Michael Onofrey

Drawing

Pencil at my ear -- scratch, scratch, scratch -- graphite on paper. That was the sound as she sat cross-legged with a sketchpad on her lap, mirrored sunglasses on her face, my reflection in the lenses of those glasses as I lay before her on a towel. She was nude. I was nude. We were on a nude beach -- Paleohora, southwest Crete, beginning of September.

What was she, early thirties? I was fifty-three. She was Lydia. I was Jack. Her two cohorts, Mari and Sybil, were a lot younger, not that any of them ever alluded to age.

Lydia’s voice was Irish, but I have to think to reproduce it, whereas the rubbing of lead on paper comes to mind like a tune repeating itself. Mari and Sybil participated in this activity as well, pencil and paper possessing the three of them, sketchpads in hand while searching for subject on Cretan beaches. Back at the villa, though, that thick-walled concrete cottage perched on the eastern fringes of town, they supplemented their obsession with watercolor on more fibrous pulp.

“Would you mind terribly if I did a sketch?” Lydia said, her first words to me as I lay on a towel on the sand. And then, as I blinked my eyes and brought a hand up to block the sun, she said, “Oh, I’m so sorry to have disturbed you,” as if she hadn’t noticed that I was sleeping. Short orange hair clung to her skull like a yarmulke. She carried a towel, a sketchpad, and a clear-plastic box.

“A sketch?”

“Yes, if it wouldn’t be too much of an inconvenience.”

“A sketch?” I repeated.

“Yes. A sketch of you.”

To my surprise I found myself at ease as she drew. We didn’t speak. I don’t know why.

After about twenty minutes Mari and Sybil shuffled up in the same condition as Lydia—naked, and with towels, sketchpads, and small plastic cases. Sybil, though, also carried a straw beach bag. Mari and Sybil were without sunglasses and without embarrassment as they stood, looking at my body.

“Is everything in order?” I asked.

They laughed, and then Mari said, “Perhaps so, for a sense of humor is always of value.”

They smiled. I smiled. Lydia drew.

“But,” said Sybil, the better parts of London on her speech, “it appears that you are . . . how should I put it . . . a bit past your prime. Are you capable of erection?”

I looked at her and said, “Am I expected to perform?”

“A matter of inquiry,” she responded. “Call it curiosity.”

“Lydia, darling,” Mari intoned, “if you would be so kind as to introduce us to your . . . gentleman friend.”

“What’s your name?” Lydia asked to me.

“Jack.”

“Jack,” said Lydia, “this is Sybil and this is Mari.”

“Do I detect American in your voice, Jack?” Mari asked.

“You might.”

“Not New York,” Mari said. “Not the East Coast. Out West, if I am not mistaken.”

“You are not mistaken. Call it California, call it Bakersfield.”

“Is it perhaps rural? Agrarian perhaps?” Mari was somewhat of a linguist.

“About two hundred thousand people, about the south end of the San Joaquin Valley, about some of the richest farmland in the world, and about a million country-western bars with everyone thinking they’re a cowboy.”

“Oh, boy!” cried Mari. “We got ourselves a cowboy!”

Everyone chuckled, and then Sybil said, “Speaking of perform, here comes today’s performance.”

A man and a woman, obviously recently clothed since they were emerging from the throng of naked bodies at the far end of the beach, came into view.

“Mr. and Mrs. Hamburg,” Sybil announced. “Mari tells me that Herr Hamburg is an industrialist, while his lovely wife, Frau Hamburg, champions for worthy causes, such as starvation, AIDS, and animals. They are devout naturists and they have been invited to the villa for an aperitif. They won’t be dining with us, though. They take their meals at the hotel. It’s just that they’ll be stopping by to disrobe and enjoy the sunset in a naturist setting with three open-minded women for purposes of drawing and watercolor. Their English is quite good. They are quite educated.”

The Hamburgs trudged up and arrived with wide smiles on red faces, bones thick, hair neatly trimmed and coiffured. Mari introduced me to them as “Jack the Cowboy.” I rose up and shook Mr. Hamburg’s large hand as he leaned down.

Lydia, Sybil, and Mari slipped on cotton shifts that came from the beach bag. I looked down at Lydia’s drawing. She had put something in my face -- bafflement, perplexity, melancholy. As for my body, it was rangy according to her picture. Thin brown hair was swept back over my skull.

“Herr Jack is not joining us?” Mrs. Hamburg said.

“How inconsiderate of me,” Lydia replied. “Of course Herr Jack is invited. Would you care to join us, Herr Jack? A glass of the local wine or perhaps a bottle of cold beer? We occupy a simple but comfortable flat on the other side of the village, a mere fifteen-minute walk.”

“Well, ah . . .”

“Mr. and Mrs. Hamburg, what do you say?” asked Sybil.

