—But surely, they must see your show, Vivien. Vivien curated the one about Ovid.
—Art & Myth? Jack confirmed. That was actually the one I was most excited about.
—Absolutely, said Parker, sensing an opportunity. If there is any chance you could give us a little tour . . .
It would do great things for your fiancé’s career, he implied. Vivien smiled serenely.
—Oh, I’d be happy to—but—I have to run and grab something from my office first. Shall we meet at the exhibition in, say, fifteen, twenty minutes?
—The party is supposed to be over by then, said Prudence, much to Parker’s consternation.
Vivien reassured them:
—It’ll be fine if you’re with—
—me, Diana said, rounding a Grecian urn to face the entrance to Art & Myth. She’s not me.
CHAPTER XXVII.
The exhibition design of Art & Myth may have centered around the revelatory reflection of Caravaggio’s Narcissus, but this configuration came with a literal side benefit. Past the entrance, you were forced into a near-immediate left, onto a corridor paralleling the main Narcissus room. A section label introducing the vast mythography of Medusa the Gorgon greeted you at the turn, describing the various writhing narrative and iconographic threads springing from its most enduring features: her hair, a tangle of live snakes; her gaze, turning those who would look upon her face to stone; her death, at the hands of the great hero Perseus, wielding his shield as a mirror. But it wasn’t until you were halfway down the dim corridor, standing between two apses awash in a reverent glow, that it became clear just what Vivien had accomplished. Caravaggio’s Head of Medusa, rendered on a circular shield, filled one apse, across from Gian Lorenzo Bernini’s marble bust of the Gorgon. As if the painting were a mirror reflecting the sculpture, and the sculpture the head of Medusa herself, turned to stone by her own reflection.
Dale watched Diana follow this path and pause between the apses, just as Vivien mandated. From Diana’s vantage point, studying the Ca ravaggio, the viewer became Vivien’s final flourish, caught like Perseus between Medusa and mirror. You became the hero-murderer responsible for that indelible, lucid, phantasmagorical shriek—seen in front of, but heard behind you. Venturing toward her, Dale had the distinct premonition of walking into a trap: the kind Great Men bring about precisely in their efforts to avoid them. But he and Diana were alone in the corridor, all offstage-like and intimate, the party roaring toward its apex in the Great Hall.
—He’s not me either, you know, Dale ventured with a false levity, that bedrock tone of psychological self-defense.
Diana opened her mouth, panting inaudibly, a savage rejoinder suspended on her parching tongue.
It is only upon closer inspection of these two objets d’art that one realizes they may not, in fact, depict the same person. The shield isn’t even identifiably female, and some argue it’s a self-portrait—a disturbing thought when you consider Caravaggio chose to capture that haunting split second between fatal impact and primary flaccidity that cannot be properly categorized as belonging to life or death alone. The Bernini’s marble neck remains intact; she merely winces. Her face is a different brand of distraught entirely—not to mention classically symmetrical. She’s the lovely nymph raped by Neptune in Minerva’s temple and punished for “her offense”; glimpses of her former tresses, like grown-out roots, are still visible under her vengeful mane.
These discrepancies between the two Medusas did nothing to undermine Vivien’s overarching curatorial design. On the contrary, hers was a thesis cemented by its cracks. For who among us, when we look in the mirror, is inclined to see what is actually there? Do not fail to underestimate the protean power of light and shadow—of chiaroscuro, tenebroso. If our reflections remain recognizable, it is not because they do not change. Medusa prays upon this much-worshipped prismic effect: of ineluctable identity, yet plurality of self. Originally apotropaic, her image has come to symbolize everything from Nietzschean nihilism to feminist rage, and adorn objects from Archaic terracotta vases to the logo of the fashion house Versace, the section label neatly summarized. She has, perhaps, become the ultimate symbol of metamorphosis itself: a symbol able to metamorphose into whatever you want her to symbolize.
