The Lowest of the Low

"The Lowest of the Low"

I actually called Nelson out of desperation, for a friend to talk to. And he talked about himself, as usual, but even that felt better to me than nothing. He complained of feeling lonely and ignored in his rural redoubt, but he had chosen to live there with Leticia. And he was famous enough to still get attention.  Students and critics sought him out. A graduate student was putting together a thesis on his work and came to visit for extended interviews. Not enough for Nelson.

I had an idea what he really wanted, the adulation of women he admired, something he'd sought out and found throughout his life.

You get married and you stop expecting that. Marry Akemi and you don't need it.

Nelson the guy who'd cheated with my wife. I phoned him for emotional support. I was beyond pride at that point, understand.  And I'm not proud of my behavior then: talking to him in a friendly way, even ingratiating way- there might have been a plea in my voice- appealing for empathy. Nelson himself might have found that surprising. I should have been cursing him out or, better yet, ignoring his existence, turning my back on him, not gushing with gratitude. "Yeah, it's really good to have a friend.."

He yawned as I spoke, didn't pretend to find what I had to say worthy of his sustained attention, just like the very first time we talked, back at the college when I was his student.

Why did I stick with him? Was I some kind of glutton for punishment? Not all. He was an interesting person. I had things to learn from him and was willing to overlook the crap others might not (and understandably). Akemi also apparently wanted to glean his wisdom.

I try not to laugh ruefully as I write this.

Yeah, I thought he'd draw the line at coming after my wife. There. I've said it.

Our friendship has been about him from the get-go, and no wonder, given that he was the teacher and also a highly acclaimed film-maker. The rules the rest of us follow didn't apply to a genius. Guys like Nelson got to cut the line.

I have no excuse. To myself. It's something I will look back on one day and wince- although viewing the conversation objectively, I really didn't do so badly. I wasn't sniveling or anything. And it wasn't much of one anyway- not a real give and take. Mostly I listened. That's always the way with Nelson. You hand him the baton and he takes it and runs with it and you never see anything again but his back. An hour-long phone call can go that way.

And he talked of photos he'd recently taken that made him feel better. In addition to film-making, he photographed like me, in between films, which seemed often the case now as he got older; maybe his best work was behind him. Naturally, I didn't say that.  

He asked about Akemi, of course. I didn't ask if she'd gotten in touch with him though I knew, was pretty sure, they'd been corresponding.  

I sensed, rightly or wrongly, that by bringing up photography Nelson was angling for me to send him  photos of her, as I used to before they met- which possibility actually made me feel a little better, hopeful, as it might suggest she herself wasn't including images in her messages to him, at least not explicit ones like I had. Though of course she might be and Nelson just wanted more.

Time for brutal honesty, with you, with myself. I knew there was more to my call than met the eye. If it was a surrender, it was a strategic one. By showing how much I felt for Akemi, I was hoping to stir up guilt feelings, scruples that would make Nelson back off from her. Even as I seemed to prostrate myself, I was in fact fighting back (though barely aware of doing so, not honest with myself about my motives, which were, on their face, pretty shameful).

The plan was a long-shot, had little chance of success but seemed better than none at all. Nelson is canny, not the kind who can be manipulated- or gives a fuck about the consequences of actions he thinks right. All's fair in love and war (and art, no doubt) his attitude, I knew and should have taken seriously.

Still more. An argument can be made that the bad behavior, the betrayal, came from both sides. I wasn't innocent, abject maybe but I too bear the blame, some at least. Think back. Had I even been steering Akemi toward Nelson from the beginning because the idea of something happening between them turned me on- the danger did, I mean? I definitely liked the idea of my old teacher, mentor, famous friend appreciating my wife, finding her attractive, coming this close but no closer. Was it a case of my playing with fire and then getting burned? You can't mess with people's feelings and expect to come through unscathed.

After putting down the phone I looked through her photos, found some excellent ones I'd forgotten, a shot of cum on her chest and abdomen, her bush below, her belly button to the left, her sleek curved front. I had cum a lot, expansively, a wide scattered slick. It was that sort of day, that sort of hour.  

People would probably like that. It was a type requested ("Have you got any of cum on her tits?") Jesus christ! I hadn't realized I had it. There were others of its kind. Wildly beautiful. Profound. Her brown-black hair, wild in the picture at the top of the frame, trailing down from the right.

More like that existed for sure, just as startlingly good, different and equally profound, revelatory. The permutations of Akemi's beauty seemed infinite. With each shift of light a new one hewed into view. I thought of the great, the wild sex we had. It seemed another world, a different life. How quickly it slipped away.  

A work friend came over (expected)  and I talked about my photographs (not those) and he said he'd like to see and I opened the portfolio and worried he'd stumble upon the private ones- some of Akemi were mixed in.   His looking was out of my control. I couldn't tell him which pages to skip (for one thing I didn't know; they weren't organized like that).   My coworker flipped casually from image to image. I had no idea what would be next. It was kind of like Russian roulette, though of course the stakes were not life or death.  

And that made me think, as much else did. I'd put images of Akemi online but made sure none compromised her privacy. Shots showed her body not face. Of course I had plenty for my own enjoyment showing everything.  

I wonder if Akemi ever objected, felt badly used by me. She maintained that she respected my work as art and I saw it that way too, though of course it wasn't as accomplished as her painting. I was an amateur, she a trained professional. Still, I wondered.

A big component of my photographs of her was just horniness, of course. I doubted if that was the case with Akemi's paintings, though who knows? She brought passion to bear. What had she and Nelson talked about when they met and ostensibly discussed art?

That was a while ago, old news. I'd never questioned her- you have to show you trust your partner- and now that she'd disappeared it was too late. Asking Nelson? Out of the question! Like I said, I haven't abandoned my pride completely!

Listen, I just wish she'd come back.

I don't know where she is and, as I've also said, I'm sure it isn't with him, so really nothing lost in speaking to an old friend. I meant it, was being genuine, when I told him hearing his voice cheered me up.

Not that bygones are bygones.

"Compartmentalize" is the word.

Phone call me feel a little calmer about my wife's sudden absence.

But the frantic concern, near panic, returned the moment it ended.