XVII

F

riends are so easily betrayed. So little effort is needed: so little malice required. Anne was as good a friend as ever I deserved. Should I stall, she would pull me after her and then, with as sunny a smile as you could believe, she'd urge my hands to give her backside a hearty heave. With a wink, she'd have clambered over the top and into no-man's land with me. A good friend is only exactly as tolerant of your failings as you wish them to be. When, while still in the town of V________, before transplanting myself to Florence, I had petitioned Anne for our Beatrice's mailing address, I was setting her up for betrayal and she, like some messiah, was obliged by friendship to allow herself to be betrayed. Though unspoken, there was no doubt between us what I was undertaking, by writing to that cellist, posed risk to the foundation of our friendship and perhaps the one between the girls. Anne might have had complete faith in my tact and wisdom or perhaps her reliance was upon the manner in which my lethargy was always coupled with cowardice. Our camaraderie was such that reminding me of her trust would have shown a lack of trust. We each knew the stakes.

There was a beloved friend, Mathilde, who was the subject of an oath when I first encountered her with some intimacy. Unbeknownst to her, I swore to never lie to her by word, deed or omission. Never, not ever, would she be subject to mind games or passive aggressive parlour tricks. I maintained that promise for the full twenty years of our friendship.

Notably, in almost every encounter with her over that time, I found myself having to recall that vow of honesty. Little lies, positive falsehoods, flattering untruths and even endeavors to position myself in a positive position in her esteem had to be checked. If truth is good then I was ever good to Mathilde.

There were several occasions over the span of our relations that she was obliged to request that I distance myself from her. We could be friends no longer, she would say. In every case it was because she felt that she could not trust me.

Trust has nothing to do with truth and little to do with integrity. Perhaps my demeanor is inherently diabolical. Perhaps Mathilde is idiosyncratically untrusting. The sample size was small. Regardless of the validity of the experiment, I took away from it the belief that all communication assumes some level of dishonesty. When I would disclose to Mathilde some shady opinion, her natural inclination then was to look for a yet deeper shade wherein would lurk the truth. Were I to remark that I found her desirable, she would interpret that as actually meaning that I was seeking to seduce her. One wonders what ugly truths were lurking behind the eyes of Dorian Gray's portrait.

Utterances are not analyzed at face value but instead as something designed to coerce and convince, to conceal and conspire. We do this unconsciously. Evidence may be presented that this phenomenon is something reserved for the English language or Western European culture but I simply generalize. The bounds of the theory are untested.

Anne though was on the list of people that could be lied to as situations and sensibilities dictated. Nonetheless, I had not given any kind of untruth when I gave assurances that any communication I made to Beatrice would be cordial, civil, and prudent. Indeed, the words that I placed so carefully upon those pages were individually, collectively and sequentially all reasonable ones. Hyperbole was reined in. There were no galloping passions or even convictions that moved beyond a canter. Some might have deemed it gentlemanly. It was at least precise. The note was in no way precious. Still, the missive was a formal declaration of my fascination for Beatrice. Within several hundred words, I sought to communicate as objectively and completely as I was able, the depths of my necessity for her as an inspirational muse. It was critical, and I was certain appropriate, that it be made quite distinct that there was no sexual aspect to my attraction. Nor was I soliciting any sort of closer relationship.

The pages contained, I am quite convinced, every necessary aspect of our relationship. We did have a relationship though she was all but blind to the full complexities and value of it. Was it not both impolitic and false to not openly describe the situation as I saw it? She should not be disadvantaged. I was cursed with certainty that Beatrice needed to know these things. What folly it was to not get the opinion of another on this testimonial. Anyone hearing my scheme would have tried to halt me.

The end. The end was very difficult to write. They are as difficult as putting the last brushstroke on a painting. In this case, the difficulty was remarkable. Oh how I yearned to be able to issue the simple words that end any conversational essay: Does that make sense? Do you understand? Is that fair? It is that same hazard of hermitage.

At the end, I asked her permission to continue to use her as my muse. This was meaningless and had I reflected, I knew that at the time. She could not have been erased or even lessened from my consciousness. My Guinevere, My Amore, my obsession was beyond the strength of will of both her and I.

It was sealed. About the exterior of the envelope, I crafted a pencil drawing, a copy of Michelangelo's hand of Adam, limply raised to receive the touch of life. The quality was not superior but still, I wonder how well it managed to survive molestations of the postal service.

Hands are a delight to depict. Their range of expression is as broad as a face yet they maintain more anonymity and thereby the viewer feels greater affinity. A visage does not act it but reflects and considers. Fingers and thumbs though are actors, making choices. Mouths are so much more mute. The appendages are also fascinating for the facility of flesh to stretch and shift and so betray the clockwork mechanism of muscle and bone beneath. Nowhere else in the body are there so many independently willed elements but they are not entirely independent and therein lies a tool for the narrative.

When a single finger is thrust upward, what has been the action of the other digits? Did they too move with energy and design? Did they instead limply, lemming-like follow the lead of the first? Are they tensed in their pursuit or careless? What does the thumb have to say about this advance? Is it an agent in the conspiracy?

For the artist, the hand is a musical instrument. The four fingers, along with the bass thumb, must be arranged in concert with concerns of rhythm and scale. Variations on the theme of the central finger are performed in the others. Some will be higher, some lower; some stretched tight and held long, some curled low. Vibrato is available. Are they opposed or do they act in concert?

XVIII