Nico wore that stripy orange scarf everywhere. It was how you’d recognize him from across a winter street.
“What about the servers? The boys with the food?”
“I imagine they took off. We just moved the party. But you were already doing lord knows what.”
“Charlie, I was lying down. For like five minutes, upstairs.” Maybe it had been half an hour, but wasn’t it basically the same?
“I know where you were. It was a great topic of conversation.”
“And no one came to get me?”
“We didn’t want to interrupt you.” Charlie seemed furious—seething, barely holding something in.
“From lying down with an upset stomach?”
“Everyone saw you go up with Teddy.”
“Teddy?” He wanted to laugh but stopped himself. It would sound defensive. “Teddy left. He walked out the front door when the slide show started.”
Charlie was quiet. He might have been processing something, or he might have been about to vomit.
Yale said, “Even if he stayed, what the hell would I be doing with him? Listen. I went upstairs because I needed to be alone.”
Charlie said, slowly, unsurely, “I saw him. I saw him during the slide show.”
“Are you thinking of the picture? Teddy dressed up as Cher? Charlie, sit down.” He didn’t. “Listen: I felt woozy, and I came down maybe five, ten minutes later. Fifteen at most. And I thought—I don’t even know what I thought. Everyone was gone, and I was the only one left. It was the weirdest fucking moment of my life. And I still don’t understand why you’re getting home ten hours later.”
“I—we went out after.” Charlie sounded, bizarrely, disappointed—as if he’d hung so much anger on Yale’s having been with Teddy that he didn’t know what to do with himself now. “Fiona said you were with Teddy.”
“Fiona is the ‘everyone’ who saw this?”
“The main one.”
“Fiona was wasted. And Christ, she’s been a wreck.”
“You were both gone. You both vanished at the same time.”
“And she saw us do what? She saw him carry me up the stairs like a bride?”
“No, she just—I asked where you were, and she said you were upstairs. And I said, ‘Why would he go upstairs?’ and she said, ‘I think Teddy’s up there too.’” And then he paused, as if he’d just heard how ridiculous he sounded.
“Okay then.”
“But she kept saying it.”
“Well, she was drunk.”
“Go back to sleep,” Charlie said. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
* * *
—
Yale hadn’t expected to fall asleep, but the next time he rolled over it was 6 a.m. and Charlie was curled into a ball beside him. Two full water glasses and a bottle of aspirin sat on Charlie’s nightstand next to his usual bottles of vitamin B and ginseng; he expected to wake up hung over. It was a scene Yale would rather miss any day, but especially now. At least Charlie’s paper had been put to bed early this week, so they all could attend the party. The drivers would distribute the paper today while the staff slept in or hunched over toilet bowls.
He watched Charlie’s ribs rise and fall through his pale skin. Blond freckles covered his shoulders, his face, his arms, but his chest was polished ivory. He was soft, as if his skin had never seen the weather, and when a bone—an elbow, a kneecap, a rib—showed through, it was like a foreign object poking at a piece of silk.
Yale showered and dressed as quietly as he could. He didn’t want breakfast.
Nico’s orange scarf lay on the floor with Charlie’s clothes. And on the kitchen counter, in a shopping bag, were other things: a half-empty vodka bottle, Nico’s blue Top-Siders, a blank postcard from Vancouver, pewter cuff links in a velvety box, Leaves of Grass. Yale wished he’d been there. Not to wind up with some keepsake necessarily but just to touch everything, to think about Nico, to learn things about him he’d never known. If you learned new details about someone who was gone, then he wasn’t vanishing. He was getting bigger, realer. The Top-Siders would never fit Charlie’s enormous feet; they must have been for Yale. How typical of Charlie: Even when he was furious, even when he thought Yale might have been screwing around with someone else, he’d gotten him a present.
Yale slipped off his own loafers and slid the shoes on. They were snug, his toes pushing against the stitching and puckered leather, but he liked it that way, his feet being squeezed by Nico. They didn’t look right with his khakis, but they didn’t look wrong exactly either.
