When the Devil Holds the Candle Read Online Free PDF Page A

held out her card. He wasn't startled, just looked back at her with a certain curiosity. And then he took the card and stuck it in the pocket of his baggy shirt, which was unbuttoned. She caught a glimpse of his boyish chest.
    "Just to be clear," she added, "I'm talking about posing in the nude."
    He nodded: he understood. That very night he called her, from a pay phone. She guessed that he lived at home and didn't want to involve anyone else. He was at her door the next evening. He undressed without embarrassment, only cast a quick glance at her and said he'd never done this before. Businesslike, she explained to him what to do, but she allowed herself to show a maternal warmth. She would have liked to show something else, but she was old enough to be his mother, for heaven's sake. On that first evening she made only a rough sketch, to assure herself that he could hold the pose for a reasonable length of time, without discomfort. Then he put his clothes on and left. After that he came back every week at the same time.
    They didn't really get to know each other. Andreas never talked about himself, and he wasn't interested in knowing anything about her, either. He had no plans or desires for the future. Now and then he talked about his friend Zipp, or, occasionally, about a film that he liked. Or about music. Nothing else.
    The impulse came unexpectedly. She was not prepared—she had never planned it. Dreamed about it, maybe, but who wouldn't? One evening, as she worked, he seemed to fall into a reverie. He was no longer holding the pose, and his gaze was lost in one of the big paintings on the wall. Something of the tension in his body dissolved. She wanted to point this out, but changed her mind. For a long time she was able to study him unobserved. She held her breath and stood still with the brush in her hand. She knew he wasn't thinking about her; if he had been, she would have sensed it. She walked over to him. He pulled himself together, moved back into his original position. But she had seen him, caught him unawares. He didn't like that. She wanted to tell him that it didn't matter; she gave him a quick smile and patted his cheek. But when she felt his skin under her hand, she couldn't stop. He had high cheekbones that were beautiful and prominent beneath his white skin. He did not turn away, but stood still and allowed her to caress him. The sharp light, which came from a lamp to the left, was meant for her work. She could see every pore of his skin, and the thin veins in his temples. And his eyelids, like tissue paper. His skin smelled like skin, his hair like hair. He acquiesced and let her have what she wanted. Her body had been asleep for a long time. She was overwhelmed by everything that awoke in her, that trickled and flowed. She wanted to surrender, to make love as if it were a matter of life and death, to shriek and scratch, but she controlled herself—she didn't want to frighten him away. After he left the house, she came to her senses. He lacked fire. She had thought that he would feel a flood of passion, because he was so young. It must be in him somewhere—but she never found it. Still, they continued. As soon as she had finished her work, they would go to bed. He never took the initiative; she was always the one who did that.
May this painting never be done!
she thought. She felt no shame: they were adults. Deep inside, she hoped that he bragged about it to others.

Chapter 3
    I sell curtains and bed linens and fabric in a very respectable shop. I'm home each day by 5 P.M. The rest of the evening I spend indoors, puttering around. Hardly anyone comes to see me—once in a while my friend, or perhaps my son. Ingemar. I listen politely to whatever he says. He never asks me to visit or anything like that: it's too difficult for us. His visits are more like an obligation, an opportunity to check up on each other, make sure that everything is all right. It's nice to be able to say at work now and then,