Among boxes, bags, stacks of books, Muriel woke up scared, she didn't recognize where she was. She turned over on her stomach, closed her eyes and tried to fall asleep again, she thought she was dreaming. But the message alert on her cell phone really made her wake up and remember that she was in her new house.
He looked at the bottle of wine next to the bed, the two glasses, smiled... In the message, a reminder: “You forgot your ring at the gallery! Where are you in your head?” It was your friend Jorge.
And what mattered was the ring, a ring that she insisted on wearing, but that no longer had any meaning. She was no longer allied to anything.
He sat on the bed, watched the sunlight wanting to enter. She noticed how perfect everything in that room was: the windows, with stained glass and not simply panes, forming designs of red lilies and the details carved into the rustic wood of the door, the color of the wall, the shaken chandelier...
He felt his head weighing down, the effect of the wine. She felt a shiver run down her spine, the effect of the memories of the morning. She needed a good cup of coffee and a hot shower.
The bathroom also had stained glass windows, with the same design, but they were on a door that led to the garden. An arched door, a balcony and the garden…
Muriel sat on the edge of the bathtub, turned on the tap and while drinking her coffee, she stared at the falling water. She started to remember the night before…
It was the night of his exhibition, a collection of paintings he painted while he lived in Australia and which, when he moved to Brazil, he decided to sell.
The night was somewhat insipid, she didn't feel anything special, not even the desire to be sociable with the people who were there just for her sake. Her life was tepid and insipid. She drank wine and noticed people, their clothes, the banalities said, the looks...
Jorge was the one who took care of everything, ran from one place to another and talked effusively with the guests. Chubby, extroverted, with a unique laugh and unusual sensitivity, he was her guardian angel and realized that her friend was not well. She was passing by, bringing another glass of wine, trying to manage the situation and it was he who noticed an unusual guest among the others.
She was standing still, looking at the painting that Muriel liked most. Muriel immediately woke up from her daze and realized that the presence of that girl there went against the whole situation, went against the effect of the paintings with loud drawings, strong lines and arrows. Her presence was soft, her contours were smooth, worthy of a sculpture.
She was there, she didn't take her eyes off the painting and Muriel, in turn, didn't take her eyes off her. A perfect profile, her delicate face, the strands of hair insisting on escaping her brown wool hat... She was wearing a poncho a shade lighter than the hat, with gold details, but even so you could see her body... The jeans , the low-cut blouse…
When Muriel started to go towards her, she pulled on her hat and turned around. Her hair then framed her face and fell over her shoulders, light hair.
The girl then walked slowly towards her, showing a familiar smile, as if she recognized her. She stopped in front of her, her lips parted, about to say something, but her eyes ran all over Muriel's face and ended up in her eyes as well. A familiar look, something that tastes of relief, of comfort.
– Beatriz… My name is Beatriz… Do you make sculptures too?
At that moment, Muriel dropped her arms to her sides and the ring she was wearing fell to the floor. Beatriz bent down to pick it up and didn't give it back, as expected, she placed it on the counter, next to the wine glass.
Muriel made sculptures, yes, but for some time she had only painted canvas. She had no inspiration to sculpt.
He felt the words come out of his mouth without command and invited Beatriz to be the model for his next sculpture.
Beatriz felt herself blushing, lowered her head…
– I never thought about being a model for a sculpture, I don’t think I even have the profile for it, but we need to talk. If you want to sculpt me, you need to know me, right?
She took a pen and paper from her bag and wrote down her phone number, but Muriel wouldn't let her.
– Do you have time now? I want to know about you…
- But now? And your exhibition? We can meet one day and…
Muriel didn't allow Beatriz to finish speaking, she called Jorge, said something in his ear and he came back with his bag, a bottle of wine, two glasses and a mischievous smile.
The two went to Muriel's apartment. On the way, they didn't exchange a word. Beatriz watched Muriel driving, the way she lit her cigarette and her carefree air looking for a song on the radio. Sometimes they looked at each other and smiled.
Beatriz was surprised by her own attitude, after all, she did things as planned and would never get into the car with someone she didn't know. But she couldn't contain it, the desire to be with Muriel and talk about whatever it was was greater than her.
They arrived at the apartment and Beatriz was enchanted as soon as she entered, the long corridor that led to the living room, the phrases in French written on the wall, the mobile with blue beads in the passage, the living room floor made of mahogany-colored parquet.
Muriel touched his back and said softly:
– The mess is due to the move, I haven't had time to clean it up yet, but the decoration is from the previous resident, a somewhat eccentric lady. She sold the apartment like that, but I don't want to change anything.
There were boxes, books, finished canvases, everything scattered around the house… Beatriz thought everything was perfect.
He took the liberty of sitting on Muriel's bed while she opened the wine.
In the background, coming from the apartment above, the sound of a cello…
Muriel sat down, handed Beatriz a glass and for a few moments observed her: Her eyes, a different green, a mixture of several shades of green that resulted in that intoxicating color. The delicate mouth, thin red lips like a doll. The delicate contour of her face and to finish, two dimples that appeared in the awkward smile that Beatriz gave when she noticed how Muriel was looking at her.
Beatriz then began to explain, that she entered the gallery by chance, that in fact it was not the paintings that caught her attention, at first, but Muriel herself, who she saw through the glass of the entrance door. What caught her attention was that girl sitting, oblivious to everything that was happening. That was the scene that made Beatriz enter the gallery and start looking at the paintings.
Muriel listened silently, observed Beatriz's every gesture, the way she ran her hand through her hair, how the wine made the skin of her face even more pink... She observed Beatriz's lap, her neckline that exposed the curve of her breasts and the freckles she had all over her chest and shoulders.
– Why do you look at me like that, Muriel?
– Well, I know about you, after all, I'm going to sculpt it!
They burst into laughter and Muriel felt incredibly comfortable with Beatriz. She even talked about her last relationship, a traumatic stage, a difficult person, but one that she had already overcome.
Beatriz also listened silently, but her eyes moved in a frantic rhythm, wanting to observe Muriel's every movement. She noticed the mole she had near her lips that delicately touched the glass, her small, slightly slanted eyes, her sharp nose.
Both became involved in the conversation and little by little the desire for contact began to overflow. Muriel woke up. And before the water in the bathtub actually overflowed, she turned off the tap and immersed herself in the hot water.
He closed his eyes and remembered Beatriz getting up, running away from the desire that blossomed there. She forgot her hat and had to come back the following afternoon so they could agree on what material the sculpture and other details would be made of.
Muriel remembered and smelled Beatriz… A mixture of fruit and wood. She got out of the shower, put on jeans and a white coat. She entered the room that would be her studio. A room where there was already a platform and a kind of couch, certainly left by the previous owner.
He thought about marble, pink marble…