He took the El from Belmont up to Evanston, resting the back of his head against the window. What had once been the center of a cowlick was growing into a small bald spot—unfair! He was only 31!—mercifully hidden by the dark curls around it. If he found a good angle, the coolness of the window soaked into his scalp, chilled his whole body. Yesterday it had been too warm for coats; today you’d be miserable without one. Even so, the air felt good, bracing. And the cold walk from the station to the gallery was nice too. It was just after seven, only joggers out.
The Brigg occupied the ground floor of what used to be a small classroom building, with a modified hallway serving as the gallery itself. The heating was temperamental and voices traveled through the walls, but the place had character. They had room for only small shows right now, and the hope was to outgrow this space in the next few years, and (this was where Yale came in) to have the money to outgrow it. Part of which had to do with fundraising, and part of which had to do with sucking up to the president, the university board.
Yale’s office was made smaller by dark bookshelves on all four walls, and he loved it that way. He’d been bringing books from home, one box at a time, but still most of the shelves remained empty. Or, rather, were filled with dust and old coffee mugs. He was supposed to get a student intern next quarter, and he imagined asking this industrious young person to fill the shelves with auction catalogs, to scour used bookstores for decent art books.
His side project for the week was to assemble his Rolodex, and he attempted this now: pink cards for colleagues, blue for previous donors, green for potential donors, yellow for collectors, white for other contacts. He fed each card carefully into the typewriter, copied out the addresses. But what he’d thought would be a mindless task proved frustratingly complex. The files he’d inherited were largely undated, so he sometimes couldn’t tell which of two addresses was current. He typed four different phone numbers onto one card, then stopped and realized he should just try calling, introduce himself. But it was too early in the morning, and so he put the card aside.
At nine, he started hearing footsteps and smelling coffee. At 9:30, Bill Lindsey rapped on Yale’s open door with one knuckle. Bill, the gallery director, had long ears and wet, darting eyes. An old-school academic, all bow tie and elbow patches. Yale was fairly sure he was closeted and would never come out.
Bill said, “Getting the worm!”
“I’m sorry?”
“You’re early.”
“Oh. I wanted the weekend to be over.”
“Have you met—” Bill walked in and lowered his voice. “Have you met Cecily Pearce?”
“Several times.”
It was a ridiculous question. Cecily was Director of Planned Giving for the university—a job at once parallel to and infinitely larger than Yale’s.
“She called Friday after you left. I think she’ll be dropping in. Now my advice with Cecily is, if you disagree, you don’t tell her. You just ask a question. You go, ‘Are you worried this could result in thus-and-such?’ I’m saying this because I don’t know why she’s coming down here. She gets these grand ideas.”
“Thanks for the heads-up.”
Bill’s eyes swam around the room. “I’d maybe—hmm. You don’t have personal photos, do you?”
“What, of Charlie? Of cour
se not.” What on earth was Bill imagining, a Sears studio portrait? Yale attempted to smile neutrally.
“Good. Just—she’s okay, I don’t mean to imply otherwise. I never know what sets her off. She’s a hard nut.”
* * *
—
At noon, right as Yale intended to head out for lunch, Cecily Pearce appeared in the doorway with Bill. Cecily had a Princess Diana haircut, soft and voluminous. She was quite a bit older than Diana, certainly over forty—but with some pearls, a tiara, she’d be a convincing double. And yet there was, indeed, something terrifying about the woman. It might’ve had to do with the way she briskly looked you over, a headmistress examining you for dress code violations.
She said, “Mr. Tishman,” and advanced to his desk, extending a dry hand. “I’m hoping you’re free tomorrow.” She spoke at a tremendous clip.
“I can be. What time?”
“All day. Possibly all night as well.” No evident embarrassment. Either she didn’t realize what she’d said, or she already had Yale completely figured out. Behind her, in the doorway, Bill cocked his head, bemused. “I’ll supply the car,” she said, “unless you have one. Do you have a car?”
“No, I—”
“But you drive?”
“I have a license.”
“Let’s leave around nine.”
Yale wasn’t sure if he was allowed to ask where they were going. He said, “How shall I dress?”
