He watched her fold herself elegantly into the car, the dress sliding away from her legs. He swallowed and climbed in after, feeling like an ape clambering into the embrace of the leather seats of the car. The door closed after him, and he found himself side-by-side with her.
This close, he realized she looked nearly as flawless near as she had at a distance. He didn’t know her age- no one did. The records were conflicting, and in no less than eleven official records her birth day, date, and month were all different- but she had lived in the public eye for forty years. She looked nothing like her age would suggest. She looked a smart forty, perhaps, give or take a day.
She watched him looking at her. He realized she seemed to know what he was thinking. Her eyes held some kind of knowledge, a secret or a hint of something unknown to him. He dropped his eyes, embarrassed to have been caught staring. Her lips curved in a smile. The partition lowered. She said without looking away from Metierra, “The airport please, Charles.”
“At once, Ms. Delgado.”
The partition closed with only a whisper and they were moving.
His eyes came up and were focused on her lips as they parted and she said, “You’ve been following me.”
He looked up at her, shocked. “I-I don’t know-”
“Come now, dear. You’re clever, but not that clever. I’ve seen you outside the hotel, the television studio, my bank, and the deli yesterday,” she said. “You’re following me, but you don’t seem to be taking pictures.”
“Everyone knows what you look like,” he said. It was an unselfconscious answer, an honest answer.
She smiled again. “You’re an interesting boy, aren’t you?”
“Not really,” Brent said. “I’m just a reporter.”
“You’re no reporter,” she chastised. She pursed her lips, considered something, and said to him, “You’ve turned down offers at three different magazines and two newspapers in the last two years. You insist on staying at Objet, making a trivial sum, when you could be working much higher profile stories as the face of modern art criticism.”
He said thoughtfully, “Ms. Delgado, you claimed you didn’t know who I am.”
She gave him silence as an answer.
“You claimed to have forgotten my name,” he persisted.
She waited, watching him. Her eyes were veiled, but he thought he saw lively humor behind them. “Do you really think I don’t know everyone of importance in the art world, Mr. Metierra?”
“Am I important?”
She considered. “Somewhat. Your opinion matters to those who matter.”
He looked out the window as the bridge glided past the car, shadows and light playing over his face. He frowned. “Where are we going?”
“The airport, dear,” she said, sounding distracted. He looked around. She had opened the mini bar and was in the midst of pouring herself a drink. He squinted at the label on the bottle. It was in Portuguese, her native language. The yellow liquor gave off a strong aroma. She didn’t pour herself a civilized drink, she filled the glass almost to the rim. She handed him the bottle without looking and took a deep drink from the glass. He sniffed the mouth of the bottle. “What the hell is trago de Caña?”
“This is rum, more or less,” she said. “I always have a bottle or two around. It reminds me of home.” She drained half the glass and leaned back, snuggling her shoulders against the seat. She tilted her head down and looked up at him through her lashes. “It’s never good to forget where you come from.”
“Ecuador?” he asked.
“You say it as though you don’t know, Brent,” she said. She swirled the liquor in the glass, eyes never leaving his. “As though you didn’t do your research beforehand.”
He shrugged a shoulder and raised the bottle. He sipped, and nearly choked. His cheeks bulged and he clapped a hand over his mouth. He slitted his eyes as he swallowed. He coughed. “What the hell is trago de Caña?” he asked again.
Her smile widened. “Fermented cane sugar. As I said, it’s more or less rum. There’s some ginger in there, and lemon, and a dash of grenadine. It’s the way they make it in my village.”
“Powerful,” he said.
Again that smile. “Between 20% and 40% alcohol.”
She sipped at her glass, a sigh escaping her lips after she had swallowed. He stared at her. His mind raced, but he couldn’t think of a place to start.
“What’s your favorite piece?” she asked him suddenly.
Startled, he said, “The House of Many Hearts.”
Her lips twisted and she appeared to taste something foul. “Of course it is. Everyone thinks it’s beautiful.”
Nettled, he said, “It is beautiful.”
“No, it isn’t. You only think it’s beautiful.”
“Is there a difference?”
She arched an eyebrow at him. “Naturally, you dear idiot.”
“I’m not sure I believe that,” Brent said. He looked down at the bottle, raised it, and took another sip. He swallowed and coughed again. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, they say.”
“I refuse to believe that you believe that,” she said. “I’ve read your work. Your eye is surprisingly erudite.”
He snorted. “You’ve read my work?”
“Every issue of Objet is in my Library,” she explained. “I’ve read them all.”
He grew solemn. “Your Library.”
“Yes,” she said.
He didn’t ask anything else. Impressive, she thought. He’s dying to know, and yet he’s afraid to push me.
He said, “Why do you think House isn’t beautiful?”
“Because I was there.”
“When he painted it?”
She smiled to herself, and it was a smile filled with something bitter, something sad. “Yes. You could say that.”
He bit his lip. She watched his hesitancy, reading him avidly like a book. His face was endearingly open, his thoughts plain on his lips and in his eyes. It is refreshing, she thought, to look at a man and see him as he is.
