—So what’s the full context for that scene in Todd Zeale’s gallery?
—Why do you think I stole his laptop? Even my detractors wouldn’t call me a petty criminal. I’m going to use the security camera footage for a video piece. I’ve been mapping out that whole fiasco for two years now.
—Why?
—Todd fucked me by giving away a piece for two thousand euros to a “significant collector” who happened to be his lover’s brother, rather than taking an offer for fifty-five thousand pounds sterling from an actual major collector. Fuck that guy. Dealers are much easier to deal with than gallerists. There are fewer feelings.
Owen was beginning to see that for Kurt, everything and everyone was potentially exploitable as an art piece.
—I’m going to get a friend to postprocess that video with thermal imaging—which is why I wanted us both smoking when we walked in. It’s going to be like if you took a Bill Viola piece and added the tension of a Mozart opera. The piece is going to be a convection—is that a word?—of rage and humiliation. You know what I should get though is one of those TVs that has red surrounding light so that the viewer’s whole face is bright red. I want the whole room to be red. I don’t think that’s been represented: the shame you feel when a friend shows you bad art—and this video is going to be bad art in its own way. Of course it would be much easier to just sell the DVDs. It’s really an economics question. And that’s why you need a dealer.
Kurt kept talking, but Owen was in his own thoughts.
This is Kurt’s community. And Kurt is going to do whatever the fuck he wants. I should tell my dad that I’m in Berlin studying under Ezra Pound.
Gold glints lit their backs as they returned to the water tower. Another event was under way. Scores of models, the aftermath of some sort of casting call, leaned over the spiral ledge to watch a band set up synthesizers and tune guitars. Kurt had to roll back and forth to clear the garden-hose-thick extension cord linking their amps to a gas generator jackhammering outside. The women smoked, drank, and tapped their phones, but they were clearly eyeing the band. Owen passed the group of girls as each one shook Kurt’s hand and then leaned in to kiss his cheek.
Jera took Owen by surprise. He was sitting on the floor of Owen’s room, slumped against the doorframe with one leg out, breathing deeply from his nose and humming as he sketched the curve of the central spiral. Owen waited patiently for Jera to say something, but he didn’t register Owen’s presence.
Hal spoke from the hallway:
—He’s sketching the whole tower. You can take a nap in my room if you want.
—Does Kurt know he’s here?
—It’s complicated. Is it cool if Jera shares your room while he finishes up the drawings?
Owen, heavy-faced from two days without sleep, nodded with exasperation. He trudged up the spiral ramp to Hal’s room. His right foot twisted and he nearly rolled an ankle. To complete the short climb, he had to summon whatever enthusiasm remained at the prospect of artistic success. He collapsed on Hal’s bare mattress. The bass player downstairs decided that he needed a little more volume. Owen wrapped his corduroy jacket over his head, but it didn’t help. His legs spilled onto the parquet floor. He slid lower and lower until he was using the foot of the bed as a pillow. Just as he fell into his first deep sleep in forty-eight hours, Kurt wheeled into his foot.
—Hey! Stevie’s here. Never thought I’d see that again.
Owen found his feet and picked tobacco flakes from the wells of his pants.
—Maybe you should take a nap. You look like shit.
Kurt threw Owen’s duffel on the bed as an accusation.
—You went to Stanford?
—I think I still do, technically.
—What do you study? Psychology? No, wait . . . philosophy.
—History.
—As a European artist, if you want to do something, you just do it—you don’t go to school.
—Jera said you went to Städelschule. That’s an art college, right?
—I went for the connections. I probably could have gone to Yale, but I didn’t want to waste four years of my life. Art’s a young man’s game. It doesn’t make any sense to waste time.
—How late is tonight going to go?
—The concert is short, just a favor for some friends. They’re touring for the new album and haven’t played any of the songs live.
—I can’t take a very long night.
—Clean up. We’ll have a little fun. Then tomorrow it’s all work.
Owen looked at the gnarled trees in twilight and tried to pull himself together. Stevie walked into his room.
