A Brave Man Seven Storeys Tall

by Will Chancellor

  —Kurt’s a member here . . . so to speak.

  Hal jerked his head toward the bar. Owen didn’t follow until the bartender stepped aside: above the bar was a large-format photograph of Kurt, naked in his wheelchair, leaning forward with a grin and spilling down the pleather seat on the brink of tumescence. Berlin was no Paris, Owen realized, and this was no longer the 1920s.

  Hal spoke before Owen could react:

  —It’s the best portrait I’ve taken.

  Brigitte explicated the significance Owen missed:

  —Kurt explores the distinction between body and body part.

  Hal explained further:

  —It’s called Pedicabo, which means “I’ll fuck you” or something, in Greek.

  Owen let Hal’s translation stand; philology was the least of his concerns, now that he was looking at a full-frontal picture of his host. But the Latin came out anyway:

  —Pedicabo et irrumabo te?

  —Ha! You do know shit. You’ve got to meet Stevie. She’s the one who named it. It’s a brilliant name, right?

  The bartender vouched:

  —The owners want to change the name from 66 to the Pedicabo Bar.

  —You took me to a bar with your nude, wall-sized portrait?

  Again, everyone was watching Owen. He tried to find the Dionysian mood that always eluded him when he needed it most:

  —That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen.

  Kurt chose to take the remark as a compliment and shook Owen’s hand.

  The bartender poured shots of green Chartreuse for the group. Owen was starting to see himself from a great remove. It happened to him whenever he was in this sort of environment. Thankfully, his words and demeanor were someone else’s—someone fun and revolting, Hephaestus in a Dionysus mask.

  —Where am I?

  Brigitte didn’t appear to catch the question; she just leaned closer.

  A young man with a wild Nietzschean mustache, bright red and flying from his lip like a barn on fire, stood at Owen’s shoulder, waiting to be introduced.

  —Jera, this is Owen.

  Jera looked Owen in the eye and nodded once as if he were firmly shaking Owen’s hand. Something in Jera invited Owen to widen his stance until their gaze was level.

  —Did you order him from a catalog? Does he know what he is getting himself into?

  Jera spoke to Hal in German, presuming Owen wouldn’t understand. And Owen, for his part, opened his mouth a little wider, hoping Jera and Hal would assume he hadn’t understood.

  —Kurt wants to use him for something. But he keeps surprising us, so who the fuck knows what’s going to happen!

  Hal laughed. Jera didn’t.

  The music was its own punch line. The crunch and warble buried any hope of conversation. Jera shouted over the music:

  —Have you ever heard of Jörg Immendorff? He’s the guy at the end of the bar in the black shirt with the five o’clock shadow. He’s the Gertrude Stein of the circle you’ve wandered into—of course, you have to imagine Gertrude Stein orchestrating cocaine-fueled orgies.

  —That guy? You’re talking about the one with the four-pronged cane?

  —Why? People with canes can’t have orgies? How about people in wheelchairs? Speaking of which, can we change rooms? I can take a lot, but that photograph fucking creeps me out. Kurt’s never had a hard-on he didn’t use.

  Jera motioned to the bartender, and they were admitted to a private room of green leather couches and mercury-backed mirrors. They had traded Kurt’s nude portrait for a wall of Helmut Newtons. There were no speakers back here, so they could actually hear each other.

  —The police broke in on him last year with nine prostitutes and a Versace ashtray full of cocaine.

  —They must have taken the ashtray along with the coke, because now he just snorts off plates.

  —What?

  —I mean, it’s no big deal. It’s not like Kurt’s the first person I’ve seen do coke.

  —I was talking about Immendorff.

  —How many years do they give you in Germany for that kind of thing?

  —We’ll see. The trial is in a few months. He’ll be fine, though. He’s friends with Gerhard Schröder. I’m guessing the worst that happens is he loses his professorship, but that would be kind of cold at this point. He’s not well.

  —Did Kurt and Hal study with Immendorff?

