The Painted Kiss Read Online Free PDF Page B

might’ve tried to slip past my mother in something else, but then I heard Father come home early from the factory. He was going to chaperone the sittings.
    When we were dressed we brushed our hair and sighed over our complexions.
    “If I had known I would’ve done the honey milk bath,” said Helene, who already glowed like a Madonna. I pinched her.
    “Or the cucumber walnut scrub,” said Pauline. “That’s what the empress does when she’s about to be photographed.”
     
    Pauline went first. While we waited Helene and I tried to imagine what was going on behind the closed parlor door. The wood was so heavy we couldn’t hear anything, even when we stood right up against it. Helene, who was shy around people she didn’t know, was afraid she’d have to talk to him. I thought it would be more awkward to sit there and not say anything.
    We listened for the clock in the hall chiming on the quarter hours. Six passed before Pauline emerged. We scanned her face for a clue. She looked sleepy and dazed.
    “Helene,” Papa called. With a terrified look she disappeared behind the door.
    I quizzed Pauline about her time in the parlor but all she would say was that it wasn’t worth getting excited about. When I asked what Klimt was like, she shrugged. When I asked what they talked about, she said she didn’t know. The clock chimed, then chimed again. At last it was my turn.
    When I went in Father was sitting in the corner of the room reading the paper. The air around him was dim with smoke and smelled of leather and cinnamon. He smiled at me but then went back to his paper, leaving me standing nervously in the doorway. The painter was standing in the middle of the room in front of a spindly-looking easel.
    “Was that in your valise?” I asked in surprise. I was so curious about all of his things that I forgot it was rude for a girl to be too curious or to ask too many questions.
    Klimt laughed. “Handy, isn’t it?” he said. “Let me show you.” He laid his paper on the sofa and deftly folded the easel until it resembled a bundle of kindling. I remembered I had seen it before.
    “Oh yes, you had one like that the day of the procession.”
    He smiled. “You remember.” He held the bundle out for me to take. I saw when I got closer that he had patches of red in his beard.
    The easel was surprisingly light. “Wouldn’t it blow away?” I asked.
    “Emilie,” my father called, “stop badgering Mr. Klimt and do as you’re told.”
    “It’s all right,” Klimt said to my father. “Open it up and see,” he said to me. I unfolded the easel and saw that its three legs, splayed wide apart, made it more stable than it looked. He took the easel from my hands and moved it back to the middle of the room.
    I stood while Klimt attached some paper to the easel with what looked like clothespins. I waited for him to tell me what to do. When he was finished with the paper he turned around but didn’t say anything. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at me. It made me very uncomfortable, but I tried not to squirm.
    “Well,” he said. I waited. The expression on his face was alarming in its intensity. I couldn’t wait any longer. I rocked from one foot to the other and scratched my face, though it didn’t itch.
    “What should I do?” I asked. It was if I had woken him from a trance.
    “Sit in the red chair, and be as still as you can. If I want you to move I’ll move you.” He spoke abruptly, almost rudely.
    I sat the way I had been taught in my posture lessons. When Klimt turned to me he sighed. He came to stand just inches from me and frowned. His jacket smelled of cedar shavings, as if it had been stored for a long time.
    “How would you sit if you could sit any way you wanted?”
    No one had ever asked me such a question. It didn’t matter to anyone what I wanted, only what they wanted. I looked at him blankly.
    “I don’t know, sir,” I said.
    “No idea?” he said.
    “No, sir,” I said.
    “All