Age of Consent

by Amanda Brainerd

  Eve stared at Margot’s livid face, recalibrating. Her boss had been trying to get Barbara to her gallery for years? As understanding dawned on Eve, she began to panic. Did Margot think Eve would be able to convince Clay’s mother, a famous artist, to move galleries? Oh, hi, Barbara, I was just at the Earth Room, thought I’d drop by, oh, and did you know I’m working at Margot Moore’s? Margot’s such a visionary. Barbara’s bullshit detector would go off instantly. It was one thing to call up her parents’ friends and try to sell them art, but getting Barbara Bradley to switch galleries? She’d almost rather get fired.

  “I can definitely help.”

  “Good,” Margot said, narrowing her eyes at Eve, “and maybe, just maybe, I’ll get that Fischl back for Keith.”

  “Thanks.” Eve sagged back onto the sofa with relief.

  “Don’t get comfortable,” Margot said, pointing at the door.

  * * *

  —

  Movers hauled in Massimo’s paintings as Margot stalked, her heels like firecrackers thrown across the terra-cotta tile. Eve hurried after, trying to learn how it was done.

  “Why the black walls?” Eve panted. “I mean it looks great!”

  “I will not succumb to the tyranny of white!” Margot said. “Curly,” she addressed an art mover who was so covered in tattoos that he resembled a Persian carpet, “the Magdalene goes there.” She turned to Eve. “I’m having them hung higher than usual, minimum sixty inches; it’s more intimidating. The black walls, the biblical figures erupting from the canvas, it will be a phenomenon! We are manipulating the psychology of desire.” Her boss traced a majestic arc in the air like a conductor. “No other living artist besides Sforza can make a collector feel he is buying a piece of history.”

  The art mover sliced open the plastic, revealing a huge canvas of reds and oranges, with an angel soaring over what looked like a hillside with shepherds. Instead of sheep, they were tending large tufts of hair tangled with paint.

  Eve was stunned by the painting’s beauty. What a master, she thought. Raymond had been right. It was like being an apprentice in the studio of one of the greats—a Rubens or a Titian.

  “Human hair’s a new medium for him,” Margot said, chewing on her pencil. “It’s top secret! Keep your mouth shut because the critics are going to eat this up. If any of this leaks out I’ll know it came from you.”

  “Isn’t it very Joseph Beuys to use hair?” Eve asked hopefully.

  Margot rolled her eyes. “That was completely different.” Margot shook her head, gazing at the canvas. “We are all just his sheep. But,” she said, frowning, “I wish he would hurry up and finish the Susanna. The crown jewel of the show! You’ll be happy to know your best buddy Keith is getting it.” And then there Massimo was, lumbering toward them like an elegant giant. The art movers hushed as the artist passed.

  “Ciao, cara.” He kissed Margot. “Sorry to miss you last night,” he said. “Ah! How’s our intern?”

  “Turning over a new leaf. Massimo, darling,” Margot continued, her voice softening, “this is our best show ever. I feel like a young girl visiting the Sistine Chapel for the first time.”

  “You flatter me.” Massimo bent to kiss Margot’s hand.

  Margot held on to his for a moment longer and gave the artist a look of worship. “I never exaggerate. But we are still waiting for your star piece . . .”

  Massimo scratched his forehead. “I need a small favor,” he said, turning to Eve. “I need to speak to your intern. Alone.”

  Margot started to giggle hysterically, then stopped abruptly and stalked off.

  “Miss . . .” Massimo turned.

  “Eve,” she reminded him.

  “I need to speak to Mimi.” Massimo’s famous face was inches away from Eve’s. He did have beautiful brown eyes, she noticed, with golden flecks and long lashes. He took her arm. “Give me her number. Please.”

  Eve was torn. She couldn’t just hand out India’s number without her permission.

  “Hey, Eve, hon!” Frederick Straus was striding across the gallery, Deirdre close behind. Massimo dropped Eve’s arm. Her father stuck out his hand. “Frederick Straus, huge fan.”

