“Well, why not?” I said, in a chipper voice, “If you like it, it might help you to relax and clear your head.”
B looked out over the buildings and seemed to ponder my reply. I could tell she wasn’t entirely sure what it meant for her or if she was going to start painting or not. It had probably just landed in her head as we sat there.
“I don’t know what I would paint though and I’m not sure I would ever want anyone to see my work. It would just be something for me to do to maybe figure things out. You don’t really have any hobbies do you, Dar?”
She had hit a weak spot in me, the lack of extra-curricular activities. I was all work and wine, and sometimes in combination. I couldn’t help but feel there should be something more, but I had never found something I could devote my heart to. Except for wine and books, maybe. But pretty much everyone drinks wine and reads books so I’m not sure they would qualify as a “hobbies”.
“No, I don’t. I guess I like reading and talking and wine. You know that wine bar I talked about? Something like that. Or even having my own vineyard would be cool one day.”
“Don’t you feel like your personality would be stronger if you had hobbies? That you would be more you?”
B was now studying me, saying things she had probably thought about for a long time but never said out loud. I was worried that what was coming to me next wasn’t going to be good.
“I think my personality is quite clear, I don’t think hobbies necessarily have anything to do with your personality. Not having hobbies, is not a statement in itself, I think.”
“I mean that you are not so easy to categorize, sometimes I feel like I know you the best in the world and other times I feel like I don’t know you at all.”
We rarely talked about me and when she said this I had a feeling why, maybe B thought there wasn’t much to talk about. For a moment this made me very sad. Was I a boring person? I had never heard someone say this about me, but I could still understand her feeling that way, considering everything about me seemed to be about her. I had no real life outside the mansion.
“I think the best chance to get to know me, is just to ask more stuff. I’m not so fond of blowing my own trumpet as you know. I work for you so obviously our talks are mostly around you. It’s not strange when you think about it.” I felt hurt in my voice rise up, but I managed to push it down before it reached the surface.
“I don’t mean to be mean, Dar. I’m just saying I really like you and despite us working together for four years, I really don’t know that much about you. It’s partly my fault, of course. But I also think that, sometimes, you don’t let yourself come out. You’re so professional all the time.”
“I’ll try to be less professional then and we’ll see how that goes.” I tried to smile sincerely, but failed. I wasn’t used to criticism and definitely not good at receiving it and her words stung me quite badly. I was having a great time with her and it upset me that my presence wasn’t delivering more impact. Whatever that meant.
B was about to say something, but then her phone interrupted her. “He’s here,” she said and rose from her chair.
***
We headed out to Matteo’s car for the evening, which turned out to be a dark blue Maserati parked just outside the hotel. I was suddenly very self-conscious and seeing the handsome Italian with his pinstriped suit and strong jaw, made me feel like an outcast, kind of like a retarded brother B unwillingly brought along to her lovely get-togethers for the bold and beautiful. I said hi to Matteo, who nodded at me with a fake smile, then I sat down in the back seat while he opened the door for B, who looked absolutely amazing in her black Prada dress. Sitting alone in the back seat didn’t make things better. I studied Matteo’s pitch black hair with the tiny pathetic locks on the end of the backslick. He was either mafia or a perfect character for middle-age ladies erotic novels. His dress-sense was impeccable and his skin free of blemishes. Besides my obvious and consuming jealousy, there was something else I didn’t like about him, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Could he really be gay? Wasn’t he too calm, too cool and too intimidating to attract other men? And he seemed far too interested in B, but of course everyone went gaga over movie stars. Whatever it was, something about him disturbed me and I promised myself to keep an extra eye on him during the party.
The air-conditioned leather chilled my hand as we drove off and the smell in the car took a hold of my senses, creating a mix of fresh leather and spicy men’s cologne. B was talking to Matteo and she sounded like a 15-year old girl who was about to go out on a date with the school hunk. Was it the alcohol or did she really have a crush on the guy? At that time it was impossible to tell, but I hated hearing her like this because I knew it was so far from the B I knew and liked.
Matteo said how excited he was that she had decided to grace the party with her presence. He said she had a big following in Italy, something which I took to be a white lie, and how much her love for arts would be satisfied by the collection we were just about to see. I felt slightly nauseous listening to their conversation and realized I was going to have to drink heavily to get through the evening.
After a short drive, we reached a large building that looked more governmental than residential. Matteo stopped the car outside a huge, black iron gate and picked up his iPhone. After a while someone picked up and voila, the gate started sliding open. We drove into a large courtyard, parked the car next to a white Bentley and headed out into the crisp evening air. Matteo put his hand on B’s back and ushered her towards the entrance, while I walked behind, feeling like a small dog. After climbing a long marble staircase we found ourselves in a huge space and in the middle of a lavish party.
Massive is an apt word to describe both the space, which I would call a loft, and the party. Elegant people were meandering around, carrying champagne glasses and speaking their native tongue in animated and excited tones. Everything was very white, so white you almost had to wear shades to see properly and the walls were lined with massive paintings full of color and strange shapes. It created a contrast that almost hurt your eyes and it didn’t take long to figure out that this collector was into the avant-garde, which was something I’d always had a hard time with. But art was the least of my concerns, because I felt like the loneliest guy on the planet, standing there next to B and Matteo.
