by Ann Charney
“Relax,” she tells him, disengaging her arm. “I have no intention of intruding.” To prove that she means what she says, she wanders over to join Helena, who is standing alone.
“He’s a bit of a snake, isn’t he?” Helena says, as they watch Rémi talking in animated fashion to a short, heavyset man. “That’s Sy Gollen, a bigtime art collector,” Helena tells Nerina. “The very thin woman next to him is his longsuffering wife.”
Nerina recognizes the woman. She’s the one whose words earlier in the evening caught her attention: “Bad things happen, life goes on.”
“Why longsuffering?” Nerina asks, wondering if Helena’s description has anything to do with the remark she overheard.
“Gollen is a compulsive womanizer,” Helena says with an indulgent chuckle. “Rumour has it he’s currently carrying on with Alessandra Berman, the woman talking to Christophe. Apparently she’s persuaded him to donate his collection to the National Museum. Gollen made his fortune in real estate — shopping malls, I believe — but he has a keen appreciation for art and beautiful women. Looks like he’s heading our way.”
Nerina starts to back away, but Helena stops her. “I won’t have you running off again. What’s wrong with you tonight? You’ve been as restless as a hummingbird.”
Helena’s scolding makes her feel even less invisible than being recognized from Christophe’s video. She wonders who else has noticed her skittish behaviour. For Christophe’s sake, and her own, she must try and make a better impression before the party ends.
“Helena, what a delight to see you,” Gollen says, kissing her hand. “I think of you fondly every time I look at the Piranesi print you advised me to buy. It was in a private collection in Venice,” he says, turning towards Nerina. “Helena persuaded its owners to part with it, for a painfully high sum as I recall.”
“You know as well as I do Sy, it’s worth twice as much now,” Helena points out. “Speaking of art purchases, I’ve heard you’ve acquired a couple of Meredith Covington’s recent works. You know Nerina has been her assistant for the past year.”
Gollen is only too happy to seize the opening Helena has provided. “I’d love to hear about your experiences with Meredith,” he says, steering Nerina slightly to one side. “One hears so many fascinating stories about her.”
“You probably know more about her than I do,” Nerina replies. Aware that Helena is watching her, she adds, “I’d much rather hear about your collection. Helena says you have a very keen eye for art.”
“Helena is too kind. The truth is I knew nothing about art when I started,” he says, sounding pleased with his former ignorance. “Donna, my wife, was the art buyer in the family.”
Remembering the resolve she just made to be more sociable, Nerina wills herself to pursue the conversation. “What changed that?” she asks.
“Donna persuaded me to accompany her to a few auctions and I caught the bug. My first purchases were of French Impressionists, but I soon switched to contemporary art. It was less expensive, and I liked the fact that it was more of a gamble. Altogether a more likely source for creating a large and original collection. Next time you’re in town, I could arrange for you to see it.”
“Thank you. I’d like that,” Nerina replies. After a moment’s hesitation, she adds, “I’m actually planning to move here in a couple of weeks.”
“Excellent,” Gollen responds, beaming approval. “I’m always pleased when I hear someone your age is moving to Montreal. For a long time, it was mostly a place young people left. Have you thought about what you’re going to do? This isn’t New York, but the art scene here is pretty lively.”
This is the perfect moment to tell him about her plans. No doubt that’s why Helena has left her alone with Gollen. She knows the right tone to strike: enthusiastic, but casual, without a hint of neediness; she’s learned from the Ohstroms that people like Gollen, rich people, are always on guard for any kind of solicitation.
As she starts to talk, Sy Gollen interrupts to ask where she’s from. “I’m intrigued by your charming accent, which I can’t quite place. Central Europe, I would guess, but which country?”
“The former Republic of Yugoslavia,” she says, keeping it nonspecific.
“Really? Which part? My wife and I had a great time at the Winter Olympics in Sarajevo in 1984. You probably weren’t even born then.”
She’s looking for a way to bring the conversation back to Montreal, when she sees Alessandra hurrying towards them, the shrunken head swinging menacingly between her breasts like a weapon.
“Hi,” she says brightly, slipping her arm through Gollen’s as if to assert her claim.
Nerina can see that Alessandra’s abrupt departure has left Christophe looking a little stunned. As for Rémi, the expression of dismay on his face strikes Nerina as comical: the two people he wanted her to stay away from have both sought her out, although for different reasons.
“Hello Alessandra,” Gollen says, friendly as ever. “This is Nerina. You’ll be interested to hear that she knows Meredith Covington.” For Nerina’s benefit he adds, “Alessandra has written a brilliant analysis of Meredith’s work. Way over my head, I’m afraid.”
Ignoring Nerina, Alessandra tightens her hold on Gollen’s arm. “I need to speak with you,” she says. “Right now.”
“I’ll be with you in a moment,” Gollen replies in an even tone, disengaging his arm. “Nerina was just in the middle of telling me her plans for setting up a gallery in Montreal. You might find this interesting as well, Alessandra.”
Alessandra, her face flushed with anger, strides off without another word.
Nerina is not sure what has just happened, but she suspects she’s been used as ammunition in some struggle between Gollen and Alessandra.
“This is probably not the best time or place to talk,” she says, unwilling to give Alessandra any further reason for animosity. “In any case, my plans are still pretty vague.”
“All right,” Gollen replies in the same even tone he used with Alessandra. “Don’t forget to give me a call once you’ve settled in,” he adds, handing her his card.
