Adriana had taken at least two hundred pictures in her attempt to recreate the image. Mau thought she’d erred in choosing a Senegalese family to represent such a classic, magical painting. He was interested in reproducing the painting with exactitude, whereas Adriana seemed to care more about framing a discourse on the possibilities of nativity scenes. Mau paid careful attention to the images on the screen, scrawling notes on his pad. He wanted to precisely recreate elements from the painting in order to put them all together later. He started with the Virgin. The Senegalese Virgin wore a white scarf on her head, snug jeans, and a fitted T-shirt that showed off her curves. Halfway through the photo shoot, Mau had recalled that Fra Angelico’s Virgin did not have her head covered and asked the woman to remove her scarf. She obliged. Her hair was braided and pulled into a ponytail. Mau selected the pictures in which her hair was uncovered. The profile was an exact match because the original painting lacked dimension, and the Virgin appeared flat, as though made out of cardboard.
Adriana had not decided what to do about the golden halos that signified divinity in the paintings. She’d experimented with light, taking some test shots with the subjects’ faces lit from behind, but these had not turned out well. Mau believed the photographs should have halos. He put Fra Angelico’s painting on the screen and carefully cut out the golden rings. Then he manipulated them until they were the right size and pasted them behind the profile of the African woman. He enlarged the image and adjusted it pixel by pixel. When he felt the sun coming through the window, he turned off the computer and lay facedown next to Adriana, holding her.
Mau worked over many nights to achieve the desired effect, tirelessly repeating the same actions until he got the results he wanted. When he was done, he started another project. It was a photograph that imitated a Tintoretto nativity, for which he had directed the entire shoot. He’d set the child on a white sheet, making sure its drapes followed the original as closely as possible. He went days searching for a Saint Joseph who looked like the model in the painting—very old, bald, and with a beard. Despite the fact that New York parents were not generally young, Mau could not find anyone who looked the part. He felt defeated. Then he started searching for a grandfather. Adriana insisted that the families be authentic, real; he was not constrained by her rules.
One afternoon Mau was having coffee on a bench by the Literary Walk right next to Sheep Meadow. He was waiting for Adriana and hoping to hear a saxophonist who often performed there. It was his favorite section of Central Park; rows of large American oaks cast soothing shadows. He had seen pictures of these same oaks naked and covered with snow, and he longed to see them in winter. There were statues of writers placed under these trees, and for the first time in his life Mau felt a sting of curiosity toward their work. Why were they here? Suddenly, as though sent by God himself, there appeared a Saint Joseph identical to Tintoretto’s, right down to the bald head and beard. Mau couldn’t believe it. The man was pushing a toddler in a stroller; Tintoretto’s Child was also big. Fortunately, almost none of the babies in the paintings were newborns. Adriana had photographed premature twins who were being taken for a stroll. They were barely as big as a large rat, and the photo turned out to be powerful. It was one of Adriana’s favorites because it suggested the possibility of Jesus with a twin brother.
“Why not?” she’d said. “Even if the Holy Spirit fertilized her, she could have ovulated twice. Or the embryo could have divided itself after it was fertilized. Are we supposed to believe that God controls everything right down to the molecular level?”
Mau preferred to recreate the painting in all its beauty rather than ask himself those sorts of questions. The Tintoretto photograph on which he’d been working for almost a week was nearly identical to the original painting.
Mau had always dismissed photographs as souvenirs. For many years he refused to carry a camera because it bothered him that people would try to capture time in that way. You go up the Eiffel Tower: photo. You run with the bulls in Pamplona: photo. You go skiing: photo. Mau used to believe that taking pictures ruined memories. The trick was to be in the Eiffel Tower and not take a photo of it. Who cared about trite, touristy photos? The act of taking a photograph interfered with memory, because instead of living in the moment you were thinking about preserving it for posterity. It sacrificed the present for the sake of a future evocation. But now he felt capable of something altogether different. He didn’t capture a moment with his camera; he captured an object. He created a new image that others could see, understand, and admire. What excited Mau was the possibility of creating images, because he’d spent his entire life looking without understanding why. Until now.