“Warm, I suppose. She’s in Door County.”
Yale knew about Door County, the bit of Wisconsin that spiked up into Lake Michigan. In his mind it was a place where vacationing families went to pick their own fruit.
He said, “We’re visiting a donor?”
“It’s a rush situation, or I wouldn’t spring this on you.” She pulled a folder from under her arm, handed it over. “I have no idea if the art is any good. She clearly has money, at least. But you’re the one she wants to talk to. We can go over strategy tomorrow. It’s a four-and-a-half-hour drive.”
Yale opened the file after she left, after Bill Lindsey shot him a sympathetic look and walked her out of the building. On top was a Xerox of a handwritten letter from back in September, the cursive slanted and mannered. “Dear Mr. Tishman,” it began. So Cecily had kept, for two months, a letter addressed personally to him. It was dated after he’d been hired but before he’d begun the job. Had Bill passed it to her? And now she was throwing this at him with a day’s notice. Yale would tell Charlie about it when he got home. Righteous anger was a reliable way to break the chill. It continued:
My husband was Dr. David Lerner, Northwestern class of 1912. He passed in 1963, after military service, a medical degree from Johns Hopkins, and a career in oncology. He spoke fondly of his time as a Wildcat and wished to do something for the school, a fact I’ve kept in mind as I’ve planned my estate. My grandniece, Fiona Marcus, encouraged me to contact you, and I hope this letter finds you well. I understand the Brigg Gallery to be building a permanent collection.
This was the aunt, then, that Fiona was talking about last night. The coincidence of it unsettled him. That she should mention it months after the letter was sent, and it would instantly land on his desk. Would Teddy Naples land on his desk now, too, conjured from Fiona’s drunken mind?
I am in possession of a number of pieces of modern art, most dating from the early 1920s. The paintings, sketches, and line drawings include works by Modigliani, Soutine, Pascin, and Foujita. These have never been exhibited, nor have they been in any collection but my own; they were obtained directly from the artists. I’m afraid I have no paperwork on the pieces, but I can personally vouch for their authenticity. In all, I have around twenty pieces that might interest you, as well as some corresponding artifacts.
I am in poor health and cannot travel, but wish to meet with someone who can speak to how these pieces would be cared for. I am concerned that they find a home in which they’ll be exhibited, appreciated, and preserved. I invite you to visit me here in Wisconsin, and hope we may correspond regarding a date for meeting.
With warmest regards,
Nora Marcus Lerner
(Mrs. David C. Lerner, Northwestern ’12)
Yale squinted at the paper. “Obtained directly from the artists” was a little suspect. The men Nora Lerner had listed were not, for the most part, ones who hawked their own paintings on street corners to visiting Americans. And this could be a logistical nightmare. Proving authenticity on any one piece—with no paperwork, no catalog listings—might take years. This woman would need to get everything authenticated before it could be appraised for her taxes, and it would either turn out to be junk, or she’d realize how much she was giving away and change her mind. In Yale’s last months at the Art Institute, a man was set to donate a Jasper Johns (numbers stacked in a glorious mess of primary colors), until he learned the current value of the piece and his daughter convinced him to will it to her instead. Yale was a development guy, not an art guy, or at least he wasn’t supposed to be an art guy, but he had let himself fall in love with that painting. He knew better. Farmers shouldn’t name their animals. But then, the whole reason he’d taken this job was the chance to build something on his own. He ought to be thrilled.
A small, cowardly part of him hoped he’d get up to Door County and find that the pieces were such obvious forgeries that Northwestern could refuse the gift. Better, in some ways, than finding a plausible van Gogh, an invitation to heartbreak. But no, it didn’t make a difference, really, what he found. He’d have to bend over backward for this woman even if these pieces were traced out of an art book, just so he wouldn’t offend an endowment case.
