He did.
“This is excellent.”
“It should be. Anything that comes in a bottle dolled up with gold, silver and 400 flawless diamonds, well, it better be.”
His free hand involuntarily rose to cup his other.”Diamonds?”
He looked toward the kitchen. Maybe, he thought, he should have gone an extra few yards on her birthday gift.
“Oh, that reminds me,” he said, taking another sip of the potion.”The gentleman who advised me on the wine said it wouldn’t hurt to decant it.”
“And you’d like a funnel and something to decant it into?”
“You read my mind.”
“I’m getting better as a mind reader,” she said, pulling open the doors of the cabinet behind the bar.”Will this do?” She handed him a cut-glass carafe and a matching funnel.
“Great. And a corkscrew please.”
He walked to the kitchen and retrieved the wine, returning to find her leaning against the dining table in the same posture she used at the office.
“You know,” he said, handing her the box, “you lean against the front of your desk just like that.”
“Someone else told me that once,” she said, opening the gift.”Oh, how nice! 2up Shiraz. I’ve had one of theirs before. This is perfect. Thank you very much.” Kiss three.
“And that’s three kisses now,” he said, summoning all the objectivity he could.”I must be doing something right.”
“You are,” she purred.”This will be a very special evening.” She placed a hand on the upper part of his arm and squeezed lightly.”I’m really glad you came over. I’ve been looking forward to tonight all day.” She looked at the bottle again.”This is so thoughtful. How about decanting it then we can relax for a while.”
He removed the foil, discovering it had a screw cap instead of a cork. He then poured the contents gently, practically tipping the funnel to the level of the bottle. She watched him, now leaning against the side of the couch facing the city.
After finishing the transfer, he fussed over whether to replace the large silver top of the carafe. After twice on and twice off, he left it off and set the vessel on the table. Picking up his drink, and with the addition of a bit more ice, he joined her.
“I’m delighted with the wine,” she said, a touch of whimsy in her voice.”You saved me from a monumental decision. If you didn’t bring it, I was going to invade another treasure Doug sent me. It was just after Life eclipsed the competition. Chateau Margaux 1903, if I recall.” She paused, taking a sip of her drink.”Plundered from the Titanic.”
She asked if he wanted to listen to anything in particular then added, “How about some Mozart? That’s good sunset music.”
He nodded and watched as she bent to pulled a few DMDs from the lower shelf of the electronics hutch, her knees not moving an inch.”How about the sound track from the movie they did about him? It has one of my favorites. I believe it’s called Piano Concerto Number Twenty in D Minor. They played it under the closing credits. I love it.”
“Fine.”
She placed the disc in one of the two players, pointed the remote and sat down beside him just as the music began. It was soothing and even though his classical knowledge was light, recognizably Mozart.
They watched the sun begin to set and the city lights wake to the approaching dusk. They talked about music and about whether a movie about Wexford would be made in a hundred years and would use his middle name as a title. They decided that Edward, as in Donald Edward Redal, could lead to some confusion among theatergoers, and that Donald or Redal wouldn’t be of much use either. They talked about the Journal article, agreeing they’d both received calls from well-wishers, Stonetree mentioning that someone even asked for an autograph. He told her an abridged version of the Mustang story.
“It’s getting a little dark in here,” she said, standing up.”Come with me. I’ll light the place up and give you the tour.”
The rest of the condominium contained six other rooms that were completely empty. In addition there was a den which she called her suburban office. Some gold and platinum records and various other awards lay in a comer, books, magazines and reports cluttering the desk and furniture. She paused to tap a few commands into one of the pair of telephones then checked the ring tone which copied those of ancient analog devices.
“This is my personal red phone, used only in emergencies. If you hear that later, you might be on your own for a while.”
As they were about to exit, he noticed another piece of Combat Art flat on the floor, this a smaller one that contained the words Pandora’s Obsession.
“Did you buy out the entire store?” he asked, which made her chuckle.
“That one’s for Wexie. Big fan of theirs. He’ll have a kitten when he sees it.”
And then there was the master bedroom suite. It contained a sitting room, a gigantic bathroom and a commodious main room. Virtually everything in it - the rugs, the wallpaper, the furniture, the lights - was either black, white or grey. Her four-poster bed was no exception, a sleek black lacquered affair sitting against the far wall offset by a red comforter and pillows.
“Colorful, cheery place,” he deadpanned.
“It is on the stark side but I like it. Everything else in the place is earth tones so I wanted something a little different in here.”
On a sidewall was a single painting, perhaps three feet by five feet. Deep grey lines in slashed groupings over a light grey background. He didn’t need to see a signature as he’d seen a similar one at the National Gallery in Washington DC. It was another Jasper Johns, probably from the early 80’s.
He stepped to the far wall to examine another painting, also rectangular and perhaps four feet high and 30 inches wide. A light pink flame rose from its base and spread across the grey wash, reminiscent of O’Keeffe’s metaphors. The upper half was dominated by a penciled circle and arrow forming the universal sign for man. The three points of the arrow were accented by three holes in the canvas with an equal number of long brass shell casings fol-lowing in their wake.
