Lomita For Ever

by Trevor Eve

  ‘Contemporary?’

  She posed as she posed.

  ‘His name is John Everett Millen.’

  He said the three words with an obvious pride, and a sense of emotion in the back of his throat that thickened his saliva.

  Ever felt he needed to up his game with this opponent.

  ‘I can look on our database to see if we have ever had any of his work, but…’

  She halted, and started up again, having gathered her thoughts in a reflective beat.

  ‘If he is not currently for sale on our website it is unlikely. Is that M-i-double-l?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Confirmed Ever.

  ‘E-n, or I-n?’

  ‘E.’

  Came the reply.

  A time.

  ‘No, he is not listed. Let me check the off-sale stock list. Sorry, this is quite a slow process, as I have to access it by warehouse location and there are a quite a few. Please take a seat.’

  And she pointed to another Carrara quarry section, where black leather sofas that had been responsible for the death of a few cows were resting, waiting to dwarf the occupant.

  ‘Many thanks.’

  ‘Please read our catalogue of the current exhibitions, we have three at the moment including a magnificent Koons retrospective, some of his earliest work from the seventies.’

  ‘Many thanks.’

  He repeated, but he had no interest in the catalogue.

  ‘And if you would like tea?’

  She continued with an admirable efficiency and attentiveness considering he was just a man off the street.

  ‘Or coffee, or water, Jules will be delighted to help you.’

  Jules was revealed behind him as he turned around. Jules looked out of place not being on the pages of Vogue, black dressed in black, she stood out against the perfect backdrop, seeming physically overqualified to bring the cup of espresso that was ordered.

  ‘No sugar, thank you.’

  He had walked into this inner sanctuary through two enormous glass doors that closed as if hermetically sealed, keeping the noise of the regular gallery visitors as a mime show in the background. He had assumed he was in the right place. Reasonable assumption now.

  Jules presented, the only word for it, a white treat of a tray that emphasised the brilliant blue, yellow and red of the tiny Talavera cup, the only alarm of colour in the space, the cup set in an off-centre saucer, with the steam from the coffee still rising. He anticipated its deliciousness, but was desperately thinking what to say to Miss England if she found his father’s work. It surprised him that he had arrived with no plan, which made him think, only briefly, that he was hoping nothing would be found. That he could go home. Ditch it all. The coffee was piping hot and just as his mouth was beginning to accept the heat after much blowing, he heard the clip of exceedingly high heels, that clean, sharp clip allowing the minimum contact with the floor. He looked up to see the pencil-tight skirt belonging to Miss England standing in front of him.

  ‘May I?’

  She sat next to him, equally enveloped by the sofa, but experienced enough to just occupy the edge, and showed him a printout of the detailed inventory of forty-seven pieces of work, all listed by title, works by John Everett Millen, that had been housed in a warehouse in San Bernadino.

  Ever felt his breath stop, and his heartbeat became irregular, then faster for the briefest of time.

  Tachycardic.

  These were the works that had cost his father his life. Their titles, their names documented in black and white. Ever was transfixed.

  ‘Did you want to purchase?’

  Broke the silence.

  He did not know what to say. Could she hear his heart thumping?

  ‘Their value is, I mean are, what are they selling for?’

  ‘I have no idea – they have been on our inventory for so long, with only one inquiry…’

  The last word she pronounced in an American accent. Starting with the liquid you write with.

  ‘…that I would have to consult with our marketing director, or it may even be a question for Mr Lorken himself. But twenty-seven of the original forty-seven have in fact been sold… eight years ago. To the one purchaser, prices not indicated here, but I may be able access them as a guide, for my eyes only, so to speak, to assess valuation relevant to the remaining pieces.’

  The first thought from Ever was the ARR – the Artist’s Resale Right – why was his father not informed? It would have been a percentage on a decreasing scale as the paintings achieved a higher price, so the financial reward might not have been life-saving, but apart from the income generated, it would have given him a confidence that people actually wanted his work. That was the major factor. Being wanted. This was a shit thing to hear.

  A fucking bitch shit, fucking thing to goddam fucking hear.

  It wasn’t Miss England’s fault but, by God, he looked at her in a different light.

  At this moment he would have liked to have punished her in a way he would not have the courage to voice, but he enjoyed the private thought.

  ‘Can I take your details, if that is your interest, and we can get back to you? Or perhaps you would like to view? We can have them transported to our private gallery here, but I would need some bank references, some validation, as we can only cover the expense if we’re confident that it’s a serioius request.’

  My God, Ever thought, in the quietest part of his brain that wasn’t affected by his heartbeat.

  First thought.

  What happened to the fucking money, bitch. Cunt, was the first word that came to mind, but he was mildly embarrassed at the strength of that and it received an instant dismissal.

  Then a touch of calm approached his brain, oh, that was nice, like a river flowing through his bones. Then – my God, me, who am I? I have no way of convincing anyone of my validity. But he wanted to see those works, those paintings, displayed, hung even just once, in this gallery. And the next words that spurted from his coffee-laced mouth were, improbably:

  ‘I represent Lomita Nairn, she is a collector and remembers admiring his work many years ago.’