Dale looked at Diana expectantly, his forehead burning, but the savage rejoinder never materialized. She swiveled in the other direction with a sigh, her face covered in shadow, but exposing her neck from the side. When Dale caught her eyes again, they were no longer haughty, but beseeching, her mouth slightly ajar—as if pulled down by the weight of unsaid things.
—Nothing is ever going to happen between us, she said softly, with a clipped sort of sadness.
—No, he said softly, in agreement.
She inhaled, brimming with that stoic brand of confidence strangely born of resignation. For the orchestration of this literal accord emboldened the exploration of its closet precarity. Having formerly rejected each other on explicit terms, new possibilities could emerge in the corners of self-awareness where their uncertain egos had formerly pressed.
—That doesn’t mean we’re not in love, Diana said, choosing her syntax carefully.
Dale clung to the double negative, not unmindful of building syntactic advantage himself:
—We can’t exclude it from the realm of possibility, given everything that hasn’t happened.
—Tell me you don’t think of me, when we’re not together.
—I can’t—
—Then why are you marrying her!
He fought to resist her tonal pull, not to reflect it, and hated himself for the bitter edge his voice betrayed:
—I don’t see you leaving Wes.
—That’s different; I was already married.
—Are you seriously going to stand on the piece of paper? As if you have some biblical reverence for marital sanctity. Such hypocrisy is beneath you, Diana. Let’s not pretend we haven’t been equally complicit in this little charade.
There was something furious, even mad, building in her demeanor now that Dale struggled not to label “feminine hysteria.”
Little charade? Is that what this is to you? No, no, you know what? This is good, I’m glad you said that, that makes this easier for me. Because either you’re deluding yourself, even now, because you still want to win, or the shared wavelength that has underpinned, like, my greatest self-doubt and unhappiness was founded on a fraud. Perhaps I’ve made a grave mistake, mistaking your thoughts for my own. And if that’s the case, please let me be the first to apologize for my rampant inappropriateness—oh, and also, to tell you to go fuck yourself, because you could have saved me a lot of pain.
—Diana, please—
—Do not tell me to calm down—
—What? Why would you say that? I didn’t; I wasn’t going to. You’re not mistaken, Diana. We may not fit into each other’s lives, but you’re not mistaken. You’re—an outlier.
—And you’re just a liar, Diana said.
She took a step back from him, down the corridor toward the Narcissus room.
—I’m not aware of ever having lied to you.
—Not to me, Dale.
—Discipline isn’t the same as lying. I think it’s a marker of maturity, to deprive one’s self of what one wants.
—Oh, please. It’s like your blind spot’s in the center of the mirror. The truth is, you get off on self-denial.
Dale had too much respect for his opponent to refute this. It was a point so undeniably salient that Dale’s only option was to concede in such a manner where he might claim some small share of her success.
—I mean, you do have to admit there’s a weird sort of pleasure in it, he said.
—Well, duh!
It was a return concession, a form of détente, rebalancing the relational elements that allow for certain rivals to be, also, the closest of co-conspirators.
—See? said Dale, with just enough irony as to maintain plausible deniability. This is why I love you. Y
ou have just the right amount of contempt for me.
—The contempt is mutual, she said, overflowing with restraint, her words wielding all the gravity and power of I love you, too.
Diana trailed off, unsure how to end an affair that didn’t technically exist. The silence, replete with cognitive dissonance and the phenomenological awareness of cognitive dissonance, and its total crumbling unsolvability and whatnot, seemed to expand, this tension, its seductive chastity, into unheard melodies, shared. Thou still unravish’d McBride of quietness! Their faces were less than six inches apart, but moved no closer. He understood, and she understood; she knew he understood, he knew she understood. He knew she knew he understood, and she knew he knew she knew he understood. They understood each other, perfectly. Dale asked if they were still friends. They were very good friends, Diana said.
—Maybe best?
—The kind that bare their souls, and tell the most appalling secrets.
