by C.P. Kemabia
Ava did not take her flight the next day. She had decided to extend her stay by a few more days.
Antwone phoned her in the morning and she told him that. She also told him she was feeling a little under the weather but was hopeful it would pass. He asked her whether he had something to do with her feeling that way and she said yes. She also said she was a little mad, but was hoping that wouldn’t last very long.
On a different note, she informed him that Hank would be flying into town the day after to see more closely to his art expo event, which was due to open in three days. After they chewed the fat some more over the phone, she told him she was going to be making phone calls all day long to try to solicit new international rights for a batch of backlisted books her agency represented. They could meet up later if he wanted to. And the catch-22 she’d added to that was only if he really wanted to.
But it was up to him.
Antwone thought that she was trying to have him over a barrel. You could only smile to that. One way or another, she always got what she desired. She was that kind of woman. You were much happier when you gave into her. Ava told him she had to go. She hung up.
At around eleven o’clock that same morning, Antwone descended to the hotel restaurant and had breakfast. There were a few people there, out-of-towners just like him. He had met some of them and even some foreign nationals during his stay, in the hall or in the corridors or in the elevator. A fat man in a business suit was reading the paper. Two elderly women wearing church hats were blabbering away. And a young kid was looking at him from the table he and his family occupied. He had a younger sister. She was talking to him but he was ignoring her. Antwone gave the boy a smile and, again, he thought of Mary. She had met someone. She was married now and her life was seemingly in order. His life was not. His life was walking him by. Where to? It was hard to say.
He ordered coffee, bacon and scrambled eggs. He didn’t have to wait long because his order came fast on a serving tray. While eating, he started thinking where he was at with his book. It was shaping up all right, but still something was amiss. It was untitled at this point, but he was not worried about finding a title after the book was complete. Suddenly he thought of something that could add some dramatic weight to the story. He hailed the waiter for a pen and paper. And after the waiter brought those items, he started scribbling. He kept scribbling even long after he was done eating. His creative impulse was strong at that moment and he was following it viscerally because he knew he was onto something.
Because he spent most of his off-writing time with Liv, Antwone didn’t see Ava much after their phone conversation. That was until Hank got there.
Antwone would often hang out with Liv after her shift at the restaurant was over. From there, he’d accompany her to where she took her stage acting lessons. And during that window, he’d let her talk about herself. She didn’t like to talk about herself though, he could see that. But she was indulging him. She wasn’t a terrific storyteller, but her story was terrific. It was sort of sad.
From what he’d collected, she’d had a troubled childhood, an abusive father, an alcoholic mother who was scared of her husband and had become so anesthetized by her heavy drinking that all standard feelings that were supposed to be in people, in her, were no longer there. Even motherly feelings to her own child. All of that was gone too.
Between age ten to twelve, Liv had made three unsuccessful attempts to run away. The fourth attempt had been successful. From that time, she said the only thing she regretted was not to have cleaned her parents’ wallet to finance her getaway. It had been really tough without money, without knowing how to get by through any given day, or whether she’d be able to even get by. But she’d been lucky though when she’d met this old man, a travelling salesman, who’d taken a liking to her. And whenever he was in town, which was five or six times a year, he’d always treat her to a nice dinner. And when he left town, he gave her some money…
“No––it wasn’t like that,” Liv had told Antwone outright to stop him from imagining things.
Her relationship with the old man was purely platonic. She suspected that he had an estranged daughter somewhere he hadn’t talked to in years. And she also suspected she was reminding him of his own daughter in some ways she didn’t quite see. He usually came around the time when some industrial fabric convention or something was going on. But then, after a while, he’d stopped coming around. And so, Liv never saw him nor heard from him again. And after going through another rough patch, she stumbled upon Harlan. And with him, her life went through a whole new kind of bender. Antwone couldn’t get her to talk about it though, about her time spent with Harlan. It was the only thing she wouldn’t talk about.
Hank finally arrived. The day after he came, Ava called Antwone to invite him to the soft opening of his art exhibition show. Antwone tried to decline. But then, he submitted to Ava. Later on, when he met Liv, he brought up the art show and the fact that he was invited and she seemed so enthused about it, about how exciting art shows were, that he asked her if she wanted to come along.