  ‘Fine.’

  Replied Miss England.

  ‘If you give me your contact information, I will report back to her and we can go from there. That would be no problem, Mr…?’

  The question hung in the air. Who was he?

  ‘Mr Jacob.’

  Good, valuably Jewish: like his son – came out.

  ‘I am Mr Jacob, and obviously for privacy reasons Miss Nairn would prefer to make the initial contact.’

  ‘Of course, completely understand, and thank you for your interest. If you wouldn’t mind coming with me back to my desk, we can catalogue the necessary information. You might also…’

  She continued, on the walk.

  ‘Like to inform Miss Nairn – or Mrs?’

  ‘No, no Miss.’

  ‘Well, Miss Nairn, of our Basquiat exhibition, which opens in ten days. I would be delighted to extend an opening night invitation to you both; Mr Lorken will most definitely be in attendance and I am sure would be most interested in discussing Miss Nairn’s collection.’

  And finally, to his relief, he was sweating,

  ‘It has been a pleasure to meet you, Mr Jacob. My name is Peony Money-Root. With a hyphen, as you will see on my card.’

  He was ready now.

  ‘May I ask you a question, Miss Money-Root?’

  He felt a little stupid calling her by such a name considering what her ancestry must have done to warrant it. But the surname was at least easier to negotiate than the first name.

  ‘Would the artist not have been entitled to some percentage of the sale of his paintings under the Artist’s Resale Right agreement?’

  He had her now, he thought, the bitch would be struggling now, then his dominant world dropped a score and ten and he realised how stupid he had been. As he had been gaining in confidence, it suddenly occurred to him that why would he know, or care,
whether any monies had been paid or not. When he was just an innocent representative of a collector. He knew his father hadn’t received a cent. Ron Riley had confirmed it.

  Fortunately, he was dealing with Miss Money-Root, who didn’t know the meaning of the word perspire, or being caught out, and fortunately, he guessed, analysis was not her strength, or indeed her need. Specialist knowledge, good in her own field, enter a different game and flat on her face she was likely to fall.

  ‘Indeed he would, Mr Jacob, had the works been sold in the UK, or Australia, or even Mexico. But not in the United States – that policy is not in operation here. And, although I shouldn’t really tell you, the collector whose name sits alongside these purchases is in fact a United States resident and the deal was done on US soil. We operate a policy of discretion on all our sales.’

  My fucking God, she got me, he thought. Ever had well and truly been full-faced, cream-bunned got. Ever thought, she’s not a bitch, just really damn good at her job.

  ‘Thank you.’

  He uttered with a respect that had sprung faster than a wasp’s sting; he felt differently towards her.

  But the knowing would have been nice, wouldn’t it, be honest, that wouldn’t have taken much, just a note. The being wanted would have been much appreciated by his father, he thought, but looking at Miss Money-Root, not being wanted was something she had never experienced. She knew nothing about it, only as a concept and, in that form, it had probably never even crossed her mind.

  Spoilt was the word he had been struggling for, through all those derogatory adjectives.

  Just plain privileged.

  But that was a fuck of a thing to be in its own right.

  Cunt.

  Ever was breathless, collected the relevant paperwork and receipt of information and walked across the floor, of yet more Italian quarry extraction, in what seemed to be the noisiest, loneliest and most endless walk. Intimidating came to mind. He was totally intimidated. My God, he needed a smoke. His father had sold paintings and he never knew. It could be put no simpler.

  It was a sin.

  Fuck to the death the cunt that lives as Mr Lorken.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Ever’s grandfather was Grant Everett Millen.

  Ever had never questioned why the name Everett had been passed down through the generations, as if just a harmless connection, a consistency, a continuity. But it carried with it the association of where the name has lived and been for the men in the family.

  Ever’s grandfather was born in a lunatic asylum in 1900 in Staffordshire, St Edward’s in Cheddleton, an austere Victorian pile of a building, housing the primitive treatments inflicted on the so-termed mentally insane.

  His grandfather’s mother wasn’t insane, neither was his grandfather’s father, he was working as the caretaker in this asylum. Their home address on their son’s birth certificate was Asylum Cottages, hardly communicating, Ever had always thought, a qualifying charm to the word cottage.

  Was it there, for the twelve years that his grandfather grew up as a child, that the seed of insanity was planted and nurtured by his grandfather, unaware, and passed on in a latent genetic form to his son, John Everett Millen, who then started to show the signs of mental disturbance, and then these seeds grew in the semen, his semen, forming the DNA that was passed on to Ever in innocence having been absorbed through environment? Mental imbalance starting as environmental and ending up as internal and naturalised – nature’s process. Who knows if the grandmother had intercourse with any of the inmates and a male microchimerism effect took place, harbouring the DNA from her sexual partners and passing on mental imbalance.

  It had definitely found its way in as a consistent gene.

  Ever had not taken his own mental condition into account, in terms of not allowing it to determine, initially, his life – not that he was completely crazy or anything, at least that was what he thought in his more positive moments.

  *

  Ever was now thirty.

