Friends of the museum, p.47
Friends of the Museum, page 47
But Iona takes a scornful step back. She lets her eyes rove his shoulder and chin, dropping to the tuxedo jacket held in his fist, then up to his white shirtfront and finally his face… —Do you even have rheumatism?
—What?
Iona points to his copper bracelet, making a conspicuous effort to avoid touching him.
—Belonged to my mother. Worn it since I was fourteen.
A second for her to process that. Yes, a dead mother. Goody, it’s all making sense.
—Anything else?
—You think you’re… Iona stares down the hallway… —But you’re not, you know. You’re cruel and unreliable.
—I’m not unreliable.
—You might have tried harder with the Greek lion. You promised to help.
—Okay, that’s true, I sup—
—I mean, I did—
—I could have—
—help with your—
—For GOD’S sake.
She flinches.
—Nobody cares, understand?… planting a hand on the wall behind her, leaning in… —Tindall-Clark’s marble is one insignificant piece in a collection that contains Dürer, a Cranach, Rubens. Do you really think, I mean, you can’t possibly be so naive to think anyone in this madhouse gives a toss whether his stupid lion is authentic or not. No. One. Gives. A. Fuck.
Silence. He reaches out, takes hold of Iona’s face and licks her on the mouth.
1:37 a.m.
—A bit of bohemian mischief, Ralph, befitting the evening’s theme. A real Happening.
—No, Diane. I was around for the sixties and that… nodding at the wall where the film was projected… —Was not a Happening. It was an act of war.
—Mr. Kade, the film, video, whatever, was not museum-approved… Chris has appeared, thank god… —There was a mix-up.
—A mix-up… Ralph’s eyes turn narrow and mutinous… —Four hundred people just watched me fuck the middle class. Do me a favor… he spins around… —Extract your knife from my kidneys.
—Now, Ralph—
—You don’t get beautiful things without a smidge of ugliness.
—Sir, there was no… Chris glances up and stops speaking.
A woman standing on the other side of Chris is shaking her friend’s shoulder, pointing. Slowly Diane lifts her gaze.
—Fuck… very much not meaning to say this aloud.
The funicular carriage is still only about halfway down its descent to the station and, perhaps out of boredom with the dragging pace, the bodyguard has risen to his feet and stripped off his T-shirt. Bare chested, he’s lassoing his shirt around his head in a parody of burlesque. It’s a small stage, the roof, but Liam makes the most of it, sticking out his ass and gyrating his hips, all the while keeping the digital projector safely planted between his feet. His belly is carpeted with dark hair, and with an inviting hand, he begins to stroke it, his tongue sweeping back and forth across his upper lip.
—Show us your tits!… a man shouts unnecessarily.
Liam drapes the shirt around his neck and reaches for his zipper.
From Chris comes a strangled cry. Both Kade and Diane whip around to check on him before quickly whipping back to the action.
Liam turns his back to the crowd and begins to pull down his pants. An animal instinct propels Diane forward. She pushes through the crowd, frantically gesturing NO up at the carriage. She can feel Chris behind her, flagging and waving, shouting STOP.
In a pair of underpants that are more saggy and beige than tighty or whitey, Liam shimmies a surprisingly muscular ass.
—That’s as far as he’ll go, right?… Diane circles madly to find Shay, Z, someone to end this… —He won’t… but as the words leave her mouth, Diane stops, arrested by the sight of Chris, ashen, his hand to his face and she knows.
Rotating slowly, nervously. Yes. As she feared. Z’s bodyguard has dropped his briefs and is now panning his naked ass from side to side, ensuring everyone below gets a fair view.
—Be right back.
Diane hears Chris’s words distantly. She can’t tear her eyes from the circumference of ghostly flesh suspended above the crowd, praying that this bodyguard person can not, does not, will not, but yes, of course he does. He turns. The crowd laughs, clapping and hooting, shaking off the video’s buzz-killing rebuke. In the middle of the audience, Diane spots Julia Saban and her Vanity Fair editor joyfully holding up their phones, filming Liam’s dance.
1:44 a.m.
