picture behind the bar. His nostrils flared and his breathing stopped. Owen could see that Jera only wanted to buy the photograph to remove it from the world. Now there would be two of these pictures in existence rather than one. Owen couldnât hear what Jera was mumbling, but hydra would have been fitting.
âHave your gallerist call Michael when the showâs down. Letâs go out. This bar turned into a business meeting.
Owen recognized the heaviness and emptiness in Jera. He looked like a high-schooler watching the gravel kick from a prom limousine that had just left without him. Which confirmed that Owen had fallen in with the assholes.
I t was a short walk to the next spot. This bar was louder, but not cacophonous; darker, but with the early electric glow of amber. Owen walked through a projector beam and was temporarily blinded. A standing crowd barely watching the Antonioni film on the wall turned to see whose silhouette was blocking the cliff scene. It took a minute for Owen to realize that they were motioning him to move.
He had read an apocryphal history of the eye patch in Coping with Changes in Sight , by Dr. Thomas Friedlan, MD: pirates wanted to keep one eye acclimated to the brightness of the deck and the other hidden until it was time for the darkness of the galley. Apparently there was nothing wrong with most piratesâ vision. In fact, the eye patch gave them a distinct advantage.
The darkened crowd was lost to him. A woman in a black horsehide Perfecto jacket stood illuminated by the glow of her laptop screen. She looked stunning in laptop light. Which was something.
Hal was yelling in his ear:
âThatâs her. Stevie. Sheâs a genius. She memorizes entire books.
Before Hal could expand upon his point, he was introducing Owen to the woman. She held headphones to one ear and had a cigarette behind the other. Hal shouted over the music.
âThis is our American friend, Owen.
Stevie, in her deejay perch queuing up the next 1950s song and doing something with a turntable, stood just an inch above eye level.
She slid a knob to the right, hit a button, and dropped her headphones to look at Owen. He looked paralyzed by possibilities. Hal didnât have that problem and yelled up to her.
âWe had to leave the Pedicabo because Kurt and Jera were having a pissing contest.
âUh-huh. I finish in twenty minutes. Take these drink tickets.
She motioned to the bartender and pointed to Hal and Owen.
Hal asked if he could bring her something. Owen kicked himself for being slow.
Stevie held up her water bottle, took a swig, and put her headphones over one ear.
Right elbow raised like a tour guide, Hal led Owen to the bar. He was nodding eagerly to the beat, lighting up another cigarette. Owen ordered tequila and a can of beer. Hal had the same.
Owen cracked the tab and slurped. The cold foam buoyed him up.
âIs Jeraâs art any good?
âThereâs a whole school of German artists like that.
âLike what?
âDid he tell you about his diet? He only eats roots. Like beets, turmeric, carrots, radishes . . . heâs obsessed with pigments and thinks if he eats roots itâll lead to some insight, because theyâre brighter. I donât know. âColors so bright they buried them underground.â Thatâs what he called the only painting that ever got him any press.
âWas it beautiful?
Hal laughed at Owen.
âYouâre not embarrassed to use words like that? Whatever. I canât remember the last time I thought a painting was interesting. I canât remember the last time anyone important in art thought a painting was interesting.
They threw back their first drink and took the second glass to the back of the bar, where Brigitte, Saskia, and Kurt were waiting. Owen found himself more stimulated than he had been since his pregame speech. All was speedy, hollow, and unwell. He stopped nodding his head.
âDid you put
âHave your gallerist call Michael when the showâs down. Letâs go out. This bar turned into a business meeting.
Owen recognized the heaviness and emptiness in Jera. He looked like a high-schooler watching the gravel kick from a prom limousine that had just left without him. Which confirmed that Owen had fallen in with the assholes.
I t was a short walk to the next spot. This bar was louder, but not cacophonous; darker, but with the early electric glow of amber. Owen walked through a projector beam and was temporarily blinded. A standing crowd barely watching the Antonioni film on the wall turned to see whose silhouette was blocking the cliff scene. It took a minute for Owen to realize that they were motioning him to move.
He had read an apocryphal history of the eye patch in Coping with Changes in Sight , by Dr. Thomas Friedlan, MD: pirates wanted to keep one eye acclimated to the brightness of the deck and the other hidden until it was time for the darkness of the galley. Apparently there was nothing wrong with most piratesâ vision. In fact, the eye patch gave them a distinct advantage.
The darkened crowd was lost to him. A woman in a black horsehide Perfecto jacket stood illuminated by the glow of her laptop screen. She looked stunning in laptop light. Which was something.
Hal was yelling in his ear:
âThatâs her. Stevie. Sheâs a genius. She memorizes entire books.
Before Hal could expand upon his point, he was introducing Owen to the woman. She held headphones to one ear and had a cigarette behind the other. Hal shouted over the music.
âThis is our American friend, Owen.
Stevie, in her deejay perch queuing up the next 1950s song and doing something with a turntable, stood just an inch above eye level.
She slid a knob to the right, hit a button, and dropped her headphones to look at Owen. He looked paralyzed by possibilities. Hal didnât have that problem and yelled up to her.
âWe had to leave the Pedicabo because Kurt and Jera were having a pissing contest.
âUh-huh. I finish in twenty minutes. Take these drink tickets.
She motioned to the bartender and pointed to Hal and Owen.
Hal asked if he could bring her something. Owen kicked himself for being slow.
Stevie held up her water bottle, took a swig, and put her headphones over one ear.
Right elbow raised like a tour guide, Hal led Owen to the bar. He was nodding eagerly to the beat, lighting up another cigarette. Owen ordered tequila and a can of beer. Hal had the same.
Owen cracked the tab and slurped. The cold foam buoyed him up.
âIs Jeraâs art any good?
âThereâs a whole school of German artists like that.
âLike what?
âDid he tell you about his diet? He only eats roots. Like beets, turmeric, carrots, radishes . . . heâs obsessed with pigments and thinks if he eats roots itâll lead to some insight, because theyâre brighter. I donât know. âColors so bright they buried them underground.â Thatâs what he called the only painting that ever got him any press.
âWas it beautiful?
Hal laughed at Owen.
âYouâre not embarrassed to use words like that? Whatever. I canât remember the last time I thought a painting was interesting. I canât remember the last time anyone important in art thought a painting was interesting.
They threw back their first drink and took the second glass to the back of the bar, where Brigitte, Saskia, and Kurt were waiting. Owen found himself more stimulated than he had been since his pregame speech. All was speedy, hollow, and unwell. He stopped nodding his head.
âDid you put
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