  “Enchanted,” the artist said.

  “We can hardly wait to see our precious Salome.” Deirdre clapped. “Possiamo vederla?”

  “Where is the painting?” Massimo asked Eve.

  “Not sure, I’ll find out.” She fled to the back room, where Raymond was sitting at the table flipping through paperwork.

  “Can you believe what a genius Margot is?” he said, shaking his head. “The black paint, the height of the pictures, making it look all museumy. Incredible!”

  “Oh, shut up. My mom’s out there babbling in Italian to Massimo and I need the Salome, or I’m going to get killed!” Eve glanced back toward her parents in the gallery.

  Raymond put down his papers as slowly as possible and stood up.

  Even from this far away Eve could hear Deirdre. “Anni fa, ho passato un’estate a Firenze. É stato meraviglioso!” Eve wanted to dive into one of the paintings and disappear.

  Raymond asked a mover, “Can you find the Salome for those customers?”

  The mover turned and pointed to the back of the gallery.

  Raymond lowered his voice. “Not a good sign. I hope she isn’t foisting the worst of the show on your poor parents. Come on, introduce me.”

  Raymond was already shaking Frederick’s hand.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Straus, Eve has told me so much about you. I’m Raymond Rathbone. I’ve asked one of the movers to locate your painting. Can I offer you anything to drink while you’re waiting?”

  “We have espresso from Tazza d’Oro,” Eve said.

  “The place with the great granitas?” Frederick piped in. Eve cringed again.

  “Ah, you know the Eternal City?” Massimo observed.

  “Certo,” Deirdre said, moving her hand higher on Massimo’s arm.

  What if Massimo’s Salome turned out to be a piece of shit? Would they know?

  “Un espresso per me,” her mother said.

  “Pardon?” Raymond said.

  “She’ll have an espresso,” Eve said.

  “I’ll tell Margot you’re here,” Raymond said.

  Deirdre wasn’t listening, gazing up at Massimo.

  “Signora, Massimo will give you a preview,” Massimo said, and tucked Deirdre’s arm under his.

  Eve stared at his powerful figure as they walked away. It was pointless to try to protect India. Massimo would find a way to her, with or without Eve’s help. That was a man who got what he wanted.

  * * *

  • • • • • • •

  India was in the bath when the phone rang. Sinking farther beneath the bubbles, she let it ring. Underwater, it sounded like a church bell tolling in a dream. She closed her eyes and remembered.

  * * *

  —

  She had been eleven years old, in Rome with her mother at the Hotel de Russie. One morning after breakfast India heard shouts in Italian from her mother’s suite, a phone ringing, a room-service cart rolling across a carpet, glasses colliding and smashing. Mademoiselle ordered India to stay put in a cold voice India had not heard before.

  India remembered the water seeping under her door, spreading across the pale carpet in a dark stain. Huddled on the bed she watched as it approached.

  A violent wail rose from the hall, a keening, ungodly sound. India flung open the door and fled. Nobody noticed as she left the hotel and hurried down the Via del Babuino.

  India slipped into the darkness of Santa Maria del Popolo. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the gloom of the church.

  The air was pungent with burned incense. A black-robed priest was extinguishing the lights in the nave, and a praying old woman was the only other occupant.

&
nbsp; India walked to a side chapel and fished in her wallet for a lira coin. It fell into the metal slot with a thunk, and the chapel was illuminated. She ducked under the velvet rope.

  Sitting cross-legged on the worn stone floor, India gazed up at the painting. She had never understood why the man was splayed on the ground, but she wasn’t here for him. It was the horse, massive and powerful, that dominated the canvas. The man spread his arms, holding them up to the gentle beast as the light flooded onto the scene. Once upon a time, many people had horses. To have a horse of her own was the dream of India’s heart.

  But what had happened at the hotel? When would they tell her?