50
The Gallery Owner
It took Larry longer than he would have liked to organize the dinner for Marta. Adriana’s show had sold out, and museums were expressing interest in exhibiting the pieces. He had not foreseen the work that would create.
On top of that, Adriana’s and Mau’s presence in the gallery distracted him. They used the conference room and computers almost every day. When they weren’t shooting photos, Mauricio would set up in Larry’s office, drink coffee, and look through his collection of monographs, devouring them as though he’d never opened a book in his life.
But Larry had not forgotten Marta. That would be impossible. She was like a wild colt, a magnificent animal that had never been tamed. You needed only to look at her magical eyes in order to understand that she took in the entire universe, that she was capable of anything because everything was possible with her.
He was pleased to discover that she was still in the city and decided to give the dinner that very week. It was customary to schedule events months ahead of time, especially during the busy pre-Christmas season, when the calendars of New York socialites were bursting with events. But Larry had devised a solution to this problem many years ago: Mondays. No one, no matter how in demand, had anything scheduled on Mondays, so Larry’s dinners became legendary for the personalities he could bring together.
He invited several New York women around Marta’s age to the dinner. Some were involved in charitable work, like Helena von Guttenberg, who headed up the Guggenheim Museum’s Young Collectors Committee, or Paula di Gianni Mata, who had organized the benefit ball to save Venice. Larry could picture Marta taking a role as a global socialite, traveling from party to party on different continents. The girl did not seem ambitious, but he was confident that seeing other rich young women would trigger her competitive spirit, making her want to belong to that select group.
“Why are you giving her a dinner? Marta is not interested in art; she’s not going to buy anything else from you,” Adriana had warned Larry when he invited them.
Larry prided himself on having a great eye and an extraordinary sense of smell for sniffing out collectors. But Marta was not passionate about objects. She craved attention. Which is why he thought it would be good to involve her in the world of charity work. He’d witnessed more than one trust-fund kid morph into a social butterfly. Marta could be one of them. She just needed direction. Like Alejandra von Thurlow, a beauty with a tattoo on her neck who piloted her own plane and had been one of the pioneers of the organic-food movement. She also ran her own foundation and business. He was sure that Alejandra would enchant Marta.
Larry invited a few eligible bachelors as well. He didn’t like that Marta had spent the night with Arthur Kauffman, even after he swore that nothing took place between them and that “the girl was fucking nuts.” Kauffman was a hoarder and a glutton—in short, an authentic collector. In order to function he needed to acquire something every day: money, wine, women, or paintings. That was Arthur’s day-to-day life. Marta could only fit into that life as a pretty and curious object. No, Marta was too valuable a specimen. Larry knew how to treat her right, how to protect her spirit and her freedom. A noble animal is delicate and needs to have its nature respected.
“Adriana, querida, I have a check for you. It’s for your p
aintings, dear,” Larry said excitedly. “They all sold. Now these photographs of yours, as you so rightly said, are going to be in great demand. I’ve already set aside the dates for your show next year, but I’ll need the photographs within six months. They’ll go to Venice, Basel, and London.”
Adriana put the envelope in her backpack. She opened it only after leaving the gallery. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
51
The Check
Mau was sitting at the computer when Adriana walked into the apartment. He’d set out a candle, a bottle of wine, two glasses, place mats, and flatware on the round table, which barely had room for two people. He finished what he was doing and greeted her with a long kiss.
Mau couldn’t cook, but every night he “made” her dinner with semiprepared foods that he put together or warmed up.
“Today I actually cooked,” he said. “Well, I made mustard dressing because I didn’t care for the ones I bought. I found a recipe on the Internet. Did you know there are thousands of recipes? I think I am going to start cooking for real.”