Dale nodded gravely. He wanted to touch her, if only in some small way. A meaningful goodbye. Some proof they were different from little black and earthen figures etched into a pot. He raised his hand and, as if approaching a wild doe, tenderly reached forward, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Dale felt Diana’s palm before he saw it, resting quietly on the back of his hand, stilling it there. As her fingers curled between his thumb and index finger, tears welled in his eyes.
—What’s this? Vivien Floris gasped, turning onto the corridor.
How could he have forgotten the number-one rule of Museums: Do Not Touch.
—Dale?
The conundrum with this triangular form of encounter, for which there is both great historical and literary precedent, is that the natural phraseology arising from attempts to convey faithfulness has literally come to form the model argot of adultery. You’ve heard these Janus lines before, perhaps many times, to the point of contronymic cliché. It’s not what it looks like, There’s nothing going on here, I swear we’re just friends, &c.—cringeworthy adjacencies to the holy grail of the genre, at least Millennially speaking, popularized by Shaggy’s immortal refrain: It wasn’t me. Over time and through significant misuse, these apologies have developed a mean, raveling transparency, inclining them to register as statements of contrition, even when uttered as legitimate defense. For all their formal education and social enlightenment, Dale and Diana still couldn’t quite escape them.
—Do you think I’m an idiot? Vivien demanded, as most people in her position are inclined to do.
She rifled through her lecture notes and papers, fighting tears, biting her lips furiously, as if, in the absence of such an effort, her words might prematurely escape:
—How do you explain this, then? she said, flinging something at them, a small piece of paper, a postcard, which landed on the floor, a few steps from Dale’s feet.
He picked it up, Diana reading over his shoulder. They looked, for a moment, genuinely perplexed by it. Recognition reached Diana first, at which point she emitted, loudly, a laugh so lightheartedly relieved it seemed almost unselfconscious.
—What kind of freak show—
—Vivien—Diana stopped her, reconciliatory, physically collapsing the space between them.
Vivien strode pointedly past her, past Dale, too, and her reverent apses—past the Caravaggio, the Bernini—moving into the space that Diana had, until a moment earlier, occupied herself. Diana circled back again persistently, imploring her to listen.
—Vivien, please, you’ve misunderstood things—I promise, you’re mistaken. If you give us the chance to—it’s really quite funny, you’ll see. We have this ridiculous client, Prudence Hyman. I know, I know, but seriously, that’s her real name . . .
Diana spared no detail; if she could be accused of anything, it was hyperbole. Her facial impression of Horace during his transfer from the conference room floor into her bag was particularly obscene, around which point in the story Vivien became visibly reactive, her own facial features all gaping prettily. Interpreting this as an encouraging sign, Diana redoubled her narrative efforts, taking even fewer pauses and greater creative license with ever-expanding animation and flourish.
—you have to know how devastatingly sorry I am about the post-card, Vivien, she concluded. I mean, I can only imagine what a mind fuck that was for you out of context. But you have to admit, it’s pretty funny now, right?
—Hilarious, pronounced a cold, disembodied voice behind her, echoed by a panty little bark.
Even if you are Perseus, it’s a frightening prospect, standing between Medusa and mirror. For as you shift your position slightly, your gaze, as is natural, fully locks on those murderous, Caravaggian eyes. You freeze. For the eyes have that quality more commonly associated with another masterpiece of portraiture, a living woman as calm and serene as the monster before you is defiant. Uncooperative. From your physical position, caught between shield and bust, blocking their reflective connection, you understand. It is the mirror, not the sword, that is the true weapon. Whose eyes follow yours in the mirror? That’s right. You are the catalyst of your own destruction; these horrible eyes are yours.
Diana inhaled, blinking. She turned bravely toward Prudence:
—What a great relief it is, to know you see it that way, she said, taking Prudence at face value, mulishly ignoring her tone.
—Diana? A familiar voice called to her.
He was standing behind Prudence, fettered between Parker and Jack Howard.
—Wes?
