Chapter Eleven The Performer
Chapter Eleven
The Performer
At the age of twenty-four, I found myself feeling more girl-like than ever before. There I was, standing before the massive doors of the studio with a basket of fruit. I’d thought it was a good idea before I realized how mortifying it would be to present it to him as a gift.
The concrete was dull against the silk of my shoes, dust accumulating against my cream underskirt.
I shouldn’t have worn something so light.
My shoes hurt my feet from insisting on walking most of the way here.
Some say sporadicity shows you care, that you’d abandon your routine for something important. So why did it feel so absurd?
I’d imagined my visit would be cheeky, but now I realized it might be completely ridiculous. It was too late, I was here already.
With one brave breath, I pushed the warehouse door aside, soot collecting on my gloves upon contact with the cold metal.
The air was hot and muggy like summer inside, yet outside there was a wet chill of spring. The kiln was red, the light peeking from the seams of the metal door, heating the dim space and filling it with the smell of hot clay.
Arkady stood at the mouth like a knight containing a dragon, ready to slay it should it find itself on the other side of the door.
His arms glistened with a balm of sweat and dust, and clay cracked along his forearms, stopping abruptly where his sleeves had been rolled.
Except, there was no shirt. Just a men’s undershirt, suspenders hanging at his hips, and his pants filthy as if they hadn’t been pressed and cleaned before he left home.
My mouth was agape, and it snapped shut the minute he looked back.
His figure burned into my irises when I looked away at the dim corners, a weak attempt at nonchalance.
“Are you all right?” It could be a hopeful illusion, but I thought his voice held concern.
I shrugged, finally looking back at him. He wiped his hands on a cloth as he approached, slinging it over his shoulder.
“Must something be wrong for me to visit?”
“I assumed there were better things to do.” His eyes strayed to my basket, a small, dimpled smirk flashing before his gaze returned to mine. “A gift?”
“No . . .”
He tipped the lid of the basket open before I could snatch it away.
A slow, mocking scowl found its place as he tipped his head. “Ah, I see. A request?”
“I thought you’d be hungry.” I turned from him, smacking the basket down onto a small stray table. “Don’t be so smug.”
Carving tools, lumps of clay, some bricks, and a metal pail of slick were also piled upon the table, surely too dirty to eat on.
“Is that all?” he asked, his voice by my ear, his arms coming into view from behind as he reached around, stealing a kumquat from the basket.
My fingers gripped the edge of the table, face beginning to feel red on its own, unaided by the firing kiln. I affixed a smile to my face before turning around. “I was curious.”
He took a bite out of the small fruit, raising his brow.
“If we are to get along,” I started, leaning back against the table, “we should get to know one another. It’s the natural, sophisticated thing to do.”
“Sophisticated?” he mumbled as he chewed. “Is that so?”
“W-well”—my breath caught—“your thing”—I gestured to the kiln—“it’s impressive. I wanted to know more about what it is you do.”
He glanced over his shoulder at it, shrugging. “It’s in need of repair.”
“Is that why it’s so hot in here?” I tugged at my collar.
“I have to fire it to see where it may need patching. A small flame is enough to find the holes.” He glanced back down at me. “Why the sudden interest?”
“I’m making an effort.” I glared. “If you don’t want it, then fine! I don’t have to try any more than you—”
He grabbed my wrist before I could move away. “You give up too easily.”
“I don’t understand how to talk to you! I haven’t had much practice.” It was only half a joke.
“How about we skip talking?” His hand on my wrist loosened, his fingers trailing down to meet mine. “I could show you.”
“Show me? I see it.” I gestured grandly to the statues.
“What good is seeing the product when you don’t understand the material?”
“Do you assume I don’t understand clay?”
“I think you underestimate it.” He stole both my hands in his, leading me away from the table and to a different area. Careful to step over the buckets, tools, loose forms littering the ground in his collectorium of rubble.
He stopped in front of this small, rickety wooden thing, pinching the fingertips of my gloves and pulling them off.
“Hey!” I swiped for them, and he tucked them in his back pocket.
“You can’t wear gloves for this.” He sat me down on the stool.
It was a bit low to the ground. My skirts were already dirty at this point, the heat of the kiln making sweat inevitable, and there was no use fighting off more dirt. I accepted I would be a mess at the cost of his amusement.
Slam!
I flinched as Arkady threw a lump of clay onto a small table . . . a potter’s wheel.
“You’re going to make me do this?”
