—Push come to, I can’t pay you if I’m banged up.

  —Banged up? Anyone here holding a tire iron?… performatively checking the room… —Because I see two guys sharing personal philosophies.

  —There’s a subtext.

  —Oh, okay, subtext. Subtext what you get for twenty grand?

  —Implied, then. There’s an implied threat to what you’re saying.

  —If I want you to feel threatened, Benjamin, I’ll come right out and threaten you. As the great Samuel Beckett once said, If I’d meant waiting for God I would’ve fucking called it Waiting for God.

  —Well… Benjamin picks up his backpack, impatient to leave the suffocating room… —Looks like we’re clear on the timetable and so forth.

  Avery unzips his white jacket two inches at the neck, as if he’s releasing something… —I don’t like to say it, Benjamin, but you’re an ill-mannered person.

  —I apologize. It’s my first day.

  —Apology accepted… staring into the eyes of Humphrey Bogart… —So you come up with the movies they show here? That your job?

  —One of them.

  —Bounce some ideas off me.

  —I haven’t really sat down and—

  —Come on, Benjy, let’s have some fun. Can’t we have some fun?

  —The calendar is booked through the end of the year—

  —Prostitutes.

  —Sorry?

  —Idea for a theme. French movies, Italian. Europeans lose it for broken women. Nymphos in pussy bows. Your typical Bordelais butcher believes Mrs. Dubois from down the road wants a whole lot more than a nice pork chop.

  —Sure, like women sell their bodies for their own enjoyment. That’s the male fantasy, right?

  Avery’s face sours. Benjamin has not been invited to the game.

  —You have until Tuesday at five… Avery stands up, roughly pushing back the damaged chair… —I fly back Wednesday morning and I go with eight grand. Understand?

  —Half of twelve is six.

  Avery stares at him.

  —Got it… nodding… —Eight. Eight grand. Got it got it got it.

  5:26 p.m.

  —What about the new film hire?

  —Benjamin Rippen. Started today.

  —Bring him in to replace Jakob. I’m sure he’s about the same age as Z.

  —If he’s even still here… Chris types into his phone.

  The tendrils of a headache begin to twine and stretch behind Diane’s eyes. She pinches the bridge of her nose, holding it until the elevator arrives at the roof.

  The doors open. The evening air is still warm, a relief from the museum’s ferocious air-conditioning. Beginning to pink, the sky is punctuated with one lonely cloud. The young billionaire stands with his back to them, studying the skyline. He has the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up, giving him the profile of a modern druid. Zedekiah Willington. The person who holds Diane’s future in his uncalloused hands.

  —Hello there!

  Slowly, as if mesmerized by the setting sun, Z turns, pulling his hood away from his face. He’s boyish and attractive, his dark hair chin-length and tousled. What a nice even tan, she thinks before recalling that Z is half Filipino. There wasn’t time to do more than skim Chris’s information packet. Diane walks toward the investor, handing Chris her leather portfolio which functions only as a prop.

  —Welcome Mr.—

  —Z… Chris, at her heels, correcting… —This is Diane Schwebe, director of the Museum.

  Z smiles. His mouth is packed with expensive teeth. He wears skinny black jeans and blinding white sneakers.

  They shake hands and Z reaches out around Diane… —This is my bodyguard… pulling into view a shifty-looking young man in his thirties… —Liam.

  —Bodyguard? Goodness.

  —Pretentious, right? There were disturbing emails.

  Liam shakes Diane’s hand, avoiding her eyes.

  —And I’m Chris, nice to… staring at Z’s bodyguard… —We’ve met before.

  —No. Pretty much impossible… Liam turns away… —I’ll be over here… tossing the words behind him as he wanders to the far side of the roof, a bench facing the Henry Moore.

  With narrowed eyes Chris watches the man walk away.

  The second elevator bings its arrival and the bartender steps out, Daniel or Stanley, wearing that unfortunate fedora of his. He moves swiftly to unlock the roll-down doors enclosing the bar.