  The last few days had been hot, shimmering afternoons of ochre stone and dripping gelato. Her mother and Massimo the painter, holding hands and throwing coins into the Trevi Fountain. The rainstorm, taking the three of them by surprise, Massimo sweeping India’s tiny mother into his arms as they dashed into the Pantheon. The bright column of rain tumbling into the oculus.

  India already suspected the truth. She had watched her mother for the past few months, refusing to eat, speaking only occasionally, staring into the sea with eyes that reflected no light. Kiki had tried it before.

  The lira coin dropped, and the light in the chapel was extinguished.

  * * *

  —

  Opening her eyes, India swished her fingers through the water. It was getting cold.

  Eventually she learned the truth. Her mother had run a bubble bath at the Hotel de Russie, and while the water was filling up the tub, she had swallowed a handful of phenobarbital.

  Had India seen her that morning? She had ransacked her brain for the last five years, but the truth was always just out of reach. India could see her mother’s long dark hair swirling in the water around her naked body, but perhaps years of wondering had created that vision. A child’s memory was unreliable, shadowy, patched together from photographs, hearsay, and nightmares. The bathroom had been caramel marble with a relief of Neptune; of that she was sure. But Mademoiselle was now back in France, and her father had been in New York with his mistress that day. There was no reliable witness.

  India looked just like Kiki, they said, only taller. She got out of the tub, dried herself, and looked in the mirror. Her breasts hung from her rib cage. She knew she was too thin. But it was the only way she could fit into her mother’s clothes.

  The phone rang again, and she wrapped the towel around herself and padded into the kitchen.

  “Hello?”

  “Cara Mimi, Massimo Sforza.”

  “How did you get this number? From Eve?”

  “Darling, no, your friend was very loyal. Eve would never have done that. Raymond gave it to me.”

  Right, friends with Dino. And a traitor.

  “What do you want?”

  “To paint you.”

  India did not respond.

  “There is only one painting left, a Susanna at her bath. I need you.”

  “Why should I care?”

  Massimo exhaled. “Because the show won’t be complete without it and your friend Eve will get blamed. Margot thinks Eve is convincing you to pose for Massimo, but I am a far better judge of character. I know Eve would never pressure you. So, I had to do it myself.”

  “I’m not interested.”

  “Please, if not for Massimo, if not for Eve, do it for Kiki.”

  India froze. “How dare you mention my mother’s name?”

  “I was with her that morning. In Rome. At the hotel.”

  Shock paralyzed her for a moment. Massimo had come aboard Mata Hari for a day, and then spent time with her mother in Rome. India had thought he was just a friend. She had been so naïve. He had been Kiki’s lover.

  “Your mother had a sadness that no man could touch. You know you’ve grown to look—”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “How could I have? In the gallery? In the restaurant?” Massimo sighed. “I was deeply in love with her. Please, Mimi.”

  India hung up on him.

  She stood there for a long time. Then she went back into the living room and pulled the beaded silk caftan of her mother’s off the garment rack. She held it to her face and inhaled deeply. India imagined her mother wearing this on the Mata Hari, gazing at the Adriatic while Massimo’s huge hand caressed her tiny one.

  * * *

  • • • • • • •

  On her way home from work, Eve stopped at the Strand bookstore. Down an aisle, she pulled a worn copy of To the Lighthouse off the shelf, read a few lines, then looked up and halted. Mr. Winkler was across the aisle, his back to her. Had he seen her? Eve ducked around the shelf and watched him.

  Hadn’t he received her letter? How come he hadn’t tried to see her if he was in the city?

  He was dressed in shorts and sneakers, and watching his hairy legs as he shifted from one foot to the other, she wondered if he didn’t want to see her here, on her turf.

  Mr. Winkler reached up to the shelf, revealing sweat stains in his armpits. He pulled a book down and was about to turn toward her when Eve ran from the store.

  SIX

  Justine gave Stanley her address and hung up the phone in India’s kitchen. She went back to studying the Hampton Jitney schedule. It looked like there was one every hour from Fortieth Street near the public library. Eve had promised to figure out their ride, but Justine was not convinced her friend would succeed.