“House is his most popular painting,” Brent said. “It’s beloved the world over. The lines to see it in person are always out the doors.”
“In my experience, most people have no idea what art is.”
He let that pass. “The canvas is such an odd shape, but he never talked about it. Can you tell me why-”
“You can stop asking me questions,” she said. “I won’t answer them. I never have. He didn’t. I won’t. Not about the work.”
She saw the reporter in him surge forward, a hound scenting a hare. “Not about the work, you say?”
She felt the bite of the rum deep in her belly, and swallowed more from the glass. “As I said,” she agreed.
“Tell me why he donated it to the public trust after being offered thirty million dollars for it, then?”
She smiled at him. “You aren’t ready to believe me.”
“When will I be?”
“That depends on how stringent you are in your beliefs,” she said. “How devout you are to the cult of culture.”
“I’ve got the training to read art,” he said. “And I have my own ideas about what makes art. My masters-”
“I’m aware,” she said. “But does being an academic allow you to think freely about art, or are you even more narrow-minded about what ‘art’ is?”
She air-quoted with two fingers as she said it, and he smiled. “A little of column A and a little of column B. House, for instance, with the thousand shades of white providing only hints and suggestions, is, on the face of it, a pretentious piece of self-indulgent garbage masquerading as innovation. But once you see it in person and realize that in addition to the use of various whites for shade and shape that he used the brush strokes themselves as hints and suggestions,” he told her. “I didn’t like it at first, but I’ve come to the conclusion that it may be the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen done on canvas. In fact, done with canvas. The unusual shape of his canvas itself, with
those broken angles and the arch-”
“Stop, please,” she muttered, and he broke off. She tossed the remainder of her drink into her mouth and swallowed. “I’ve never been able to stomach the praise and adoration. It’s sycophantic. He believed as much.”
The car slowed as it wound its way through the labyrinthine terminal parking. They stopped at a checkpoint that Brent had never seen. The driver passed a laminated pass to the guard, who checked it and handed it back. The arm rose and they proceeded into a part of La Guardia that Brent knew of, but only through reading.
The private air fields at La Guardia were accessible only by passing the single checkpoint on the north end of the airport. They rolled smoothly past several private hangers to park before a small building. After a moment the driver opened the door and Brent got out. He turned and offered Carolyn his hand, which she took and he helped her out of the car’s luxurious depths. She walked briskly to the small outbuilding, and he hurried to keep up. She had very long legs and her heels clocked on the tarmac rapidly and she strode to the door. He managed to get there a half second before she did and he opened it for her. She gave him a nod and went inside. He followed after, feeling foolish for having tried to be gallant. He thought he was probably coming off more like a puppy, eager and wiggly, without much restraint, and too oblivious to understand what he was getting into.
In the outbuilding there were two clerks seated at desks. She approached the first, retrieving a leather folder from her bag. “Carolyn Delgado and guest. My flight plan shows a 2 p.m. departure.”
“One moment, Miss Delgado,” the man said. He looked at Brent.
“Uh… Brent Metierra,” he said.
The man gave him three seconds of silence before saying, “Passport?”
“Oh,” Brent said. He fished in his bag and found his passport. He handed to the man. “Sorry.”
“A moment while I check these. Have you anything to declare?”
“No,” Delgado told him.
“Fruits, vegetables, animals?”
“No.”
“Luggage?”
“No,” she said.
The man didn’t react to that, and Brent had to assume that flying on a private jet was indeed a different experience. After checking their passports at the computer, the man returned them. “You’re clear to depart, Miss Delgado. Have a safe flight.”
“Thank you, Michael.”
Brent followed her back to the car, and Charles drove them to the last hangar past the rest where a Gulfstream G5 awaited them. The stairs were down, and a woman awaited them in a pilot’s uniform. Charles opened the door for them a final time. Carolyn pressed his hand with both of hers.
“Thank you for your perfect service, Charles. Goodbye.”
Again, that strange finality. Brent shivered at her voice.
Charles bowed to her. “Goodbye, Ms. Delgado. It has been a pleasure.”
She led Brent to the stairs of the plane. As they approached, the engines whined and began to spin up.
“Louise,” Carolyn greeted the pilot. “How are we faring today?”
“Never better, Ms. Delgado. Preflight is complete, the board is green, we’re expecting our runway in ten minutes,” the pilot said. She looked over at Brent. Brent smiled.
Looking back to Carolyn she said, “Two legs, Ms. Delgado. We will land in Brasilia in approximately seven hours. Refuel will take approximately thirty minutes, and just over two hours from Brasilia to São Paulo. Total flight time is just under ten hours, barring weather. The reports show nothing concerning. We received the catering a short time ago. Chef Branchi sends his regards, as well as far too much food, as usual.”
“Come now, Louise. One can never have too much Lobster Newberg.”
Louise smiled. “You wouldn’t say that if you’d loaded it out as I did, Ms. Delgado. And besides, he sent steaks, eggs, and baked Alaska as well.”
“I assume it came with the usual warning?” Delgado asked.
“Chef Branchi cannot be held responsible for travel damage to the Alaska,” Louise said in an oft-repeated singsong.
