Friends of the museum, p.33
Friends of the Museum, page 33
Z sits alone on the wide bench facing the others, who sit on chairs semicircled around him like supplicants. It’s galling, the power held by this underfed putto.
—And what type of movies are you programming?… Z asks politely.
Benjamin wipes gin off the sleeve of his disgraceful windbreaker… —My own calendar won’t start until January. Ward had the fall season planned so I haven’t… he catches Diane’s blistering stare… —One thing I have been thinking about, and tell me what you think of it, Z, maybe it’s too… now what, the kid inventing on the spot, bleating random words… —Too outlandish or, but I’ve always wondered about… Benjamin pauses… —Prostitutes.
Chris coughs, almost spitting, hand to his mouth, doubled over. She feels her lungs contract like a popped balloon. The hand holding the stem of her glass turns into a fist.
—Prostitutes?… Z laughs. Good. His first laugh.
—Starting with the French, Belle du Jour and Deneuve’s bored housewife, then there’s 2 or 3 Things I Know About Her, Vivre Sa Vie—
—Godard’s kind of a perv, no?
Diane stares at this Benjamin person, willing him not to answer, perhaps even fall to the ground with a mild heart attack.
—Godard? God, yes, complete perv.
—Branching out to other countries, we have Fellini’s Nights of Cabiria, Kiarostami’s Ten, The Life of Oharu… Benjamin appears to have hit a stride of some sort… —Happy Together, Mamma Roma, Accattone—
—But surely that one’s more about the pimp.
Diane has no idea how to stop the runaway insanity of this conversation. She hears the chuckle of a cretin and identifies it as her own.
—You’re right, strike Accattone. Now we have the Americans—
—Pretty Woman… Z says happily.
—But we’d go less commercial, McCabe and Mrs. Miller, Taxi Driver, Butterfield 8, and of course the films about men, Midnight Cowboy, My Own Private Idaho.
—American Gigolo?
—Maybe, maybe.
—I love Richard Gere… Z looks around brightly.
—Who doesn’t?
—A national treasure… she offers, feeling the ground to be safer… —Richard Gere.
The men smile tolerantly at Diane.
—You know one of my favorites… Z has become a completely different person, animated, leaning back, leg crossed at the knee, one arm flung along the back of the bench… —Risky Business.
—Love it!
Can the film hire possibly be tipsy from half a martini? She glances at Chris, he catches her eye, nods.
—Perhaps not right for your series.
—I think probably not but definitely transgressive in many ways.
—And Blaxploitation?
—Different festival, I think.
—So, what’s your like, thesis?
—Not quite there yet but… Benjamin leans in toward Z… —What about taking a movie that on its surface appears to serve male fantasies, presenting it with or against the sort of lived banality of, say, Jeanne Dielman or—
—Oh my god, with the towels.
—Benjamin… Chris scoots forward in his chair… —Might we put a pin in this?
—Of course… deflating, blinking as if he’s waking up.
—But what a fascinating idea… Z tilts his head, musing… —Could it be part of a larger show, incorporate paintings and sculpture?
—A museum-wide show about prostitutes?
—Mary Magdalene, geisha, and are they called hetairai? Trying to remember my art history.
—Hm… Diane tilts her head, picturing Ralph Kade’s expression upon being asked to sponsor a show about whores.
Z brings his gaze up to the cloudless sky, closing his eyes, skinny neck sprouting from the cowl of his hoodie like the stem of a plant. How pleasant the setting sun must feel on your face when you’re a billionaire. When not in jeopardy of losing your job, that warmth must feel pretty good.
—Gentlemen… Chris pushes back his chair and gets up… —I’m afraid Diane needs to prepare for this evening.
—I’ll see you tonight?… standing, Z offers Benjamin his hand.
—Do come, Benjamin… she says warmly… —In the meantime stay up here as long as you like, have another drink… joining Chris to walk silently across the roof, waving and saying thank you to the bartender as they go.
Once inside the elevator, Chris goggles at her, eyebrows raised.