Strange-looking furniture were placed in different areas of the loft, so oddly conceptual you didn’t know whether to sit on them, applaud them or throw garbage at them. I snatched a glass of pink champagne from a waiter with a silver tray and drank it in one swift, desperate motion. B gave me a strange look, but then her attention was caught by a short and bald man in black. It was Gianluca, the host. He looked like a slimmed-down version of Danny Devito and could compete with yours truly in the white teeth-department.
Gianluca broke out into a huge smile when he saw B and came up to cheek-kiss her, which awkwardly had him almost stand on toe, despite her not being much above average female height. He said something in Italian which included the word bella, which I knew in some form meant beautiful and then kissed her hand as well. His voice was thick and coarse and it sounded like his vocal chords ground against each other when he spoke and it took an effort to produce a sentence. He shook Matteo’s hand casually and told B in hampered English that he loved her work, which made her blush. She didn’t expect any compliments from artistic people for her chewing gum comedies and somehow she must have thought his comment was genuine. I had a hard time seeing why an art collector would be watching her movies, but maybe he had a secret crush on her or a soft spot somewhere under his black garments that made him extra sensitive to gooey and predictable story-lines? On the other hand, celebrity events always brought out the most outrageous lies, because the rich and famous simply had to compliment the other rich and famous for their glorious careers, even when they hadn’t really seen anything of the person’s work. It was all a game of I scratch your back, you scratch mine.
B hadn’t s
poken to me in a while so I was surprised when she leaned over and whispered, “Pretty weird place, huh?” after which I smiled and nodded, happy we could agree on something. She wasn’t yet a natural in the art world, but I feared this was something she wanted to work on.
After the introduction an insane amount of hand-shaking began. It felt like you were attending a Parkinsons conference. Most of the people were Italian, but I recognized a British guy from some TV-series I couldn’t remember and also an American high-society couple who appeared at loads of these events without ever really talking to anyone or making any kind of mark on anything - like wealthy ghosts.
During the mingling B gave me pretty much zero attention so at a point I took another glass from one of the waiters and headed over to a corner to “study” the art there. From afar I witnessed people go all silly when they talked to her and in one way I could understand it. She had truly re-kindled her star glow and her body looked amazing in that dress. But she was in Matteo’s hands now and our interactions had stopped. A painful reminder that I was more her assistant than her friend.
I turned to the wall and let my eyes wander over a dark painting with a mystical object in the middle of it, looking a bit like a screw or some kind of tool. It was very gloomy and made me even more depressed while I tried to figure out what the artist meant by drawing what could easily be seen as a massive turd in a dark corner.
I threw a glance over my shoulder but I couldn’t see B anymore. She had probably walked off with Matteo. Suits her right, I thought to myself before I took a sip of my wine and let my eyes find the screw painting again. Then I heard a voice from behind.
“Admiring the painting?” said the owner of the voice, a young light-skinned girl with red lipstick and a strong British accent. She was very pretty.
“Well...” I hesitated, “I guess I'm trying to figure out what the hell it is.” I realized too late that admitting you don’t get it at an “artsy” party wasn’t a good strategy.
“Don't ask me, I don't understand this stuff at all, I just came here with my boyfriend.” She looked at the painting again and added almost as an afterthought or like she was ashamed to admit it, “he's an artist.”
I let out a sigh of relief, happy to have been approached by a likeminded person. “So how's being in a relationship with an artist when you don't understand art?”
“I don't think anyone ever understands art, we just pretend to and the one who's best at pretending is an expert. Dating an artist is interesting; it all depends on what day Flavio has had - if he's productive and inspired he's quite wonderful and romantic, but when he feels like he's not getting where he wants to on a project, it’s not so easy.”
“I think that goes for all very ambitious people, on the flip side of the creative coin there's something destructive. Like me, I’m feeling creative, like I could paint something better than that,” I pointed to the screw painting, “And yet I feel like destroying it too. Creative and destructive - all in one!” The wine had relaxed me too much and the outspoken, lousy comedian Darryl was out of his straight-jacket.
The girl with the red lipstick laughed politely at my joke.
“You think it’s a screw? I thought it was a caterpillar,” she said.
“I actually think it’s a piece of shit. Literally. Like a turd.”
The girl laughed again. I was on a roll. “You should be an art critic,” she said and smiled, “You could have your own TV show where you roast famous pieces of art.”
I smiled back at her, “That’s actually not such a bad idea - Art fart with Darryl Glendale.”
This one didn’t net more than a grin. “So how come you’re here? Since you’re obviously not very interested in art yourself.”
“I’m a friend of B,” I said, “and we’re here for...” I was about to say vacation, but realized it would sound a bit weird, like why would she do that with a friend and not her husband? “we’re here to look at apartments actually. She’s thinking of buying a place here in Rome and I’m her second opinion.”
