“But Philipose? Please . . . please keep your word about my art?”
He hears her faintly outside chatting with Baby Mol, and then with Big Ammachi and Lizzi, their voices bright, happy, hers low-pitched, easier to discern than theirs.
The photographer has come and gone, and weeks and months pass. Every night in the sleepy aftermath of their lovemaking, Philipose tells himself he’ll make secret arrangements with Shamuel so his beautiful wife might wake in a pool of light and find that her husband is a man of his word. Elsie doesn’t seem to ever think about the tree. It never comes up. But Philipose can’t get it out of his head.
The radio spills jazz by a duke from America named Ellington. Philipose sits up close to it, Elsie sketching beside him. He peeks to see what’s being born on the page: it’s him, bent over the radio, his hair falling into his eyes. A shiver runs through him—pride in her, but also a disquiet that he struggles to name. The sketch flatters him—strong lines for his jaw and delicate ones for lips that are full and sensuous. But whether she knows it or not, she’s captured his confusion, his secret fears. He, a flawed mortal—not Emperor Shah Jahan or a genie after all—is dwarfed by her talent; he’s no longer sure of himself, searching for the right way to be with her, to be worthy of her.
Inspired by her, Philipose works harder than ever. But work is her resting state, as unconscious as breathing, while he, by comparison, wields his pen too selectively, even though his subject—life—is always there. His art, so he tells himself, is to give voice to the ordinary, in memorable ways. And by so doing, to throw light on human behavior, on injustice. But he simply can’t produce in the way she does.
In their lovemaking she sometimes surprises him by rearranging his limbs, asserting herself so completely that he feels like one of Baby Mol’s dolls. It’s thoroughly arousing. Once sated, she’s gone from the world, present only in breathing flesh as he untangles himself. Observing her unconscious form, the disquiet surfaces again: was he the paper, the stone, the charcoal stick, which satisfied her vision of that night’s desire? When he takes charge, she gives herself so completely that his doubts vanish . . . only to surface later, a nagging suspicion that a part of her is hidden from view, a locked ara whose key he’s not entrusted with. Is he imagining this? If he isn’t, then only he is to blame: his impulsive promise about that stupid tree is the cause. He cringes whenever he thinks about this, and it festers within. He should take an axe to the tree.
Big Ammachi is smitten with her daughter-in-law. It delights her to see the couple so happy, her son so preoccupied with his bride. Before the marriage, he had conveyed to his mother what is now self-evident: Elsie wouldn’t be taking over the household. She was a serious artist. Big Ammachi had acted annoyed. “Who said I need anyone to take over? What am I supposed to do if I hand over everything? How many times can I read your column without burning a hole into the paper?” She’s quite content for Elsie to do whatever she chooses. Elsie chooses to be in the kitchen often, seated on the low stool, happy to sift through the rice for stones, laughing at Odat Kochamma’s chatter and listening intently to Big Ammachi’s tales. Big Ammachi’s affection for Elsie grows each day. Since Elsie’s mother died young, who was there to tell her these stories, call her molay, comb her hair, or send her for her oil bath? Big Ammachi does all that and more. Wherever Elsie goes, her tail, Baby Mol, accompanies her. Lizzi, Manager Kora’s wife, is there a lot; she and Elsie quickly bond like sisters.
Elsie approves the ashari’s plans. Construction begins. Their bedroom (once his father’s bedroom) is enlarged to thrice its size. A third of it becomes Philipose’s study, with bookshelves on two walls and an alcove for the radio at the back, while the remaining two-thirds is an enlarged bedroom. For Elsie’s studio, they pour cement to make a patio that stretches out twenty-five feet from the back of the extended bedroom. A peaked roof, tiled and not thatched, covers bedroom, study, and patio. A knee-high brick-and-cement wall encloses the patio; it will keep out cows and goats but allow lots of light. It has a broad hinged gate at the back. Rollup coir shades on all three sides of the patio can be lowered to block the sun or to keep out rain. The driver from the Thetanatt house delivers Elsie’s supplies: stretched linen; stacks of half-finished paintings; containers of brushes, pencils, and pens; wooden boxes with paint in tubes and in tubs; easels; carpentry tools; and barrels of turpentine, linseed oil, and varnish. The scents of paint and turpentine soon become as familiar in Parambil as the aroma of frying mustard seeds.
Big Ammachi overhears Decency Kochamma request Elsie to paint her portrait (“in oils, like Raja Ravi Varma”). Elsie demurs. Perhaps in the future. She adds politely that she trusts Decency Kochamma understands three things: the artist is free to depict her the way she chooses; the model never sees the work until it’s finished; and the portrait belongs to Elsie unless it is being commissioned. With every word, Decency Kochamma’s mouth sags further. Only Big Ammachi’s presence keeps the woman from saying something cutting. She stalks off, red-faced.
The long chats between Lizzi and Elsie evolve either by design or by accident into Lizzi being the first model. Philipose only wishes he could overhear their extended conversations. He has noticed that Lizzi has been sleeping at Parambil for two weeks now, but he didn’t think anything of it until Uplift Master tells him that Kora has absconded. A creditor discovered that Kora had forged land documents he used for a loan; the originals are with another lender and that loan is also in arrears. “Maybe running away was the best plan,” Master says. Philipose marvels that Lizzi’s face gives away nothing. She’s not said a word of this to anyone and no one brings it up with her. Just as news of Kora’s vanishing gets out, Philipose gets a special preview of Portrait of Lizzi; Lizzi’s poise comes across in it; her comfort, her sense of belonging to Parambil are also evident. He’s startled to read in the portrait what he missed on the live model: Lizzi’s anger, undoubtedly related to the mess Kora is in. Philipose is there when Lizzi gets to see the finished work; she doesn’t move for so long that Philipose worries. He and Elsie withdraw. When Lizzi finally emerges, her face shows a new resolve. Silently, she gives Elsie an affectionate hug, nods to Philipose, then heads home.
The family will never see her again. They learn the next morning that Lizzi vanished in the night. Big Ammachi is distraught; she has lost a daughter. “I had told her she could stay with us forever. This is her home. She didn’t say goodbye to me because she couldn’t lie to me about where she was going. I suppose she felt it was her duty to go to wherever he is hiding.”
Elsie is in tears, feeling that the portrait somehow triggered Lizzi’s departure. Philipose says, “If it did, it was for the best of reasons. I think Lizzi saw herself for the first time in your work, saw her own strength. She has known for some time that Kora can’t make his life work or provide reliably for her. Yes, she could have stayed here. But she chose to go to Kora for one reason only: not to be the dutiful wife, but because Lizzi has decided to take over the reins, be head of the house. Kora will be so grateful, and he’ll agree to her terms or be lost forever All thanks to your portrait.”
Elsie listens, wide-eyed. “Is this one of your Unfictions?”