contents were backing up the esophagus like a kitchen sink. He fumbled for a Turns.
"Victor, can I say something now?"
"What? George, I came all the way up here this afternoon, just to take a look at your work, and I can see you're already on the defensive."
"Victor, I'm trying to tell you: I sent you a letter listing twenty points that would have to change for me to stay with the gallery, and I don't think you even read the letter."
"No, I haven't read any letter! George, I just got back from Chicago, I had to spend all week getting ready for the Madrid art fair, I'm leaving for Madrid tomorrow—what's your problem?"
"I don't know if we should talk about it until you've read my letter. Basically, it's about your attitude. I've seriously been
----
considering leaving the gallery for a long time now, Victor. I don't see how I can stay unless you have a change of attitude."
"Attitude! What attitude! George, why don't you come to me if you have problems? You go around complaining to your friends, this doesn't make me look good."
"How can I come to you, Victor, when I can't even get into your office to see you? This is the first time you've come to my studio in eight months."
He was late for his appointment with his brother; he had a collector coming to the gallery at three-fifteen. "I'll find your letter and call you tonight, George," he said. "I haven't been able to get any sleep in weeks, at three o'clock in the morning I'm awake, lying in bed, busy making notes about strategies for handling your work, where we should go next."
"You're not listening, Victor. Don't you see yourself? How terrible you look?"
"I'm going to call you, George. I would love to stay and talk this through—"
"I don't want to talk! I want you to read my letter!"
He could hear George flinging objects this way and that as he waited for the elevator. He would suggest to George the name of his old psychiatrist. George, whom three years ago he had found working as a janitor, barely able to make enough to buy supplies. What did he want from him?
In the taxi he remembered it was Sistina's birthday; he hadn't gotten her anything. There was something about going out to dinner that night with Schmuel—Sam—and some of her model friends. He looked in his appointment book. There was an opening around the corner he had promised to go and see, and a dinner afterward for Monica Bell, a painter whom he had shown two years ago who was still working on new stuff. Sistina wouldn't be home until eight, he would have to tell her they would have a dinner when he got back from Madrid. Why was he ever born? Beset upon by roaches—one crawled out of his briefcase—tormented by his girlfriend; no matter how much he cleaned up, no matter how many times he told Sistina to hire a maid to come in on Saturdays while she was at home,
----
nothing changed. She left crumbs everywhere she went, and the roaches came out as fearlessly as a herd of goats to graze on the congealed morass of cat food which the cat itself disdained to touch. Oh, Sistina, such a beauty, with her halo of reddish-brown hair, her fine features and large, humorless eyes. So he had fallen for a girlish demeanor, sincerity a mere disguise for catlike wiles beneath. On the other hand, maybe he was paranoid. Maybe he had driven her to vixen behavior prematurely. Without him it might have taken Sistina another ten years to acquire it. Why must he be the one to be at war with everyone, not a single soul on his side? Even his army of conscripts whined and complained behind his back, shirked their jobs. No matter how many times he explained a thing, something always went wrong in the execution.
He walked into the gallery rubbing his head; Leo, his brother, was standing stunned in front of one of the paintings at the far end. "Sasha," he said to the blond, bored-looking girl who sat behind the front desk. He could feel her bristle as he got near. Literally begin to bristle. This fury, to be met with it
"Victor, can I say something now?"
"What? George, I came all the way up here this afternoon, just to take a look at your work, and I can see you're already on the defensive."
"Victor, I'm trying to tell you: I sent you a letter listing twenty points that would have to change for me to stay with the gallery, and I don't think you even read the letter."
"No, I haven't read any letter! George, I just got back from Chicago, I had to spend all week getting ready for the Madrid art fair, I'm leaving for Madrid tomorrow—what's your problem?"
"I don't know if we should talk about it until you've read my letter. Basically, it's about your attitude. I've seriously been
----
considering leaving the gallery for a long time now, Victor. I don't see how I can stay unless you have a change of attitude."
"Attitude! What attitude! George, why don't you come to me if you have problems? You go around complaining to your friends, this doesn't make me look good."
"How can I come to you, Victor, when I can't even get into your office to see you? This is the first time you've come to my studio in eight months."
He was late for his appointment with his brother; he had a collector coming to the gallery at three-fifteen. "I'll find your letter and call you tonight, George," he said. "I haven't been able to get any sleep in weeks, at three o'clock in the morning I'm awake, lying in bed, busy making notes about strategies for handling your work, where we should go next."
"You're not listening, Victor. Don't you see yourself? How terrible you look?"
"I'm going to call you, George. I would love to stay and talk this through—"
"I don't want to talk! I want you to read my letter!"
He could hear George flinging objects this way and that as he waited for the elevator. He would suggest to George the name of his old psychiatrist. George, whom three years ago he had found working as a janitor, barely able to make enough to buy supplies. What did he want from him?
In the taxi he remembered it was Sistina's birthday; he hadn't gotten her anything. There was something about going out to dinner that night with Schmuel—Sam—and some of her model friends. He looked in his appointment book. There was an opening around the corner he had promised to go and see, and a dinner afterward for Monica Bell, a painter whom he had shown two years ago who was still working on new stuff. Sistina wouldn't be home until eight, he would have to tell her they would have a dinner when he got back from Madrid. Why was he ever born? Beset upon by roaches—one crawled out of his briefcase—tormented by his girlfriend; no matter how much he cleaned up, no matter how many times he told Sistina to hire a maid to come in on Saturdays while she was at home,
----
nothing changed. She left crumbs everywhere she went, and the roaches came out as fearlessly as a herd of goats to graze on the congealed morass of cat food which the cat itself disdained to touch. Oh, Sistina, such a beauty, with her halo of reddish-brown hair, her fine features and large, humorless eyes. So he had fallen for a girlish demeanor, sincerity a mere disguise for catlike wiles beneath. On the other hand, maybe he was paranoid. Maybe he had driven her to vixen behavior prematurely. Without him it might have taken Sistina another ten years to acquire it. Why must he be the one to be at war with everyone, not a single soul on his side? Even his army of conscripts whined and complained behind his back, shirked their jobs. No matter how many times he explained a thing, something always went wrong in the execution.
He walked into the gallery rubbing his head; Leo, his brother, was standing stunned in front of one of the paintings at the far end. "Sasha," he said to the blond, bored-looking girl who sat behind the front desk. He could feel her bristle as he got near. Literally begin to bristle. This fury, to be met with it
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