Adriana welcomed the news. She wondered what Mau was up to all day on the computer and what he did besides assisting her. She couldn’t deny that she enjoyed coming home to a set table, a flickering candle, flowers, and wine. Today, on the entrance hall table Mau had placed a velvety-red cockscomb. In the tiny kitchen, which was always immaculately clean, he’d prepared shrimp salad and country pâté on French bread. Adriana worried that he would grow bored of not doing anything and leave her.
Whenever she asked him what he did, Mau offered vague answers. He lived on his earnings from a few parking garages in Mexico. He had majored in business but couldn’t be bothered to finish his thesis. If he ever needed a degree, he’d buy it, but thus far not having one had not been an impediment. He once owned a bar in Zicatela, before that area became fashionable, and then sold it to a gringo surfer. He had properties, businesses, two married sisters, and seven nephews and nieces. His parents lived in a building that faced a golf course in Santa Fe, and they went to Acapulco every weekend. His father was a sailing aficionado. She had bits of information that didn’t add up to a whole. Adriana saw a man who was handsome, strong, and serene, and who seemed to have nothing to do but give her pleasure. This seemed incredible to her. She worried that she’d wake one day to find the dream had evaporated. She sat at the table, opened the bottle, and poured herself a glass of wine.
“Would you like?” she asked Mau.
“Please. Hey, guess what I found out today?”
“What?”
“Remember how Marta told us that the farm animals were from the Central Park Zoo?”
“Yes, she knows one of the donors.”
“Well, I got an e-mail from the caretaker, and they’re from a farm on Long Island. Marta rented them.”
“So Marta . . .”
“That’s what I think . . .”
“Do you think that’s why she’s not talking to us?”
“I don’t know,” said Mau. “As far as I know, she doesn’t know we’re together. I think she’s not talking to me because she’s in one of her funks. The only thing that’s changed is that in the past I would always go looking for her. But now, truth be told, you’ve kept me too entertained to think about her.”
“Well, tomorrow is Larry’s dinner, so we’ll see her there.”
Larry’s check was burning a hole in her purse. She was no longer interested in Marta or her money. She took out the envelope.
“What’s that?” asked Mau, sipping his wine.
“Let’s toast,” she replied.
Without asking what they were toasting, Mau clinked glasses with her. “Salud!”
“You’re not going to believe it,” said Adriana.
“What?”
“I’m rich.”
“How?”
“Look, one hundred and fifty thousand dollars!” Adriana thought about what that meant. “I can stay here as long as I want and even rent a real studio.”
They sat in silence. Mau imagined a financially independent Adriana with her own studio. Suddenly, it occurred to him that she might leave him one day. He hadn’t thought about it until now. Their relationship was so natural that he’d assumed it was a done deal. It frightened him to imagine being alone again, returning to Mexico and not having anything to do.
“Why don’t we buy an apartment together?” he said after considering all of this for a while. “I’ll put up half. Here they let you finance up to ninety percent of the cost.”
“I don’t know. Wouldn’t it be too much of a commitment? Like getting married?”
“No,” replied Mau with a devilish grin, “because we wouldn’t get married, but I have no intention of leaving you.”
“Let me think about it.” Adriana smiled. She was overwhelmed with happiness, but her instinct was to be cautious. There were too many emotions at once.
“I have something to show you, too,” said Mau, heading toward the computer. “I was going to wait a few days, but with so much news I might as well share mine. I’ve been working on your photographs.”
The Fra Angelico photo came up on-screen. Adriana was dumbfounded. It contained everything she had imagined and had not been able to capture. The editing work was a technical masterpiece.
“Mau! What have you done? How? How long did it take you?”
He just smiled. His eyes sparkled with an intense brightness.