The lower half contained another penciled circle and a cross forming the universal sign for woman. The three lower points of the cross were accented by three smaller holes in the canvas and an equal number of shorter silver shell casings nuzzled into the tip of the flame.
At the top in three-inch block letters was stenciled the phrase COMBAT ART. At the bottom, also in three-inch block letters, was the phrase COMBAT SEX.
If these works were what he thought, he figured he was standing between some seriously valuable canvases. He turned back toward the first painting and pointed.”This is Jasper Johns?”
“Yes.” She smiled.
“I saw one similar to it once, at…”
“The National Gallery in D.C.?”
He nodded.
“I’ve seen it too. They were probably executed the same year or at least around the same time. I expect Mr. Johns, like our boy, worked on a number of pieces simultaneously. Great artists have that capacity.” She paused.”They don’t view the world in the linear way most of us are confined to.”
“Where…where did you get it?” Before she could answer, he added, “Did you buy it?”
“Actually, it was part of…I traded for it.”
He took a sip of his scotch, stared at the painting a moment then took another.
“May I ask with whom?”
“Maybe later” she whispered then motioned with her hand that he shouldn’t pursue the issue further.
He returned his gaze to the smaller piece.
“This is a Lionne-Demilunes?”
“My first.” She walked to the painting, touching its frame to level it a bit.
“How long have you had it?”
“It’s been over…well officially for a while but I only took possession in February.”
“Does…do you think it…the painting, I mean, do you think it means something?”
“Yes.” She paused.”At least to
me.”
“That second c-o-m-b-a-t. Do you accent that on the first syllable or the second?”
She cocked her head as if not understanding the query, then suggested he refresh their drinks and that she’d share how she came to possess it.
As they sat down across from each other on the love seats, she began, “Only a few people know this story. For various reasons it’s important at this juncture that only a few people do. So I trust you’ll not relate it to anyone else. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
One of the first things she did after receiving her first serious bonus from Picard was to fly to Santa Fe, New Mexico to fulfill one of her greatest desires, that being the purchase of a house in the historic East Side of the City, meaning generally within a mile and a half of the Historic 9, the Plaza and the Governor’s Palace.
The third property the realtor brought her to examine couldn’t have matched her dreams more perfectly.
“Gorgeous! It had started out as a one room dwelling but five restorations and expansions later, well, I had to have it.”
Adobe construction inside and out, brick floors and vigas in every ceiling along with traditional Santa Fe Style features such as nichos, bancos, latillas, hand-hewed headers and deep portals. Six wood burning fireplaces, half of them in the traditional Kiva style, including the huge one in the courtyard which was encircled by the walls of the expansive residence, added to the perfection.
“You’ve got a courtyard?”
“Three actually. There’s a smaller one for the morning and another for afternoon.”
Located on a private, dead-end dirt road along the Santa Fe River it was a 30 minute walk from the Plaza and a short stroll from the Canyon Road art galleries and restaurants.
“And of course, a casita.”
“Casita?”
“It means little house in Spanish. Private entries from both the interior and exterior. Two bedrooms, kitchen, living room and a bathroom.”
As part of the sales price the current owners were including all of the elaborate furnishings except the substantial Southwestern art collection which might be available for an extra fee.
“So I told her to call them and request a quote for everything. Came back kind of higher than I expected so I countered with a lower amount, providing cash wired within 24 hours via Los Alamos Bank if we had a deal. That got their attention and I got my place.”
She returned a few weeks later after all the details were settled to spend a few days to move in some personal items, buy a car, do some shopping and most of all luxuriate in her new hideaway. The second morning, while she was sitting on a bench beside the river enjoying a cup of coffee and trying to fathom the exact direction she needed to tilt her tablet to pick up a decent signal, a man stepped up and introduced himself.
“Morning. Are you my new neighbor? I’m Curt Branch. Seven doors down, on the poor side of town. Had breakfast yet?”
She replied she hadn’t as a trip to Whole Foods was yet to be accomplished. He said he was on his way to the La Fonda hotel, more specifically its La Plazuela restaurant, for an omelets and asked if she’d care to come along for the walk. As it was one of her favorite eateries and she was famished, she agreed.
They spent a few hours there sharing their backgrounds and love of the city, along with two pots of coffee. He owned one of the hundreds of art galleries scattered throughout Santa Fe, his Branch Contemporary located in the railyard district, the smaller and younger sibling of the historic Canyon Road establishment. Having enjoyed this first encounter and wanting to make a few acquaintances in the neighborhood, she offered that maybe they could get together for dinner sometime. He replied he was free that night so they exchanged numbers and agreed to tag up later in the day. He called late that afternoon and suggested they meet at Tomasita’s, a Mexican place popular with the locals.
“Sounds like he was really putting some moves on you,” he said, making her giggle.
“Ummm, not really.” She rolled her eyes.”It was kind of clear that his interests did not run to young women, or those of any age. If you follow my meaning.”
“Ah.”
