They stood by the large window, looking at the armoured car as it crawled through the square like a huge beetle. She was naked. He was dressed. He took a step forward and embraced her from behind. His hands smelled of turpentine and were covered in blue, red and white paint. The blood of her portrait. He had called her in the morning to check how she was coping with the lockdown. 

‘I’m doing well,’ Julia said. ‘I sit and watch the square; that’s what I’ve been doing. The invisible guardian of the square, that’s what I’ve become.’ 

‘I cannot stay shut in any longer,’ Serge said. ‘When we do that, we let them take away our freedom. And that’s exactly what they want. This is my city, my country, and they cannot turn me into a voluntary prisoner. Enough. I’m going out. Can I come and see you? Will you pose for me?’ 

‘Yes.’ She said it twice. 

There is such a clichéd romance in the idea of being an artist’s model. All these women who made it to eternity by posing for the greats. In reality, there was nothing romantic about it. It was tedious and demanding. The body begins to ache from the effort to keep still. The face stiffens from the attempt to preserve the same expression. The skin prickles as the air starts feeling cooler and cooler.

At the academy, she got annoyed sometimes when a model would slightly change her position after the break. It would sabotage her work. The teacher would come, scrutinise her canvas and say, 

‘It’s not quite correct. Her hand is actually higher.’ 

Oh well, it was certainly lower twenty minutes ago. 

But with every passing minute of posing for Serge, guilty compassion replaces her previous impatience. There are no shortcuts to eternity; it’s all lived through, ached through. So that those beautiful portraits can reign over time and kindle admiration through the centuries. For Julia, though, the destination is uncertain. Serge is in his second year and whether he will really make it as a painter is as questionable as the fame of the greats when they began.

They had met at the academy. September was a month for experimenting, when anyone could try all the courses before settling on their choices. There were two painting classes, and she tried both. Hylke, the Flemish teacher, was serious and ambitious. Even in the first class, she showed her a technique. Elena, the Italian teacher, was more relaxed. She looked at Julia’s painting, gave some feedback and let her continue alone. ‘You need to find your own style,’ she said. 

Julia googled them both, compared their work and couldn’t quite make up her mind. Hylke’s portraits were authentic, vivid, conveying emotion. This was something she wanted to work on and learn herself. Elena’s work was abstract and evocative. It blew her mind with merging colours and shapes.

The days passed, and she couldn’t make a decision. What helped her set her mind on Elena was not Elena herself, but her absence. One Tuesday, when her classes took place, Serge announced that she was ill and had asked him to replace her. He was the biggest hope of the class, had already been painting before enrolling in the academy and had made remarkable progress during his time there. That evening, he would interrupt his painting every so often and circle the room, stopping next to each of the prospective students and commenting on their work. Julia didn’t remember what exactly he had said about hers. Something encouraging about the choice of colours, followed by a suggestion to alter the proportions. He gave her a piece of charcoal, took her hand, raised it and showed her how to get the right measure. The warmth of his hand. That’s what had helped her decide. 

And now his hands cupped her breasts as he was embracing her from behind. His breathing was the only sound in the silence, in which they watched the armoured car crawling across the square. His lips slid down her neck. She froze. Messing with Serge was a dead-end street. She faced him and looked into his hazel eyes. He tried to kiss her, but she turned her head.

 ‘Did you also call Valentina?’ 

‘Yes… but she didn’t answer. Have you heard from her?’ 

‘Did you call her before or after calling me?’ 

Brief silence. 

‘I don’t remember.’  

She walked past him and put on a cotton dress. Then she dialled a number on her mobile. After a short while, Valentina answered.

‘There is an armoured car at Sablon,’ Julia said.

 ‘It’s terrible. Worse than a nightmare.’ 

‘How are you doing?’ 

‘I’m fine.’ 

‘Are you alone?’

 ‘Yes.’ 

‘Shall I come over?’

‘No. I need to go through this alone.’ 

‘Have you been painting?’ 

‘No. I cannot.’ 

They were both silent.

‘Thanks for calling, Julia. Take good care.’

‘You too.’ 

Serge’s tense expression. 

‘She’s fine. She’s alone. You can give it a try. Go there. Play the knight. Kill the monsters. Get the princess.’ ‘I don’t want to.’ 

He approached her again and put his hands on her shoulders. She felt their warmth through her dress. 

‘I’m perfectly happy where I am. Here. With you.’

She walked to the canvas and looked at his portrait of her. The woman staring at her was her. And also not her. As always, good art added to reality instead of just reflecting it. The artist’s vision. Looking at her portrait, she saw the woman Serge was seeing in her. That woman seemed to both attract and scare him. 

‘Let’s call it a day,’ she said, ‘I’m tired.’

‘Can I come back tomorrow?’ 

‘I don’t know.’ ‘I’ll call you.’

 ‘All right.’

 He embraced her at the door and tried to kiss her again. She turned her cheek. 

There was a tacit agreement between Julia and Valentina to never talk about Serge. And to never get involved with him. Why had she let him come over then? She didn’t know. It must had been the surreal circumstances, the silence, Valentina’s sudden distancing. Yet a knot inside her connected messing with Serge with her friendship with Valentina being over. She could sacrifice him. Not her.

By Irina Papancheva