Back to Blood: A Novel

by Tom Wolfe

  Without so much as a glance at Magdalena, he headed off that way, too. Now there were just the two women, A.A. and Magdalena, on opposite sides of the table, clueless as to what to say to each other.

  A lightbulb went on over Magdalena’s head. This was her chance! When she sat down, her back was to the Russian. But A.A. was facing him. Up to this point, A.A. had not said a single word to her. She hadn’t so much as looked at her. Now Magdalena stood up and beamed a terribly big smile at A.A. Was it a grin? In any case, she was determined to hold it on tight. She headed around the table toward A.A., holding the smile, the grin, so tightly above and below her teeth, it began to feel like a grimace. A.A. looked nonplussed. No, it was more than that. She was wary. Magdalena’s approach was so contrary to what A.A. expected. This clueless little girl who had turned up with the famous porn doctor… Magdalena had read all that in her face, that and her wish that the clueless little girl would do the appropriate thing—kindly stop grinning at her and keep away from her… and evaporate. Oh, Magdalena could read all that and more within that frame of bobbed blond hair, parted on one side and swept right across her brow and eye to the other… but there was no turning back now, was there… not after so much bolted-in-place grinning… and so she pulled up a chair, the one Fleischmann had been sitting in, right up next to A.A.’s… until their heads were barely twenty-four inches apart… But what was she going to say? No Hands popped into her head—

  “—Miss Carr—Marilynn—may I call you Marilynn?”

  “Certainly”—with a standoffish glare that said, “Call me anything you want and then fall through a hole in the floor. Okay?”

  “Marilynn”—Magdalena was aware that her voice had acquired a sound she had never heard inside her skull before—“what you said about No Hands art, that was so-o-o-o fascinating! What makes it important?”

  Just being turned to for her expertise took some of the chill off A.A.’s countenance. But then she expelled a big sigh, the sigh of someone who knows she’s about to undertake something laborious… and useless. “Well,” said A.A., “are you familiar with the expression ‘All great art is about art’?”

  “No-o-o-o…” Magdalena maintained the congenial smile and wide-eyed fixation of someone who has a great thirst for knowledge and has found the fountain.

  Another tedium-loaded sigh. “It means it’s not enough to create an effect in the viewer. It has to reflect, consciously, upon the art—” She stopped abruptly. She leaned toward Magdalena in an intimate, confidential way. “Actually, do you mind if I ask you something? What’s your relationship—how do you know your friend Dr. Lewis? Somebody was saying he’s a prominent psychiatrist… pornography addiction or something?”

  Magdalena didn’t know what to say. She was his girlfriend? They were just friends? She worked for him? At this moment, it didn’t matter. The main thing was, she was directly in the line of vision of the Russian, Sergei Korolyov. Should he suspend his interest in his own tablemates long enough to look at her, she wanted him to see a young woman who was happy… to the point of merriment… engaged in a confidential conversation at her table, obviously a part of her crowd, whoever they were, perfectly comfortable in the mental atmosphere of VIP lounges… and the inner circles of the Art Basels of the world—in short, a beautiful creature who belongs, who is at home where things happen.

  “Oh, I work for him,” she told A.A. “I’m a psychiatric nurse.” Sounded better than plain nurse.

  “And so he just invited you to Miami Basel for the VIP opening?” said A.A. “Nice boss.” She looked into Magdalena’s eyes with an insincere, insinuating smile.

  ::::::Bitch! What do I say to that?!:::::: Her brain digigoogled for an answer and simultaneously wondered if she looked as flustered as she felt. After too long a pause: “I think Mr. Fleischmann got the VIP passes. He’s so-o-o-o generous!”

  “Yes, he is,” said A.A. “So anyway, Dr. Lewis—”

  “And he really trusts your judgment,” said Magdalena.

  “Who does?”

  “Mr. Fleischmann. Anybody could tell that!” Magdalena was willing to try anything to steer the conversation away from Norman. And thankgod! flattery brought a sincere smile to this woman’s English-bobbed face.

  “I hope so!” said A.A. “You know, he really did very well today.”

  “I wish I knew half as much as you know about art, Marilynn. A tenth as much. A hundredth as much. I have to admit, I’d never heard of Jed Doggs before today.”

  “Jeb,” said A.A.

  “Jeb?”

  “You said ‘Jed.’ It’s Jeb Doggs. He’s beyond ‘emerging artist’ now, and I think he’s beyond ‘rising star,’ too. He’s made it. He has real traction. I’m very happy for Maurice… and he’s going to be very happy when he sees what an upward trajectory Jeb Doggs is on.”

