horses and feces.
“Right, then, see you in a few.”
I know Báthory’s story. But somehow I had hoped that as a little girl she might at least have thought about helping the gypsy. I look at the tuna sandwich I shoved in my briefcase this morning, half-squished in its zip-lock baggie. I leave it there and walk away from my desk.
Chapter Eleven
It’s Thursday night and I’m on my way to the gallery openings. Henry’s been excited about the Fantasy and Disaster festival for weeks. He’s been at the gallery all day setting up his show, Le Paradis Rouge. I’m a few blocks away from the venue for Honey, Torture when Maria texts me: At Orange Palm. Show to die for. U must come.
I’ve been thinking about the horse and the gypsy and the girl countess all week, wishing Maria could translate the diaries and send me instalments at a faster rate. The more I think about it, and the more I read, the less I suspect that Maria is fabricating these entries. She’s eccentric and sometimes deluded about what she’s entitled to in life, but her story about how she found them sounds authentic. She’s been trying to find them since we met two years ago—why would she suddenly fake their discovery?
I text her back: Will stop in.
I told Henry I’d be at his gallery, the Wynick, by seven. The Orange Palm is just a few blocks from Henry’s show, but it’s already six fifteen so I’ll have to hurry. He hates when I’m late. I pass some graffiti, Art Is My Hustle , spray-painted in stencilled block letters on the sidewalk. I pick up my pace.
The Orange Palm is tiny, with a small foyer that leads into one main gallery space. The foyer is half full of people; everyone has an edgy haircut, or very cool boots, or dull metallic, chunky jewellery. A small chocolate fondue fountain sits in one corner, ringed with strawberries and blood orange slices. There are also two open wine bottles and an assortment of glasses, none that match, some pre-filled with red wine.
I scan the room but I don’t see Maria. I pick up a glass of wine and am just dipping a strawberry under the fountain when a very polite English voice says, “Excuse me, Dani?” I pull the strawberry out of the cascading chocolate and see a tall, dark-haired man in a well-tailored suit. Edward.
“Oh, hi!” I say. I drip chocolate onto my blush open-toed pumps.
“Here you go.” He holds a serviette under the fruit.
“Thanks.” I put my wine and the strawberry on the table and bend down to wipe the chocolate off my shoes. “Nice to see you,” I say, looking up at him. “You’re reviewing this opening?”
“Yes.” He holds out a hand to help me back up. “I’m stopping by the White Cube, too, of course, and I’m meant to go to the Wynick, as well. Maria says your boyfriend has an installation there, yes?”
So Maria did tell him about Henry’s show. “Oh, yes, he does. Are you planning to review it?” Henry was nervous he wouldn’t be mentioned in any reviews at all.
“Quite possibly. There’s a lot of work going up tonight, but Maria was adamant that Henry is quite the new talent.”
Maria’s never seen any of Henry’s work. “Well, it’s generous of her to put in a good word for him,” I say. “So, this installation,” I gesture towards the entrance to the inner part of the gallery, feeling somewhat uncomfortable discussing Maria’s endorsement of Henry’s show, “have you seen it already?”
“Mmm,” he nods, “just been through it. Quite a striking mess. But it’s a bit theatrical for me. Maria is still inside.”
“Must be a real spectacle to hold Maria’s attention.”
“Truly,” says Edward, and leans one hand against the table. He picks up an orange slice, then looks at me. “She was hoping you’d stop by tonight. Go on in—don’t let me hold you up.”
I take my wine, but abandon the strawberry on the table.
The curatorial statement near the entrance reads:
“Honey, Torture.” Performance, film and light
“Right, then, see you in a few.”
I know Báthory’s story. But somehow I had hoped that as a little girl she might at least have thought about helping the gypsy. I look at the tuna sandwich I shoved in my briefcase this morning, half-squished in its zip-lock baggie. I leave it there and walk away from my desk.
Chapter Eleven
It’s Thursday night and I’m on my way to the gallery openings. Henry’s been excited about the Fantasy and Disaster festival for weeks. He’s been at the gallery all day setting up his show, Le Paradis Rouge. I’m a few blocks away from the venue for Honey, Torture when Maria texts me: At Orange Palm. Show to die for. U must come.
I’ve been thinking about the horse and the gypsy and the girl countess all week, wishing Maria could translate the diaries and send me instalments at a faster rate. The more I think about it, and the more I read, the less I suspect that Maria is fabricating these entries. She’s eccentric and sometimes deluded about what she’s entitled to in life, but her story about how she found them sounds authentic. She’s been trying to find them since we met two years ago—why would she suddenly fake their discovery?
I text her back: Will stop in.
I told Henry I’d be at his gallery, the Wynick, by seven. The Orange Palm is just a few blocks from Henry’s show, but it’s already six fifteen so I’ll have to hurry. He hates when I’m late. I pass some graffiti, Art Is My Hustle , spray-painted in stencilled block letters on the sidewalk. I pick up my pace.
The Orange Palm is tiny, with a small foyer that leads into one main gallery space. The foyer is half full of people; everyone has an edgy haircut, or very cool boots, or dull metallic, chunky jewellery. A small chocolate fondue fountain sits in one corner, ringed with strawberries and blood orange slices. There are also two open wine bottles and an assortment of glasses, none that match, some pre-filled with red wine.
I scan the room but I don’t see Maria. I pick up a glass of wine and am just dipping a strawberry under the fountain when a very polite English voice says, “Excuse me, Dani?” I pull the strawberry out of the cascading chocolate and see a tall, dark-haired man in a well-tailored suit. Edward.
“Oh, hi!” I say. I drip chocolate onto my blush open-toed pumps.
“Here you go.” He holds a serviette under the fruit.
“Thanks.” I put my wine and the strawberry on the table and bend down to wipe the chocolate off my shoes. “Nice to see you,” I say, looking up at him. “You’re reviewing this opening?”
“Yes.” He holds out a hand to help me back up. “I’m stopping by the White Cube, too, of course, and I’m meant to go to the Wynick, as well. Maria says your boyfriend has an installation there, yes?”
So Maria did tell him about Henry’s show. “Oh, yes, he does. Are you planning to review it?” Henry was nervous he wouldn’t be mentioned in any reviews at all.
“Quite possibly. There’s a lot of work going up tonight, but Maria was adamant that Henry is quite the new talent.”
Maria’s never seen any of Henry’s work. “Well, it’s generous of her to put in a good word for him,” I say. “So, this installation,” I gesture towards the entrance to the inner part of the gallery, feeling somewhat uncomfortable discussing Maria’s endorsement of Henry’s show, “have you seen it already?”
“Mmm,” he nods, “just been through it. Quite a striking mess. But it’s a bit theatrical for me. Maria is still inside.”
“Must be a real spectacle to hold Maria’s attention.”
“Truly,” says Edward, and leans one hand against the table. He picks up an orange slice, then looks at me. “She was hoping you’d stop by tonight. Go on in—don’t let me hold you up.”
I take my wine, but abandon the strawberry on the table.
The curatorial statement near the entrance reads:
“Honey, Torture.” Performance, film and light
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