“I certainly couldn’t force you to do anything, Mrs. Kameneva.” He pulled up a stool behind me, his legs on either side of mine, trapping them there.
“Why do you say it like that?” I looked over my shoulder, his face right there, hanging over me.
“What?” His arms further entrapped me as he reached forward, pulling the small wheel closer between our legs. “Kameneva?”
“Yes, that!” My cheeks flushed.
The corner of his lips pulled slightly in amusement. “That is your name.”
“I thought our name was Kamenev.”
“It is.” He used his foot to pump the wheel, the misshapen lump beginning to blur. “Women, when referred to singularly, have a feminine spelling.”
“Oh,” I muttered, biting my lip.
Arkady reached over to a bucket, dipping his hand in clean water before letting it dribble onto the clay. Some of it speckled my cheek when the wheel spun, and I wiped it away hastily, checking my palms to make sure it wasn’t still smudging.
The flush of my face burned. I might look as if I’d forgotten my parasol in the sun for hours by the time he let me go. I dabbed my forehead with my wrist, moving a stray hair or two out of the way.
“You may want to take that off.” He glanced down at my sleeves, leaning closer to the wheel, bending me forward. His hands cupped over the clay, forcing it into a uniform dome.
His arms stretched out, sandwiching me between them.
“Don’t worry, the statues won’t mind,” he teased.
“You are making it difficult on purpose.” I flicked the buttons of my top piece, struggling to pull my arms out of the long sleeves, claustrophobic between his arms. I tossed it to the side, leaving myself in only my corset cover.
The skirt needed cleaning anyway, so I wouldn’t bother.
Though, it did feel nice for my arms to be bare.
I looked back at him, his expression pleased with his tomfoolery so far. I wouldn’t let him laugh any more, I’d play his stupid game.
“What now, then?” I straightened my back, which pressed against his chest. Just the touch made my shoulders fold to my ears as I slouched forward, all too aware of the limited room for movement.
His hands took mine, wet and sticky from the clay.
“Oh no.” I winced. “God, what a horrid texture.” I nearly gagged.
“You’ll forget it in a moment.” He guided my hands to the wheel.
“Clay is my favorite, because if you don’t do well the first time, you can roll it back up into a ball and try again.
It’s relaxing, if you let loose a little.
” He took my finger and guided it to the middle of the dome.
When he put pressure on my index finger, it dipped straight into the dome and opened wide like a crater.
The form was mesmerizing, the way was so fluid, every small movement of our hands making it dance before us.
He took both my hands along the rim, squeezing them and guiding the clay to a vaselike shape, making the opening smaller now.
“I see,” I breathed, leaning back into him. The clay and water were a bit cold, offsetting the mugginess from before.
I watched his arms, every small inflection of the muscles resulting in the soft, precise guidance of his hands.
The wheel slowed to a halt.
He shifted to grab a wire, pulling it along the base to slice the vase from the wheel and hold it up. “See? Do you want to try on your own now?”
“That wasn’t hard.” I shifted in my seat. “I’ll make a cup next.”
“It’s easy to say when your hands don’t have to move on their own.” He placed the vase aside and leaned over for more clay, slapping it down on the wheel again.
The lump turned slowly, then blurred as it moved faster. When my hands met the clay, it shook with such force, I had to lean over, squeezing it into a tall form that still wobbled no matter how I molded it. Perhaps I’d spoken too soon; he’d made it look so easy.
“Good, now try to press your hand flat. Into a dome, like last time.” He wiped his hands clean with a wet rag.
I pressed my palm down on it, trying my best to force it into the dome like Arkady had. It may have taken me a minute longer, the clay becoming dry by the time it was in shape.
“That’s good,” he said, “but don’t forget to keep it damp.”
I scooped my hand in the murky water bucket, watching it trickle steadily onto the material. The matte turned to gloss as it spun, ready to be formed once more. As I cupped it in my hands, pressing my thumbs into the middle, it opened up to me hesitantly.
“Hmm, unsure hands make for shaky work,” Arkady said into my ear, his hands resting on my thighs.
“Maybe you make me nervous,” I whispered, digging farther into the clay with my fingers, though part of the cup’s lip was becoming too thin.
“Do I?” he hummed, his lips pressing behind my ear, hot against my pulse. “Make you nervous, that is?”
My breath shook, reluctant to be released, to be heard escaping.
His hands pressed on my thighs, then found their way to my waist. I held my breath, frozen with my clay-covered hands on the wheel.
“Arkady,” I swallowed.