  —Cocktail?… Chris gestures to the seating options, chairs or a bench… —Our gin martinis are rather famous.

  —Lovely.

  —We’ll have three dry gin martinis.

  —They’re not served… Z tweaks his jeans at the knee to sit, the action of a much older man… —In those massive cones, are they? Because I’m a spiller.

  —I do believe it’s the eight ounce… Chris, apprehensive, looks to the bartender who is moving at high speed, rattling ice into a mixing glass… —Is it a coupe, the martinis?

  —Eight ounce, conical.

  —Can you give us a sour glass?

  The bartender shakes his head.

  Chris gets out his phone, stabs at it… —Let me find you the right…

  —No, no. Please don’t bother. Anything is fine, really.

  —What about Liam?… Diane sits next to Z on the bench… —Would he like a cocktail?

  —Oh, no, we’ll give him water. I need him in fine form tonight. Fine fettle… Z laughs as if certain words are fun for him.

  —Three martinis coming up… calls the bartender.

  —God, I love New York… Z takes a quick glance around… —What a nutty city. And the gala, we’ve heard about it for years. Sara’s spitting with jealousy but she has a human trafficking paper due. Her studies always come first. I need, Diane, another invitation or, Liam, is there a list?

  —Oh, easy, easy enough. Chris?

  —Yup, yup, sending right now… he bends over his phone.

  Diane smiles at Z, trying to look relaxed and hip but also wise and commanding.

  —Three dry gin martinis… the bartender walks toward them holding a tray.

  Diane selects two glasses, handing one to Z. Chris takes the third and walks away, assaulting his phone with his thumb… —Excuse me, I have some work… arranging himself on a stool at the bar, setting his cocktail out of reach with painstaking precision as if, were the glass three inches closer, he’d be obliged to drink it.

  —Mr. Willington… Diane swings her glass toward Z… —Welcome to the Museum.

  5:32 p.m.

  The Piquette salon is a depressing holdover from Tiz Sericko’s reign when the ex-director spent his time drumming up restricted areas for donors and trustees, even installing a private elevator to prove the Museum wasn’t intolerably earnest about the whole egalitarian bit. Bernard Daedalus Piquette was a renowned archaeologist and, understandably, less renowned wife-beater, dipsomaniac, and slaveowner. For seven years Diane has promised to rename the room but it remains so named, remains decorated in clashing contradictions and, critically, at this moment, remains completely empty.

  Clive walks over to the sealed window. The room is stuffy with the fug of a little-used space. Why had he let down his guard? It was all that talk about her bagel-eating therapist. Quickened his sympathy. He watches a man walk down the street holding a hotdog.

  Or maybe because for a few minutes it felt like old times. For months after Diane first arrived at the Museum Clive would find any excuse to drop by her office. They’d sit with their feet propped on the coffee table and talk about Olympic trampolining, fecal transplants, or echolocation and what it’s like to be a bat. Flirting wantonly and irresponsibly before one of them remembered the time and rushed off to a meeting. On cold days they’d walk down the corridor to the Trustees Club, where Diane made spicy hot chocolate in a clay pitcher, frothing it with a molinillo. Rituals always made Clive uneasy but this choreography held a sacred appeal. The ceremony was composed of several steps and she treated each one with the gravity a child at the beach brings to the business of measuring sand. Her solemn expression excited him. Everything about her excited him. She was merciless and flinty with girlish blouses and clipped fingernails. Her hair was golden-red and shiny like the skin of an onion; her exasperated taming of it he found charming. The possibilities were suddenly infinite, filling Clive with strange ambitions. He replaced all his vitamins, bought a yoga mat, and ordered several promising body washes.

  And then they flew to Paris.

  5:35 p.m.

  Chris is staring at her from his stool at the bar, eyes wide, signaling that the natural pause in their conversation is turning into an awkward silence.