—Do you know this woman? Prudence demanded.
—You could say that, Wes said. She’s my wife.
—Well, your wife is fired.
—Oh, come on now, Prudence, Diana coaxed.
—Save it, said Prudence as Horace grew increasingly antsy in her arms, his little body writhing under all that opulent fur. Jack, if you still want to wheel and deal with the husband, that’s your business, but—
She turned to Parker:
—I better not see her at Olympia again. You’ll have to find some other way to complete your deliverables.
—I understand, Parker said, making no move to defend Diana. Absolutely.
—Parker, just let me—
—I think you’ve said enough, Diana.
—Oh, well, absolutely.
Wes’s eyes blazed in embarrassment for her. He suggested they go. By this point Horace was howling, begging for release from his Prudential cage.
—No, Wes, you know what? Diana hissed. You stay. I’ll go. It’s not like I have the faintest idea what you’re doing here, anyway.
She retucked an errant strand of hair and smoothed her dress elegantly, proudly, the way she’d seen Vivien do earlier.
—Congratulations on your masterful exhibition, Diana said to her, taking her leave with an acerbic courtesy both impolite and impossible to fault.
She flung herself past the corridor and through the Narcissus room, bisecting it on the diagonal with locomotive efficiency. The gilded mirror stood in front of her, Narcissus’s reflection hovering overhead. With only the briefest passing glance, her eyes met Dale’s in that other gallery, that other well-lit world, filled as it was with radiance and umbrage, deception—incandescence—her gaze gone before he could begin to process its presence. She fixed her pooling eyes on some harsher light, and exited through the gift shop forever.
Wes excused himself apologetically to Jack, and followed in the wake of his wife, all but ignoring the present and future McBrides and giving Horace the out-and-out fantods to the point that the rascal managed to escape Prudence’s embrace, falling remarkably catlike to the floor and cantering devotedly after Wes. But though his little legs moved quickly, alas, they were very short, and poor Horace could not outpace the heavy gift shop door, which trapped him in the Narcissus room, powerless to follow Wes beyond its glass. Bearing this rejection with considerably less grace than many (many) suitors had before him, Horace promptly went berserk. There was a general commotion as Vivien and Dale, Prudence, Pa
rker, Greg, and even Jack tried in vain to trap the little beast, his pathetic cries echoing maniacally in the cavernous space, pining for Wes at the door, running away from it in unpredictable circles, through various arms and legs, frantic to avoid pursuit. In one particularly vexing tangle, Greg inadvertently backed into his boss, sending Jack, to everyone’s mutual horror, flying onto his ass. This new spectacle diverted the attention of everyone save Horace, who promptly laid claim to the center of the room and settled down to take a delicate little Pomeranian shit. A violent hush replaced the cacophony. Everyone except for Vivien turned wide-eyed, mouths agape. The curator, meanwhile, merely winced, motionless, her hair disheveled, fallen eyes empty, her marble skin aglow.
—So, said Julian Pappas-Fidicia, appearing at the end of the corridor, sliding his glasses up the bridge of his nose, what did I miss?
PART FOUR
CHAPTER XXVIII.
One of the less touted but not insubstantial benefits to being a management consultant is that it is very possible to be summarily fired by a client, yet not to lose one’s job. Indeed, with the notable exception of data and security breaches, most violations—and nearly all of those stemming from client complaints of indecorous behavior—carry few if any lasting consequences to the offending consultant. The market for skilled labor capable of communicating sophisticated analyses at a fifth-grade reading level and willing to travel four days a week is simply too robust. These people are expensive to hire, expensive to train. Besides, most partners have encountered enough client caprice of their own not to be terribly invested in punishments, especially in the case of first offenses. Thus standard operating procedure when a client expresses unremitting displeasure with someone is to grovel conspicuously on the spot but internally chalk it up to “a bad fit,” throw her back in the staffing pool, and, say, a week or two later, present her on a pedestal to a different client.
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