Godiva

A Story by Lеаnnе Bеll

"So where is this infamous Mr. Jarvis anyway?" Fеrgυs Mυrdоch asked, popping an olive into his mouth. He handed his wife a glass of champagne. "You'd think he'd have the courage to show up for his own exhibit."

Antonia glanced around the gallery, past the faces of the leathery matrons and the bored young debutantes who stood in circles of conversation throughout the room. She searched the clusters of elegant young men who swirled their champagne flutes as they spoke and who returned her glance with unabashed admiration and delight. She drew the gaze of men and women equally, though there was a kind of scrutiny in the eyes of women that was noticeably absent in the admiring glances of men. Women who looked uncomfortable in evening gowns, women with freckled shoulders and frail figures whispered in conspiracy as Antonia passed. Some stepped closer to their husbands. Others openly scanned the length of her and remained unmoved when Antonia's eyes met theirs.

Antonia was beautiful. Hers was the kind of beauty that defines the word, the unmistakable, undeniable physical attractiveness that silences even the staunchest of those who believe beauty is a myth. She wore an opalescent dress of pale lavender, a slip of silk so light and shimmering that in the shadows it appeared silvery, like the colour of frost. Diamonds sparkled from her ears, from the clip in her upswept hair, and matched the pear-shaped solitaire Fergus had given her two years earlier in Capri. On anyone else the jewelry would have looked garish but next to her luminous skin the gems seemed almost commonplace. She was sure that the eyes following her around the room weren't admiring the jewels.

She was used to the attention of men. There was something honest and shamelessly reverent about the way men looked at her. It was the women's reaction she never got used to, women who wore their contempt openly, as if they had every right to feel it, women who hated her for looking exactly the way they would like to look if given the chance. She had known that kind of animosity since adolescence, when female friends had become scarce and jealousy had clouded the faces of every teacher, every classmate, every woman, it seemed, who looked at her. It was a kind of envy she couldn't quite name; what their cool eyes expressed as they looked at her made mere envy seem a pure, almost wistful emotion. Male desire she could deal with. The hatred of women was puzzling, pervasive, and entrenched.

Women, perfect strangers, often asked her if she starved herself or whether she spent most of her life in the gym. She soon realized that there was no right answer to questions of that kind. If she said no, then they cursed nature for being overly generous to her. If she said yes, they deemed her vain and self-absorbed. It seemed to matter little how she had become as lovely as she was. She was beautiful; the best they could do to reassure themselves was to call her stupid, or promiscuous, or both.

Her eyes swept past them and followed the curve of the large white staircase to the upper gallery where a young bespectacled man stood, alone, surveying the room below.

"There." She nodded discreetly in his direction. "The man at the top of the stairs."

Fergus looked up and squinted. "Is that so? Well he won't do himself any good hiding up there like a shy little preschooler. A man with sense would come down here and...what's that dreadful word they use now... "schmooze", I believe it is."

"Would you, Fergus? Would you "schmooze" if you knew every person in the room was here to gossip and whisper and put down your work?" She took a sip of champagne. "I'd stay out of the way too."

Fergus turned towards a group of bright canvases arranged in stages on a pale white wall. "Oh look," said Fergus dryly. "More pictures of naked people. All manner of bosoms and backsides everywhere..." he leaned closer to inspect a painting of a reclining nude. " It's a shame, really. The world has slid so far down into the gutter that it now thinks pornography is art."

"Pornography?" Antonia arched one eyebrow. "How broadly you define that term. All I see here is a nude."

"Well even so, my dear, what do you think the purpose of nudity is?"

"It's obvious what you think it is."

Fergus smiled and took another glass of champagne from a passing tray. He turned his attention back to the painting in front of him and regarded the figure skeptically. "At any rate, you have to admit how primitive it is. Every savage cavorts around naked, for heaven's sake. No muddied jungle tribe ever became civilized until they learned to stitch some rags together and cover themselves up."

"And yet," Antonia paused, ran her hand discreetly over the silver silk. "You don't mind at all how primitive I am beneath this dress."

"Ah, touché my dear." He laughed, and let his eyes travel the length of her. "There are some obvious exceptions to the rule."

They moved past the image of the reclining nude towards the collection of smaller paintings grouped together along the back wall. Delicate pot lights illuminated each piece, and the small brass title plaques beneath them. Fergus paused in front of the first in the series, an image of a beautiful nude standing proudly before an azure Mediterranean harbour as distant ships approached the shore. The plaque beneath the painting read "A Thоυsаnd Shіps".

"I'm surprised these images don't offend your feminine sensibilities." Fergus said, gesturing to the woman in the centre of the painting. "You can't escape the sexual connotations of some of these...things."

"I don't think you're supposed to. Isn't this Helen of Troy?"

"Yes. All of her."

"Well, if one man kidnapped her and another launched an armada to get her back, I'd say she must have been a very stimulating woman."

"Where do you come up with these things, my dear? It was Helen's face that launched a thousand ships; I may have been drunk through most of my Greek and Rоmаn Myths lectures but I don't recall hearing anything about her swelling breasts or bony hips."