  He had had a complete crash into the wall three years previously and had since been on what doctors like to describe as a long-term low dosage of antidepressants.

  A 25 mg tablet split in half, finally settling on Lustral as his pill of choice, after a disastrous experience on Prozac. Lustral was the UK brand or in the US it was called Zoloft, but they both contained the same compound – sertraline.

  A selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor, more familiarly known as an SSRI. Ever knew that in treatment of the brain, it had the sophistication and equivalence of using a sledgehammer, but doctors love prescribing it, it gets you out of their office and back on to some kind of road to recovery, and anyway they know very little about what goes on in the brain. Like faces, brains are all different, but all are treated the same. And they are able, the doctors, to pat themselves on their pinstriped backs and console themselves that the SSRI is supposed to be a major advancement on the earlier model, the tricyclic antidepressant, like amitriptyline, which Ever had also been put on at one point, and which he likened to LSD, an even earlier attempt at hammering the brain into some kind of submission to enter an alternative world.

  Ever loved these, the Amys, as he called them, and kept them for purely recreational purposes – for when you just didn’t want to think of anything at all.

  Just float, with a little shake in the hands, being, as far as he could see, and there was no one to tell him otherwise, the only downside.

  Whether the brain ever truly gets any of these chemicals out of its smudge mass is questionable, but it’s not a very long life one has, and on the basis that everyone has something, maybe they’re not too bothered.

  They being medical folk, who we seem to trust with a stupidity that always struck Ever as profound. Just numb the fucker, minimise his neurotic options and stop him moaning. No one can cope with the depressed moaning of a manic depressive, a bipolar, a chronic depressive, a general anxiety-ridden human.

  Take your pick, and those are the mild ones.

  Options, that’s what you want.

  Ever had tried every day in his attempt to cut down on his dosage, he didn’t want to be drug-dependent, not pharmaceutically drug-dependent, at any rate, but it didn’t work, and his inertia and anxiety became so intense it was impossible for him to do his work.

  It had all started out of the blue, with an uncontrollable bout of crying, extraordinary fear that everything was going to go wrong in his life. And he ended up being taken by his wife to a pinstripe and sat in the corner of this psychiatrist’s office, or consulting room, as they like to call them, lying in a heap, in a heap of tears, on the floor in the corner, with this man pronouncing in a way that he has since found all doctors, psychiatrists, and psychologists, even psychoanalysts, to have, pronouncing with a coldness and detachment and a pomposity that they assume must be helpful to either themselves or to the poor beast of a patient, in that it keeps the objectivity in place, but it is shit. Because all that comes across is a feeling of, that word again, not fucking caring.

  Caring being the word, not fucking.

  Nothing seemed anything other than black.

  No road out, they put him in an institution and filled him with a mind-numbing drug, thioridazine, now banned because it has a habit of causing slow, repetitive, purposeless, involuntary movements on a permanent basis. It was banned in 2005, so technically he should never have been given it, they probably had some left over, but what a one to be put on – that, Valium and sertraline all at the same time.

  But the first drug they used, for its sedation properties, was trazodone, which is an antidepressant of the SARI class, a serotonin antagonist and reuptake inhibitor, a hypnotic, delivering a sleep-inducing and antidepressant effect. It makes it difficult to stand, as dizziness is a major side effect, but the one thing that does stand up, with a 1 in 6,000 chance, is your penis – the rare side effect of priapism.

  So there was Ever, the odds against him, with a permanent erection that delivered no pleasure
, unable to be relieved by ejaculation, ultimately supplying nothing but pain. Desire, strangely, was not aligned to the physical condition. There was no desire to penetrate. So that medication was eliminated; this is why they must have dug out the thioridazine, which just numbs you and droops you into an entirely different condition. Numb nuts.

  Maybe should have gone for the ECT.

  With this pharmaceutical inside him he was unable to feel body parts and had no sense of having any genitalia.

  Then came the decision as to whether to actually have electroconvulsive therapy, ECT, administered under general anaesthetic, as small electric currents are passed through the brain with the intention of triggering a small seizure.

  It was not surprising it was considered an option as the cocktail he was on had produced a zombie, visited only once by his wife, and as far as he felt, he could and would be left there to rot.

  He could not take in, or analyse, any of the updates he was being given; how can you give information to a brain crash? Not that it was his decision to make, of course, no, by this time you are considered to be a fucking nutcase, but the cold woman, who made him feel cold, temperature-wise, who he remembered was dressed not in a white coat, as he would have expected, but in a clean-cut, two-piece suit in beige, a skirt and jacket; she looked executive, not medical. She was the, or at any rate, his, overseeing psychiatrist in the hospital, and she and his next of kin – in this case his wife, atypical, as she was not prone to bouts of great caring anymore – were to be the decision-makers.

  The combination of these two women, he remembered, filled him with a terror that in his state of ever-growing anxiety he found hard to deal with.

  The decision was taken.

  There was to be no electroconvulsive therapy at the moment, while they waited to see what happened when the drugs took hold, as apart from the numbing, the medical shit has to permeate the pathways and channels of your brain and that takes a few weeks.