Her voice had been echoing through his head, and at first he wasn’t positive it was really her.
—Kurt looked you up. You played in the Olympics?
—I didn’t get in the water until we were mathematically eliminated.
—You must have been, what, eighteen?
—They put a few young guys on the Sydney team to generate interest for Athens. This was supposed to be my year.
—You’re talking about the Athens Olympics?
—I should have been training in Colorado Springs, but I decided to play out the season. Then this happened.
—You were that good?
—I was a body. I wouldn’t have been on the national team if Wolf hadn’t stumped for me.
—Wolf? Is that a person? Most of the time it seems like you’re talking to yourself.
She started to leave.
—Wait.
—Too late. I’ll see you downstairs.
Owen lunged and caught her arm just as she was spinning away. He curled her in close and she floated into his lips.
She clasped her hands around his neck as if she were swinging from a tree limb. She looked up. No one had ever looked at him like that.
Hal’s camera flashed from the doorway, and everything fell. Stevie pulled Owen past Hal and down the spiral into the show.
A humid wall of guitar came from the Marshall stacks. Lazy hums condensed on the singer. And when his falsetto entered on the next song, Owen recognized this band’s music from a computer commercial. These guys were not just famous, they were world-famous. This night would not end early, and if he let go of Stevie, it wouldn’t end well.
—Do you want to go walk?
—I’ve got to wait for Jera.
—Why did Kurt invite him if they hate each other? And why did he come?
—It’s more complex than that. First, it’s not like Kurt sends out lace-fringed invitations to his parties. Second, there are many “artists” in Berlin, but the real artists are in a fairly tight circle. Jera comes here a few times a week for the series he’s doing of contemporary spaces—he’d say “contemporary nightmares.” Kurt probably has some angle. Jera doesn’t care.
—The sketch he showed me at the bar was amazing.
—He’s maybe the only person in Berlin still painting figuratively.
—Is that a good thing or a bad thing?
—I’d say both, but Brigitte is the art expert. Forget I said that. Stay here. I’m going to get us drinks.
Owen waited. He could see people staring at him and knew that everyone on his blind side was also watching. He put his hands in his pockets. Then put his hands at his side. Then crossed his arms.
Stevie came up from his right side and handed him a red Solo cup. Owen studied it.
—I feel like I’m at a frat party. Does Kurt import these cups from the US?
She gently nudged his hip so he opened toward her. Then she took his hand. Stevie pointed to the band, introducing a soaring falsetto.
The door was open the entire time, and half of Berlin was probably in earshot of the show, but only a few dozen more friends trickled in the door. For the last two songs, a trio of deliverymen in white pants waited in the doorway with bags of food. Hal slid from the lead singer to the men with food and led them upstairs. And then the entire night twisted up the spiral. Owen’s head spun at th
e volume of introductions and short, snarky conversations. Was it the soap smell that brought him back, or was it the strands of her hair tangled in his beard as she leaned in again and asked him closely if he was all right?
But he pulled away and saw Kurt carve up a dozen lines on the top of the Bösendorfer. As soon as Stevie was out of sight, Brigitte bit his earlobe and placed a pill on his tongue. A deep punch in his bad shoulder and a bitter ring through his blood that canceled the sweet, the soap and tuberose, the sacred and sublime. Everything of value stretched and shrapneled, lapping the circular walls in lethal vorticity. In Berlin he was capable of anything. But only capable as a pawn: unsure of his file and clutched in someone’s monstrous hand.
When Stevie saw him trail Kurt, she headed for the door. He called down after her, leaning over the ledge, which wasn’t designed for someone with his higher center of gravity, and nearly fell four storeys to his death. Brigitte grabbed his waist and steadied him.
—Are you okay? You nearly fell.
Owen looked at her, not comprehending.
—And up the tired tower where every stone remembers the ground . . .
He had spoken this. And the tall woman—it wasn’t Brigitte, it was someone new—laughed at him.
—A drunk poet, how original.