Antonia sipped her champagne. "It's merely this artist's interpretation."

"No, my dear, Alеc Jаrvіs relies entirely too much upon his particular, dare I say puerile, fantasies when it comes to art, it isn't a matter of interpretation at all. It's a pity, really, because there is some talent here. If only he'd paint with his head instead of his-"

"Fergus..."

"-then he might actually have a career. If he stopped trawling around strip bars for models he might find something more inspiring to paint."

Amusement lit Antonia's face. "Is that where you think he gets his models?"

"Of course. Where else does one find such women?" he peered at the facial features of the painted Helen. "She does look rather refined, though. His taste is somewhat more sophisticated than I would have though. In fact," he dipped into his pocket for his reading glasses. "If I didn't know better I might say that the woman in this painting bears a striking resemblance to my own sweet wife. But that isn't possible, is it darling, since you claim to have met this fellow only twice."

"Perhaps he drew me from memory."

"Perhaps."

A tuxedoed waiter drifted in front of them silently and offered up a tray of canapés and triangles of stuffed pastries. Fergus surveyed the delicacies and smiled his refusal. The waiter moved off and Fergus turned to view the room, as if only now reminding himself that he was among the class of people who eat canapés off small paper doilies. He nodded to the kind of acquaintances one only acknowledges at events like this, and raised his champagne glass in salute to the bejeweled dowagers who caught his glance and flirted with him as if the decades between them meant nothing.

"Well he certainly has attracted the right kind of crowd this evening." Fergus said, and mouthed the words "you look lovely" in the direction of a silver-haired patroness. "Although I wonder how much longer he can afford this space." He leaned closer to Antonia. "From what I hear he all but bankrupted himself mounting this spectacle. This may very well be the last anyone hears of Alеc Jаrvіs."

"Don't gossip about money, Fergus, it doesn't become you."

He stepped back, and regarded her evenly. At length he brought his champagne to his lips and drained the glass. "Well. I had no idea you had become so proletariat."

"Fergus, you could keep this man going with the spare cash you have in your wallet." Antonia said. "Please don't discuss his financial demise with such relish."

"Well for heaven's sake, Antonia, I see you've developed a new respect for poverty. How inconvenient for someone with a Mercedes and fistful of charge cards."

"I have no respect for poverty, Fergus. I certainly don't think it should touch Alеc Jаrvіs."

"I'd be happy to fund a little art project for you, my dear." said Fergus, moving them casually along the rear of the gallery. "I always thought you'd make an excellent arts council member. Wouldn't you like to see your name above some gallery wing or other? Or perhaps "Thе Antоnіа V. Mυrdоch Endоwmеnt", doesn't that sound impressive?" he waited for a response and continued. "I only ask that you give some consideration to your poor husband's reputation and choose your prodigy carefully."

"I'm sure you have someone in mind."

"No, of course not, darling, But you know, there is that marvelous young photographer, the one Grаcе Lіndstrоm feted last month. Rееbо Zаchаrіаh, I believe he's called. He's done the most cutting edge series on the hovels of homeless people around the city, it really is profound. Or..." A new thought occurred to him. "There's that woman, Esmеrеldа Sоmеthіng, the one who covers herself in mustard and ketchup and what-have-you and rolls around on Japanese paper."

Antonia stifled a laugh. "Why on earth would I want to support something like that? Of what possible value is it?"

"Well I don't know my dear, but it is popular. And really, who are we to say what's art and what isn't?"

Antonia stopped her casual stroll and took a step towards a large, bright painting that almost covered the entire wall. "This." she said. "This is art."

Fergus looked up at the giant canvas. "Well it's big, I'll give you that." His eyes moved over the central image, a nude figure on horseback . "What's this one called then, "Bаrе Brеаsts on a Horse?" He read the title plaque. " Oh, for heaven's sake, I should have known. This is his version of Lаdy Gоdіvа. How utterly preposterous."

"I think it's beautiful. Look at how happy she looks."

"That's exactly my point, darling. You'd think the man would have the sense God gave him to at least paint the legend accurately. She doesn't show an ounce of modesty or shame, this buxom Godiva of his."

"Nor should she. The real Lаdy Gоdіvа was more than happy to ride through Coventry nude."

"Nonsense." Fergus laughed. "Everyone knows she was forced to do it, and hid herself in shame."

Antonia smiled. "She did it gladly. The shame was an invention."

"Antonia, you really are a mystery to me. How blithely you spout these factually groundless theories of yours. The truth of the matter is that Alеc Jаrvіs paints the world as he himself, and he alone I dare say, would like it to be. He's plainly obsessed with the female body, but instead of plying his trade in the pornography industry where he would likely prosper, he deludes himself into thinking he's achieved something noble and grand. I don't know why he continually tries to justify his sexual predilections. I don't know why he isn't just honest about it."

"He's the most honest man I've ever met."

Fergus turned, caught something in her eye. His expression of snobbish amusement fell slightly, but returned in an instant as he remembered where he was. Only the merriment in his eyes changed.