Mr. Hamburg nodded enthusiastically. His wife said, “Absolutely!”

I got to my feet and dressed.

*

They are seated on a couch, Mr. Hamburg with a glass of beer, Mrs. Hamburg with a glass of wine. Before them are Lydia, Mari, and Sybil, each working with a different medium. Lydia, as at the beach, works only with leaded pencil, while Mari works with colored pencils. Sybil is at an easel with water paints and brushes. I’m seated on a stool to the side and behind the women with a view of their work and with a view of Mr. and Mrs. Hamburg. In back of where the three women and I sit there’s a sliding glass door that is open with a screen door that leads to a balcony, which affords an eastern view of the mountains and the sea. Mr. and Mrs. Hamburg, on the couch, face the three women and me, and beyond us there are the mountains and the sky deepening in hue. Sunset is not far off.

Everyone is naked. In a sense, it’s a reincarnation of the beach, but with a different feel because the setting has changed. It’s more intimate and more revealing. I can understand why the women wanted to work here. Gone is the glaring sunshine that dulls color and obscures detail, such as a faint scar that runs from Mr. Hamburg’s left cheek to over his slack jaw. Mr. Hamburg is clean-shaven. Purple, web-like capillaries beneath the surface of his cheeks add something worldly to his visage, perhaps age, perhaps gluttony.

As for Mrs. Hamburg, her eyes are bluer in this spacious room with its off-white walls, but the softer light is unforgiving. Frau Hamburg is not squinting her eyes anymore, yet lines remain that describe her age. She is not Fraulein. She is Frau. Her tits are big and they sag, and they are spread over with large areolas. Perhaps she has borne children. Her body was once young, but that claim can no longer be made. In its place, though, as if she has willed it, there is optimism, and it is this that perks her smile and enlivens her voice. She is open-minded. She has a body, and, even though it’s not what it once was, it is still enjoyable. This is evident in the context of her conversation and body language, as if she were saying, “Look at me. I am human and not ashamed of it.” But she has turned this into cause, a campaign of sorts. Thus she flirts with self-righteousness.

“Ha, ha, ha!” Herr Hamburg is laughing. The others are chuckling. I have missed it.

“Jack,” Lydia says, “would you be so kind as to fetch another bottle of beer for Herr Hamburg, and perhaps replenish Frau Hamburg’s glass of wine?”

“Sure.” I go to the kitchen and then walk around filling glasses.

“Jack,” Herr Hamburg says, “you are American, are you not?”

“Yes,” I reply, having settled back onto my stool with a fresh beer.

“Jack is a cowboy from Montana,” Lydia says. “We call him ‘Jack the Cowboy from Montana,’ but we are thinking of shortening it. Shall we say -- Montana?”

“Montana?” Herr Hamburg says. “Ha, ha, ha! These young ladies and names. It is lovely, is it not?” He raises his glass and draws beer into his mouth as if swallowing the whole scene—the room, the mountains, the deep blue sky.

“Tell me, how do you find life in Montana?” Herr Hamburg asks me.

“Well, it gets a little chilly during the winter.”

“Ha, ha, ha!” guffaws Herr Hamburg. “It is cold during the winter where we live as well, the North Sea so near.”

Everyone chuckles. When this subsides Lydia, Mari, and Sybil consult one another. They have the group’s attention. Lydia and Mari turn to a fresh page in their sketchbooks. Sybil picks up her painting that’s mounted on a piece of wood and takes it to a table and sets it down. She picks up another piece of wood with a piece of blank paper taped to it and places this on her easel.

“We were wondering,” Sybil says, “if we might have a different pose.”

“Oh, yes,” replies Mr. Hamburg. “What is it that you have in mind?”

“Well,” says Sybil, “if you would be so kind as to slouch down a bit on the sofa, Mr. Hamburg, and, well, we’d like to do a rendition of you in the erect state.”

The room is dry and airy. On the wall a clock ticks.

“I beg your pardon,” Mrs. Hamburg says.

“Well, yes,” says Sybil, “the erect state would afford us a different perspective of Mr. Hamburg, and perhaps of you, too, Mrs. Hamburg, seated next to Mr. Hamburg.”

“Are you mad?”

“Well, no, I don’t believe I am,” Sybil answers, British English darting and weaving. She is very polite.

“Then certainly you must be joking.”

“Well, yes,” says Sybil, “we do like to joke. But no, this is a genuine request. We don’t much care how Mr. Hamburg reaches the erect state. It’s just that we’d like to do some pieces with him aroused.”

Mr. Hamburg brings his glass of beer up and takes a drink. This seems contagious. Everyone sips their drinks. Mrs. Hamburg says something in German to Mr. Hamburg. Mari translates. Mari can speak German. She’s from Austria, which is confusing because her English is not only fluent but carries a British accent. At times, though, she switches and slathers a thick German tone onto her English.