  ::::::I’ve done it! I’ve pushed this vain bitch off of me ’n’ Norman and onto herself.::::::

  Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Korolyov turning away from the others at his table to look ::::::not at me:::::: at something over there. As he turned back, his head stopped in mid-arc. ::::::He’s staring straight at me… he’s still staring… still staring!::::::

  Magdalena couldn’t play it cool any longer. She broke eye contact with A.A., even though AA’s lips were still moving. She looked straight at him. A.A. was looking straight at her. ::::::But I have to take the chance!:::::: She put on a smile that was meant to say, “Yes, this is me, the girl whose hand you held too long!… and yes, you are welcome to do it again!”

  Korolyov smiled back in a way that said to Magdalena, “Oh, don’t worry. I will.” And he kept that smile on his face for several beats too long. Magdalena compressed her lips in a way meant to say, “I’m bursting with emotion and anticipation! Please hurry!”

  Korolyov turned back to his tablemates… and A.A. said, “Friend of yours? Sergei Korolyov? Don’t take this the wrong way, but I can’t think of any other nurse who knows so many heavy hitters. I’m not implying anything, but I notice you and Fleischmann are Magdalena and Maurice”… another insinuating smile.

  ::::::I’m so stupid! Why did I have to tell her I was Norman’s nurse? Why did I even have to say “nurse” at all? Why didn’t I just say, “Oh, we’re friends”… and let her take that any way she wanted? Now I’m going to have to say, “Well, I do work for Norman—but we also date.” Date! These days date is a euphemism for fuck. Stupid! Stupid! But that’s the only way out! A.A. has her face stuck right into mine. Now she’s got this—this poisonous look on her face, and she’s arching her eyebrows in a way that says, “Okay, why are you taking so long? I asked you a simple question. What are you trying to hide?” Damn! and Damn! again! Well… here goes.::::::

  “Uhh… the thing is, I work for Dr. Lewis—Norman—like I said. But we’re also dating—”

  —A whispery “Ahhhhh…” came out of A.A.’s mouth. She couldn’t hold it in… an irresistible ahhhhhh <<>>—

  “—and Norman and—” Magdalena paused for one beat. ::::::“Mr. Fleischmann” or “Maurice”? Uhhh… Maurice.:::::: “Norman and Maurice are good friends, and so I’ve gotten to know him, too.”

  A.A. gave Magdalena a super-toxic smile… Gotcha now, don’t I!… Oh, Magdalena knew what was going through her mind. <<>>

  Just then… thank God. Here came Norman and Maurice, returning, weaving their way between the tables. They looked very jolly, very pleased about something. A moment ago, she wanted them to stay away long enough for the handsome Russian to make a move. Now—be thankful for small things! The two men were back and that was bound to change the subject, the subject being <<>>

  “You’ll never guess who I ran into over at the BesJet VIP room!” Maurice was pumped up with pleasure. He was grinning and his eyes went back and forth from A.A. to Magdalena and Magdalena to A.A., twi
nkling—no, more than that… sparkling, shining, beaming. “Flebetnikov! Was he pissed! He was growling! He was roaring! You should have heard him! Some damned martinet—that was the word he used, martinet—how does he know martinet? He’s so bad at English—some damned martinet of a security guard held him back. ‘Some damn stupid redneck’—I don’t know where he picked up redneck, either—on and on about ‘some damn stupid redneck.’ He was lucky some damn stupid redneck didn’t come over and empty his big fat tub for him. By the time he finally shakes the redneck, he’s telling me, all the best stuff was gone. ‘All da bes’toff vas gon!’ ”

  “So what did you say?” said A.A.

  Norman chimed in. “AahhhHAHHHock hock hock you should’ve heardddahhhock hock hock, MauriceeeegghehehehahhhHAHAaghhhock hock hock! He tells the guy—he says, ‘Gosh, that’s terrible! I’m going to try to find someone who is on the boardahhhHAHHHhock hock hock! ‘Whose work were you interested in?’ he’s asking the guy. ‘Dosunt matter. Is all gon!’ ” Norman has to show he can do a Russian accent just as well as Maurice, of course. “And get thisss-s-s-s-s-sAHHHH hock hock hock! Then Maurice puts his arm around the guy’s shoulders and says, ‘That’s awful! I’m so sorRRAHAHAHAhhry!’ He’s so sorRRAHahahAAAHhhhry! I thought you were gonna shed some tears for himaahhhHAHAHAHAHHock hock hock hock!”

