The Portrait by Willem Jan Otten Page B

that I am your commission, that you accepted me.
    You will be saving a life.
    Those six words had always baffled me and now, as Creator drew his gaze away from me and moved his mouth towards Minke’s hair, to her ear, I could only think one thing. I thought, Don’t let go of me now.
    Promise, Creator whispered, with his mouth against her hair. Promise you won’t tell anyone about it.
    She, too, looked away from me now, although keeping her grip on his wrist, and turned her face to his. She was taller than him, I saw that now: she bent her legs a little.
    Whether it was her mouth seeking his or his seeking hers, I don’t know.
    Hi, Creator said, hardly pulling back from her at all.
    So you still taste of that, he said. Of Gauloises.
    She laughed briefly and asked, Where were we?
    She threw the cigarette on the floor. Creator stubbed it out with the toe of his shoe.
    I hadn’t seen it this close up before, the incomprehensible thing called touch, two mouths together. I was pretty sure that what was happening between them now was different from what had happened between Lidewij and Creator more than six months ago; this was more breathless, more panicky too, as if they were suddenly pursued by God knows who or what, as if any interruption of the touching and gestures that followed one after the other in a kind of hectic flood could cause a lull that would be as fatal to them as a thorn to a bubble. For a moment, Creator pulled back from Minke’s mouth — I saw that his was redder than before — and said, He’s dead.
    With her mouth still seeking his, Minke asked, Who?
    Him, Creator said, gesturing at me with his chin. When I painted him he was dead.
    He spoke slowly. He sounded somehow triumphant. As if saying dead would make Minke move even closer to him.
    What’s he called? she asked, as his mouth covered hers again.
    To my left, not far from the sliding door, a drop fell. I had heard it a few times earlier; there’s a leak there.
    Creator hadn’t answered.
    For a moment, it seemed as if Minke was about to disentangle herself, but she stopped the pushing movement — that was a decision, I saw that very clearly — and Creator grabbed the bottom hem of her top and peeled it up over her belly, her stomach, her breasts, her throat, her face, her long arms — a lightning movement she made possible by going down on her knees with arms raised. While Creator strode away from her to the mattress, which he dragged over to the middle of the room, exactly between me and the newcomer, she unhooked her bra, pushed down her skirt, and stepped out of her knickers. Red pumps, black nylon stockings, a shoelace around her neck: it was as if she’d been studying the cover of one of Creator’s videos. It was also as if she knew what the two of them had to do. How can I put it, I had the impression I was seeing something that had already taken place, something they were staging. Creator had lain down on his back on the mattress, with his head to the newcomer and his feet, still in his shoes, to me. He had slid his jeans and underpants down to his knees and held his head up to look at her while she, with her back to me, walked towards him.
    To my left, the drops fell every other second, but Creator didn’t do what he did otherwise; he didn’t slide a bucket under the leak.
    Where were we?
    Here, Minke said. In front of the mirror.
    She was now standing at Creator’s feet.
    I’m not free, remember. You always ask how much it costs.
    How much does it cost?
    They sounded like a couple of kids working out the rules of a game.
    That depends.
    On what?
    On what you want, you know that.
    And what do I want?
    You know very well what you want.
    And how much is that going to cost me?
    Minke took a breath and gestured backwards, meaning me.
    What do you say to … something like what you got for him.
    She laughed, kicked off her pumps, and knelt down beside him.
    Is that all?