  —Thrilled the gala will give you a chance to look around this little museum of ours… Diane leans forward to demonstrate enthusiasm… —I think it will give you a sense of our mission.

  —Saw quite a bit of the museum this morning.

  —Did you? Today was unusually hectic what with the—

  —Food poisoning, wasn’t it?… Z sips his martini… —From the restaurant?

  Over at the bar Chris swings around and leaps off his stool. Diane slugs her drink, skittering drops down her new size S blouse.

  —Who told you that?… Chris strides over, fingers white where they grip his phone… —Who said it was food poisoning?

  —I overheard a couple of waiters—

  —Waiters?

  —Trying to guess which customers could be spies from the health department.

  —The health depart—

  —I had an egg dish and about twelve cheesy biscuits with I guess scallions on top… distractedly, Z taps his glass… —Sara is begging me to quit carbs but really. Life’s too short, don’t you think?

  —Yes, yes… Diane and Chris fight to endorse the idea that life is indeed rapidly over, in a blink over.

  —She’s the reason I’m here, Sara.

  Chris spins around and trudges back to the bar.

  —Her mom believed that solitude sparks creativity. Saturday mornings she’d drop Sara off at the Museum, pick her up in the afternoon. She was eight or ten.

  —Leave a child here? Alone?

  —It was a different time.

  —Was it?… Diane tries to calculate. Not the seventies, but nineteen-eighty-nine or ninety.

  —Sara adores this place. The donation, if I go ahead with it, would be in her name, a wedding gift.

  —And you’re thinking naming rights or—

  —It’s not about publicity, Diane.

  —Of course not, sorry, jumping the gun. You were talking about a gift.

  —Here’s the thing… Z searches the rooftop as if looking for a way to put into words an unpalatable thought… —Where are the brown people?

  —The brown…?

  —Because all I saw was a sea of white. A great big white-out.

  —That’s a, we have a number of programs addressing diversity.

  —And these programs, the people leading them, are they all white? Because I read an article—

  —Yes, yes, you’re speaking of, and you’re quite correct, of course, mistakes were made. That issue is being remedied as we—

  —Your guards look suicidal, the docents are stuck-up, and your entrance fee is despicable. How do you expect a family of five to afford twenty bucks a head?

  —Technically… taking a breath and addressing it to her sphincter… —The fee is merely a suggestion.

  —Access to the arts remains out of reach for most Americans, even the middle class… Z is staring at something behind her shoulder.

  Diane turns around. Liam is stretched out on the wooden bench, one arm draped across his eyes.

  —Don’t you think?

  Turning back… —I understand, of course, and we have made substantial—

  —You run an antiseptic mausoleum that’s hostile to people of color. What about recent immigrants?

  —Our audio guides… snapping, refusing to let it all slip away… —Are available in fifteen languages.

  —But more than racist, your museum feels classist. To me, anyway.

  —Classist.

  —Beginning with the suggested donation, which you only know is a suggestion if you’re an insider. All the signs, Diane, say, in large print that your admission fee is twenty dollars. Then there’s the intimidation factor. I feel intimidated and I went to Yale.

  —My mother grew up poor… Chris has appeared next to them, gesturing with an alarmingly empty glass… —And she was never put off. She felt at home here, she—

  —Thank you, Chris.

  —Refill? Anyone?

  Diane copies Z, shaking her head. In truth of course she’d like at least one more drink, if not several. Ahead of her lies a long evening of this cheerful abasement.

  Chris disappears. Z savors the last of his martini.

  —Z… reaching out to touch his knee before, why is she touching him for god’s sake, snatching back her hand… —We’re open to any suggestions on how to make the Museum more approachable.

  —It’s not about pandering, cooking up shows like “graffiti is actually the oldest form of art”—

  —I mean, could Silicon Valley be any whiter?… Chris, back, and still annoyed.

  —Right… Z, serenely amused… —But I’m not giving Silicon Valley twenty million dollars to solve the problem… he stands… —I should really get back.