"Yes, I can see why you like him." He said, his voice low enough to escape the social eavesdroppers he'd been performing to all evening. "He rewards your vanity. He makes you think it's a sign of character."

"No," Antonia replied. "He simply believes there's more than one way to react to the sight of a beautiful woman."

The merriment returned to Fergus' eyes, but it was tempered by the kind of paternalistic condescension that he saved for occasions when he wanted Antonia to know how sage and mature he was in comparison to her. "You really believe that, my naive little girl?"

"Entirely."

"You believe he thinks pure thoughts when he looks at you?"

"I believe he thinks there's nothing wrong with admiring the beauty of women."

Antonia didn't often see jealousy on the face of her husband. He had been too powerful too long, had been too wealthy and well-connected all his life to ever doubt his appeal to women. When people asked him how he coped with being married to a woman so many other men desired, his standard reaction was to grip her firmly around the waist and reply that he enjoyed it, that victory was sweet indeed. Bυt Antоnіа saw an entirely different kind of jealousy on his face now. It was almost contemptuous, the bitter resignation of a man who knows his rival can't be beaten.

He leaned closer to her and whispered. "Why don't you do it then?"

"Do what?"

"Share you extraordinary beauty with everyone here. If it's such a proud and glorious thing, why don't you abandon that little number you're wearing and show us what's so wonderful about it? In fact." He seized the opportunity to embarrass her, and raised his voice. "I'll even make it interesting for you. If walk through this room naked, right now, I'll fund your beloved Alеc Jаrvіs for another year."

Antonia stared at him. She opened her mouth to speak, but the look of curious expectation on his face silenced her. She waited for a laugh or a smile from him, but instead his expression grew smug.

"Well?"

"Fergus, I..."

"You see?" he triumphed, beaming with the pleasure of being right. "It's not so easy, is it? It's one thing to sputter on about how pure and moral and good it is to walk around naked and unashamed, but it's quite another to actually do it." He saw the look on her face, and softened. He kissed her on the cheek and discreetly patted her behind. "It's alright, darling, you're young. You'll learn how the world works sooner or later. Just remember this moment then next time you get taken in by a pornographer."

Fergus turned from her, and accepted another champagne flute from the smiling hostess who whisked away his empty glass. When he turned his attention back to Antonia, she handed him her champagne glass.

"Antonia, my dear, the girl was just here, you could have deposited your glass with her."

Antonia smiled, and brought both hands up behind her neck to where the thin silver straps of her gown came together and tied. She unfastened them slowly, and held them delicately between her fingers a moment before letting them slip through. The dress slithered to the floor in a puddle of silk around her ankles. She was nude.

She stepped out of her beaded silver mules elegantly and stepped to the side of her wreath of silk. She unclipped her earrings and then the sparkling barrette, letting her hair fall loosely around her shoulders. She held them out to Fergus, who stared dumbfounded and opened his hand reluctantly. Then she slid off her heavy diamond wedding ring, and dropped it in Fergus' champagne.

She turned and surveyed the room, and watched as each face turned to her in blank astonishment. One by one, conversations stopped abruptly and smiles fell. A hushed gasp silenced whatever pockets of discussion remained. The soft classical music, previously drowned out by the babble of the crowd, now filled the room and for a moment Antonia imagined it too snapping off abruptly as it did in movies whenever some shocking social event occurred.

She began to walk, elegantly, and those in her path moved aside. She smiled at them, greeted them warmly as she passed, nodded and waved like the perfect socialite whenever she met someone's glance. She moved with deliberate grace, knowing how well the long muscles of her legs looked when she walked. She tossed her hair back so as not to hide herself, and walked easily amongst the circles of guests who stared, even gaped, and who seemed rooted to the floor. Only the press photographers seemed able to move. They followed her at a discreet distance and snapped a rapid succession of photos.

She chose a circuitous route around the gallery, ensuring that she passed every person in the room at least once. At the far end of the gallery she mounted the winding white staircase, and took each step with a deliberate and coquettish swing of her hips. She looked back over her shoulder at the faces still frozen in disbelief, and noted that some faces, mostly those of men but some women too, had begun to thaw into embarrassed delight. Whispers had started forking through the room like lightning, and grew louder with each step she took.

At the top of the stairs, Alеc Jаrvіs had straightened up from his previous slump and now regarded her with an expression of confusion and delight. He came towards her, but she spoke first.

"Hello, Alec." She said warmly, her voice carrying well in the relative silence of the room. "I just wanted to thank you for a wonderful evening."

He opened his mouth to speak, but Antonia turned and motioned towards the back wall of the gallery, to where Fergus still stood. 'I don't believe you've met my husband Fergus, but I understand he has a business proposition for you."

All heads turned towards Fergus.

"Isn't that right, darling?" Antonia called out.

A broad smile spread across Fergus' face. He put down his champagne glass and began to clap, slowly at first, but gradually growing into exuberant applause. He encouraged everyone around him to join in, until a smattering of claps and whistles erupted throughout the room.

Antonia blew him a kiss, threw her head back, and laughed.

© 2000 by Lеаnnе Bеll

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