not as often as he’d like. His head and hands (which were normal) were wonderfully photogenic (he’d been told), so he did hats of all kinds, winter and summer, ski-goggles, sun-glasses, gloves, rings, even bracelets, now that men wore them—things like that.
They then moved into the delicate and more sensitive area of his coming of age (if not size). Yes, his parents had been normal; in fact, oddly, his father six-feet-four, or so the vital statistics in the family bible recorded; he didn’t remember the man at all— only a few faded photographs.
His mother? (Face pained, brooding but intensely alive) she’d been a saint: lovable and ostensibly loving. Ostensibly because (and this was hard to confess) he was convinced, probably preverbally, that she had never accepted him (in her heart): secretly, sorrowfully repelled and rejecting, not truly recognizing him as hers. “I’ve thought about that a lot. A dwarf can’t be a son. Axiom ex cathedra!” And he laughed, suppressing his anguish at his small, sad joke. “She was never, I don’t think ever, forgiving of God.”
This Mrs. Evans could well understand, though she didn’t say so, of course. There could be no getting used to this bizarre little man (“man” because his head was full, adult size, belonging, like his father’s, to someone six-feet-four, though his beautiful face was lineless, the skin fresh and glowing, adolescent young, enormously appealing).
But she also had the slight uncomfortable feeling, a nuance coldly damp (and it was never to leave her while he was alive, though now, at this moment, she planned never to see him again) that he was wearing a fabulous, life-real, perfectly-made, pretty-boy mask; better—an entire, hollow Shrove-Tuesday head that fitted entirely, if illy, over his own head which was never shown, never allowed to be seen.
And under this, neck to toe, a marvelous, monstrous suit for a haunting on All Hallow’s Eve: a disguise so flawless he’d be welcomed on Bald Mountain or made choreographer extraordinaire of the corps de ballet for Danse Macabre.
“Once,” Bruno said, “I saw an astonishing drawing; I’ve forgotten the artist, German, I think; was it Grosz? Well, nevermind. Exquisite, pen-and-ink as I recall, depicting quite simply, an immense, gnarled crocodile standing erect on its two hind legs, dancing—whirling madly—with a calm and graceful, beautifully smiling, lovely naked girl.”
“Why ‘quite simply?’ ” Mrs. Evans inquired.
“I beg your pardon—”
“You said—’depicting quite simply . . . ’ ”
“Oh!” Laughter. “Merely because, that was all; I mean, just the two of them, against nothing in the background, only white space.”
“I see,” said his patroness. (He dared, even now, so soon, so wildly, ridiculously premature, to think of her as that, having decided the moment she entered the room that it would be she to whom he’d dedicate—entirely in italics, of course—his very first and at present work-in-progress, though exactly how the inscription should read would require days, perhaps weeks of contemplation).
“But it isn’t ‘simple’ at all,” Mrs. Evans admonished; “the drawing, perhaps: a pen-and-ink sketch, but not the idea—as symbol, or allegory.”
“You misunderstand,” the tiny boy said with a shrug of his angel’s stunted wing. “It is simple if you don’t allow it to become complicated. To me, it expresses or represents the possibility of love, or at least shared joy and enjoyment, between two creatures one could not possibly imagine more antithetical or incommensurate.”
Incommensurate! Mrs. Evans smiled, hiding it behind a few contemplative fingers. He had quite a vocabulary for a mere eighteen.
“Incommensurate,” she repeated for the pleasure of giving the word back to him. “Yes, I see.”
Actually, it was quite simple and easy to “see” because he was
Well, he would hardly call it that; he did get jobs but not as often as he’d like. His head and hands (which were normal) were wonderfully photogenic (he’d been told), so he did hats of all kinds, winter and summer, ski-goggles, sun-glasses, gloves, rings, even bracelets, now that men wore them—things like that.
They then moved into the delicate and more sensitive area of his coming of age (if not size). Yes, his parents had been normal; in fact, oddly, his father six-feet-four, or so the vital statistics in the family bible recorded; he didn’t remember the man at all— only a few faded photographs.
His mother? (Face pained, brooding but intensely alive) she’d been a saint: lovable and ostensibly loving. Ostensibly because (and this was hard to confess) he was convinced, probably preverbally, that she had never accepted him (in her heart): secretly, sorrowfully repelled and rejecting, not truly recognizing him as hers. “I’ve thought about that a lot. A dwarf can’t be a son. Axiom ex cathedra!” And he laughed, suppressing his anguish at his small, sad joke. “She was never, I don’t think ever, forgiving of God.”
This Mrs. Evans could well understand, though she didn’t say so, of course. There could be no getting used to this bizarre little man (“man” because his head was full, adult size, belonging, like his father’s, to someone six-feet-four, though his beautiful face was lineless, the skin fresh and glowing, adolescent young, enormously appealing).
But she also had the slight uncomfortable feeling, a nuance coldly damp (and it was never to leave her while he was alive, though now, at this moment, she planned never to see him again) that he was wearing a fabulous, life-real, perfectly-made, pretty-boy mask; better—an entire, hollow Shrove-Tuesday head that fitted entirely, if illy, over his own head which was never shown, never allowed to be seen.
And under this, neck to toe, a marvelous, monstrous suit for a haunting on All Hallow’s Eve: a disguise so flawless he’d be welcomed on Bald Mountain or made choreographer extraordinaire of the corps de ballet for Danse Macabre.
“Once,” Bruno said, “I saw an astonishing drawing; I’ve forgotten the artist, German, I think; was it Grosz? Well, nevermind. Exquisite, pen-and-ink as I recall, depicting quite simply, an immense, gnarled crocodile standing erect on its two hind legs, dancing—whirling madly—with a calm and graceful, beautifully smiling, lovely naked girl.”
“Why ‘quite simply?’ ” Mrs. Evans inquired.
“I beg your pardon—”
“You said—’depicting quite simply . . . ’ ”
“Oh!” Laughter. “Merely because, that was all; I mean, just the two of them, against nothing in the background, only white space.”
“I see,” said his patroness. (He dared, even now, so soon, so wildly, ridiculously premature, to think of her as that, having decided the moment she entered the room that it would be she to whom he’d dedicate—entirely in italics, of course—his very first and at present work-in-progress, though exactly how the inscription should read would require days, perhaps weeks of contemplation).
“But it isn’t ‘simple’ at all,” Mrs. Evans admonished; “the drawing, perhaps: a pen-and-ink sketch, but not the idea—as symbol, or allegory.”
“You misunderstand,” the tiny boy said with a shrug of his angel’s stunted wing. “It is simple if you don’t allow it to become complicated. To me, it expresses or represents the possibility of love, or at least shared joy and enjoyment, between two creatures one could not possibly imagine more antithetical or incommensurate.”
Incommensurate! Mrs. Evans smiled, hiding it behind a few contemplative fingers. He had quite a vocabulary for a mere eighteen.
“Incommensurate,” she repeated for the pleasure of giving the word back to him. “Yes, I see.”
Actually, it was quite simple and easy to “see” because he was
Similar Books