  —They were at Städelschule. I was at Leipzig. Kurt and these other guys live his lifestyle—seven days a week instead of Immendorff’s two—but have none of the man’s talent. There are so many young artists in Berlin willing to sacrifice everything for their art, but so few who are willing to learn how to see, much less draw. Somewhere along the way they forgot that it’s easier to suffer for something than to fight for it.

  —But you’re here.

  —This is research.

  —That’s convenient.

  —I paint large wooden panels. I’m not crazy about comparison, but people say I paint in the same vein as Bruegel or Bosch. I see a bit of George Grosz, but the work’s really its own thing. Here.

  Jera undid the elastic strap of a sketchbook and opened to a ribboned page. Owen looked at finely hatched lines and minuscule dapples of shadow. It must have taken Jera a week just to get the gleam of the bottles.

  —How do you make the lines so small?

  Jera unpalmed a maroon drafting pen.

  —It’s a rapidograph.

  Owen unscrewed the cap, revealing a needle-thin point.

  —That drawing is amazing.

  —It’s just a study. But it’s close, I’ll give you that. Look at this.

  Jera showed Owen a partially finished drawing of the interior of the Wasserturm. Owen recognized it at once:

  —I just moved in there tonight.

  Jera pursed his lips, pressure building as if he might detonate some plosive sound.

  —How long have you been in Berlin?

  —Just over a month.

  —And Kurt took you on as a roommate in the Wasserturm?

  —He wants to collaborate on a piece for Art Basel.

  Jera lifted his eyebrows and screwed his head:

  —That’s great. I’m happy for you. Really.

  Kurt and Brigitte returned from the bathroom, but were intercepted by Immendorff just as they entered the back room.

  One of Brigitte’s friends approached Owen. She introduced herself as Saskia with a succinctness that suggested that she didn’t have a last name because she would never need one.

  She appraised Owen as she would a statue. Smoke rolled out of her mouth in thick clouds. Words followed exhalation, cold, high, and cirrus thin:

  —You should find new friends. Or go somewhere else.

  He fell through the wisps.

  —Why?

  Saskia exhaled as a response.

  —Seriously. Where should I go?

  —New York, Paris, London. There are many places.

  —But here I am.

  —You don’t belong here.

  —What?

  —You don’t belong here.

  Owen asked for a cigarette. Saskia offered her pack and then offered him her lipstick-stained cigarette to light it with. In his experience, women who wore lipstick that red touched his arm and laughed at anything, hoping another guy would notice.

  —I’ve got work in New York on Friday, she said.

  She let the syllables linger in a way that suggested she was considering bringing him as a diversion. She squinted.

  —Are you from New York?

  —California.

  —Los Angeles?

  —North of LA.

  —Things are different here. Find a hole to hide in and watch your drinks.

  And with that admonition Saskia evaporated. She remained glued to Brigitte’s hip, but she was finished with Owen.

  Jera was back at his sketch. Without looking up, he said:

  —They’re all trouble, but that one is lethal. Stay away, my friend.


  —How do you know Kurt?

  —We were in a group show at the Todd Zeale Gallery.

  —Did you collaborate?

  —With Kurt? No.

  —Is he a good artist?

  —He makes a lot of money. He’s no Immendorff.

  —Do you think he’s any good?

  —If Kurt had any discipline, he’d be a mediocre painter.

  Kurt somehow managed to be everywhere at once. He rolled right into Owen’s calf.

  —I thought you usually described me as a force.

  —But I never meant it as a compliment.

  —Don’t worry, Owen. He’s frustrated because no one wants to buy Flemish reproductions from a dreadlocked white guy.

  —I had dreadlocks for two years. I was eighteen.

  —You should grow them again. You’d give critics something to write about.

  —You know I do this for the work, not the press, not the volume.

  —People buy loud.

  —And you’ve got a whole team in some factory cranking it out.

  —Is it my fault if I can do more in five seconds than you do in a year?

  —What do you call the picture, Pedicabo? Really great stuff. I’d like to buy it.

  —The bar owns it. Not me.

  The private room crowd stopped talking and listened.