  “Whatever,” said Fleischmann. “But he had it coming. He’s the kind of guy who just keeps pushing, keeps pushing, keeps pushing—the same way he pushed everybody aside until he was the first one through that door.”

  Magdalena found herself feeling sorry for the fat man. Maurice Fleischmann, who had connections everywhere, he had the power to get some big redneck to take care of this big bear of a Russian billionaire with one telephone call. She lowered her eyes while she pondered. She didn’t notice the tall figure coming up behind Fleischmann until he had almost reached the table. Yes, it was him, finally, the Russian, Sergei Korolyov. She could actually feel a surge of adrenaline trigger her heart into a split second of fibrillation. ::::::Damn! Why has he waited so long? Now he makes up his mind… after Maurice and Norman have come back! Now there’ll be nothing but the usual when men with high opinions of themselves run into each other. They’ll spend the whole time trying to think of not totally obvious ways of showing off. Women’s rights? That’s a laugh. Women don’t exist when men like these meet… unless they happen to be stars of some kind themselves… We’re just here. We just fill up space.::::::

  “Maurice!” Korolyov said in the heartiest possible manner. “I might have known I’d see you here!” (“I my-taf knohhhwn I’d zee you here!”) With this, he gave Maurice the sort of manly hug European men give each other—if they are on roughly the same social plateau. Then he gestured in the general direction of the exhibition. “See anything you liked?”

  “Oh, a couple of things,” Maurice said with a knowing smile in order to make it blatantly clear that Oh, a couple of things was meant as a choice piece of understatement. “But first let me introduce you to my dear A.A., Marilynn Carr, my art adviser. If you want to know anything about contemporary American art… anything… you have to talk to Marilynn. She’s been a tremendous help today. She saved the day! A.A…. Sergei Korolyov.”

  “Oh, I know!” said A.A., standing up and taking Korolyov’s extended hand into both of hers. “This is such an honor! You’ve given us—Miami—our first art destination!”

  Korolyov chuckled and said, “Thank you. You’re much too kind.”

  “No, I mean it!” said A.A. “I was at the dinner that night at the museum. I hope you know how much you’ve done for art in Miami—those gorgeous, gorgeous Chagalls!” ::::::Gushing all over the man, monopolizing his attention, showing off… Oh, those gorgeous Chagalls!… and I don’t even know what a Chagall is.::::::

  A sudden dreadful thought ::::::Maybe it’s A.A. he has come over to meet in the first place. Look at her! She has his hand in hers—both of her hands—and she won’t let go!::::::

  Magdalena studies his face for clues. ::::::Thank God! He’s giving A.A. nothing but room-temperature formal politeness.::::::

  Meanwhile, Maurice is rigid with impatience, both elbows locking his arms into right angles at waist level… frustrated by this interruption in his obligatory round of introductions. Finally he cuts off A.A.’s gusher by saying in a loud voice, “—and Sergei, this is Dr. Norman Lewis. You’ll remember Norman from the other night at Casa Tua?”

  “Oh, yes!” said Korolyov. “Someone at our table said that she had just seen you on television. You were talking about—I’m not sure what she said.”

  “Hello again, Mr. Korolyov!” Norman was very cheery. “I’m not sure which show she was talking about, but probably addiction. That’s usually the subject.” ::::::Usually… which show… probably!… Have to get across the fact that you’re always on television, don’t you, Norman!:::::: “I have the hopeless obligation to tell people there’s no such thing as addiction, medically. They don’t want to believe that! They’d much rather believeaahhhHAHAHAHock hock hock hock—believe they’re sickkahHAHock hock hock hock!”

  Maurice didn’t want to linger on that subject. He hastened to direct Korolyov’s attention to Magdalena.

  “And you’ll remember Magdalena, Sergei.”

  “Of course!” said Korolyov. “I remember very well.” He extended his hand; and she hers. He held her hand for far too long without saying another word. He gave the same look he had given her from his table, the same message, except that this time he poured great gouts of it into her eyes… before saying, “It’s very nice to see you again” in a perfectly uninflected, polite way.

  Then he turned back to Maurice and reached into an inside jacket pocket. “Please, let me give you my card. I don’t know anything about contemporary American art. I just read about it… Jeb Doggs and so on…” ::::::Does he already know about Maurice’s “triumph” somehow?:::::: “… but I do know a bit about nineteenth-century Russian art, and early twentieth century. So if there’s anything I can possibly help you with… and let’s keep in touch in any case.”

  He extended a card toward Maurice, and Maurice took it. He extended one toward A.A. and she took it… Oh, thank you so much gush much gush gush much. Korolyov extended one toward Norman, and Norman chuckled, stopped short of a hock hock hock hock outright laugh, and took it. Then Korolyov extended one toward Magdalena and she reached up, and he slipped the card down past her fingers and placed it upon her palm and pressed it into her hand with his fingertips, anchoring them with his thumb on the back of her hand, and poured gouts and gouts and gouts of himself into her eyes ::::::for far too long!:::::: before turning away.

  And that bit with the card ::::::Now I know… That didn’t just happen!:::::: the serotonin was flooding her bloodstream, with no chance of uptake anytime soon. From that moment on she began to plot plot plot plot concoct concoct concoct concoct some way to see him again.

  Norman hadn’t noticed anything unusual. But Maurice’s lust antennae must have quivered, because about ten minutes later he said, “Have you met Korolyov before?”

  “Only the other night,” she said, straining to keep the tone offhand, “when you introduced me.”

  Sergei Korolyov—he was so gorgeous!

  11

  Ghislaine

  Finding a long-sleeved shirt to cover up those famous—they were literally in the news today—those famous Nestor Camacho muscles of his took some doing. But it had to be done. Then he remembered a checked flannel shirt he had stuck away on the shelf in the closet he and Yevgeni shared. Obviously a long-sleeved shirt made of flannel with a dark check design was not not not the ideal choice on a hot hot hot Miami halogen-heat-lamp day like this… but it was the best he could do. It was pretty ugly, actually, and he wore it hanging outside the pants to make himself look like a feed sack full of modesty… all this, because he knew the story in the Herald this morning would be the Godzilla in the room anywhere his CSTeammates laid eyes on him. The thing was on the
front page, with a smaller version of the picture of him with his shirt off after the Mast incident.

  Sure enough, Nestor, Hernandez, Nuñez, and Flores, another cop in the unit, had just settled into a booth at Kermit’s, the little short-order joint just down the block from the big CVS—come to think of it, every joint in Miami seemed to be just down the block from one big CVS or another—anyway, they had just sat down in the booth when Hernandez said, “Who is this John Smith, Nestor? What’s it cost to hire a PR man, anyway?”

  Oooof! That one nailed Nestor right between the eyes. But he managed to lie coolly, in a put-on tone, “As far as I know, Sarge, he’s just a guy who recognizes real talent when he sees it.”

  Good one. Nuñez and Flores laughed appreciatively. Sergeant Hernandez didn’t. “Yeah, but he didn’t see it. He wasn’t there. But you’d never know it from this—” Hernandez picked up a copy of the Yo No Creo el Herald as if it were a toxic object and began reading out loud. “ ‘The rope-climbing cop, twenty-five-year-old Nestor Camacho, Police Department medal-of-valor winner a couple of months ago for carrying a panicked Cuban refugee down, bodily, from atop a seventy-foot-high schooner mast, yesterday left fellow cops—and a pair of Overtown crack house suspects—agog’—what the hell’s a gog?”—appreciative chuckles from Nuñez and Flores—“ ‘With yet another feat of strength. Camacho and his partner, Sergeant Jorge Hernandez,’ unfortunately not a legend in his own time himself—” More chuckles from Flores and Nuñez, and Hernandez swelled up with his newly found gift for wit—

  Nestor broke in. “Hey, come on, Sarge, it doesn’t say that!”

  “Gee, maybe I misread it,” said Hernandez. He continued reading, “Camacho and his partner, Sergeant Jorge Hernandez, still a virgin in the Land of the Legends—were trying—”

  Nestor rolled his eyes up into his skull and moaned, “Give me—a—break…”

  “—‘trying to arrest TyShawn Edwards, twenty-six,’ ” Hernandez went on, “ ‘and Herbert Cantrell, twenty-nine, both of Overtown, on drug charges when things turned deadly. According to police, Edwards, six-five and 275 pounds, had both hands around Hernandez’s neck, choking him, when Camacho, five-seven and 160 pounds, jumped on Edwards’s back and clamped him in a wrestling hold called “a figure four with a full nelson” and rode him rodeo-style until Edwards collapsed, gasping for breath. Nuñez tied Edwards’s hands behind his back and completed the arrest. Camacho credits an unorthodox training regimen’—”