Читать книгу Seal Woman - Solveig Eggerz - Страница 13

Your Breasts are Your Best Credentials

Charlotte's trouble with her mother began when she was 14. Hormonal and itchy, she'd spent homework time drawing bats' wings and birds' feet. After that, she and her mother drank cocoa before her father returned from the bureaucracy, joyless and exhausted. "I'd like to go to art school," Charlotte said. Her mother reached across the table and took her hand. "Nice long fingers, perfect for—"

"Piano? I don't like music."

"No. Typewriter."

Charlotte jumped to her feet. "I hate you."

"How dare you talk to me like that." Hands on hips, Charlotte said it again. And again. The floor side of her mother's slipper stung her cheek, intensifying her desire to cross her mother and attend art school.

In art class, the other students threw sponges or stabbed their thumbs with protractors and played with the blood that dripped onto the paper while Charlotte strained to catch the teacher's words.

Don't just paint what your eyes see but what your imagination contains.

Addicted to Plato's ideal foot or hand, Charlotte wasn't ready for that lesson yet. Tongue between her teeth, she examined her palm, turning it over then sketching the square little fingers. Next she painted her father's thick red fingers, her mother's thin, blue-veined ones, the flesh-wrapped twigs that passed for hands on the pianist at Bernstein's.

Her art teacher held the paintings at arm's length.

"You want to be a painter?"

She nodded.

"Don't. You'll end up as a teacher."

His nose was red from a cold, and a half moon of dandruff covered the lower part of his glasses' frame. He was like her parents—part of the opposition that she had to defeat.

Walking home in the November rain, she kicked the wet leaves and planned how to do feet, hands, noses—how to capture what everybody saw. This included folds in a dress and dents in a toothpaste tube.

She painted the hair-thin lines in the sweet violet's petals, then closed her eyes, imagined the color of its smell and painted that. She depicted her father asleep on the couch as a series of under chins in shades of pink folded on his chest. She stacked the paintings behind the bed and the drawings among her clothes, smudging her white underpants with charcoal.

***

The day Charlotte turned eighteen, she found tissuewrapped gifts on her place mat in the morning. Under her fork was a newspaper clipping—Join the next class. Imperial School for Secretaries. Crushing the advertisement in her hand, she smiled at her mother.

"I'll become an artist."

Her mother frowned. "Be independent—learn to type."

"People who type think they're independent. They just end up with some man."

"What's wrong with that?"

"I want to live without a man—just paint."

Something inside Charlotte's mind stepped back from the words and stared. Had she really said that?

The next day, she showed Lulu her application and portfolio.

"My father knows the director of admissions at the academy," Lulu said. "He sits behind the driver's seat on his tram every morning."

"So what kind of man is he?" Charlotte asked.

"Very proper, wears a silk scarf at his neck."

"So?"

"People who wear silk scarves are very sensual. They pretend to be studying your drawings and thinking about paperwork, but mentally they're stroking your thighs."

All those tram rides had muddled Lulu's brain. Still the prospect of meeting the director of admissions made Charlotte nervous. People got into the academy through connections, and she had none. Her drawings were good, but if she had to beat out the daughter of a countess or a bank manager—what would make the difference?

Lulu knew.

"Drawings are important, but your breasts are your best credentials."

She walked in a semi-circle around Charlotte, eying her breasts until Charlotte's cheeks burned.

"Or your legs. Wear a short skirt. Keep your knees apart. Think of your body as a package of promises."

Evenings, Charlotte's mother read from the telephone book the names of typing schools. But mornings, Charlotte was at the café, waiting for the call. Finally it came. The voice of the admissions secretary was like chipped ice.

"Your interview will be tomorrow morning at nine."

Charlotte hung up and turned to Lulu.

"They'll never accept me."

"Make them."

On the day of the interview, Charlotte got up early. She took off her nightgown, studied her breasts. One was even smaller than the other. Time to hook up the brassiere she'd bought in a tart shop on the Friedrichstraße. The saleslady had sucked in her cheeks.

Shows the outlines of your nipples.

Charlotte's sweater was one size too small. It belonged to Lulu's teenage sister. She hooked Lulu's wide mesh stockings to her garter belt. Next came the short skirt, a little tight at the waist. She recalled Lulu's advice.

Breathe in a slow, relaxed manner. But let him hear it.

Tottering on high heels, she practiced breathing. In and out. If she failed, she'd have no choice but typing at the Berlin Handelsschule.

The secretary took her coat and opened the door to the director's office. The woman's sharp look traveled on cats' claws down her back. The room was drafty. Good. Her nipples would pucker.

The director, a lumpy man in baggy pants, extended a hand. His glistening nose was his most prominent feature. But he wore no silk scarf.

That damn Lulu.

He gestured for her to sit in a large, comfortable chair. Her application lay on the small table between them. He propped her portfolio against his chair. Charlotte sat down, folding her legs, showing a little thigh.

He bowed his head and stared at her application. "So you want to attend the academy?"

She crossed and uncrossed her legs, then remembered to part her knees. But they were concealed under the table. "I've always loved art," she said, leaning forward.

He reached for her portfolio. She rubbed her knees together, but couldn't make the sound Lulu had mentioned. Soon her drawings of hands and feet were spread across the table.

His brown eyes shone. "You seem focused on particular body parts."

"Oh, those are just for practice," she said. "I can also do elbows, shoulders, knees."

He looked at her. Charlotte panicked. He was preparing to reject her. Crossing her hands over her chest, she felt her breasts shrivel. In the expanding silence, she heard Lulu's voice.

If he hesitates, take one of his hands, place it on your breast. Put the other one between your legs. Once his fingers are inside, force him to admit you.

He leaned back in his chair and brought his fingertips together over his chest.

"I've read your application carefully."

NO was climbing up into his throat now. This was her only chance. She turned sideways in her chair and slid forward. He glanced at her thigh and blushed. At least she'd distracted him from rejecting her. She pushed her chair closer, arching her back, and opening her legs slightly.

He raised an eyebrow.

The door opened, and the secretary leaned into the room. Looking past Charlotte, she handed the director some papers. He glanced at Charlotte. "I'm afraid I must turn my attention to some other matters. I want to welcome you to the academy."

He rose to his feet and cleared his throat. Pearls of sweat studded his forehead now.

"One thing—when you come to class, just wear something comfortable."

On the way out, she stopped in the bathroom and rubbed the crimson color from her lips. Her nipples stood out hard and clear in the cold air from the bathroom window. She buttoned her coat up to her throat and ran all the way to Lulu's.

Her friend opened the door before Charlotte rang the bell.

"Well?"

"It was just like you said. He had two fingers inside me before he said yes."

Lulu narrowed her eyes in disbelief.