  When the buzzer rang, Justine threw the keys down to the darkened street. Stanley appeared, unshaven, his complexion like a dead fish but for an angry pimple on his nose. Speaking of needing a weekend in the Hamptons, Justine thought. He handed her a cassette tape and a perspiring bottle of Colt 45.

  “Play the tape.”

  “Talk first.”

  He followed Justine into the darkened living room where candles were burning and India and Dino were draped on cushions in a haze of pot smoke. India’s limbs poked out at an angle that reminded Justine of the keys on the sidewalk.

  Dino pushed himself up on one arm, wearing a bustier. The light from the kitchen spilled onto his hairy, fishnetted legs.

  India swayed. “Pleased to meet you,” she said, offering a hand.

  Justine kept her hold on Stanley’s arm. “I’m stealing him for a sec,” she said, “but he brought tunes,” and handed Dino the cassette.

  In her room, she closed the door and they sat down on the futon. She pulled out a pack of cigarettes and groped around for a light.

  “Smoking in bed? That’s how Edie died,” Stanley said.

  “No, she died from drugs.” Justine had read the book three times.

  “Here,” he said, flipping a matchbook in her direction. It was black with a cross-shaped dagger. She lit the cigarette, trying to remember where she had seen that design before.

  Stanley forced the cap off the Colt 45. He took a slug, and as he raised his arm a wave of rank body odor hit her. He offered her the bottle, but she shook her head. The guy looked contagious.

  “How’d you end up in the city?” Justine asked.

  He took a sip from the bottle. “My father found out about me.”

  Justine looked at him, but Stanley kept his eyes on the futon. “He intercepted a letter.”

  Justine wanted to ask from whom.

  He offered her the bottle. She declined.

  “He told me I was going to infect the whole family with ‘the AIDS sickness’ and threatened me with a shotgun, then he locked me in the garage.”

  Stanley described how he had finally escaped and hitchhiked to the bus station. He’d been working as a janitor in a public school on the Lower East Side.

  “Where are you living?”

  “East Village,” Stanley said.

  Muted sounds of conversation and music were on the other side of the door.

/>   “Clay’s dad’s gay,” she said.

  Justine was used to Stanley’s eyes bulging, but this time they almost popped out of his head.

  “We saw him in drag, making out with a boy,” she continued, “right after I saw you. Clay freaked.”

  Stanley shook his head. “Must have been shocking to you too.”

  It was a relief that he understood.

  “It’s ironic.” Stanley let out a long breath. “Mr. Bradley, as in the arts center donor? A friend of Dorothy?”

  Justine nodded.

  “Was the guy younger?”

  How did he know? That must be a thing.

  Stanley took another gulp of beer. “How’s Clay holding up?”

  “I haven’t heard a peep from him since.” She stubbed out her cigarette, thinking about Clay sobbing.

  “Have you called him?”

  “Isn’t he supposed to call me?”

  Stanley wiped his mouth and shifted on the futon. “Think of how humiliated he must feel. His own father didn’t tell him!”

  Clay humiliated? Justine wondered how she would have felt if that man had been Miles. It was impossible to imagine. Despite all of Miles’s and Cressida’s faults, their flimsy finances, the lack of guidance or structure, their marriage was something she took for granted.

  “And imagine being Clay’s dad,” Stanley said. “Pretending to be something you’re not, lying to everyone, even to your own kid.” Stanley pointed to the door. “Call Clay. I’ll go play nice nice with the queen in the living room.”

  The phone at Clay’s rang for a long time but the machine did not pick up.

  “Ah, la belle Justine!”

  “Hi, Mrs. Bradley.”

  “Barbara. Are you packed?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Caravan departs in an hour,” Barbara replied.

  Justine was confused.

  Barbara heaved a sigh of disappointment. “Clayton didn’t invite you.” She called into the depths of the apartment, “’Tis the lovely Justine!”