—I mean, Z seemed to like him. But what the hell with prostitutes, what the everliving?
—I can’t even… Chris types into his phone.
—We’ll have to give him a ticket.
—Sending it this minute. Obviously I can’t come out and say don’t you dare attend.
—But your email makes it clear.
—Crystal.
Diane leans against the elevator wall. The martinis have dissolved her headache. I can get another job, she thinks. How hard can it be? Suddenly she wants Dom, his bearish form, his arms around her. Whatever transpired in the kitchen last night, it’s Dominic she wants, the marriage she needs… —What time does my husband arrive?
—Email from him… Chris looks up from his phone… —Says you have yet to return his call. Maybe there’s an issue with his tux?
—Okay… closing her eyes… —I’ll take care of it.
5:54 p.m.
Wildfire season. Henry drove east from Los Angeles eyeing the horizon for smoke, arriving late with his tank on empty. He was nervous on the drive, obvious from the constant minuscule adjustments he made to the radio and air-conditioning. He had spent little time alone with Colin, almost none while he and Annie were still married, when she was the placating sun around which the three of them made an aggrieved orbit.
Waiting in Colin’s dorm room as he showered, Henry found books on astrophysics, the bewildering concepts highlighted in yellow marker. Why had he never bought Colin a telescope, or stuck phosphorescent stars to the kid’s bedroom ceiling? It struck Henry that he didn’t know his son, perhaps had never known his son. Had he tried? He combed Colin’s boyhood, searching for evidence of effort. He remembered high-spirited ribbing with Colin’s friends, and squinting concern around his teachers, but with his son, only small talk, silence, or reprimands.
They went to a diner where their booth quickly filled with the scent of tough-guy cologne, a gallon of which Colin had slapped about his jaw and neck. Breakfast for dinner, they decided, a blueberry stack, bacon on the side. Then, silence. Colin stared across the room at a case of rotating pies. Henry unfolded his napkin and placed it in his lap, feeling the full weight of his parental shortcomings. He could stop it right then, he thought. Reach out to Colin, admit his failings, offer advice, apologize. Put an end to the bumbling. But the words didn’t come. Desire itself was not enough. Instead Henry grumbled about the artificial syrup. It was indefensible. But what could you expect for six dollars and fifty-five cents.
Henry finishes his search of the second-floor galleries and swipes into the back staircase, hollering Shay up the stairwell as he tromps down.
The memory of this long-ago dinner came to Henry as he waited for Malcolm, wisdom and compassion at the ready, as if years of distracted parenting could be wiped from the record by acting fatherly and helpful to another man’s son. The Museum is too short for a real view. From the roof, you stare down on treetops or into the midriffs of other buildings. Yet Henry felt closer than ever to death. Brought on by a proximity to heaven, he thought, absurdly. The sky was an almost painful blue, broken only by a hot-air balloon in the distance, bobbing over New Jersey.
—Those things hit power lines… Malcolm observed when he arrived.
The kid was tall and shy, with Shay’s wide forehead and a trick of glancing around warily as if someone might pop out from behind a potted shrub.
Henry was unprepared for the quiet strength and cool intelligence of a young man not yet twenty. He couldn’t help but see himself through the eyes of this young stoic. Look at the cabbage-eating dotard in the middle-management suit. No doubt has pebbly strips stuck in the tub to avoid a slippy-slidey cropper into the faucet. Never before had Henry seen with such searing perspicacity into the mind of a complete stranger. Meanwhile, Malcolm had done nothing more revealing than bury his hands in his pockets and regard Henry with a polite expression.
—I advise, Malcolm, that you live with an eye toward regret.
—Sir?
—Try to imagine what it will feel like looking back.
—You mean, while I’m living, like in the present, I should imagine myself in the future thinking about the past?
It only got worse from there. With sweeping digressions, Henry spoke for longer than either of them wished, quoting The Inner Game of Tennis and mentioning time spent abroad. It’s possible he was still giddy that Annie had agreed to come to the gala on such short notice. Overjoyed at the prospect of confessing. Clouds scudded in from the west. Is this how I go, Henry wondered, thrashing around in this murk of misunderstanding? He would have guessed that clarity, a kind of liquid grace comes over you as you approach the endgame.
It was the end of Malcolm’s break. Tired of thinking, Henry unbuckled his watch, pressing it on the kid, insisting he take it. A vintage Submariner to atone for his mentoring failures. Or, Henry thought as he left the roof, an inane attempt to scrub the history books.
He takes a right, into the warren of smaller galleries that surround American. Where the devil is Shay Pallot?
5:59 p.m.
Ascending, Shay maintains perfect control of her emotions. After his conversation with Henry Joles, Malcolm returned to HQ. Told Shay everything. A waste of time, he said. The old man talked about tennis and some trip he took with his ex-wife. He kept staring at the sky and I kept looking where he was looking ’cause I thought he was looking at an actual thing. To Shay’s follow-up questions, Malc said, it don’t matter. I don’t want to study law. So her one chance was ruined.
Eager to learn exactly what Henry Joles was thinking, Shay is heading to his office.
The elevator stops on the second floor, the doors open, and a white man of about thirty-five gets on and presses the button marked roof. Instantly Shay’s simmering internal monologue stops. The man raises a hand, pinches his eyelashes. She’s seen this person before. Early afternoon, lunchtime. Musical Instruments. Speaking with the new film hire. Voices low and urgent.
—Museum closed to visitors at five o’clock sharp… checking her watch… —An hour ago.
The man shows her the laminated GUEST pass hanging around his neck… —I’m with Zedekiah Willington? Big donor. Meeting with the director. Bodyguard, hi… dropping the pass and holding out his hand… —Liam. Just ran to the bathroom.
Shaking his hand reluctantly. A bodyguard. What kind of fool does he take her for?
—Z’s very rich, Silicon Valley. Required protect—
—Don’t bother. I’m not someone you need to lie to.
The young man’s expression falters… —Sorry?
But the elevator arrives at the fourth floor, and Shay disembarks without looking back.
6:02 p.m.
Naked and stepping into the shower, Diane remembers she forgot to call Dominic. It isn’t, as Chris guessed, a matter of his tux. It will be about last night. Words exchanged as they faced each other over cold grapes. Bending to adjust the water temperature, she sees the two of them at the kitchen table, faces lit by the stovetop light. Between them was the metal colander which, despite the painful symbolism, looked very much like a discarded piece of armor.
Diane reaches for the shampoo. Focus on this evening. Not your marriage, not a pile of grapes. But her mind swerves from the gala back to Dominic and the day they bought the kitchen table.
6:03 p.m.
A short distance down the carpeted hallway, Shay slows and comes to a stop. Speaking to Henry Joles in her current mood would be a mistake. Not because she might lose her job, though that’s definitely a risk. More, that she can’t bear these people to see her as anything but even-keeled and emotionless.
As Shay reviews her options, she hears a sound coming from the reception area outside Diane’s office. Creeping forward a few steps, she pokes her head around the corner. It takes a minute to figure out what it is she’s looking at.
Chris.
Sitting at his desk, folded over, arms around his head as if steeling himself for the emergency landing of a doomed jetliner. He has a sports coat draped over his head and the muscles in his back are rigid with tension. Suddenly Chris lets out a blood-curdling scream, howling into his coat, pressing it against his face to dampen the sound. Shay turns on her heel and sprints down the hall to the back staircase, throwing herself against the panic bar and flying down the stairs. This fucking circus.
6:04 p.m.
Fourteen years ago at a store in SoHo that specialized in midcentury design, Dominic was in full Scandinavian stride, swapping arcane trivia with the shop’s owner when Diane came upon a table she liked. It was handsome, but oddly shaped and too small. In a word, unrealistic. Be practical, Dom suggested. He had his mind set on utility and any objections she made regarding beauty would be discounted as beside the point. With that in mind, Diane agreed they should buy the one he wanted, all the while thinking she had never set eyes on a less inspiring table.
But over time she came to appreciate the table’s dimensions, how generously it fit a fruit bowl, flowers, and settings for six. It was the sort of sensible outlook her mother encouraged. A way of being Diane slipped into the day she started grad school and, over the course of their marriage, one that Dominic has come to expect.
Diane leans back, rinsing conditioner from her hair.
Pragmatism is, inarguably, a vital quality in the running of a museum but all that common sense has entered her bloodstream. Infected her with reason. And it’s possible no marriage can withstand two reasonable people.
Flipping her hair to one side, she squeezes it, watching the water run down her arm.
No easy answers. No answers at all, she thinks, pulling back her hair and placing her face directly in the spray. The water needles her cheeks and eyelids.
6:06 p.m.
—Needle thin. This is garbage.
—Yes, Chef.
—Do it again. And wait on those or the bottoms’ll get soggy.
The Events kitchen swarms with caterers recruited from the North Fork of Long Island. They are part-time actors and wannabe models. The presently lost and formerly addicted. Disaffected college kids and middle-aged failures.
On the surface Nikolic is effortlessly managing the food prep. Meanwhile, his brain’s exploding. What kind of prison time comes from poisoning dozens of people and a foreign ambassador? How much does it cost to hire an even marginally competent lawyer?
—What’s with the gay hat?… Jimmy walks up, wiping his hands on a side-towel.
—Required… the toque is farcically tall and keeps slipping off his head… —And don’t say gay like it’s an insult.
—No one heard.
—I heard. I’m a person.
—Are you… mildly. Then… —Check out these losers. Think any of them cooked before?
For a minute, Niko and Jimmy stand together and companionably shit-talk the temporary crew. An older woman butchering basil. A sleepy kid in moccasins slopping crème fraîche into a pan, a curious move since none of the recipes actually calls for crème fraîche. The girl tempering chocolate keeps touching her nostrils and appears to be crying. How good it feels to slander and demean, to identify flaws, cluck over the problems of inbreeding and guess at inherited wounds. Some good old down-home defamation. Is the tall kid’s gonzo dicing a precursor to a stroke? Could the weirdo in the corner be one of those Russian orphans who doesn’t get enough hugs and ends up microwaving the family cat? Even the sex life of a gawky innocent grating cheese doesn’t escape their scholarship.
—Okay… Jimmy pulls out his phone and checks the time… —I gotta go get ready. Don’t answer your cell. Any unknown numbers, anything with an area code—
—Yeah. I get it.
—You promised. Remember… Jimmy points at him and spins on his heel.
Niko watches his brother saunter across the room, pausing only to slide his eyes toward an attractive brunette bending to read an oven dial. He swipes a macaron off a tray and pushes through the kitchen door.
6:09 p.m.
The man crashes into Shay as he barges out of the swinging doors ass-first and chewing… —Whoopsie… hand over his mouth to stop food flying out or to disguise the fact he’s laughing.
—Pardon me… she’s only just caught her breath from galloping down the back stairs.
He picks up the notebook that flew from Shay’s grasp and holds it out… —My fault… saluting in the tiresome manner of a person faced with an authority figure he doesn’t respect.
—You with the catering crew?
—I am, yup. Hey, have a fantastic evening.
Shay pockets the notebook, checks its safety, watches this person disappear into the Great Hall. Is it the disease? She’s beginning to suspect everyone of lying.
—Finally!
The voice of Henry Joles. Slowly Shay turns to face him.
—Been looking all over for you… Joles is rumpled and breathing heavily… —Made a whopping hash of my talk with your nephew. Came to apologize… his skin has an unnatural cast, cheeks red and waxy like an ornamental apple… —I was ineffectual, at best. But I didn’t know, at the time, about.
—About what?
Joles squints unattractively… —All the details.
—All what details?
—Nothing… he pushes at his chest. Snowy wisps of hair emerge from his cuff.