The art show was held somewhere on Highland Avenue. The venue was sumptuous. The floor was tiled with travertine and the white, gleaming walls were lined with high painting canvases. There was really no other way to describe this event. The foyer crawled with people in chic clothing. They seemed to have exquisite tastes and manners; a testament of the latter was the way they delicately held their glassfuls of wine against their midriffs and pushed their jaws out in deep concentration while appraising a painting hung up on the wall.
When Antwone showed up with Liv, he got a little confused. Was this a soft opening or a grand opening? The place was crowded, with only the finest people. It was an invite-only event. So much crowd went to show the breadth of Hank’s social connections. Sure, Antwone and Liv could still move through the crowd in thin aisles but that was sure to disturb people’s artsy-fartsy conversations or break someone’s concentration as they tried to connect with something that had caught their attention. Also it was hard to clearly see a face. Someone’s back or front was always between you and the face you were looking at.
Eventually, Antwone spotted Ava. Actually, it wasn’t her. It was a woman with a bob cut who had the same pretty slimness and shoulder line as Ava.
The real Ava saw him though. She was with Hank, her official significant other. And they were chatting with an important-looking fellow who had everything of the cosmopolitan art collector about him.
She excused herself and came up to greet Antwone. After being introduced, Liv said, “This place is amazing. So much great stuff to see.”
“Are you a painter?” Ava asked her.
“Not even an amateur,” Liv said. “But I do have a huge respect for the art form. I think it’s the purest there is. Nothing comes close.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Ava said. “My sensibility lies with words, written and unwritten, spoken and unspoken. It’s true a picture is worth a thousand words but the meaning behind half the paintings you see here totally eludes me.”
“I thought this was like a soft opening,” Antwone said.
“Well, Hank is Hank. He never does anything by halves,” Ava said before adding, “So what have you been up to?”
“Working, you know.”
“Yeah? You look exhausted.”
He thought she was going to reach her hand up to stroke his face. She didn’t.
“Want to drink something?” she said instead.
“Sure.” Antwone turned to Liv and the face she was pulling meant she was up for a drink too.
They all went to the bar area and ordered their drinks from the bartender. Antwone got a glass of sherry and Liv had the same. After the first sip though, she grimaced as if she’d just swallowed battery acid. The sherry was maybe too strong for her mouth. But she held on to her glass and took another sip. It was easier to swallow the second time. Then a particular painting seemed to pique her interest. And she went off to check it out.
; “Do you know all these people?” Antwone asked Ava once they were alone.
“Not very well,” Ava said, a glass of Porto poised between her fingers. “But they are charming. Hank only frequents the most charming people.”
“And you don’t?”
“The people I know tend to make trouble for me,” she said, looking at Antwone. “Professionally and personally. I’m way too nice.”
“Not in the tragic heroine kind of way though.”
“Don’t make fun,” Ava said. “I’m not happy with you right now.” Pushing her chin out toward where Liv stood smitten by a cubism-inspired painting, she added, “And who is she?”
“I told you.”
“You told me her name.”
“I met her years ago, even before I met you, can you believe? We ran into each other the other day by chance. So we’ve been catching up.”
“And I thought all this time you were furiously at work on your novel. But it seems you can’t just find the time to be with me.”
“Come on now,” Antwone said. “What’s gotten into you lately?”
“I should ask you the same goddamned question.”
And that was enough to express the tip of her hostile feelings towards him. She never trod on middle grounds. There were no gray areas with her when it came to matters of the heart. When she didn’t love you, she hated you. This way allowed her to know exactly where she stood with her feelings about things. It simplified things by removing the unnecessary jazz.
After a moment of studying Antwone, whose face swam in the doubtful light of a light fixture close-by, Ava said, “So how’s work? How’s that going?” She did not wait for a reply. “I forgot you don’t like to talk about your work when it’s still in progress. You know what I’m realizing?”
“No. But you’re dying to tell me.”
“You are a work in progress yourself, Antwone.”
It was then that Hank joined them. He was garbed in a cashmere roll neck cardigan, carpenter pants and had slippers on. But even in his casual clothing, he looked as dignified as the rest of his fine guests.
“Mr. Devaux,” Hank said, thrusting a welcoming hand as he came up to Antwone. “May I call you Antwone?”