Next he opened a photo that he’d conceived and directed himself, the Tintoretto. In terms of the characters, the Child, the Virgin, the draping of the garments and sheets, it was an exact and meticulous replica, but being a photograph set in Central Park, it looked modern and current. There was something of Gursky in it and Leibovitz, and something of Bill Viola. But it had something else, something nearly impossible to achieve: the artist’s hand. Adriana recognized it at once.
“We’ll sign this one together, but you’re going to need to find your own project,” she warned him.
“Don’t worry. I already know what I’ll work on next.”
They dropped to the floor. The futon was a few yards away, but they made no effort to reach it. Mau removed her clothes, starting with her jeans. She unfastened the buttons of his shirt, revealing Mau’s delicious pecs. Adriana’s breasts were pale and vascular, her nipples dark, almost purple. Her pubic hair was black and luxuriant. Mau liked that; it reminded him of authentic, ancient women. Lush pubes signaled a certain maturity that inspired respect and admiration in him. Adriana had the body of a woman, not a girl; a woman who was open and enjoyed her sexuality.
Mau wanted an adjective to describe Adriana, much like “virile” could be used to describe a manly man. “Feminine,” he knew, was the word he was searching for. But he associated femininity with something delicate, childish, and shameful, like shaved pubes and pink nails. Adriana was not like that. She was industrious, dominating, temperamental, sexual, voracious, lusty, and courageous. She was not afraid to live in the moment.
Mau pulled up her blouse and placed his head between his lover’s breasts. He breathed in deeply. She smelled of sweat, dust, soap—she smelled of life.
He removed his pants. He was completely hard. She was ready, her legs open, her pelvis raised to take him inside her. He kissed her on the lips while penetrating her. Leaning on one hand, he tried to pinch her nipple with the other one and kiss her as he moved inside her. It was an uncomfortable position. He went in as deeply as he could and without warning grabbed her hips and flipped her on top of him. With his back on the floor, he could see all of her. Her tousled black hair, intense gaze, and bouncy breasts, which he alternated holding and squeezing. Lustfully, she leaned in toward him so he could suck and pull on her nipples, tickling her with his tongue. He grabbed her ass firmly. He wanted to photograph his handprints on her white skin. He heard her panting, felt her clamping him with her vaginal muscles, and he came as well, forcefully squeezing her ass.
“Get on the floor,”
he said, “like that.”
He got the Nikon Reflex and put in a black-and-white 1000 ASA roll. He focused in tightly, so that her ass filled the frame like two full moons. His hands had left faint pink marks; the outlines of his fingers were still visible. The marks faded with each shot, and Mau doubted he would be able to capture the effect he wanted. Next time he would use the digital camera and more light. What was he thinking? He was no Mapplethorpe.
Adriana, still on the floor, looked on with interest, resting on one elbow.
“Leave that,” she said. “I’m not finished with you yet. I want to come again.”
Mau put aside the camera and smiled. When Adriana saw her lover’s full lips spreading and noticed the twinkle in his eyes, she felt a pulsing just behind her belly button.
52
The Tub
Her throat was closing in. It was a struggle to free it, to free herself—she forced a cough. From the depths of her chest emerged copious phlegm that dropped into the clean water of the freshly filled tub. It was a huge and brilliantly white tub filled with warm, crystalline water, except for the floating phlegm that took on the shape of a snake trailed by bubbly foam. There was nothing else in that pure, clear water. Marta thought the tub could be its own universe. Fascinated and entertained by the gigantic phlegm, she decided to fill this watery universe with her bodily wastes, even her entrails if necessary.
She tried coughing again but nothing came out. She managed to pull out a few transparent snots from her nose, which though less thick in consistency were equally viscous and floated. She spat, but her small, colorless saliva did not alter the water’s purity. She imagined opening her insides, taking out her organs one by one, intestines, stomach, kidneys, and all her viscera floating like planets in space. Her body was a universe. It had universal “potentiality.” Why couldn’t she pull it out without going to the extreme of gutting herself?
Becoming Marta Page 16