Color Blind (32 page)

Kate smiled and muttered “Thank you, thank you,” finally disentangling herself, though their perfume hung around her like smog for another block. She was still enjoying her brush with minor celebrity when someone passed by, and though it was just a fleeting image, it registered—young man, tall, wraparound sunglasses. Kate turned for another look, caught a glimpse of his profile, then a young woman coming out of the gallery met him, and they kissed.

No, it couldn’t possibly be the antisocial loner Dr. Schiller had described.

Or could it be?
Schiller had also said he was a charmer, capable of deceit. Kate watched the young couple head down the street hand in hand, and shook off another chill. It was just his shades that did it, that’s all. Innocuous enough. Though she wondered if sunglasses would be forever setting off an alarm? It was absurd, of course. She was wearing them herself.

H
ow beautiful, her hair a bit more copper than he realized, blouse a deep plum. It’s all working.

He watches from across the wide street, sees her staring at a young couple holding hands, and imagines splitting them open, their guts spilling onto the pavement, a cornucopia of scrumptious color. He practically swoons.

A moment later, she is gone, the gallery door shutting behind her.

Does he dare follow?
Just for the fun of it!
No. Too risky. He’ll wait. Occupy himself with fantasies of this group of women who are now passing—not at all like the women he has known in his life—all of them so well-groomed, smelling delicious, chattering and gesturing, a few of them glancing over, offering a smile.

Betcha can’t eat just one!

T
he Vincent Petrycoff Gallery occupied half a block of prime Chelsea real estate. No windowed front to peer into; the whitewashed cinder-block facade spoke of privacy, an inner sanctum devoted to the art of looking with no distractions.

Kate followed a couple of art handlers past a discreet sign taped to the doors:
INSTALLATION IN PROGRESS
.

Inside, the exhibition space was the size of a gymnasium, ceilings so expansive Kate couldn’t even guess at the height, dismantled wooden crates and bubble wrap littering the floor, gallery assistants on ladders, patching and sanding, touching up mars and nicks with brushes dipped in pristine white paint.

Nola was already there, observing Willie, who stood in the center of the room like a ringmaster directing the installers: Move a painting a few inches to the left or right, switch this painting with that one, his dreadlocks pulled back off his handsome face, which was screwed up with tension.

“Just trying to get this right,” he said as Kate kissed his cheek.

“Great, aren’t they?” said Nola.

Kate took in the work—large paintings, eight to ten feet wide, leaning against the gallery walls, all in Willie’s signature style, his particular hybrid of painting and sculpture. She focused on a piece with beat-up, graffiti-covered metal trash-can lids nailed to the surface, surrounded by even more graffiti gouged into the heavily encrusted paint, the whole thing like some inner-city archaeological dig; then shifted to another, this one combining pieces of glass and mirror embedded into the paint, so that the viewer became part of the work, one’s own face reflected in disorienting fragments.

Kate moved back and forth, from one painting to another. “They’re amazing.”

“You’re not just saying that?”

“Of course not,” said Kate, thinking that no matter how successful most artists became, they were always plagued by insecurity. She thought of Mark Rothko, who had ultimately slit his wrists, and his black paintings in the Rothko Chapel, all the mystery and uncertainty in them. “You’ve really pushed them,” she said, trying to stay focused on Willie’s work. “I love what you’re doing with so many disparate elements at once, everything suspended, hovering in the rectangles of paint, unexpected, yet totally inevitable.”

“They don’t feel like a dumping ground, do they? You know, like just a mess of…of stuff.”

Kate raised her hand as though hailing a cab. “Dr. Freud. Someone here needs you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Willie laughed. “Preshow jitters, I guess.”

“Relax.” Kate touched his shoulder. “They’re brilliant.”

“You’re really not just saying that?”

“Honestly, Willie, if you know me at all, you know I don’t lie about art.”

“Yeah, but I also know you’d never tell me if you hated them.”

“I could never hate them because you are incapable of doing hateful work.”

“I’ve already told him how good they are about a dozen times,” said Nola.

“Who ever said a dozen times was enough?” Willie smiled. “But I love you both.”

Kate looked past Willie, caught fragments of her own face shimmering in the painting with mirrors. It seemed a pretty good approximation of how she’d been feeling since she’d walked down that dark alleyway—in pieces.

“Love you too,” she said. “Hey, what about switching those two paintings? I think the viewer should come upon the mirror piece unexpectedly, not when they first walk in.”

“Good idea,” said Willie.

“Forgive me,” said Nola, rubbing her belly. “I’ve got to pee.”

The installers were switching the paintings as Vincent Petrycoff strode into the room, dark suit fitting his frame as though it had been sewed on him, and very possibly it had. “So what do you think of our boy genius?” He air-kissed Kate’s cheeks.

“I think he’s great. And so are the paintings. Powerful. Rich. Smart.”

“Sounds like you’re describing
me
.” Petrycoff ran a hand through his silver ponytail and snorted a laugh.

“If I had been, I’d have left off the last word,” said Kate, and approximated the gallerist’s snort-laugh, though she elbowed him good-naturedly. No way she wanted to piss off Willie’s dealer just before a show.

Petrycoff laughed again, but sobered quickly. “I wonder if you wouldn’t think about writing something about the work?”

Impossible, thought Kate. Everyone in the art world knew Willie was practically her adopted son, and she had already plugged the exhibition on her TV show—that was enough nepotism. She smiled noncommittally at Petrycoff and watched the assistants as they moved the mirror-and-glass painting into its new place, light bouncing off the reflective surfaces like stained glass in the middle of deep dark blue-black paint, which only now Kate realized contained shadowy faces and figures. “I’m intrigued by that painting,” she said. “Is it available?”

