Shay feels a surge of misguided love. Stop it, he’s nothing like William. Stop it right now, this child has eyes more almond-shaped, a pointier chin, hair faded at the sides. She squats next to the child so they are eye to eye… —Denzel, sir?

  He gazes at her with wide eyes.

  —May I take your hand?

  Slowly and apprehensively, Denzel allows it.

  —Would you like to see a whole bunch of teeny TVs while we wait for your mom?

  The child is not unswayed by this promise. Shay stands, turning to guide Denzel, catching sight of European Paintings disappearing into the gift shop.

  Noon

  Kory and Liz, according to their all-caps name tags, spin around, startled, when Clive walks in. They nod politely and continue to viciously organize postcards.

  —But she doesn’t respect me, okay? Like, who goes to the Caribbean Antigua? Nobody. Tacky losers.

  —But didn’t Diane say she went?

  This piece of logic appears to stump Kory who takes it out on Chardin, jamming his pears into the revolving wire rack.

  Clive leans against a glass display case affecting interest in the imitation jade masks nested in black velvet and earrings got up to look Egyptian. Silver brooches studded with plastic scarabs lie bathed in tiny spotlights like the crown jewels.

  Over by the postcards Kory and Liz continue chuntering away, voices rising and falling, scaling little hills of umbrage before reorienting to begin again.

  Clive checks his phone for the time. She’ll be late, of course. She’s the late sort.

  He first spotted the woman he now knows is Iona Moore last spring at an employee preview for the Mantegna show. She worked in Conservation, Clive found out, a fact he filed away for future use. She looked like the sort of woman he could bully for a favor. Standing before Agony in the Garden, luscious lips pursing and unpursing as if recollecting some private torment brought to mind by egrets and apostles. Her calves were long thin twigs, encased in woolen stockings so thick and lumpy it seemed impossible she hadn’t crocheted the things herself. That hair! Clive thought, watching her stick a finger into the barbaric nest on top of her head and give it a scratch before moving on to Judith and her Maidservant. Why not cut it? Give it a style of some sort? Yet the sight of her made him wistful for the days of slipshod women. Back then, New York was tired and grimy, aggrieved and half-feral. Tube sock vendors used to set their wares against the rolling hills of black garbage bags. Rats openly frolicked. Downtown sidewalks were spread with blankets temptingly dotted with pilfered clocks or faded sweatshirts promoting Vassar or Prozac. There was a sort of grudging wartime spirit in the city back then, a collective respect that came from standing shoulder to shoulder in the same foxhole. It took grit to live here once. But Clive has had this thought before, only to realize the rats are still here, so is the foxhole. It’s not some sepia version of New York City he pines for, but the hopeless young man the city brought to life.

  On the subway he looks for comfort in the rush hour faces of paralegals, secretaries, shop assistants. Once these girls in cheap shoes would have been fuzzy with sleep, mussed and musky. Eyes pouched and smudged with last night’s eyeliner. The air would have been thick with the funk of hot horses. And while it’s true that today these same women are kempt and groomed, camera-ready with arched brows, sleek hair and corrected skin, if Clive closes his eyes he can still make out the tang of last night coasting through the carriage. The odor cuts through a floral river of shampoo and perfume, delivering him back to the days when night bled into morning. That was two decades ago, a time when he too spoke of tender things.

  A few days after the Mantegna preview Clive came upon Iona Moore sitting on the steps outside the Museum. She was lounging at the base of a Corinthian pillar wearing a poncho that looked to be fabricated from an unlikely material, possum fur or recycled bottles. Everything about the woman was semi-hysterical and secondhand. Almost lichenous. Clive was returning from a midday tumble with a Bolivian he’d met online, a part-time underwear model with an exciting prosthetic. The lunch hour had proven pleasurably punishing. Clive had a conquistador spring to his step. And there she was, the utter disaster of Iona Moore slopped on the grand staircase like a spilled curry. Clive watched her remove a lock of hair from her mouth which she appeared to be consuming along with her sandwich. The sight of this madwoman was like a face full of cold water. Gone were the images of his Bolivian, glistening, naked and short a fibula.