When she describes the encounter to Helena a few minutes later, Helena tells her not to worry about Alessandra. “She wouldn’t like you no matter what you did. Alessandra has made her reputation as a brilliant theoretician of feminist art, but according to Lillian, who’s on the board of the Museum, she can be quite cruel towards women staff members. Nor does it prevent her from poaching other women’s husbands. I bet Gollen’s wife, Donna, is grateful to you for bringing her down a few pegs.”
Nerina doesn’t feel she deserves either blame or credit for Alessandra’s humiliation, but before she has a chance to protest, Lillian reappears beside them.
“How did you make out?” Helena asks her, sounding solicitous.
Helena’s inquiry, it soon becomes apparent, concerns Lillian’s dog. The animal suffers from digestive problems, and his vet has prescribed a twicedaily dose of Metamucil to increase his fibre intake. Not an easy remedy to administer, according to Lillian — and to Helena, who has witnessed Lillian’s struggles.
“What kind of dog do you have?” Nerina asks. Lillian seems much friendlier after her ordeal than she did on the terrace earlier.
“A Bouvier des Flandres. They’re intelligent, loyal dogs, but they tend to have nervous stomachs. My goodness, there he is,” she says, pointing to a large, heavily furred animal standing in the doorway. “He’s not supposed to come in here.”
The dog, aware he’s on borrowed time, scoots into the room before anyone can stop him, his progress across forbidden territory soon marked by a trail of foul odour — unmistakeable proof of his nervous stomach.
“Now, how did you get in here?” his owner asks, looking at the dog with a fondness that doesn’t match her stern tone. As she grabs his collar to drag him out of the room, the dog disgraces himself further by vomiting on the parquet floor.
“How disgusting,” Alessandra says, as she p
ushes past them to the terrace. Other guests are not far behind. Nerina finds herself swept along in the stampede and thrust against Christophe.
“How are you doing?” he asks, putting his arm around her waist to steady her.
“Are you sure you want to be seen talking to me? Rémi won’t like it.”
“Fuck Rémi,” he says, tightening his hold of her body.
As if on cue, Rémi pops up in front of them, smiling impishly. This time, he’s not here to break up their têteàtête but to share a rumour he’s just heard, too delicious to keep to himself: the dog’s troubles may be the result of an act of human mischief, not an act of nature.
“It’s entirely possible, you know,” Rémi says, his voice an excited whisper, as he leans in closer to emphasize the intimate nature of his disclosure. “I can think of a couple of artists here tonight who are quite capable of staging a show of excremental aesthetics. You know, like Manzoni, the Italian artist, who put his own shit in sealed cans and sold it as art from the gut. All you’d have to do is feed the beast a few of those canapés of foie gras or curried shrimp and wait for nature to take its course.”
Nerina could blow his story out of the water by the mere mention of Metamucil, but Rémi is so caught up in the plot he’s weaving she doesn’t have the heart to spoil his fun.
“What a twisted mind you have,” Christophe says, laughing. “I wouldn’t put it past you to stage this coup de théâtre all by yourself.”
The accusation brings a wistful smile to Rémi’s face. “I wish I had that kind of imagination, but I don’t. That’s why I’m a dealer, not an artist.”
A cold wind coming off the river forces the guests back inside. There is no trace left of the dog’s mess or his foul odour, but the party is winding down. Lillian and Helena are nowhere to be seen, perhaps off ministering to the ailing dog, or maybe they’ve simply retired for the night. Only Rémi still perseveres, plying his trade among the remaining guests, as sharp and tireless as at the outset of the evening.
Nerina is ready to leave as well, but she waits patiently while Christophe takes one final lap around the room talking to the last stragglers. He is reluctant to see the evening end and she understands. So much effort leading up to this moment, and so little assurance of how it will play out.
Tonight’s party, with its seamy undercurrent of greed and ambition hidden beneath the camouflage of glamour and the pursuit of beauty, casts even further doubt on Christophe’s aspirations, as well as her own. The art business is not for the fainthearted.
As she watches the waiters scurrying around the room to collect the debris of the party — it’s been a long night for them as well — Nerina is suddenly struck by the vast uncertainty of it all, for Christophe, for herself, and for the others whose stories have become entangled with her own: Helena, Marco, Walter, even Leo and Miriam.
And yet, through all of it, life goes on, ordinary and mysterious, revealing the future in random slivers — odd jigsaw pieces with no discernible pattern — as if the human eye were only capable of taking in the unknown one image at a time.
By the time Christophe is ready to leave, Nerina has convinced herself she wouldn’t have it any other way.
Acknowledgements
Writing is a solitary occupation, but by the time a book reaches the final stages of publication, there are many people whose contributions merit acknowledgement.
I am grateful to Marc Coté for his steadfast support, his insightful editorial advice, and for often understanding my intentions better than I did, to Michael O’Leary for his keen eye and helpful suggestions, and to the other people at Cormorant Books who have left their mark on this book.
I am also grateful to Beverley Slopen for her discernment and encouragement, and to Ruth Portner for her patient and intelligent reading of every draft of this book.
I would like to thank friends in Venice, Upstate New York, Manhattan, and Montreal who shared with me their homes, their stories, and, in some instances, the affection for their dogs.
And, as always, I am deeply grateful for the support of family and friends, both near and distant; without them, writing and life do not bear imagining.