During dinner Curt asked if she’d like to see his operation. She agreed, so after he picked up the check, he drove them to the railyard. Seeing it was a Monday evening, Branch Contemporary was closed as were most of the adjacent galleries. After unlocking the back door and disarming the alarm, she was ushered in.
It wasn’t very impressive. Only one of the three display rooms had anything on the walls, some mediocre atmospheric pieces by an artist she didn’t know of and, she thought, not possessing much talent. The furnishings were on the shabby side and the lighting sub-par, as were the cleaning skills of whomever was in charge of them. The owner seemed to sense her disappointment and volunteered that business hadn’t been very good recently; that his finances were becoming questionable.
But when they reached the third room her interest was piqued by a few dozen paintings strewn haphazardly on the floor or leaning against a wall in need of a serious whitewashing. They were mostly all in shades of gray and black, bearing the stenciled phrase Combat Art.
Stonetree was stunned. Her legendary meeting with Wexford was a one in a million proposition. Discovering a second superstar was inconceivable.
“There was something very seductive about the stuff. Immediately. Very reminiscent of Johns but with a unique twist. I wanted to know more.”
Curtis told her they’d been dropped off the previous Saturday by a kid who was anxious to get them shown by anybody. Anxious because he’d already been turned down by every other gallery he’d contacted and because he needed cash for a month-long trip to France. He’d left behind a handwritten contract offering to earn only 45% of any sales rather than the 50/50 split customary in art circles. He confided that his entire output included hundreds of other works from small studies to elaborate pencil and marker drawings to considerably larger, more important paintings. The artist had urged him to look him up on Biograffairs but the owner had neither the time nor interest to learn more about what he termed a disheveled amateur with big dreams.
Biograffairs.com was one of many confessional sites to surface in the wake of the CYD pandemic and one of only a few that had morphed into a growing concern. Originally conceived as a source of instructions, recording necessities and hosting services for those interested in creating oral histories, it soon hit its stride by providing, for a small fee, unlimited space for customers seeking a serious outlet and depository for their personal stories, as opposed to the fluff of other social sites. Pinkiefinger had recently purchased the entire operation for a song as a compliment to its popular blogging channel.
“So I jotted down the guy’s name and told Curt to hold onto the paintings for a few days, that I’d get back to him if I was interested in buying something.”
Back home she logged on to the Biograffairs site, completed the membership application then entered j.lionne-demilunes in the search window.
She was astonished by what she found. Though the writing was sometimes rough and often oblique, its range, insight and passion was compelling. And very, very lengthy. It was obvious the writer was afflicted with CYD, probably A-3 or A-4. It took her until 3:00 the next morning to consume what she guessed to be in excess of 100,000 words. Also catching her attention was the fact JLD had more than 2000 followers, a huge amount compared to the 44 Biograffairs stated was the running average among all its posted personal histories.
“That’s when it hit me,” she said as she stood and moved toward her office.”I’ll be right back.”
Without being asked he again freshened their drinks, setting them on the table as Trisha returned with a single sheet of paper, along with a stapled document and her laptop. She set aside all but the single page and positioned herself on the sofa’s arm.
“Let me read this to you. It was written by Michael Kimmelman for The New York Times in 1989.”
She took a deep breath.
“Art has confronted AIDS the way people confront AIDS. With fear, anger, sorrow, defiance and confusion.” She paused.”In a country that idolizes youth and health, AIDS has struck at the very heart of American self-image.”
She set the paper gently on the table and looked to him for a response.
“I don’t see the connection.”
“Fair enough. How about this? Name a famous artist who died from AIDS.”
He thought a moment.
“That guy who did the photographs that got banned somewhere? Caused a big scandal?”
“Robert Mapplethorpe. Name another.”
Stonetree warmed to the interrogation.
“The guy with the squiggly ones. Uh, Keith Harring?”
“Tres bien, monsieur. Another?”
He didn’t answer as he’d run out of ideas.
“Carlos Almaraz?” she offered.”A few others.” She sighed.”Did them having AIDS make them popular artists? No. Did it make their work much more valuable upon their untimely passing? You’d better believe it.”
He considered her theory. He believed it.
“Okay, how about singers, she continued. Or musicians.”
That was easier.
“Well, Freddy Mercury of Queen. And that one in the musical? The Boy from Oz, was it? Peter Allen?”
“Very good. Keep going.”
“And Liberace?”
“Yes. And Tom Fogerty and Dan Hartman, to name a couple others.”
He took a sip of his drink and she followed his lead.
“Now name a famous artist with CYD or died because of it.”
“I can’t think of one. Well, except for Lionne-Demilunes.”
“And I couldn’t think of one that night after I finished on Biograffairs.” She eyed him playfully, a twinkle in both.”I couldn’t predict the future from where I was sitting but I could see it coming.”
After a few hours of fitful sleep, she phoned Branch and offered to meet for breakfast at La Plazuela. When he arrived, she skipped the small talk and went directly to her plans for implementing what she considered a nice arrangement for all concerned.
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