  A commotion by the door. At the center of this kerfuffle, Clive wagers, he will find Iona Moore. And, yes. Here she is. Flailing among the marked-down Impressionists.

  12:06 p.m.

  Who the hell sets a bucket of posters right by the entrance like some kind of booby trap? A runaway Haystacks wrapped in plastic gets stopped by his black shoe, European Paintings, crouching to help, picking up a rolling Sunrise and handing it to her so she can jam it back in the bucket. She’s saying yes, yes, except no one’s asked a question and Clive Hauxwell looks up at her from where he crouches, smiling. Even this close up he’s extremely handsome. Iona’s blushing, hating herself for blushing, then hating Hauxwell for causing the blushing. Why has she agreed to this terrifying lunch?

  —I’m afraid I’ve just discovered West is closed… Clive leans into her as he stands.

  Only his eyes are truly spectacular. Icy blue, like a husky’s, humored and hypnotic. Eyebrows so black and thick they verge on comic. A long nose saves his face from prettiness.

  —We could leave the museum, go out… replacing the last poster.

  —Oh… Iona yanks her sweater down over her hips, wishing she’d worn something, anything, else… —I’m under a deadline. What about Central America?

  —I can’t bear the ceilings.

  —There’s always the shitty café.

  —God no. Tell you what, we’ll do the Globe, my treat. Don’t refuse, I’m about to exact a favor… his hand grazes her lower back, making her shiver… —Stairs or elevator?

  —Elevator… the glass stairs give her vertigo.

  Clive propels her gently down the hallway. As they approach the elevator, the doors open and two middle-aged men burst out, racing to get at the art. Clive places his hand across the door gap, waiting for her, squinting, craquelure beginning around those husky eyes. Encircling his wrist is a copper rheumatism bracelet or perhaps the fashionable or ironic version of one. She tries to remember how to walk, entering the elevator cautiously, catching Hauxwell’s scent as he turns to press MEZZ. There was a missed opportunity once, on the Grand Roué, with a boy who smelled of tobacco and oranges. He kept asking Iona if she understood the word baiser and she kept shaking her head, staring down at the lights of Paris, unsure if he was pressing for the noun or the verb. She was sixteen, it was her chance for a wild fling. A story she could relive when she was old and tired with a feeble neck. But she was too nervous and the revolutions gave her a sour stomach.

  They get off the elevator and walk around the curved glass wall. The Globe is fairly empty except for the tables along the far wall where a column of solitary guests sit, one behind the other, all facing the same direction. Bent to their maps with a look of grim perseverance, as if the job of art appreciation is a taxing and somewhat burdensome one. A swinging door opens at the back of the room and a waiter sticks his head out, looks around the restaurant and retreats.

  Iona follows Clive to the hostess stand where a sulky brunette examines her manicure with the predictable indifference of a woman too beautiful for work. She looks up as they approach. Spotting Clive, she quickly adapts her bored pout, putting on a sultry lip business, tossing her hair like a show pony.

  —Hey, you… needlessly stretching out both words.

  —Adrina, darling.

  Darling?

  —No mac and cheese today.

  —You’re joking.

  Adrina bites her lip and shakes her head which while gorgeous is perhaps overly large… —Got an interim chef today, took it off the menu. Total hack.

  Clive turns back to Iona… —I have an idea.

  12:11 p.m.

  How dare he ask me to lie. How fucking dare he? Obviously Nikolic loves his stupid brother and would hate to see Jimmy publicly skewered but Niko’s setting aside biologically seated affection right now, savoring his fury as he scans the kitchen: Raheem prodding a raviolo, Otto spinning sizzle plates like he’s dealing poker, Armando doing god knows what, shambling around with a stupid look on his face. No sign of. But here he comes. Wiping his nose with his forearm, intercepting Adrina as she slinks across the kitchen, throwing his arm around her shoulders. Together they start pawing through the mountain of prepared demi-baguettes stationed next to garde manger. Is he? Nuzzling? Adrina’s hair? Monster. His brother’s a monster.

  —Adrina!

  They both turn to look at him.

  —It’s sit-down service only.

  They continue to stare.