  5:42 p.m.

  Clive presses up.

  In Paris Diane tutoyed those who should have been vousvoyed, speaking with such vigor everyone took her for German. Clive’s teeth were newly bleached and sensitive, he couldn’t stop running his tongue around the inside of his mouth. The meeting was a bust, both paintings minor and in worse condition than promised. Afterward the two of them wandered the city, passing pastries back and forth, ignoring the shower of laminated flakes falling down their fronts. If you’d happened to notice these two tall people licking their fingers and colliding gently as they strolled, even stepping into a doorway briefly when it drizzled and the streets turned to silver, you might have assumed they were minutes away from a blazing fuck. Instead Clive went with Diane to one of those impeccably curated Parisian shops filled with perfect T-shirts and offbeat magazines and pricey leather doodads you were, until a moment ago, innocent of a homicidal desire to own. And here’s where it all gets muddy. He made a teasing comment about Diane’s sense of style. A pair of mystifying boots she bought. His only intention was to make her laugh. Facing each other outside some nothing brasserie on their way to lunch. Diane held the shopping bag, overjoyed at her silly new boots. Clive made that comment, whatever it was and when he looked up her mouth was a straight humorless line, her cheeks flushed pink. Without a word she walked away. The next day they were adversaries. Flying back in near silence. Now maybe he’s invented it. Maybe the tension between them is due to something else. On the other hand, he’s never seen Diane wear those boots.

  The elevator doors open. Lucy was right all along. He really is a killjoy.

  5:44 p.m.

  The three of them turn at the sound of the elevator doors. Stepping onto the roof is a lanky young man of about thirty, the whitest man she’s ever seen, a backpack hooked over one shoulder.

  —Here’s Benjamin Rippen… Chris walks over to collect him… —Our brand-new head of film… looping the air with one finger in the direction of the bartender… —You remember Diane.

  —Wonderful, wonderful… coming forward to shake… —Benjamin, please meet Z, visiting us from San, that is, Palo—

  —Alto… Z, sticking out his own hand… —Pleased to meet you. Film department, huh?

  Rippen stays silent, rooted to the spot, shaking hands with Z but staring at Liam, who has finally roused himself and is walking toward them.

  —Do you two know each other?… Diane looks from one to the other as Liam approaches.

  —Of course not. I’m the bodyguard.

  —The bodyguard?… the film hire looks incredulous.

  —That’s right… Liam, roughly… —The bodyguard. Liam Stuck.

  —I’m. Benjamin. Rippen… as if he’s being strangled.

  The two men shake.

  —Diane, can you point me to a bathroom?

  —Down one flight and opposite Tapestries.

  Liam nods at her and saunters toward the elevator. Benjamin stares after him.

  —Film is our newest department, you may, Z, have heard of Ward Bjarnsen who set up the program… buying his cred, knowing his health was rocky, desiring the imprimatur of a legend… —Simply one of the greatest film minds of all time… where is the bartender… —But when Ward decided to retire, we thought, let’s go a different way… raising her voice over the sound of Chris dragging a chair… —We asked ourselves, how can we shake things up, not by, lovely… the bartender, thank god… —Benjamin, have a martini, surely not by hiring the old guard, the Academy, absolutely not. I, we, insisted on hiring someone young, fresh. A whole new perspective.

  The three of them pivot appreciatively toward Benjamin, who has his martini lifted to his mouth and is currently, most unfortunately, poking the olive-bearing toothpick straight up his nostril. Over the rim of the glass he notices their stares and lowers it, swallowing conspicuously.

  —That’s right… appearing to gather himself, perhaps spotting things heading rapidly downhill… —I was very glad to be afforded the opportunity… smiling at Z, swiveling to encompass his audience… —To introduce a contemporary buzz or energy… so Chris has briefed the kid though there is, Diane thinks, a somewhat robotic quality to his words.

 

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