Naeem Murr
NUDE
Naeem Murr's first novel, The Boy, was a New York Times Notable Book. Another novel, The Genius of the Sea, was published in 2003. His latest, The Perfect Man, was awarded The Commonwealth Writers' Prize for the Best Book of Europe and South Asia, and was long-listed for the Man Booker Prize. His work has been translated into eight languages. He has received many awards for his writing, most recently a Guggenheim Fellowship and a PEN Beyond Margins Award. Born in London, he now makes his home in Chicago.
First published by GemmaMedia in 2012.
GemmaMedia
230 Commercial Street
Boston, MA 02109 USA
© 2012 by Naeem Murr
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles of reviews.
Printed in the United States of America
16 15 14 13 12 1 2 3 4 5
978-1-936846-07-8
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Murr, Naeem.
Nude / Naeem Murr.
p. cm. — (Gemma open door)
ISBN 978-1-936846-07-8
I. Title.
PR6063.U73624N83 2012
823'.914—dc23
2011053246
Cover by Night & Day Design
Inspired by the Irish series of books designed for adult literacy, Gemma Open Door Foundation provides fresh stories, new ideas, and essential resources for young people and adults as they embrace the power of reading and the written word.
Brian Bouldrey
North American Series Editor
Open Door
For
Peter Stitt
and
The Gettysburg Review with deep gratitude
ONE
The cashier in Tesco clutched Eugene's arm, fearing he might collapse again. She must have seen him many times, a willowy old man in his mackintosh and trilby hat. While scanning his Toblerone, sardines, and Ovaltine, she might have been struck by the Wedgwood blue of his eyes; eyes that somehow took her in without being so bold as to look at her.
Eugene, trying to steady himself, was just glad she'd not seen him steal the poster from the notice board. On it was an etching he'd recognized, a nude, but not for the life of him had he been able to remember who the artist was. He'd been furious, having lectured on this very etching as an art teacher at the Sacred Heart. As he'd slipped it into his pocket for later, the artist's name had tugged tantalizingly at one of the many lines he'd cast out into the fog. That's when he'd felt it—like a sudden blow—and fainted.
“Two left feet,” he insisted, snatching up his shopping bag and hurrying out. What's wrong with me? He walked quickly. Last week, in line at the post office, he'd felt a sensation like two hands unfurling gently as smoke to take hold of the back of his head. Next thing he knew, he'd landed on a screaming toddler. Bad circulation. Maybe he should have stayed on at the Galerie des Beaux Arts, but it would have killed him to sell another insipid Thames-view watercolor to one of Richmond's nouveau riche. Not working made him anxious, though, which probably explained this low-level headache he couldn't seem to shake.
Soon he was at his tower block on the Roehampton Council Estate. He hated using the lift, which stank of urine and was littered with condoms and bags of glue, but he was on the seventeenth floor. It came to him the second he shut his front door. Rembrandt. He snatched the poster from his pocket. Of course! That lusty face, the imprint of a garter around her meaty thigh. To see it better, he took a seat at his kitchen table, which was in front of a window. Along the sill stood a half-dozen of the brightly colored antique bottles his wife used to collect, a tiny embryo of light in each. Below the picture it said, Open Figure Drawing, £5, no instructor, Wednesday at eight, Wharf Thirteen.
Once, imitating the ghostly naturalism of Ferrazzi's Idol of the Prism, he'd painted his wife, nude, right at this table. She was holding one of these bottles—red—in front of her face. He'd sketched her face around and through it, and, as her arm had grown tired, had followed its lurid tracer down over her right breast and belly to where she brought it to rest between her legs. Catherine. He still longed for her, and thought now of the beauty marks on her back, her tiny, slightly spoon-shaped toes. That had been his last painting.
He'd not done many nudes. It struck him now how few naked bodies he'd ever seen. Amanda Collinger was the first, a blind spinster in her mid-thirties. As a boy, she gave him two bob every Saturday to polish her silver, letting him listen to the radio, her fat old guide dog, Dillinger, curled at his feet. (It wouldn't be long before he would help her bury Dillinger beneath her horse chestnut.) One time he realized he'd forgotten to bring down the carriage clock in her bedroom. He sprinted up the stairs, past the bathroom where she was having a bath, and into her room. As he took hold of the clock, Amanda entered in her robe, removing it before he could say anything, and closing the door. Taking a seat at her dresser, she rubbed lotion into her skin. Her body was perfectly pear-shaped, with small upturned breasts that put him in mind of thorns.
A body not at all like those in the dirty magazines his older brother, Simon, hid behind their wardrobe. Women with their eyes closed, mouths open, suckling on fantasies of men more impressive than those who looked at them. Men like his dad, who brought women home from the pubs when his mum was on night shift at the Samaritans. One night Eugene had been shaken awake into the sight of his dad's hairy beer belly hanging over his Y-fronts. Eugene followed him into his parents' bedroom. Sprawled naked on her back on the bed lay his school friend Derek's widowed mum, vomit all over the pillow. “Is she dead, tell me?” His dad was terrified. “Take a listen to her ticker. Can't hear a bloody thing with my tinnitus.” Pale scars, like cirrocumulus, fanned out over her belly; her breasts had pooled flat into the pits of her arms. Eugene put his ear gently to her chest, which smelled of his dad's hands, a fishmonger's hands, scrubbed with halves of lemon. Nothing for a moment, and then, like the distant scuff of oars, her heart.
His mum was next. It upset him to bring this back to mind. His little sister died because the hand pump they used to drain her water-on-the-brain had malfunctioned. A week later, his mum, drunk, fell down the stairs, dislodging a disk. She begged his dad to get her sister in. “What for?” he said, adding as he jerked his head toward Eugene, “This little girl will look after you.” For weeks she lay on the living room floor, sometimes drugged so senseless with painkillers that she messed herself. Eugene cleaned her, brought her bedpans, and hooked up the machine that emptied her breasts, with those beautiful blue veins, of their milk. She would scream at him to keep his eyes shut. When he had no choice but to see what he was doing, she would close her own eyes.
After this, only three more: Queenie, Catherine, and Lisa—his Galatea—that poor girl.
Time for his shower. He got up from the table, but a little too quickly, and felt as if he'd hit a low ceiling. As he walked toward the bathroom, slipping off his coat, his head was like a boat's hold in which cargo had come unsecured. The old pipes clamored as he turned the squeaky tap for the shower. He pulled down the toilet lid and sat, waiting for the water to heat up. Wretched. A wretched day—though it would have been a good deal more so if Queenie had seen him collapse. She had tapped his shoulder just as he'd put his shopping down to examine the notice board this morning.
“What