  —Just because we’re offering a few café items doesn’t make this a gas station mini-mart. No grabbing sandwiches willy-nilly. Where did you even find a to-go cup?… saying all this with an anger disproportionate to the crime on account of the festering rage they’ve interrupted. Also, desperately wishing he hadn’t said willy-nilly.

  Adrina grabs a sandwich and two bottles of Perrier and disappears through the swinging door with an infuriating lack of concern.

  —Niko, Niko, listen to me. Listen to your brother. Lighten the fuck up, will you? What’s with this energy? You’re depressing your staff. Put on some music. It’s like a morgue in here.

  Spinning around to rip the ticket clacking up in front of him, Niko calls out… —ORDERING TWO EGG, ONE MORCILLA.

  Jimmy watches as he checks an oxtail Otto’s setting on the pass… —Don’t take this wrong, Nik, but you gotta drop those pounds. All that weight’s going to shatter your knees.

  —Runner, please!

  —There’s a Zumba class on Thursdays. Saw a poster for it when I took the trash down.

  —You need to leave or make yourself useful.

  —You need to torch some calories… Jimmy flicks a side towel onto his shoulder and walks away.

  It’s true that after she died Niko gained weight. He couldn’t stop cooking the type of French food that’s designed to kill you. It was suicide by forcemeat and it was out of his control. At one point the fridge held three types of pâté and a duck terrine. Niko used to gaze down at the roll of chub trying to make a break for it over the waistband of his pants and think, Godspeed, my friend, would that I could flee, too. He reveled in his oily skin and aching joints, the stretchy pants he had to buy, his grotesque state. For many months, even a year, Niko found a kind of relief in disgusting himself.

  12:15 p.m.

  Visitors straggle into the entrance hall, dropping scarves and digging for credit cards, stumped by the scaffolding that’s replaced the visitors’ desk. They alight on the ticket kiosks with expressions of relief, sidling toward the first-floor galleries with hunted looks, ready to be fundamentally altered or briefly entertained or snapped next to Manet’s Suicide grinning like a lunatic.

  Iona has stopped trying to close in on Clive as she crosses the Great Hall. He has the loping stride of a retired athlete, and her bra doesn’t have the kind of support that’s good for jogging. She passes two women in navy CREW shirts kneeling on the floor, pulling fresh daisies out of cardboard boxes. Money must be tight. Usually they close the museum on Gala Day. For good reason, since the construction work doesn’t seem entirely safe. Already Iona’s seen several tourists trip over the traffic cones that surround the scissor-lift.

  Clive spins around, notices he’s lost her, and waits. She doesn’t hurry.

  —Alright?… in one enormous hand he holds a pot of yogurt and a ham baguette, in the other, a to-go cup. Two bottles of Perrier stick out of his jacket pockets.

  —Fine, yes.

  They continue on in silence. The curator makes her nervous with his expensive scent and sweater and general musculature. He’s made it clear that he wants something from her and Iona orders herself to stop hoping it might be intercourse. She tries to bring to mind her husband’s face, but his features remain slippery and refuse to take hold.

  Once they reach the sculpture court Clive heads for a bench under a marble kouros. The sight of the naked warrior with his articulated biceps and six-pack does not help the drift of Iona’s thoughts.

  Clive places the cup on the floor next to his feet and unfolds a paper napkin… —Iona… holding out a bottle of Perrier.

  —Are we allowed to eat here?

  —Sit… Clive tips his head toward the spot next to him… —Please.

  Iona scans the hall for a security guard. As a child she was reliably obedient, as the children of criminals often are. Mama was a force in red lipstick, swam the breaststroke with her head held high and was told more than once she had lovely manners for that part of Belgium. On Iona’s fifteenth birthday, she reached into her backpack during a matinée of Risky Business, found she’d smuggled in a bag of potato chips and had a near-on nervous breakdown. To this day, she can’t take music that’s heavy on the synth.

  —Iona, please.

  There’s nothing for it. She takes the bottle from him and sits down. The bench is too short to fit them both comfortably and Clive’s thigh ends up pressed against hers. She unscrews the Perrier cap, takes a small sip. Already Clive has ripped the metal lid off her yogurt, licked it, crumpled it, put it somewhere, plunged a plastic spoon into her lemon chiffon and shoveled a large portion into his mouth.

  —There’s a nothing shop over on the East Side… he licks the spoon, her spoon… —Jack Corbeau gallery. Heard of it?

  Iona shakes her head, riveted by the sight of him eating her lunch.

  —No, you wouldn’t, anyway, not important, point is they have a cassone I want. It contains an immaculate panel based on The Decameron I’m convinced is Sellaio. As for the condition of the chest itself, I’m waiting for you on that.

  —Sellaio? In some shop?

  —Corbeau assumes the chest is junk, one of those postwar jobs crafty Italians banged together for tourists. The seller’s a twenty-year-old from Albany. Great-Grandad just popped off leaving him a couple of houses filled with dreck. The kid brought the cassone to Corbeau’s shop along with two Tiffany lamps, some Victorian furniture, and a silver-plated dinner service. Corbeau shoved it in a corner. One look at the piece made my balls shiver.

  Iona breathes through her nostrils, willing herself not to blush.

  —And my balls are never wrong.

  She nods as if she knows all about testicles working a second job.

  —I’m not asking you to authenticate anything. Examine the material condition of the chest, give me your thoughts.

  Iona looks down at the pot of yogurt in Clive’s hand. The pressure of his thigh is thrilling. She can’t tell if he’s sitting normally or actively driving his leg into hers. Suddenly Iona stands, whips off her sweater, unzips her plaid skirt, and straddles him, pulling down her bra, mashing her breasts against his

  —Afternoon.

  —Sorry, what?

  —See it with me this afternoon.

  —Oh, I can’t, not today.

  —Two forty-five on the front steps.

  —You’re not listening, I—

  —Think the chest itself is a pastiche, the panel removed and reinserted more than once… consulting his memory with a lip scrape of his teeth… —Possible regilding. You’ll say it’s fine to disassemble—

  —I won’t say anything because—

  —Not on the record, of course, but you’ll indicate that the condition of the chest makes it—

  —But I would never advise—

  —Stop, Iona. Debate this when you actually see the thing… Clive hands her the pot of yogurt, now half-empty, along with his licked spoon.

  He’s playing a game of some kind, eating her lunch, but it isn’t clear to what end. She turns away. There’s a light fixture on the other side of the sculpture court, a replica of a lamppost from a London street circa eighteen-something or other. It makes no sense in this space. Think clearly. Her stomach has started to grumble. She tries to recall what she ate for breakfast. Oh, yes, tequila.

  —What do you say, Iona?… he raises an eyebrow… —Come with me.

  Why does he keep saying her name? She stands, crossing to the recycling bin, ostensibly to toss the yogurt container but also in the hopes of getting ahold of herself. There’s an urgency to Clive Hauxwell’s request that isn’t simply about a ticking clock. All that cocky yogurt-eating can’t disguise an underswell of desperation. As Iona returns to the bench she sees that he’s leaning forward, elbows on knees, staring dully at the baguette he’s holding as if his will to continue has been entirely sapped.

  She sits back down, staring up at the Globe, the great glass ball above their heads. It’s beyond her how it defies gravity and holds all those people aloft, never smashing to the floor. She’s always loved miracles of engineering, as well as picturing miracles of engineering buckling, and sending a bunch of people to a gruesome death.

  Diane Schwebe stands on the mezzanine with two attractive Middle Eastern men, smiling broadly as she draws their attention to an interesting tidbit about the restaurant’s design. The new lion is unquestionably fake. Does Schwebe care? Not likely. The director’s chirpy affability feels like a personal attack.

  —In any case, thanks for hearing me out.

  —Wait… she’s given twelve years of her life to this two-bit operation.

  —Here you are… Clive picks up the cup of mint tea stationed by his foot… —Still hot… holding it out to her… —Maybe when you’ve—

  —Marlon Tindall-Clark.

  —Take the tea. What about him?

  Accepting the cup… —You know who he is?

  —Of course. I’ve got piles of his frightful lion paintings down in storage.

  —He gave the Museum a marble. Label claims it’s 325 BCE.

 

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