“By all means.”
“I’m very happy to see you here. It’s a real pleasure to have you. Ava told me you were in town and I’m glad she got you an invitation.”
He had a broad, generous smile which took many years off of his good-natured face. The smile always came on just before he spoke, during and even after he was done. It probably helped defy his aging. But you could tell he was at least ten years older than Antwone. And he had kept himself pretty well.
“I don’t know whether you’ll agree with me,” Hank said, slipping his arm around Ava’s waist, “but I think there’s not much of a difference between the art of painting on a canvas and the art of writing on a blank page. The end result is the same. It’s all about making nothing into something. And that is the beauty of creation. It’s just amazing the different things the hands can create with the breath of our imagination. Here, let me give you a little tour––”
His hands came off Ava’s waist and he led Antwone to a wall-hung canvas showing a ferocious shark soaring out of the rip surface of a raging, stormy sea.
“This one was made by a young artist, a Yugoslav painter, I think. Very ambitious. See the way the waves are breaking madly; the way the unfinished brushstrokes give motion to the currents. It’s just brilliant; this is a wrath-of-God kind of storm and we can feel the intensity of the wind as it slashes across the skies, the waters, and anything caught in the surf line would be doomed, but not this shark. It feels right at home in there. What does that tell you?”
Antwone liked the artwork for what it was: a nice depiction of a shark in its natural element, however troubled. If there was more to it than that, it was lost on him.
“Sharks don’t mind a storm,” he replied noncommittally.
Hank nodded. He added.
“They’re fascinating creatures, aren’t they? They belong everywhere, in nice weather or in extremely bad weather.”
Next, he showed Antwone another canvas. This one was a realistic portrait of three persons, a man, a woman and a child, who were hanged by the neck inside a barn with the sun setting outside and silhouetting the poor wretches with its golden, declining light.
“The first time I saw the work of this artist,” Hank explained, “that was last year by the way, in Chicago, I knew I had found a diamond in the dirt. I think he may just leave his mark in the long run. I mean look at this. There’s a quiet loathing about this painting. It’s almost disturbing to look at but we can’t help but stare at the tragedy. And the light… Look at it. It comes to blows with the shadows and yet both work together to heighten the drama… I bet this scene could easily inspire a full-fledged novel. What do you think?”
Antwone was distracted. Ava had just retired herself to seemingly better company in the midst of giggling patrons.
“If anything,” Hank went on, “this painting is a testament to how deeply and closely family ties should run in life and in death. But of course, my interpretation does not negate others.”
Liv came back from her solo browsing and Hank was enchanted to make her acquaintance.
“Are you into modern painting?” he asked her.
“Saying I’m into modern painting is saying too much,” she said. “But usually it depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“I don’t know, like––” She pointed at the painting she had been contemplating. It was a medium-shot portrait of an elderly, black-clad, coal-black-eyed woman with a jet-black crow perched on her shoulder. “I really liked that one over there. It was a little creepy. But it’s a good form of creepy. I can dig that. And it’s food for thought too.”
“The good thing about this collection,” Hank said, “is that there’s a little bit of everything for everybody.”
On that note, he excused himself from Antwone and Liv because he had to go back to tending his guests. He encouraged them, however, to keep exploring his collection, which he jokingly called his little salon of pearls.
Before he walked off, he turned to Antwone and said, “We should have dinner sometime since I’m here and you’re around. Funny how we’ve never had that before. But I guess it’s my fault. I’m always on the move, chasing after new, exciting paintings. But let’s try to do that, huh? Tell you what, I have a very beautiful apartment up on the hills. Perfect for intimate dinner with friends. I’ll let Ava set it up if that’s alright.”
There wasn’t much chance to object or say anything about the offering. Some well-dressed patron swooped in and took Hank away. After he had left them, Liv trained an eye across the room and saw that each pocket of guests was a relatively closed circuit. They were having a good time among themselves and it made you want to have a good time too. But in this stilted setting, though amiability permeated everyone’s attitude, it was hard to partake in their intrinsic pleasure if you were not one of them to begin with. And because of that, Liv suddenly felt like leaving.
“You want to get out of here?” she asked Antwone.
She could see he was not invested that much in the art collection which was so enthralling to the other guests. “There’s something I want to show you.”
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