—I’m not a poet.
—Fine, a drunk artist? Every artist wants to fall to his death and live to tell the story.
—I’m not an artist.
—Why is your head wet?
Owen realized he was sweating.
Stevie had taken his hand. Now his hands were empty.
—You feel hot.
Owen found the large wooden table set for dinner and lit with dozens of candles in a pewter candelabrum. He slumped in a chair and sat down for his first meal in days. Hal was carving a giant turkey. Kurt had ordered a Norman Rockwell American feast and was pouring tequila.
—All bets are off tonight. Tomorrow Owen and I begin work on a new series for Basel. Those of you who don’t know Owen should know that he is a major young artist from California. He played water polo in the Olympics. He doesn’t speak any German and has asked that we confine our conversation to English.
—No. I don’t. I don’t belong here.
Hal barked out from behind his camera as he shot the scene:
—Everyone belongs here. Haight-Ashbury ’67, Paris ’68, Berlin ’04 . . .
—Hal’s right. This is the only city left, and we are making a difference. But tomorrow we can talk about work. Speaking of which, does anyone have math or science friends who can help me out? It’s just one shot, but it needs a lot of chalk work. Math shit. Equations and shit.
Athene could stand this no more. With winged words she told Owen to close his teeth tight, because he was about to fall. Then the grey-eyed goddess, daughter of Zeus who bears the aegis for all travelers in strange lands, loosed Owen’s knees and pulled him down by the ankle so that he collapsed right there at the table.
Owen awoke to fat fingers cupping his head.
—So this is the famous Owen!
—My lawyer, Altberg.
A ring was gathered around Owen, who was again near the Bösendorfer, this time with a pillow supporting his head and his legs elevated on the tufted, well-crafted bench.
—Are you okay? Hal asked.
—Apparently you had enough of dinner and felt entitled to a postprandial nap right at the table. Kurt called me immediately to make sure you were all right. Are you?
—I’m fine. Is Stevie here?
—She’s long gone, I’m afraid. Kurt also asked me to bring over the contract, to save you the trip in your weakened state. Though I must say you look quite fit to me . . . no, no, don’t stand. I’ll drop down to your level.
And with those words the massive solicitor tentatively found a knee. And once that knee met the floor he couldn’t stop the other from following. He braced himself with Owen’s leg.
—Thank god I was never a medic!
The group laughed at the round man’s topple and began to disperse.
—I need to go outside.
—In this! Have you not been outside today? Look at the weather, my friend. It is madness out there.
Owen now heard the lashes at the window.
—I just. I need some air.
Owen found his feet and stumbled.
—Hal, grab us some coffee. I’m going to walk our friend down for air. If we aren’t back in twenty minutes, assume he’s stolen my purse and made for Mexico. I don’t entirely trust this fellow. He’s a gentleman of the shade, and we are minions of his moon.
—Trencherman.
—That’s right, Owen. But with a name like Oldcastle, what else would you have me quote, Lear? Luckily these people haven’t met Falstaff, or they’d peg me as a pale imitation and have me on the treadmill in no time. With a low-fat regime to boot. The only trouble is this group of brigands. How do you play Falstaff to the fallen? Who’s corrupting whom? Here, hold this.
Altberg handed Owen a half-open packet. Owen peeled it back to reveal a small quantity of white powder.
—It’s not what you think it is. Look closely. Did you ever see crystals that small?
Owen held the wax paper close to his eye to inspect. Altberg jerked open the heavy door. Wind ripped into the tower, blowing the powder in Owen’s face. He wiped off the rain and the powder as the wind and storm soaked their shins.
—There’s your air, Owen. Hardly air at all. Mostly water, I’d say.
Owen’s lot had been cast. The Gods threw him into this profane world and were watching him tumble. Let Altberg steer him back up the spiral ramp.
—Now, do you feel you’re compos mentis re these documents? Not to muddle the gin, but the sooner you sign, the sooner I can remove my lawyer hat and show off my balding pate! God, the word is nearly pornographic, isn’t it? Pate.