  —Well, I don’t know what to say. I have to have it.

  —You can’t afford it, Jera.

  —A trade then.

  Kurt registered his audience.

  —Didn’t I hear something about you having a show up?

  —The opening was last month. You went to the afterparty.

  Kurt didn’t appear to hear.

  —I’ll trade it for whatever doesn’t sell. If you sell out the show, I’ll give you the picture for nothing. But I think we both know that’s not going to happen.

  —Two pieces are already gone.

  —And it’s been up three weeks. I know for a fact one went to your uncle. Is your gallery even in Berlin? Doesn’t matter. Fine. Let’s see, what am I getting? I’m going with some allegorical work. Parable of the Blind? Ship of Fools? Something I could buy at the airport that’s taken you over a year.

  Jera laughed, but didn’t deny any of it.

  —Fine. Sold. I haven’t destroyed the film yet. I’ll have Michael print another and send it over next week.

  Jera looked at the picture behind the bar. His nostrils flared and his breathing stopped. Owen could see that Jera only wanted to buy the photograph to remove it from the world. Now there would be two of these pictures in existence rather than one. Owen couldn’t hear what Jera was mumbling, but hydra would have been fitting.

  —Have your gallerist call Michael when the show’s down. Let’s go out. This bar turned into a business meeting.

  Owen recognized the heaviness and emptiness in Jera. He looked like a high-schooler watching the gravel kick from a prom limousine that had just left without him. Which confirmed that Owen had fallen in with the assholes.

  It was a short walk to the next spot. This bar was louder, but not cacophonous; darker, but with the early electric glow of amber. Owen walked through a projector beam and was temporarily blinded. A standing crowd barely watching the Antonioni film on the wall turned to see whose silhouette was blocking the cliff scene. It took a minute for Owen to realize that they were motioning him to move.

  He had read an apocryphal history of the eye patch in Coping with Changes in Sight, by Dr. Thomas Friedlan, MD: pirates wanted to keep one eye acclimated to the brightness of the deck and the other hidden until it was time for the darkness of the galley. Apparently there was nothing wrong with most pirates’ vision. In fact, the eye patch gave them a distinct advantage.

  The darkened crowd was lost to him. A woman in a black horsehide Perfecto jacket stood illuminated by the glow of her laptop screen. She looked stunning in laptop light. Which was something.

  Hal was yelling in his ear:

  —That’s her. Stevie. She’s a genius. She memorizes entire books.

  Before Hal could expand upon his point, he was introducing Owen to the woman. She held headphones to one ear and had a cigarette behind the other. Hal shouted over the music.

  —This is our American friend, Owen.

  Stevie, in her deejay perch queuing up the next 1950s song and doing something with a turntable, stood just an inch above eye level.

  She slid a knob to the right, hit a button, and dropped her headphones to look at Owen. He looked paralyzed by possibilities. Hal didn’t have that problem and yelled up to her.

  —We had to leave the Pedicabo because Kurt and Jera were having a pissing contest.

  —Uh-huh. I finish in twenty minutes. Take these drink tickets.

  She motioned to the bartender and pointed to Hal and Owen.

  Hal asked if he could bring her something. Owen kicked himself for being slow.

  Stevie held up her water bottle, took a swig, and put her headphones over one ear.

  Right elbow raised like a tour guide, Hal led Owen to the bar. He was nodding eagerly to the beat, lighting up another cigarette. Owen ordered tequila and a can of beer. Hal had the same.

  Owen cracked the tab and slurped. The cold foam buoyed him up.

  —Is Jera’s art any good?

  —There’s a whole school of German artists like that.

  —Like what?

  —Did he tell you about his diet? He only eats roots. Like beets, turmeric, carrots, radishes . . . he’s obsessed with pigments and thinks if he eats roots it’ll lead to some insight, because they’re brighter. I don’t know. “Colors so bright they buried them underground.” That’s what he called the only painting that ever got him any press.

  —Was it beautiful?

  Hal laughed at Owen.

