Finn was sceptical of any man choosing to have only one name. ‘What was that about?’ he asked.
‘A rather magnificent, sad old department store wants to commission Tilhoff to paint six very huge, beautiful paintings of the store’s interior and to pay him one hundred and eighty thousand dollars to do so. He insists each painting should be a triptych, three panels side by side making one picture, but Fountains, that’s the store, don’t want that.’
Finn raised his eyebrows in disbelief. ‘I’ll paint them a few pictures for a hundred grand,’ he said. ‘Is your painter guy pissed off?’
‘They’re all pissed off,’ Leo said, and he didn’t yet know if he was deflated or liberated by the fact that he no longer cared. He rose to his feet, rubbing his hands together. ‘Enough of that, I think it’s time you came and looked at lots of art.’
Oh, shit, Finn thought.
It began with Leo taking Finn to a large, open space with concrete floors and banks of ivory daylight at tall frosted windows. ‘This is Andrea Rosen’s place. This woman has great integrity.’
‘She doesn’t take fifty per cent?’
Leo shot Finn a dark look and found the boy smiling impishly, a new expression, far removed from Finn’s default setting.
‘I like her taste,’ Leo said.
‘I’ll like it too, then…’ Finn said, in all seriousness.
‘You don’t have to like it just because I do; that’s not the point.’
‘No, I’m happy to. Makes no difference to me.’
Leo let it go. He took him on to a Fairfield Porter retrospective at the Betty Cuningham Gallery where a tall, elderly security guard stood with a heavy bible in the palms of both hands and his head at a right angle to his neck as he read it, the exact same angle at which his grandson used his cellphone. The whole place felt dead to Finn. He didn’t like it, nor did he like being dragged in front of the photography of Nan Goldin.
‘They’re just snaps of her mates. I could do that.’
‘But you haven’t done that.’
‘Artists should do stuff I can’t do.’
‘Good.’
‘What’s good?’
‘Opinion is good.’
Next up was Van de Weghe Fine Art where, in hushed tones, Leo introduced the boy to the work of Jean-Michel Basquiat (surely a nineteen-year-old would relate to this). ‘He started out as a spray-painting graffiti artist, he was very cool, and a terribly important artist. He was in a punk band with Vincent Gallo, and he worked with Bowie too.’
Finn nodded in a way Leo couldn’t read.
‘He was a pretty interesting figure,’ Leo said.
‘Was or is?’
‘Was. Dead at twenty-seven. Overdose. Give me your opinion.’
Finn took a good hard look. ‘He didn’t overdose on the ability to draw.’
Leo took pleasure in Finn’s disdain, in the purity of it, unadulterated by malice or learning. And he took even greater pleasure in telling Finn how much the Basquiats cost.
‘For Christ’s sake…’ Finn muttered, giving up on the human race. But there was something Finn liked in the old man, a looseness in his movements as he looked at the art, an openness in his face, the absence of alcohol in his bloodstream, and Finn embarrassed himself by thinking how good it would be to introduce Leo to his brother, the way other nineteen-year-olds would bring a girlfriend home to impress their parents. Jack, this is my boss. I work for him and he pays me! You see, bro, I’m doing it all by myself. I don’t need anyone. I’m not asking for anything.
They took a break in Maison Claudine and Finn was surprised at how awkward Leo became with the waitress who served them and at how he watched her go and muttered aimlessly, ‘It would be nice to help someone like her, you know…’
‘Yeah,’ Finn laughed under his breath. ‘I think I know…’
They sat in silence until Leo panicked belatedly. ‘I didn’t mean someone black or someone poor or a woman…’ he stuttered.
‘I know,’ Finn said. ‘You meant someone beautiful, who you want to sleep with.’
‘There are some people,’ Leo replied, directing the conversation away from his crush on Willow, ‘who want a painting on their wall because it will speak for them and about them. It says that this man or woman has the wealth to own this work of art, the aesthetical dimension to want it, the taste to choose it. This painting mirrors some part of them that they wish to be seen. Fifty thousand dollars is, for some, a reasonable price to pay for such esteem. And if it proves to be the price of love, if someone loves them for the person they assume them to be because they are the owner of that painting, then it is cheap at the price. I know men and women who have spent millions on art because it buys them dignity, status, which matters a great deal to some people, if such a thing can be bought.’
‘Can it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘How much have you bought for yourself? Art, I mean.’
‘Some.’ Leo stood. ‘Quite a bit. Let’s get back to it.’
The entrance to the PaceWildenstein Gallery was the first place to catch Finn’s attention without Leo’s instigation. He sloped inside and saw thousands of white Styrofoam cups set out in a glacial landscape. ‘That’s pretty cool,’ he muttered.
‘It’s about waste, I think,’ Leo said.
‘Is it? Oh…’
‘What do you think?’
‘Nothing. It just looks good and it’s made of plastic cups and…’ He laughed to himself.
‘And what?’ Leo asked.
‘And it’s just good. End of, as my brother would say.’
‘Tara Donovan is the artist,’ Leo said.
‘It looks best from way back,’ Finn said, ‘like a snowstorm.’
‘You’ve got a brother back home?’ Leo asked.
‘I’ve got a brother.’ Finn picked up a leaflet describing the work. ‘But who buys something like this? You can’t put it in your house.’
‘You like it, then?’ Leo reconfirmed.
‘It’s okay.’
‘Hallelujah! There’s nothing you don’t like about it? Nothing crap? Nothing ridiculous?’
‘No. This one was good. You’ve saved your reputation, after all the horseshit you’ve shown me up till now.’
Finn wandered out. Leo followed, his spirits buoyed by the boy’s teasing, and something in the Sonnabend Gallery caught his eye. Seeing his boss ready to divert into another gallery, Finn walked on. ‘Let’s stop now,’ he said, ‘before you ruin it.’
‘I’ll catch you up.’ Leo went inside. He leaned close to an azalea made of painted bronze, with tiny, golden human hands growing from the tip of each branch. The desire to buy it for Willow suddenly burned a trail through him.
After work, Finn resumed his hunt for inexpensive ways of delaying his return to the hovel. The thought of going back there exposed the dark, angry ridge landscaped into his feelings. A private viewing had spilled out on to the sidewalk on 25th Street. At the entrance was a poster advertising an exhibition of hand-printed original photographs by Arthur Tress. Finn took a bottle of water from the ice tub and made his way through the packed corridors to a cramped gallery. The black and white prints had been taken in the sixties. He saw a highway junction in the Bronx, a man passed out in Central Park, a guy sitting on a telegraph pole floating on the Harlem River. It was hot in the room with all the bodies, among them handsome women who smelled good to Finn. He readied himself for unwanted attention; if anyone were to ask him what he thought of the work, he’d say It’s about waste, I think… and move confidently on.
He came to a photograph entitled Cemetery View. Thousands of tombs covered the contours of a vast cemetery and above it an elegant panorama of Manhattan levitated like a grey ghost in the haze. The gravestones swelled across undulating lawns, a high tide of human history written in slate and stone. Finn remained looking at the photograph for some time, and felt able to climb into it, walk back to Manhattan across the lawns.
He twi
sted through the mêlée back to the street, scooping up a handful of canapés, which he took to the Piers and ate with a view of the currents in the Hudson. He saw the man from the Tress photograph floating past, his legs straddling the telegraph pole, still drinking, still young, powerful, eternal. The photograph was forty years old. He wondered if the man was still alive. For the first time, he understood that a city had its ghosts, layers upon layers of them. He had thought that ghosts were for the country, for big lonely houses far from the crowd. He thought about Nicole Kidman in The Others. He had loved that film, the absence of words. And at fourteen he had loved her and he had believed he’d be perfect for her. The fact that she was a ghost only seemed to strengthen his belief that they were suited. But of course there were ghosts in a city, the ones who built it, pulled it down, rebuilt it. He saw that now. And that this city was good at sweeping up its rubble and allowing its ghosts. Suddenly, violent acts and violent men seemed feeble to him and he thanked New York City for reminding him of that. No wonder his brother who loved history wanted to live here. Maybe Jack buried his head in history because he struggled with today. Maybe his brother had a blind spot there and needed help with that. Maybe beating the crap out of him was not the best way to do that. Maybe it was possible that a kid brother could know things a big brother hadn’t yet grasped. For a moment, all these things with his brother seemed possible to Finn. And then, instantly, the possibilities fell away, water through his fingers, and, faced with the improbability of Jack ever listening to him let alone learning from him, he couldn’t remember what it was he had thought possible with his big brother a moment ago.
He ate his snacks and saw Nicole Kidman, fleetingly, and she seemed to smile at him. The river was deserted. The picture show in his head fell empty. He left the Piers and returned to 25th Street as the gallery cleared. He went in part to further delay his return to his lodgings and partly to get more food, but also because he felt compelled by the photograph. He went against the tide and found the cemetery view in the emptying room. Left alone, he indulged in the sensation that the photograph had been taken for him, that it existed specifically for him to see. He felt opened up by it. The wide open space, dotted with headstones, mirrored the feeling that his chest and ribs were being prised apart and air forced into spaces he had never been able to breathe. It was too soon to know if he was suffocating or breathing properly for the first time.
Nearby, a man coughed politely and mentioned that the gallery was closing.
‘Where’s this photo taken?’ Finn asked, forcefully.
The man peered at the photo. ‘It’s very special, isn’t it?’
‘I’m not buying.’
‘I get that.’
The man took off his glasses to take a closer look. ‘Somewhere in Queens,’ he said, ‘from the title, obviously. I mean, its looking at Manhattan directly from the east, isn’t it, clearly… so, out there somewhere.’
‘How do I get to Queens?’
12
William was surprised by a knock at the garret door. Visitors were rare. He switched off his music as George White stepped in. The grandson of store president Sidney White (and the unashamed beneficiary of nepotism) took a look at the room. ‘Christ…’ he muttered. Even though the ceiling was a lofty, vaulted space, the fact that it sloped (eighteen feet above his head) prompted George to stoop. ‘Full of character up here…’
‘Yes, sir.’
George grimaced at being called ‘sir’ and kept hold of the expression. ‘I’ve had Mr Bolton and his mother back in. You didn’t send that letter, did you?’
‘It would have been a lie.’
‘Why a mattress in your office?’
‘For my back. I lie on it for twenty minutes during my allotted lunch hour.’
‘Interesting ticking. I’ve fired you.’ This was said casually.
‘What!’ This was not.
‘They wanted blood. And Christ knows they’re worth a drop or two. It had to be yours. They’ve lost a two-million-dollar painting thanks to you.’
William grasped the back of his chair and lowered himself on to it. George spread out his arms in protest. ‘What sort of a sixty-year-old man brings his mother with him to make a complaint?!’
William stared, incredulous, at young George White’s indifference to what he had done. ‘You cannot…’ he stuttered ‘… fire an employee for refusing to lie.’
‘What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘This job is… perfect. I have to have this job.’
‘Oh, don’t be dim, William, we’ll give it back to you soon enough. Just had to give the old trout and that hideous fucking man something to make them feel important. Just keep your head down for a bit. No one knows you’re here anyway.’
William put his head in his hands. He hated madness, and this felt like madness.
‘It seemed the right thing to do,’ George said, unperturbed. ‘I mean, it worked. Mr Bolton the fifteenth or whatever he calls himself seemed genuinely happy about it. He nearly smiled at one point; it was kind of gross to watch. I’ve written the letter and thrown in a pound of flesh. I kind of did it on impulse but, at the risk of repeating myself, the Boltons may be repulsive people but they and their buddies are worth a fortune to us.’
William looked at George as if at an exhibit. He needed a description of some kind to read, because he couldn’t identify what he was looking at. Every impulse he could get a grip on told him this was a bad idea and that the unconcerned, slick, beautifully turned-out man in front of him, hunched beneath a ceiling more than twenty feet high, was making it up as he went along.