Mentioning B seemed to lift the girl’s spirits even higher. “How exciting! You’re definitely doing the right thing, because this is a truly fantastic city. I’m from London myself, but don’t see why I would ever move back.”
“Yeah, Rome is nice.”
“Since you don’t seem to like this modern stuff, why not have look in the room where he keeps all the classical pieces?” This caught me by surprise, because I thought this short but pleasant conversation was coming to an end and also because I had no clue there was another art room.
“What's your name by the way?” I said and stretched out my hand, thinking what a shame it was that all good girls were taken.
She shook it firmly and said “Geri” and like she could read my confused look, she added “Like the redhead in Spice Girls, G-E-R-I. Geri.”
“Aha, so you’re a Spice Girl. I’m Darryl and I’m one of the Blackstreet boys,” I joked badly, “let’s find that other room.”
I was happy to have Geri as company, but I knew there was a risk her boyfriend would get angry, which would be an unnecessary complication. But on the other hand, artists weren’t so macho and possessive and Geri didn’t seem to think it was a big deal to walk around with a complete stranger. Maybe they had one of those “open” relationships?
The classical room was a time machine into the 17th century and most of the paintings in there carried massive gold frames and a sense of legend. The furniture was from the same period, dark wooden and in vivacious shapes and there was a huge golden chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Being a semi-snob, I actually preferred this style from the ultra-contemporary designs that dominated the rest of the gallery. I have always been nostalgic for the “good old days”.
I stopped in the middle of the room, stared upwards at what I realized was a wonderfully and meticulously painted ceiling and said “Wow!”
“Dashing,” Geri replied, in an accent I thought was reserved for old ladies in hats and pearl necklaces. Despite her young and fresh looks, it suited her. Perhaps we were both snobs.
I saw a painting I recognized and walked up to it, “He has an original Monet?” I said, feeling my mouth open into an awkward shape.
“Of course, this is one of best private collections in the world. He has lots of famous works, Monet, Dali, Caravaggio. It’s basically a museum.”
“Amazing.” I replied.
Geri didn’t seem very interested in the paintings though and kept talking, “Did you find anything you like yet? The apartments, I mean, the one she wants to buy.”
I don’t like lying because it always pushes you further down the rabbit hole, but here I had already taken that step and had to worm myself out of it. I faked interest in the painting in front of me and said in a faraway voice, “Nah, not really, but I'm sure something will turn up.” I didn’t like how my voice sounded when I lied - all squeaky and shaky - a lie detector would probably be drawing up mountains for me.
“I wonder where she is by the way,” I added in an attempt to change the subject and also because I had no idea where B was. I was supposed to guard her against the evil who came in suits, long hair and musky colognes, but I wasn’t doing a great job.
Geri looked a bit disappointed when I mentioned B, “If you want to look for her, that’s fine. But I'm sure she's in good hands around Matteo,” she said and kept looking at a Dali.
“You know him?”
“Well, through Flavio I know pretty much everyone in the upper end of the Roman art scene. I've met him quite a few times, he’s a true gentleman.”
I was almost about to ask about Matteo’s sexual orientation when a tall man in long, slightly frazzled hair, wearing a brown turtleneck sweater appeared from nowhere and started talking to Geri in a sharp Italian tone. She responded in a raised voice, her accent sounding impeccable to my mono-lingual ears and gestured towards me and said, “Flavio, this is Darryl, Darryl, this is my boyfriend Flavio.”
Boyfri
end? He’s your oldfriend, that’s what he is! I remember thinking, because the tall and slim man in front of me was at least 25 years her senior. A part of me wanted to reassure myself that it wasn’t an uncommon thing these days and another part of me wanted to shout: Call the cops!
Flavio shook my hand nonchalantly like he couldn't care less who I was and I could’t really blame him either, after all I had “hijacked” his girlfriend. He leaned down like a T-Rex towards Geri’s delicate little ear and whispered something, after which she turned to me, said “excuse us,” and then the odd-looking couple walked away and left me feeling lonely and miserable. Geri had been a great escape for me, but now she was gone and all I had was an empty glass and some paintings to look at.
I walked around and looked at some more paintings. My head was strangely empty. I looked at my watch and realized time had literally flown and that I needed to get back to B. Wherever she was.
Back in the main room people were scattered about talking, and the crowd didn’t look as dense as before. My head went back and forth as I paced the space, but B was nowhere to be seen and my nervous walking around was starting to attract curious looks from the rest of the partygoers and beads of sweat from my armpits.
Wasn’t someone saying something about a roof terrace? That must be where she is! Was the thought that popped into my head after a while.
After asking a waiter I found a door leading to a small staircase in one of the corners of the room. Up there was a glass door leading out to the roof, which was full of plants and furniture and looked more like a lounge. Most of the party had moved up there it seemed and I was soon handed some kind of drink. I saw Gianluca, I saw Flavio and Geri, I saw many of the people I’d met downstairs, but not B and not Matteo. Finally I turned to Geri, “Sorry to disturb, but have you seen B?”
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