his eyebrows and screwed his head:
âThatâs great. Iâm happy for you. Really.
Kurt and Brigitte returned from the bathroom, but were intercepted by Immendorff just as they entered the back room.
One of Brigitteâs friends approached Owen. She introduced herself as Saskia with a succinctness that suggested that she didnât have a last name because she would never need one.
She appraised Owen as she would a statue. Smoke rolled out of her mouth in thick clouds. Words followed exhalation, cold, high, and cirrus thin:
âYou should find new friends. Or go somewhere else.
He fell through the wisps.
âWhy?
Saskia exhaled as a response.
âSeriously. Where should I go?
âNew York, Paris, London. There are many places.
âBut here I am.
âYou donât belong here.
âWhat?
âYou donât belong here.
Owen asked for a cigarette. Saskia offered her pack and then offered him her lipstick-stained cigarette to light it with. In his experience, women who wore lipstick that red touched his arm and laughed at anything, hoping another guy would notice.
âIâve got work in New York on Friday, she said.
She let the syllables linger in a way that suggested she was considering bringing him as a diversion. She squinted.
âAre you from New York?
âCalifornia.
âLos Angeles?
âNorth of LA.
âThings are different here. Find a hole to hide in and watch your drinks.
And with that admonition Saskia evaporated. She remained glued to Brigitteâs hip, but she was finished with Owen.
Jera was back at his sketch. Without looking up, he said:
âTheyâre all trouble, but that one is lethal. Stay away, my friend.
âHow do you know Kurt?
âWe were in a group show at the Todd Zeale Gallery.
âDid you collaborate?
âWith Kurt? No.
âIs he a good artist?
âHe makes a lot of money. Heâs no Immendorff.
âDo you think heâs any good?
âIf Kurt had any discipline, heâd be a mediocre painter.
Kurt somehow managed to be everywhere at once. He rolled right into Owenâs calf.
âI thought you usually described me as a force.
âBut I never meant it as a compliment.
âDonât worry, Owen. Heâs frustrated because no one wants to buy Flemish reproductions from a dreadlocked white guy.
âI had dreadlocks for two years. I was eighteen.
âYou should grow them again. Youâd give critics something to write about.
âYou know I do this for the work, not the press, not the volume.
âPeople buy loud.
âAnd youâve got a whole team in some factory cranking it out.
âIs it my fault if I can do more in five seconds than you do in a year?
âWhat do you call the picture, Pedicabo ? Really great stuff. Iâd like to buy it.
âThe bar owns it. Not me.
The private room crowd stopped talking and listened.
âWell, I donât know what to say. I have to have it.
âYou canât afford it, Jera.
âA trade then.
Kurt registered his audience.
âDidnât I hear something about you having a show up?
âThe opening was last month. You went to the afterparty.
Kurt didnât appear to hear.
âIâll trade it for whatever doesnât sell. If you sell out the show, Iâll give you the picture for nothing. But I think we both know thatâs not going to happen.
âTwo pieces are already gone.
âAnd itâs been up three weeks. I know for a fact one went to your uncle. Is your gallery even in Berlin? Doesnât matter. Fine. Letâs see, what am I getting? Iâm going with some allegorical work. Parable of the Blind ? Ship of Fools ? Something I could buy at the airport thatâs taken you over a year.
Jera laughed, but didnât deny any of it.
âFine. Sold. I havenât destroyed the film yet. Iâll have Michael print another and send it over next week.
Jera looked at the
âThatâs great. Iâm happy for you. Really.
Kurt and Brigitte returned from the bathroom, but were intercepted by Immendorff just as they entered the back room.
One of Brigitteâs friends approached Owen. She introduced herself as Saskia with a succinctness that suggested that she didnât have a last name because she would never need one.
She appraised Owen as she would a statue. Smoke rolled out of her mouth in thick clouds. Words followed exhalation, cold, high, and cirrus thin:
âYou should find new friends. Or go somewhere else.
He fell through the wisps.
âWhy?
Saskia exhaled as a response.
âSeriously. Where should I go?
âNew York, Paris, London. There are many places.
âBut here I am.
âYou donât belong here.
âWhat?
âYou donât belong here.
Owen asked for a cigarette. Saskia offered her pack and then offered him her lipstick-stained cigarette to light it with. In his experience, women who wore lipstick that red touched his arm and laughed at anything, hoping another guy would notice.
âIâve got work in New York on Friday, she said.
She let the syllables linger in a way that suggested she was considering bringing him as a diversion. She squinted.
âAre you from New York?
âCalifornia.
âLos Angeles?
âNorth of LA.
âThings are different here. Find a hole to hide in and watch your drinks.
And with that admonition Saskia evaporated. She remained glued to Brigitteâs hip, but she was finished with Owen.
Jera was back at his sketch. Without looking up, he said:
âTheyâre all trouble, but that one is lethal. Stay away, my friend.
âHow do you know Kurt?
âWe were in a group show at the Todd Zeale Gallery.
âDid you collaborate?
âWith Kurt? No.
âIs he a good artist?
âHe makes a lot of money. Heâs no Immendorff.
âDo you think heâs any good?
âIf Kurt had any discipline, heâd be a mediocre painter.
Kurt somehow managed to be everywhere at once. He rolled right into Owenâs calf.
âI thought you usually described me as a force.
âBut I never meant it as a compliment.
âDonât worry, Owen. Heâs frustrated because no one wants to buy Flemish reproductions from a dreadlocked white guy.
âI had dreadlocks for two years. I was eighteen.
âYou should grow them again. Youâd give critics something to write about.
âYou know I do this for the work, not the press, not the volume.
âPeople buy loud.
âAnd youâve got a whole team in some factory cranking it out.
âIs it my fault if I can do more in five seconds than you do in a year?
âWhat do you call the picture, Pedicabo ? Really great stuff. Iâd like to buy it.
âThe bar owns it. Not me.
The private room crowd stopped talking and listened.
âWell, I donât know what to say. I have to have it.
âYou canât afford it, Jera.
âA trade then.
Kurt registered his audience.
âDidnât I hear something about you having a show up?
âThe opening was last month. You went to the afterparty.
Kurt didnât appear to hear.
âIâll trade it for whatever doesnât sell. If you sell out the show, Iâll give you the picture for nothing. But I think we both know thatâs not going to happen.
âTwo pieces are already gone.
âAnd itâs been up three weeks. I know for a fact one went to your uncle. Is your gallery even in Berlin? Doesnât matter. Fine. Letâs see, what am I getting? Iâm going with some allegorical work. Parable of the Blind ? Ship of Fools ? Something I could buy at the airport thatâs taken you over a year.
Jera laughed, but didnât deny any of it.
âFine. Sold. I havenât destroyed the film yet. Iâll have Michael print another and send it over next week.
Jera looked at the
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