“Frau Hamburg thinks they ought to be dressing and leaving,” Mari informs us.

“Mrs. Hamburg,” Lydia says, “let us be reasonable.”

“We were having such a lovely time,” Mrs. Hamburg says, “and then you had to spoil it. This violates the principles of naturism.”

“My dear Mrs. Hamburg,” says Sybil, “what could be more natural than your husband achieving an erection? Certainly it has been a part of your married life, and perhaps part of your life together before you were married.”

“You are mad.”

“We are all adults here,” Sybil says. “There is no need to get upset. We very much welcome you in the spirit of freedom and goodwill. Call it curiosity, call it science, call it fantasy. For what we want to do is to explore the human body, and perhaps the psyche as well, through our work. Certainly you can understand that.”

“I see perversion,” Mrs. Hamburg says, face red, chest pumping. “We must be going.” She puts her wineglass on a side table and stands up.

“Frau Hamburg,” says Mari, “if you are not inclined to arouse Herr Hamburg for reasons of etiquette or delicacy, then we are perfectly willing to take on that responsibility ourselves in any number of ways to which Herr Hamburg might prefer. I, for one, would be willing to sit on Herr Hamburg’s lap and offer encouragement.” Mari’s English sounds a lot like Sybil’s, an upper class dialect, afternoon tea with cucumber sandwiches, crusts removed. Mrs. Hamburg stares at Mari.

“Frau Hamburg, please listen,” urges Mari.

Mrs. Hamburg puts an ample hand on an ample hip. She remains standing.

“It’s not as though we haven’t thought of you, Frau Hamburg,” says Mari. “After all, we have Jack from Montana here, Jack the cowboy. You, from the outset, have shown an interest in Herr Jack.”

“What?”

“Yes,” says Mari. “And I believe your instincts are well founded, for it was Lydia who discovered Jack Montana, and Lydia has an uncanny knack for unearthing virility. I don’t know how she does it, but it is truly remarkable.”

“My God.”

“We feel,” continues Mari, “that Jack Montana is a real buckaroo. After all, he is a genuine American cowboy. He has extensive experience with large animals, cows, horses, and so forth. Look at him—a bit weathered it is true, but still intact. He has a stud-like quality, don’t you agree?”

Mrs. Hamburg steps away from the sofa and goes to a chair that has her clothes.

“Herr Hamburg,” Mari says, “please reason with Frau Hamburg. All we ask is for you to hear us out, and then, based on that, make your decision, go or stay.”

Herr Hamburg turns to his wife, who has a flower-print moo-moo hanging from her hand. Mrs. Hamburg looks at her husband, and then, as if she understands that it is better for her to return to the conference table than to risk her husband making a verbal blunder that might divide them, she steps back to next to the couch, moo-moo in hand.

“Thank you,” says Mari, who is standing so as to face Mr. and Mrs. Hamburg. Mari is slim, pubic hair shaved. She is all flesh except for eyebrows, eyelashes, and short black hair atop her head.

“As I tried to indicate, we are fair,” says Mari. “We wouldn’t purpose bringing Herr Hamburg to an erect state only to leave him frustrated. We are not like that. So, there are several options. First, there is you, Frau Hamburg, who can bring Herr Hamburg to a pleasant and satisfying conclusion after we have finished our drawings and paintings.

“Or,” Mari continues, “if this option is disagreeable, then one of us can serve Herr Hamburg. Other arrangements are possible as well, if, for example, Herr Hamburg would prefer to exercise a fantasy with two or three of us, then that can be arranged as well. We have an ample supply of condoms right here in the villa so as to insure safe sex.” Mari takes a sip of wine.

“Then, there is you, Frau Hamburg,” Mari says. “As I mentioned, we have an added attraction of a genuine American cowboy. We, of course, haven’t asked Jack Montana for his consent yet, because we don’t want to do that before getting yours. It wouldn’t be fair to Jack to serve up expectation only to have it revoked, and it wouldn’t be fair to you, Frau Hamburg, because you come first. This is, after all, an issue concerning Herr Hamburg, who is an integral part of your life, thus your decision takes precedence.” Mari smiles, face radiant.

Mrs. Hamburg looks at the three women. Then she says, “I missed judged you completely. You are sluts.”

To her husband, Mrs. Hamburg says something in German. Mr. Hamburg gets to his feet, and then he and his wife go to their clothing and begin to dress.

Sybil speaks up. “Mr. Hamburg, your wife’s decision doesn’t have to be yours. You can remain under the same conditions, minus Jack Montana’s participation. Let Frau Hamburg return to the hotel to stew in her own bitter juices.”

Mr. Hamburg is mute as he walks to the door with his wife. Mrs. Hamburg opens the door for the two of them to exit, and then the door slams shut, walls, ceiling, floor vibrating.

The women break out laughing.