‘Are there any other rooms like this up here?’ George asked. ‘I could have a den.’
There were three further rooms that William knew of, the other corners of the roof space, all identical to this one, but boarded up. He didn’t want any neighbours up here, so he shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
‘I haven’t thought all this through, but for now you’d better get a cab into work and come to the goods entrance.’ George went to the mirror above the sink. He smiled at himself, though stopped short of winking, a man on the brink of a chaos he mistook for greatness. ‘Gotta go change my suit; there’s art to be bought. I’ll be seeing your brother later.’
‘Brother-in-law,’ William corrected him, and immediately regretted doing so, as having Leo for a brother was one of the many wonders of life for an only child from Lincoln, Illinois.
George White stopped at the door. ‘Is there a separate elevator, a way of you coming and going without being seen, just for now? I don’t imagine the Boltons come in here often but it would be just my luck.’
William sighed and said reluctantly, ‘There’s an old stairwell to 18th Street.’
‘Perfect. Whatever that is, use it.’ George paused on his way out. ‘I’m sure you’re awesome at what it is you do, so keep on doing it but just… don’t exist.’
Left alone, William didn’t move for some time. He had always resented the term nervous breakdown being applied to him (by Joy, and only the once) but it was as good a description as any for the direction he had been headed before Leo got him this job. When the barnstorming twentieth century was running its course, William was in his sixteenth year auditing for a company who pulverised him with red-eye flights up and down the Eastern Seaboard. On one such trip, coming into La Guardia from Charlotte, his plane circled the city for half an hour in a stack and he shifted across to a window seat to watch the lights. As the plane made circles above Long Island an idea began to trouble him and, with the twinkling lights beneath him growing no nearer, the idea dug its tail into his skin and he couldn’t pull it out. It was simply that, all of a sudden, flying seemed a little bit too much like messing with God’s blueprint – You guys down there, walking, those feathered guys up there, flapping – and getting home to Joy felt beyond reach. To land this plane was an outlandish idea. It struck him that to die in his own home, in his own bed, paved a clear and strai
ght path to the Lord and to his parents, whereas death in the air would simply bring oblivion, an ending doused in fear, as far as far could be from what his God had intended. William was not a guy who messed with the Big Guy, so why was he up here six times a week, pushing his luck in mid-air, precisely where his Maker had not wished him to be?
It was instant, his loss of nerve. Even as he travelled back to 36th Street in the comforting bosom of the E Train that night, William had known he couldn’t continue. With his peers reaching their fifties with plans of travel and change, William wanted only to get home, wait to see if the millennium was going to be the end of the world and, if it wasn’t, to cosy down with Joy in their own small, unattractive nook of the city, and do good things there.
His employers of sixteen years listened to his concerns and proposed that he get over it or quit. Thanks to Leo, Fountains offered him the quiet life at half the income. They also offered him a desk on the accounts floor, to allow him to move between the lonely attic archives and a more sociable environment, but he never used it. He loved to be alone all day and with Joy all night. He knew that his loss of nerve had frightened Joy and on the same occasion she used the term nervous breakdown she expressed her admiration for the way Leo remained so undaunted by it, so infinitely supportive of William when it had all felt so perilous to her. They didn’t need to talk about the flying. She had always hated it too. And she didn’t care about having less money. She loved him. She wanted him unchanged, unshaken, and with William reinstated they were even happier than they had ever been.
George White’s aftershave lingered for the rest of the working day, at the end of which William made to the old north staircase. It had been closed to the public since 1964 and the windows bricked in. The beam of William’s torchlight caught the engraved gold departmental signs on the swing doors to every floor, each one of them nailed shut and accessible only to ghosts of a golden age: Interior Decorating Department; Menswear; Corsets; Art, Bric-a-Brac and Lamps; Misses and Girls Department; House Gowns and Negligees; The French Display Room; Furs and Fur Garments; Rugs; The Mourning Department. It all felt underwater to William, the wreckage in forgotten depths.
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