Owen removed a pen from his pocket and signed the upheld pages at each highlighted tab.
—Well, you aren’t going to become a rich man from this collaboration. But you may become famous. I want to draw your attention to the equity portion of the contract, which is very explicit in stating you will derive no immediate financial benefit from this collaboration. Now let’s look at what you just signed. Good news first: the contract stipulates that you will absorb none of the costs and assume limited liability for the production of the aforementioned artworks. Now the bad news: you keep nothing. However, what is unsaid is often far greater than what is said, i.e., peripheral gains are yours to keep—provided the residuals are based on your growing prestige and not derived from a material product of said collaboration.
— . . .
—Should we have a drink to celebrate?
— . . .
—You’re not the sort inherently against a good time, are you? I know you might feel out of sorts, but you’re on vacation. And from what I gather, the girls of Berlin are certainly not ambivalent toward you.
—I need a drink.
—Perfect! I cellar wine here. Kurt told me you met at that wine bar, which suggests that you don’t know the first thing.
—I don’t know the first thing.
—Very well! A hymn sung to a savage is often more beautiful.
—Than what?
—Than a concio ad clerum.
—So I need to leave Berlin?
—Thank heavens! That’s the sort of witless question one would expect from a young man who speaks in your register. Gluttony made my bass a tenor, for which I owe thanks to the gods of plenty. I needed the jowls to give my larynx a little how’s-your-father. Where was I? Oh yes, should you leave Berlin? Let’s put it this way: Kurt is rich and famous enough to afford me. You decide.
—Pecuniae Obediunt Omnia.
—They tell me you’re a classics fellow. Not a poet—though I can see how someone these days might mistake ancient learning for madness. I studied pure math . . . because I liked the adjective!
—Now you’re a lawyer?
<
br /> —Pure is one thing. Rich is another. Now let’s talk frankly: Where will you go when the show is finished? Because Kurt will have you forcibly removed after Basel.
—I know that.
—Tall men always like to pretend they know what’s coming ahead, just as fat men feel they know the street and underground, but this is the first you’ve thought beyond today . . .
—I’m just trying to make it through the night.
—You must be vile to your body when it lets you down. There must be discipline in all things. My personal accounting of maladies: beer for a headache, whisky for knee pains, tobacco for dyspepsia, tequila for malaise, anise for vanity, port for the chills, wine for obesity . . . and general complaints.
Altberg had been turning the screwpull with his entire torso. He popped off the cork with a surety that came as no surprise, given that all he carried in his pockets was cash and a wine key.
—Let me educate you, my young and clueless friend. This is the noble syrah. The vines in a lieu-dit, sidewinding back and forth like this. The slopes are steep and the wine is savage. Earth, funk, bacon fat, and a violet soul. The dirtier the syrah the better. It is the only grape you need know.
Altberg felt Owen’s forehead.
—My hands could be a shade cold, but you do feel like you’ve developed a slight fever since you signed that contract and are now in need of this wine’s powers. I’m quite sure you are doing the right thing: deep drinks to drown the fever and counsel of a wise man to find the shore.
—You just said you fucked me on the contract.
—Of course! The contract you signed divested you of all intellectual property that derives from your time in Berlin. As far as agreements go, it’s Rumpelstiltskinian at best: whatever gold you spin, or even think of spinning, is Kurt’s. And if you try to pass it off as your own, you’d be lucky to get off with your firstborn son.
—I assumed as much. But it’s worth it.
—But why not spring the trap. That’s why I like you. So, sure. I’m neither honest nor noble, but I don’t claim to be.
—I’m very, very tired.
—Probably just jet lag.
—I’ve been here for two months.
—You may as well have a good time. One thing’s certain: you’re not going to fall asleep with any of those substances circling through your blood! Brigitte is looking at you. So is Saskia. Well, she may be looking at me. Here. Take an Adderall. It’s your only hope of getting any clarity.
A Brave Man Seven Storeys Tall Page 11