Cock in hand, Henry stands at the urinal, willing himself to piss. Heart stuttering. He’s finding it increasingly difficult to breathe. The familiar anxiety? Or is this it? The end. Can this be how he goes? Sloping into death apologetically, like some doofus in the theater groping for his seat after the lights have gone down. What happened to exploding into death like a Christian martyr? What happened to newly-hatched sagacity? A little wit? Either these curtains go or I do. A fantastic last line. Endlessly quotable. Dizzy from staring into the white mouth of the urinal, Henry zips his fly. He lacks a parting line.
1:46 a.m.
Liam has zipped up his pants and pulled on his T-shirt. Show over, guests have turned from the funicular and started to move toward the bar or the coat check. Chris is nowhere to be seen. Ralph Kade has also disappeared. And there’s been no sign of Henry since their earlier fight about the fire department. As Diane scans the thinning crowd, a flash of paisley catches her eye.
Zedekiah Willington.
Standing at the perimeter of the hall, sipping from a coupe with a tickled expression.
—Z!… her voice is hoarse.
Still on the lookout for Chris, Diane starts making her way across the room to the baby billionaire. And comes within an inch of smashing into Ambassador Ichimonji. He’s darted in front of her, blocking her path, and smelling of hair gel. Annoyingly resplendent in a sharp black tuxedo.
Diane takes a step back… —Kenichi! Where have you been hiding?
Ichimonji holds up his hand to traffic-stop her gaiety… —How could you?
—Could I what?
—Lindsey-Hailey. She’s a delicate soul and that, that… pointing to the scene of the crime… —Was an atrocity.
—Ambassador, the film was not museum-sanctioned, it was a guerrilla—
—Doesn’t matter. I’m afraid I can’t—
—Yes, yes, I know… trying to edge past him… —Don’t bother saying it. I have to keep moving.
But Ichimonji insists. The Samurai show will be awarded to the Metropolitan Museum. Diane presses her lips together and waits for Ichimonji to stop speaking. She regrets lunch, the wasted bottle of Musigny.
—Congrats to the Met. I’ll make sure to send Jim a fruit basket.
Diane gives Ichimonji a farewell flap of her hand and continues speeding toward Z. An ex-MMA fighter the size of a toolshed steps out of her path and into it steps Lindsey-Hailey Green. Surrounding the pop star are several identical young women. Incensed young women.
The squad takes a sort of collective step back.
—Lindsey-Hailey, let me say—
—Are you fucking kidding me right now?… the singer has a mafioso spark in her eye that clashes with her dewy skin and juvenile jawbone, the kind of features, Diane could mention, that won’t last forever, especially if she insists on parcelling out cutting stares… —I was like a teenager, okay? Think I knew that fascist banker? No one told me anything. My manager was popping Oxy for breakfast.
—That film was not museum-sanctioned—
—I don’t give a rat’s piss about sanctioned. I. Plan… she points at Diane’s face with a terrifying talon… —To. Destroy. You.
Lindsey-Hailey and her entourage pass in a huffy train. Diane smiles warmly at the women, pointlessly disavowing the threat and continues on toward Z. Thankfully, here comes Chris, approaching Z from the opposite direction.
1:52 a.m.
—I’m a laughingstock. A stooge, a, I forgot your name.
—Katherine.
—I’m like a fat Otto Griebling.
—You’re not fat, Anton.
—I have a fat soul.
She found Anton in a small Greek gallery hiding behind a kouros. In a large glass of whiskey, he was locating the courage to make his way through the crowd to the exit.
—I came to New York City and I became this… he trails off… —Despising anyone who reminded me of Gelsenkirchen. A place where no one had taste or wanted better things. Like that man in the tight T-shirt.
—What man?
—With the movie. Standing on the little train. He’s a symbol. A warning. Because I like only pretty people. And pretty things. I tried to forget where I grew up. The pants I wore. I tried to leave chubby Anton behind. But it’s impossible. You can’t hide from your past. Your past will always find you.
—Oh, please. Some dumb stranger isn’t—
—Don’t. Don’t you dare.
—Dare what?
—Do this shit of yours.
A terrible cold crawls up Katherine’s spine and spreads across her back… —Sorry, Anton, what shit?
—Patronizing shit… the designer’s face has gone frighteningly slack as if some vital guy-lines have been snapped… —You come to my studio, dragging your feet and rolling your eyes. When you leave, I always ask Benoit, do you think being so mean makes that office girl feel better?
—Anton.
—And here you are, I ask you to your face. Does it?
—Listen—
—Does it help, feeling superior?
—No.
This appears to lift Anton’s spirits.
—Of course not.
Anton dabs his eyes with a handkerchief, glancing at the fabric to check it for eyeliner.
—I’m a jerk, I know. I’m sorry. I want to be different, Anton. I want to help. You don’t have a fat soul. And that dumb movie, it wasn’t a reproach or, whatever, divine retribution. A random chubster is not punishment for scorning your past. Wait, where are you going? There’s no such thing as symbols, Anton! He’s just a guy.
1:57 a.m.
—Who also functions as a symbol… Z swoops his glass as if to illustrate his point… —The idea of dropping an outsider, an actual bohemian, onto the heads of the very elite who keep the poor poor, was too delicious to resist. A provocateur! The Museum is hungry for this kind of interrogation.
—So you’re like a man of the people or something?… beads of perspiration have collected on Chris’s upper lip. His skin is the color of a pencil shaving… —Like, how are you not part of the elite?
—The better question is, do I have a conscience?
—Where was this conscience when you chose to publicly humiliate me?
—But, Diane, you’re overreacting. It was a naughty prank. I admit the mooning came as a surprise. For the record, I don’t condone nonconsensual nudity. I imagine Liam got caught up in the moment. Would you like me to take you through it?
—Please.
—This afternoon, touring your museum, I had an open mind, I promise. But I started feeling, you know, creeped out. This place is so archaic, so removed from anything real. I’m trying to relax, check out the little relics and whatnot, but when I see these intense paintings, depictions of revolution, labor struggles, poverty and everyone around me is, all, you know, hands clasped behind their backs, oooh, what an accomplishment. I mean, it doesn’t bother you? Those paintings were a call to arms, a scream of protest. Revolution! Yet here they are, here we are, behind glass in this corporate crypt.
—Corporate! What about… Chris wipes his face with his hand… —Your massive company with its bloated campus and fifteen kinds of cereal, that’s not corporate?
—I understand you feel betrayed, Chris.
—Sickened, more like. Disgusted.
—I think if you take a step back you’ll find that I’m actually trying to help.
—Pardon me, I can’t… Chris interrupts himself by walking away.
Z sighs to see Chris go, as if it’s a continual source of frustration for him, being misunderstood.
—You were never considering a gift. This was all a joke to you.
—But, Diane, who said—
—Your friends back home getting a kick out of this? How you came to New York, made fools of us all?
—Who said I’m not making a gift?
She stares at him. Z smiles with those bright teeth.
—After tonight there’ll be some buzz about the place.
—I’m sorry, what?
—Tomorrow you and I will put out a statement announcing the gift and contextualizing Liam’s performance.
—Context—, you’re committing?
—Of course. Now your museum has a bit of life to it.
—Twenty million?
—Twenty, twenty-five, sure.
—And the conditions?
—I hope you’ll be open to some ideas on diversity. Other than that, at your discretion.
She examines Z’s face for clues, trying to determine if this offer is simply one more jape in a protracted comedy routine. One of his necklaces loses a feather and Diane watches it drift away.
—Deal?… he sticks out his hand.
They shake and the vice around her ribcage loosens. Finally, some good news to bring to the board. Z’s gift will ease the disappointment of losing Abbas and Momo. And finding a new location for the satellite won’t be difficult. She’ll draw up a list before the next meeting. She needs to tell Chris. The tension in Diane’s shoulders begins to melt. The news is not yet a joy but a relief. An enormous relief.
She and Z look up at the funicular carriage as it inches back down the track. Liam stands on the roof, hands on his hips, fully dressed. His T-shirt is printed with the words Degenerate Artist and, above it, a red arrow pointing up. He notices Diane watching, waves, bends at the waist, and bows.
—What would you think about hiring Liam?
—Hire your bodyguard?
Z smiles patiently.
—I mean, I know he’s not your bodyguard. Clearly. Who is he? Hire him for what?
—Consulting?
The funicular carriage judders and Liam slips but recovers.
—He’s smarter than he looks. He’s an artist. A good one.
—An artist… as if she’s never heard this mysterious word before.
—That’s right. Oils mostly. Liam said you canceled a show—
—What? I didn’t cancel any, I’m not a curator.
—A group show, of contemporary art. He had a couple of pieces in it.
—What, 1072? The DUMBO kids?
—That’s right.
So Liam is a disappointed artist from the Brooklyn collective. And his video, a chronicle of the horrors of capitalism is, what, payback? Revenge for the failure of a capitalist exchange. It couldn’t be more absurd.
—Liam showed me some pictures of his work. I’m thinking of buying a piece.
She and Chris visited 1072 last summer. The day was scorching; the studios were airless and rank. To Diane, the sweaty kids from DUMBO seemed alien and slightly forbidding, with a secret binding agenda, like members of a disputed religion.
—His new series is inspired by the Armenian genocide… Z drains his martini… —Abstracts, naturally.
Chatting to the artists, Diane thought they seemed obsessed with money. Not pushing new ideas, or expounding on old ones. Not even reputation or glory. Just cold hard cash.
—I’d love a painting in the lobby of our new headquarters… Z hands his glass to a man who is not a waiter… —What if I provide an endowed position for Liam, how about that?
—On top of the twenty-five?
—Of course.
—I’ll alert Security we won’t be pressing charges.
The carriage reaches the end of the track and Liam jumps down, digital projector clutched to his chest. Artists are sensitive, Chris warned this morning. And it’s true, as Diane took her virtual trip through The Garden of Earthly Delights, she forgot that the painting contains what many experts agree is a portrait of Bosch himself. The artist is the one stabbing himself in the groin.
—Okay… she pats Z’s arm… —Let’s circle back. I have to find my assistant.
—Good idea. He looked upset, poor guy.
As Diane starts off across the Great Hall, she hears her name being called. Tiz Sericko, fighting his way around the reunited cast of a nineties sitcom. Luckily a group heading toward the bar obstructs his path and she can make her getaway.
2:09 a.m.
—Are you with me, Mr. Tindall-Clark? I understand it’s a shock but I don’t see the information penetrating… in the small gallery off American Iona has the trustee pinned against a wall… —If you look where the marble’s cut you’ll see the drop-off in the lion’s claws, how squashed his back legs are. Never mind that, go by the feel of it. He’s not regal, he’s constipated. No one at the Museum will come out and say it, Mr. Tindall-Clark, so I will. Your lion is fake… catching the alcohol on her breath, Iona takes a step back… —I understand the statue probably has sentimental value, but you of all people would want to know the truth. It’s a crime to display it. I mean not like a real crime but, you agree with me, I know you do. It’s an insult to visitors expecting to see actual objects from actual antiquity, right?
Iona grips her phone tighter. Google provided her with the donor’s picture and she hopes his face isn’t peering out from between her fingers. Overhead, the lights flicker: the end of the party.
Marlon Tindall-Clark, eyes wide, remains silent. His cummerbund has ridden up to expose a large safety pin in the waistband of his trousers. The pin straddles a black expanse, the button unyoked. He appears shaken, even frightened, and Iona observes that in her enthusiasm she has expectorated on his glasses.
2:12 a.m.
Believing he’s spotted Iona disappearing down the hallway to the American wing, Clive takes off at a clip. Exactly as he realizes that the woman he is chasing is not Iona Moore, Clive understands he has underestimated the suicidal slipperiness of the tuxedo shoe. He skitters, knocking into a pergola covered with vining flowers and lopping out one of the legs. For a long and horrible second the whole construction teeters. A group of lazing sylphs gaze up at Clive, first wonderingly, then with mounting alarm. With a professional mutter he shoves the wooden post back into place and gives it a little shake to prove he’s established the security of the structure. The overhead lights blink on and off and Clive continues on his way.