“Oh…maybe. I mean, everybody’s lining up for the work. I’ve got a huge waiting list,” said Petrycoff. “The curator from Madrid’s Reina Sophia was quite interested in that piece as well.”

“Really?” said Willie. It was obviously news to him.

“Yes. He was in just yesterday, when we first unwrapped the piece.” Petrycoff eyed Kate sideways. “He put a hold on it, but I told him if there was any serious interest I would have to sell it.”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly take a sale away from a museum,” said Kate. “That’s too important to Willie’s career.”

“Right, of course not.” Petrycoff seemed a bit flummoxed. “But I could call him. He expressed interest in several other pieces as well. I’m sure we can work something out.”

Kate did not want to spoil a good sale for Willie—if it was true. But she was no rube. She knew when she was being manipulated by an art dealer. “Tell you what. I’ll call Carlos. I know him quite well. Where’s he staying in the city?”

“Oh—” Petrycoff was working his ponytail so hard, Kate was afraid he’d pull it off. “I’m afraid he’s already left.”

“Fine. I’ll call him in Madrid.”

“Yes, uh, right. Do that.” Petrycoff’s jaw muscles were twitching. He glanced across at the assistants moving Willie’s painting and his face contorted. “Where the fuck are your white gloves!?”

The gloveless kid who was holding one side of Willie’s painting six inches off the floor instantly let go, and it hit with a thud.

Petrycoff screamed. Willie gasped.

“You idiot!” Petrycoff marched toward the kid. “Out! Now! You’re fired. Don’t set foot in this gallery ever again! You hear me? Your last check is in the mail!”

The other assistants were quiet, scraping and painting those walls with a renewed intensity.

Willie checked out the painting. “It’s fine.”

“What a moron,” Petrycoff was still grumbling as he examined Willie’s painting.

“They’re fairly indestructible,” said Willie. “They’re on wood, and the surfaces are so worked and heavy you’d need a hatchet to do any real damage. No need to fire the guy.”

“Are you telling me how to run my gallery?” Petrycoff’s face turned the color of beets.

“No. Just telling you something about my paintings.”

Kate considered intervening. It was one thing for the art dealer to abuse his staff—Petrycoff was famous for his rages—but Willie was entirely another matter. But as she looked from Willie, who was maintaining a cool smile, to Petrycoff, whose features appeared to be smoothing out, she realized that Willie could handle the man all by himself. Maybe the art dealer was more shaken by the murder of his most successful artist than he’d appeared to be at the memorial service. Kate would cut him some slack.

She took another slow stroll around the perimeter of the gallery, noting things in Willie’s paintings she hadn’t seen at first glance. But thoughts of constructing a show for the psychopath at the Gallery of Outsider Art began to infect her unconscious like a computer virus, scrambling her brain.
Good idea? Bad? Would he appear? Stay away?

Kate forced herself to come back to the moment, to Willie’s paintings. “Willie. They’re great. Absolutely great. I’ll see you at the opening. And remember, the day after, you, me, and Nola are having dinner. Just the three of us. Don’t forget.”

“I’ll be there.”

Nola padded back into the room, and Willie gave her an awkward hug, trying, and failing, to get his arms around her.

“Vincent.” Kate signaled the art dealer over as soon as Willie was out of earshot, busy instructing one of the installers. “Why don’t
you
call Carlos.”

Petrycoff smiled. “Good idea. More professional that way.”

“Yes. Of course,” said Kate. “If he’s interested in another painting, I’ll take the glass and mirrors.”

The art dealer beamed. “I’ll get back to you. Let’s keep our fingers crossed that Carlos will settle for another piece.”

“Yes. Let’s.” Kate shook the dealer’s hand. She’d had enough. She took one more look at the painting she had no doubt would be hers. It was indeed a mesmerizing piece, not only a metaphor for her recent, fragmented life, but for the world as well, all smoke and mirrors.

O
utside, the clouds were threatening rain and a chill was coming off the nearby Hudson.

“God, it’s almost like winter,” said Nola.

“Yes,” said Kate, putting her arm over the girl’s shoulder. She was thinking that winter had set in two weeks earlier, but it had nothing to do with the weather.

Willie burst out of the Petrycoff Gallery and jogged the few feet to catch up with them. “Just wanted to say thanks again. I mean, for the encouragement. And I think I’m going to need it—with Petrycoff.”

“You can handle him,” said Kate. “The show is going to be a great success. Trust me. You have nothing to worry about.” She was just giving him a good-bye kiss when her cell phone rang.

Brown, calling about the proposed exhibition.

Tapell had given the go-ahead.

A
cross the street, hovering beside a steel lamppost, sunglasses in place, trying hard to remain half hidden and appear nonchalant, he watches and tries to figure out the scenario.

A family? Her children?
They never said she had any children. And they don’t look like her, their faces dark, hers white. He scrambles through the TV Rolodex in his mind:
The Cosby Show, The Partridge Family, The Brady Bunch, Happy Days
. None of them quite right, though each of the theme songs has started playing in his head, all at once.

Clearly, she likes them, perhaps even loves them, though he is not sure what that emotion would require. He dares to slip out into the open for a better look at them. He can see they are far too engrossed in their love fest to notice him.

He feels a sudden flash of heat, a surge of jealousy so intense, Kate’s hair, a minute ago all copper and chestnut, fades, and the redbrick buildings go muddy, his world, once again, smudged and colorless.

It’s them. Their fault. They are ruining it. Destroying what the art
her-story-n
had given him.

He sags against the street lamp as the trio disappears down the gray street, and thinks that they will have to pay for their crime.