The rest of the file did little to clarify things. There were further letters, far more tedious, about meeting times, and someone in Cecily’s office had assembled a dossier on the Lerners. David Lerner was decently successful, and had given unremarkable amounts to Northwestern when he was alive, but there was nothing to suggest they could afford millions of dollars of art. You never knew, though, where people got their money, or where they hid it. Yale had learned not to ask. And hadn’t Fiona and Nico grown up on the North Shore? There was money up there, even if Nico and Fiona were always broke, even if he’d never heard them mention any millionaires.
On the bottom of one memo, a handwritten scrawl: “Cecily,” it said, “are we involving the Brigg people yet?” The memo was two weeks old. Yale should have been indignant, but he did see where Cecily was coming from. He was new, the gallery itself was relatively new, and this was, potentially, a major donor. She was involving him now, at least. Except part of him wished she weren’t. Probably he was just tired, but all he felt was a sort of pre-dentist-visit dread.
* * *
—
He didn’t know what condition he’d find Charlie in. He might be sweet and contrite, or he might still be angry about nothing. Or he might have taken off, buried himself in work to avoid the whole situation.
But before Yale opened the door, he heard voices. A relief: A crowd was good. Charlie and two of his staffers, Gloria and Rafael, sat around the coffee table poring over back issues. Charlie was in the habit of overworking his staff on the sly by inviting them over on Mondays to celebrate after the week’s issue was out. He’d feed them and then get them working again, right in the living room. As publisher, Charlie might have been hands-off with the paper, but he’d stayed involved with every decision from alderman endorsements to ads. He owned a travel agency with an office on Belmont, and he’d funneled its proceeds into Out Loud Chicago since the paper’s founding three years ago. Charlie wasn’t even particularly interested in travel or in helping other people travel; he’d bought the agency in ’78 from an older lover who was particularly charmed by him and ready to retire. Charlie only went in once a week these days to make sure the place hadn’t burned down and to meet with the few clients who’d specifically requested his attention. He h
ad no problem giving complete autonomy to his agents, but believed his editors and writers required his constant supervision. It drove them nuts.
Yale waved and got himself a beer and disappeared into the bedroom to pack. It took him a few minutes to notice the bed: Charlie had spelled out “SORRY” down Yale’s side in M&Ms. Tan for the S, yellow for the O, and so on. He grinned, ate three orange candies from the tail of the Y. Charlie’s apologies were always tangible and elaborate. The most Yale ever managed was a feeble note.
Yale was debating sweaters when Gloria called him back to the living room. Gloria was a tiny lesbian with earrings all the way up both ears. She handed him an old issue, open to rows of beefcake photos, each advertising a bar or video or escort service. “Flip through,” she said. “Tell me when you see a woman. Or anyone who isn’t a young white guy, for that matter.”
Yale had no luck in the ad section. In a photo of the Halloween party at Berlin, he found two drag queens. “I don’t suppose this counts,” he said.
“Look,” Charlie said. He was worked up. “Ads will dominate the visuals no matter what, and we can’t ask a bathhouse to show, what? The cleaning lady?”
Rafael said, “Yeah, but Out and Out—” and then he swallowed his words. Out and Out was new, founded by three staffers who’d quit Charlie’s paper last year, in a huff that Out Loud Chicago still relegated lesbian-specific coverage to four color-coded pages in the back. Yale had to agree—it seemed regressive, and the headlines were pink—but Charlie’s remaining lesbian staffers preferred the editorial control it gave them. The new paper was cheaply printed and didn’t have great distribution, but even so, Charlie had stepped up his game in response. Same party shots but more activism, editorials, theater and film reviews.
Charlie said, “Out and Out doesn’t have the same problem because they can’t sell ads to save their life.”
Yale grabbed pretzels from the bag on the table, and Rafael nodded meekly. He’d been appointed Editor in Chief after those three staffers left, but he hadn’t learned to shout Charlie down yet, and he’d have to. Funny, because Rafael was hardly shy. He was known for coming right up and biting your face if he was drunk enough. He’d started out as the nightlife reviewer—he was young and cute, with spiked-up hair, and he’d worked as a dancer—but he turned out to be an excellent editor, and despite his deference to Charlie, despite the diminished staff, the paper was better than ever. Hipper too.
The Great Believers Page 4