  —You’re not embarrassed to use words like that? Whatever. I can’t remember the last time I thought a painting was interesting. I can’t remember the last time anyone important in art thought a painting was interesting.

  They threw back their first drink and took the second glass to the back of the bar, where Brigitte, Saskia, and Kurt were waiting. Owen found himself more stimulated than he had been since his pregame speech. All was speedy, hollow, and unwell. He stopped nodding his head.

  —Did you put something in my drink?

  A crack of laughter started with Kurt and spread through the group. Overwhelmed, Owen laughed a confused laugh.

  —Took long enough, said Kurt.

  Hal stretched for profundity:

  —If the entire drink is a drug, are you really putting something into a drink?

  —It’s not like it was false advertising, Kurt said. You knew those shots weren’t going to make you sober. And if a drug works exceedingly well, why complain about that! Besides, you can’t blame me. I have artistic immunity—it’s like diplomatic immunity, but for people who don’t own neckties.

  Owen stood to leave. Brigitte and Saskia gripped his inner leg, fingers deep into his thigh, giving Kurt the chance to continue:

  —Look. I didn’t do anything. I ordered a drink. The bartender, who’s not even my friend, took that order and improvised. He distills his own biodynamic serotonergic whatever.

  Hal spoke solemnly:

  —Psilocybin.

  —Monsters drink monstrous things, Owen. Welcome to Berlin.

  —I’ve been here for over a month, Owen mumbled.

  —Well. Welcome to the real Berlin.

  Owen looked content, and everyone laughed. They were laughing at laughing. Then laughing at Owen gallantly kissing Brigitte’s hand and toppling into an armchair. He toasted:

  —My dear fellow mandarins, I drink to our future holidays!

  Brigitte asked why Americans have to toast with every drink.

  Stevie had now finished her set and caught the tail end of that exchange.

  —What’s the fucked-up guy’s name?

  —Which fucked-up guy? Take your pick.

 
—The lost one.

  —The guy watching the movie like he doesn’t hear us is Owen.

  Kurt’s entourage rolled to the front-room bar in a wave of shouts and a shock of laughter. Owen remained behind, enraptured by the woman projected on-screen, wandering a rocky island in a caftan.

  —Owen, are you okay?

  Owen adjusted his eye patch and did the top button of his shirt, though he knew he was flushed. He saw her lips first. She kept them open, but expectant, not slack, her tongue tickling the roof of her mouth, waiting to speak in a language of els.

  —Do you know where you are?

  The corners of her mouth met at perfect angles. He didn’t think he’d ever seen that before. He felt the corners of his own mouth. They dimpled.

  —I’m working on a piece with Kurt.

  She looked disappointed. He followed it with the question everyone else asked:

  —How do you know him?

  —I’ve played the Wasserturm.

  She blinked quickly a few times then looked up. She might have been trying to blink away an eyelash, but Owen thought she was trying to blink away the recollection. She looked at Owen’s forehead:

  —You’re sweating.

  —I don’t usually smoke.

  The words weren’t funny in themselves, but Owen pursed his mouth, on the verge of cracking up. He thought something objective—numbers, science—might help. He put two fingers to his pulse, counted twenty-five beats in fifteen seconds, and multiplied by four. One hundred bpm. Very high. Too high. Almost techno-music high.

  Stevie touched his wrist, and everything opened. His toe resonated with his temple; charges delocalized to build a glistening bridge. He breathed with his arms, his neck. He couldn’t speak. Stevie smiled.

  —You look like someone dumped a glass of water on your head.

  Owen wiped his brow with his cuff. He pointed at the aquiline nose on the screen. His father had called it her Nefertiti nose.

  —That’s my mother.

  —Unless your mother is Monica Vitti, I believe you’re mistaken. Let’s get some air.

  Stevie helped him up at the hand and elbow. Now that he was standing, mostly on his own, he saw that Stevie was at least a foot and a half shorter than him. They stumbled past the crowd. She spoke to the doorman:

  —I’ll vouch for him. He’ll be fine.

  —If he falls, Stevie, I can’t let him back in.

  Owen squinted and blustered: