“She’s a local artist,” the man said.
I glanced at him. He was beside a table, trying to separate coffee filters. I looked at the painting again and nodded, as if his brief explanation suddenly made the whole thing clear to me.
Despite the lace, the lighting, the beads, and the cloyed scent, the man had a robust voice, coming from deep inside his barrel body, effacing the femininity that his surroundings seemed to thrust upon him. He wasn’t so much a bull in a china shop—because a bull would have been markedly displaced—but rather some androgynous and tortured globule with no definite identity, shape, or place within the world. Perhaps I intuitively imagined this about the man because all the artwork in the gallery possessed a twisted ugliness. The community of art aficionados and the man himself probably would’ve offered some label or another, such as “abstract art,” to explain or justify this collective perversity—as if the artist were abstracting ideals or concepts out of the concrete world or else attempting to reshape the world against the normal flow of perception, traveling from subject to object as if it were possible for a person not to be defined from without, not to be born and tossed into a ready-made world, but rather to make it out of himself, without any objective, sensual reference point. Yet I didn’t buy into their delusions. I knew that the world in fact formed them; its tools were sorrow, pain, and death; and the enormity of the thing shriveled their spirits and gave them the official stamp of insignificance. Of course, I had to give the artist more credit than the man-in-the-street, who tacitly accepted a single composite image of himself. The artist, receptive and sponge-like, tried to define himself according to as many facets of the universe as he could, but the parts were so disconnected that when the artist looked inside of himself at what he’d gathered up, he saw no harmony or meaning. In depression, angst, and loneliness, he fought back, and believing that he was forcing his puny self upon the world, he made his twisted, ugly art.
The man was saying something, and I looked back and nodded assent to whatever was coming out of his mouth. I wanted him to leave, and he did, carrying an empty coffeepot through the curtain of beads, into the back room. At last, I had a moment alone with the painting near the front window, though it wasn’t the painting itself that had first attracted me, but rather its title, printed on a card beside it and affixed to the lavender window moulding: Material: Perverse, Polymorphed, and Primed, and beneath this was the artist’s name, Celeste Wilcox. I was dumbfounded. Here, in a little, goofy gallery was the exact subtitle to the third chapter of my manuscript. Either I had to believe in a remarkable, celestine coincidence and that Ms. Wilcox and I had kindred minds, or else somehow among the vast multitude of people in the city, I once again encountered the girl of my fantasies—the skinny, haggard waif who had stopped to tie her shoelaces and thus, by bending over, had severed me once and for all from my professional and social circle. When I had chased her, I never imagined she was stealing my manuscript to this extent. Seeing my ideas in this new context, barely a yard away from a pair of bloated wooden heads, I was suddenly disgusted with my whole project. I had only one option: to burn my manuscript in the sink and flush it down the same drain that had swallowed up W. McTeal.
The fat man was making a soft guttural sound as he breathed.
“This is sort of wonderful,” I said at last, and he took this as an invitation to step closer to me. He looked thoughtfully at the painting, which was about the size of a folded newspaper.
“Yes,” he said. “It’s a wonderful piece.”
Although an instant ago he had appeared anxious to talk, he now seemed to settle back in contemplation, to join in my rhapsody. He no longer needed to persuade me toward the sale but simply to approve of my choice. On a little card, in the bottom corner of the frame, read the price in tight, quaint calligraphy: $975. I knew what he wanted from me, the customer, and I knew what I wanted from him—namely, every detail, large and small, from the shoe size to the mother’s maiden name of my skinny, urban nymph.
“Yes,” he said again, as if to himself.
“Do you have anything else by—” I began to say, but paused to look at the name card, as if needing to refresh my memory, and then I continued, pronouncing the name slowly, sounding out each syllable with the same care a person gives to a foreign language—“by Celeste Wilcox?” She felt nice in my mouth, on my tongue. “Celeste Wilcox,” I repeated, getting comfortable with the two words.
“One other piece, but it isn’t framed yet. I have it in back.”
“Can I see that too?”
“Sure, sure. He started away. “Help yourself to a cup of coffee. There’s only powdered milk, though.” He smiled apologetically. “It keeps better.” He disappeared through the curtain.
Although the coffee smelt tempting, I didn’t take a cup. I still had an urge for beer and french fries.
The painting was a loathsome thing. Out of a dark background, objects and figures took shape, passing along the color scheme of a bruise, as they twisted toward the foreground; but rather than peak at yellow, they reached the red heat of raw skin, before morphing back into the darkness. What was worse was not that a rocky landscape grew out of the blackness, but that the landscape turned into manmade structures, which themselves turned into figures, neither quite male nor female, adult nor child, and then the figures, stretching closer to the foreground, became body parts, some of which cracked open, split against the strain, and out of these wounds, bloomed strange, fresh organs lined with blue veins. Despite all this, the softness, the intimate flesh tones, and the curves of the shapes lent to the painting a subtly provocative and sensuous feeling.
$975, I thought, curious what determined the last dollar. Why not $974?
The fat man bustled out with another painting. At first, he held it out toward me. Then he set it on the ground, leaning it against one of the wooden partitions. We took a step back together, in order to appreciate the piece. Through some wild stroke of genius, Ms. Wilcox had managed to produce something even more disgusting.
Inexplicably, my voice somewhat excited, I said, “I love it.”
“It’s striking.”
“I like the whole equipage.” This comment made no sense, but the fat man agreed.
“Yes,” he said.
“And the self-reflexive motif.”
“It’s very smart.”
“And the autoeroticism.”
The fat man agreed again, as though all my absurd observations were plainly obvious. I was beginning to like him very much.
“It’s extremely—” I paused for an instant, searching for some outlandish word.
“Carnival,” the man said, filling the void.
“Yes.” I lowered my voice, feeling the force of the man’s precision. I was surprised how quickly he’d earned my respect. “Carnival,” I said. There was no better word. The painting suddenly fell into place and began to brim with significance.
“What’s it called?” I asked.
“Carnival,” the fat man answered, and I realized that it wasn’t him at all whom I was beginning to respect and like. It was Celeste Wilcox, for she’d undoubtedly named the painting.
After a few more minutes, I began to detest the man. In a very pleasant manner, he continually put me off; he refused to tell me anything useful about Ms. Wilcox. When I casually asked whether she was a student and where she studied, he told me that her method was apparently Baroque. When I asked if she was exhibited elsewhere and if she ever personally visited the gallery to promote her work, “to chitchat over wine and crackers,” the man responded by saying, “Sure, sure,” but added that she had nothing scheduled. I understood his tact; he was the middleman, the one getting the commission, and he didn’t want me trying to approach Ms. Wilcox directly and thus to cut him out. The more I ventured to elicit information, the more he began to sense that I didn’t want to give him my money. As we talked, I became conscious of a steady, annoying tapping sound, and then I realized that it was me, that by some nervous ref
lex, I was tapping the metal tip of my umbrella on the hardwood floor. Even so, I continued to make the sound.
“Then tell me,” I said suddenly, “does she do portraits, say, of my wife or little daughter?”
“I’m not certain.”
“Could we possibly arrange something, ask something. I mean, you could ask her, right?”
“Sure, sure,” the man said.
We weren’t looking at each other, but at Material: Perverse, Polymorphed, and Primed.
“Yes,” I said, just to emit some sound. If in a single move I could turn myself into a husband and a father, then why not into a rich man too. Glancing back at the painting on the floor, I asked, “Of course, you’d frame that if I wanted it.”
“Of course.” The man nodded his round head.
“Could I get matching frames?”
“I don’t see why not.”
We were silent for a moment, looking back and forth between the paintings, avoiding each other’s eyes. I was simultaneously frustrated, agitated, and amused. Indeed, what a loving man I must have been, to have wanted the precious image of my wife or daughter rendered by the hand of that tortured artist!
“And those heads.” I gestured to the hewn blocks of wood. “Do they come as a set?”
“Sure, or separately,” the man said.
“They’d—” I started to say that they’d go perfect in the baby’s room, but I stopped myself.
“Is it possible,” I continued, “for me to give you my name and address, and if Ms. Wilcox is interested in doing a portrait, then you can give me a call?”
“Of course.”
The man produced two business cards and a pen from the inner pocket of his suit. When he handed me the cards, I read his name: Lyle Tartles. I wrote my information on the back of one card and slipped the other into my pocket with the novel and fred’s number.
“Mr. Tartles,” I said, smiling. “This is an impressive place.”
“Thank you,” he said. “There’s a lot of talent in our city.”
I surveyed the gallery slowly, nodding my head.
“You’d understand, Mr. Tartles, if I returned with my wife. I’m not free to spend a single dime on my own. You understand.”
“Sure.” The man smiled too.
He was so agreeable and pleasant that it was difficult for me to get an accurate read on him. Was he just humoring me, following business protocol, or actually believing my spiel?
“You couldn’t possibly hold these pieces?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said. “If you want to leave a—”
“No.” I cut him off. “I shouldn’t commit to anything yet. My wife would see red. Take my head off.”
The man smiled.
“Mr. Tartles.” I abruptly grabbed his meaty paw and pumped it once. “Thank you.”
I wanted to add some finishing touches, to convince him thoroughly of my sincerity.
“I’ll see you again,” I said.
“Sure.”
On my way toward the door, I paused to inspect the pair of grotesque heads. I considered them in a reverential way, as if trying to take in the full impact of their beauty or truth. I even touched my chin and nodded thoughtfully at the sculptures. When I turned to leave, I looked back at Mr. Tartles, to see if he’d witnessed my little show. There was a strange grin on his face that suddenly unnerved me. I couldn’t tell whether he had seen through my charade, only that he was apparently amused by me. This misshapen, unfortunate globule was amused by me, as though I had been a pubescent boy casually browsing through a car lot and expecting the salesman to show me the respect due to a man. The only thing I could do was smile, nod, and rush out the door. As I hurried away, heading along the sidewalk in the gray mist, I began to feel even worse, more exposed, like a pubescent boy caught in the middle of algebra class, trying, like a dirty fiend, to sneak the porno-stroke under his desk. I lurched forward with my head down. Before the shame could fully overwhelm me, the man on the motorcycle—the real Dr. Barnett—exploded out of a side street, turned the corner, and whizzed past me. He jolted me out of my self-affliction. His mixture of ease and insanity made him my hero. Even though he was just some guy joyriding on a dreary Sunday afternoon, he managed to deflate the fat man and imbue me with a bit of strength.
Now as my mind swarmed with thoughts, with urgency, and with a single drop of borrowed potency, I found myself walking faster. A strange compulsion drove me forward, though I didn’t exactly know what I was running toward or away from. The black man reminded me that I was supposed to be on the playing field of men, which meant that I was no longer going to bother erecting a world of massive monuments with vaulted ceilings and endless corridors and chambers stretching as deep as my tiny, gray brain could imagine. I was going to assert myself using my body. With a little spasm, a momentary shudder, and a drop of potency, if a person was not quite born into manhood, then he was at least allowed into the arena and given a chance to test his mettle.
As I hurried forward, I became aware of the buildings looming up around me, of every bit of earth covered up with concrete and tar, and of the air saturated less with the natural elements than with waves and signals and blathering voices too numerous to fathom. It all seemed significant and portentous, as though the grimy fingerprints of man could not only be seen on everything but also were intimately and mysteriously connected to the secret places of my own heart. I wasn’t quite certain what this meant for me or what I actually needed to do.
IV
Before I had the time to contemplate these ideas further and drift into a new reverie, I found myself beneath the muddy green awning of a pub, which I promptly entered. The interior was deep and narrow. The bar was on the left; every stool was taken, and behind the seated patrons, more were standing. Along the opposite wall ran a thin counter that people used to abandon their empty glasses and bottles, or, by reaching backwards, to retrieve a drink, tap ashes, or snuff a cigarette. Nobody turned to look at me as I stood by the front door, wet with sweat and mist. I took off my overcoat and folded it over my forearm. I was surprised to find the place so busy at this hour. Beyond the bar area, elevated a single step, were two rows of tables. I made my way through the crowd of mostly young men and headed toward the dining area. Even though I squeezed between people, fixed my eyes upon their faces, and uttered, “Excuse me,” no one seemed to acknowledge my presence. A space cleared, providing me a sudden opportunity to belly up to the bar and order a drink. Hugging my overcoat and umbrella against my body, I was about to step forward. Yet I felt someone move behind me. In fact, just beneath the hem of my jacket, gliding across one cheek and then the other cheek of my ass, might have been either the back of a hand or the soft corner of a woman’s handbag, but I feared that this casual, accidental touch was something worse. My body tensed, and I squirmed away, not turning around to see which body and face belonged to that sausage and sack. I reached the end of the bar, where a large speaker bracketed to the wall emitted a lot of noise. Several tables were vacant. When I ascended the single stair, I turned and faced the bar again, and looking across the tops of their heads, I was intrigued that people preferred to pack together, rather than step back into the empty floor space.
“You eating?” someone asked me, shouting above the music.
“Yes,” I said.
He was a wiry young man with raven black hair, which seemed to be greased or wet. He raised his arm toward the tables and limply waved two fingers, as if to shoo me away. A squiggly black line twisted down his forearm. He said something I couldn’t hear, but I knew he was telling me to take a seat.
I found a table that had been robbed of all its chairs but one. I set my umbrella on the floor beside the chair and sat down with my overcoat in my lap. Some laminated menus were propped between the salt and pepper shakers and a napkin dispenser. I read a menu, though I already knew what I wanted. When the waiter finally came over and took my order, a look of annoyance came over his face.
“What kind of bee
r?” he asked.
“Oh, what do you have on tap?”
He drew a breath and began to rattle off a list of words, a jumble of sounds. I cocked my head, as if I were interested.
“What was that last one?” I asked, but before he even got out the name, I said, “That sounds good.”
He disregarded me at once and walked away.
Even though I knew I was overdressed, too old, and solitary, I resisted the urge to feel displaced. I tried to act at ease, so I took my damp overcoat from my lap, bundled it up, and put it on the table. Then I wiggled out of my jacket, hung it from the back of the chair, and unbuttoned the cuffs of my shirt. Years ago, in my silly and benumbing baccalaureate days, I used to attempt to give myself a dab of charm and grace by pretending to be a dashing ivy-league man. I often wanted to impersonate F. Scott Fitzgerald, but because I knew very little about the writer himself, I had to settle for such characters as Jay Gatsby and Dick Diver. Now, sitting at the table, waiting for my order, this old desire to emulate someone else returned to me. I remembered the scene when Dick Diver was sitting in a bar surrounded by his cronies. He had just secretly performed a handstand in his room, to give a little color to his face, and now he was leaning back with a drink in his hand, while his company paid him homage; they were scanning the establishment, looking to see if anyone in the whole room had as much repose as Dick, but no one there could match his elegance. As I looked about the bar, at all the goofy, eager, boisterous young men, I realized that not one of them had the romantic equanimity of a cultured lover, and furthermore, none of them cared to have it. They didn’t bother with refined manners and tastes, and perhaps most young men never did, even in Fitzgerald’s time. Why make such an elaborate show when they could expose their desires as plainly as a pack of rutting dogs slobber and howl?
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