“Naturally not,” Delgado said.
“Have you luggage, Ms. Delgado?”
“No, Louise,” Delgado said. “Neither myself nor Mr. Metierra have luggage.”
If this disturbed Louise, the pilot didn’t show it. She gestured up the stairs. “Please, right this way. Shall you have a drink before takeoff?”
Delgado considered. “Have we a bottle of Château d'Yquem aboard?”
“Of course,” the pilot assured her. “The ’95, the ’83, and ’67. They arrived with the Gironde green oysters. Shall I prepare a platter?”
“Please,” Delgado said. She gave Brent an amused glance. “Oysters and wine, Brent?”
“Oh, if you insist,” he said, gamely playing along.
“Very well,” Louise agreed. Delgado led Brent up the stairs and into the cabin. Louise trailed behind. As you entered into the body of the plane a small kitchenette lay behind a half-wall, between the cockpit and the main cabin, across from a closed forward bathroom. The spacious cabin of the Gulfstream had originally held seating for up to twenty, but the cabin had been rebuilt. The forward cabin seated ten comfortably, in wide, plush chairs, any of which, when reclined, would make a suitable sleeping couch. The furthest portion of the cabin had been isolated with walls and an ornate door. Through the door he could see a queen-sized bed, freshly-made. The interior was decorated with paintings in curved frames designed to attach to the walls of the fuselage. Brent realized with dim alarm she had three Picassos and a pair of Matisse. Somehow, he didn’t think they were copies.
Delgado sat in the second seat, next to the window on the right side. He sat across from her, wondering what the protocol was on a private jet.
I don’t have any clothes, he thought. Or money. Or anything else you take on a trip. This is nuts. I’m supposed to be back at the magazine tomorrow.
He’d have to call. He realized with alarm there was a phone on his seat. He looked but saw no place to swipe his credit card. He laughed at himself. It was a private plane. The first he’d been on.
Delgado looked away from the window and gave him a speculative look.
“Sorry,” he said. “A little at sea.”
She gave him a tired smile. “It happens.”
Louise came back to them with a tray of drinks and a plate of half-shelled oysters, chilled and brimming with saltwater. “Your refreshments,” she said. “We’re set for wheels-up in five minutes.” She set the tray down and went back to the cockpit, stopping to close and seal the door.
“She’s remarkably capable, your pilot,” he noted.
“I insist on the fewest staff possible,” Delgado told him. “They’re trained in several disciplines. Louise happens to be a wonderful chef. I sent her to the Cordon Bleu for a year. She’s also an excellent tailor.”
“She does three jobs for you? That’s frugal.”
Delgado arched an eyebrow. “Do not be uncouth, Mr. Metierra. Louise draws a salary equivalent to the best in her field. All of them. I demand impeccable, impossible service. I pay gladly for what I want. You do not engage the best with less-than-best wages.”
“I apologize,” he said, “if I sounded rude. It wasn’t my intention. I’m not used to this kind of… of life.”
She gave him a wan smile. “It tires quickly, as does anything after too long.”
“Hard to imagine,” he said, gesturing at the plate of oysters.
“I don’t need to imagine it. I’ve had a lifetime of this kind of service. It palls.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” he said. “I’ll have to. It’s unlikely I’ll ever reach a fraction of the height at which you operate.”
“But you’re here now,” she said.
“I’m here now,” he agreed. “So I’m going to enjoy it. And thank you, Ms. Delgado, for your hospitality, whatever the reason for it.”
Delgado picked up a flute and handed it to
Brent.
“Is this something else I’m not qualified to have an opinion about?” he asked archly.
She laughed merrily. “I apologize, my dear. That was somewhat cruel of me. I had no idea you would be interesting when I played that mean trick on you.”
“I’m interesting?” he asked. “That’s good. I’ve lain awake nights wondering. What gave me away?”
“You didn’t ask me why I wanted to know if you had a passport, nor did you ask where we were going. That’s interesting to me.”
“Why?”
“It tells me,” she said, sitting sideways to face him, crossing her legs and smoothing the dress down, “that you’re more concerned with knowing answers than the mundanities of life. You’ve a deeper focus than some.”
He sipped the wine. “Some things are more important than others. Some things aren’t important at all.”
She stared at him, her eyes opaque. “It’s something he would have said.”
“I’m pretty sure he did,” Brent admitted.
Her eyes glittered. “How would you know? He never gave an interview.”
“I’ve been following his career my whole life,” Brent said, “since college, at least. He’s the reason I became an art history major.”
The glittering interest in her eyes seemed to die. “Perhaps you’re not as interesting as I thought,” she murmured.
“Because I’m a follower of his work?”
“Because you let your path be chosen instead of choosing it.”
He sipped the wine. It was complex and seemed to shift flavors periodically. It was hard for him to understand what he was tasting. She said, “Have an oyster before your next sip.”
He eyed the oysters dubiously. “I’ve never really-”
“Trust me,” she said.
They began to move, the gentle lurch of motion setting the wine in their glasses to moving. He looked around at the tray. “There’s no silverware.”
So Much Fire and So Many Plans Page 2