in his own gallery! "I have to have something to eat, Sasha. Would you go around the corner and get me a cup of chili?"
"Madrid called," she said. "They can't get the paintings out of customs."
"Don't speak to me," he said. He started to take off his jacket, limp from the heat.
"What happened to your sleeve?" Sasha said. "There's a big hole in it." He gave her a malevolent look. She had been with him since the gallery opened, the only one to stay this long. She had two girls who worked under her; now she was threatening to leave in August. Sasha had plans: to open her own space in the East Village with some German cowboy-type she had been living with since the summer before. Obviously she despised Victor; she acted as if by working for him she had been sold into white slavery. She used her tininess, her blondness, her lank blond hair, against him. A sour little bud of a face. Women's attractiveness was based on how closely they resembled the fetal stage of life. Sash could have been a
----
fashion model. In some ways she was more attractive than bulky Sistina. She was too short, however. Instead, she had wandered around the world, married and divorced a wealthy Italian drug addict. A bright girl, like a hornet, with a style for dress. Black, soigné, chic. No leopard-skin babushkas or hennaed hair so popular these days with girls on the street. And then there was her coldness, her polish: Why didn't she remain with an uptown crowd? He supposed SoHo held a certain excitement for her; it was strange to think of her as a person with ambition, however. She knew musicians; French jet-set types were always stopping by to say hello. She did her work but was surly; he figured when he was away she probably greeted clients with hostility. "Can't you call up for some food?" she said. "I can't leave, I'm the only one here. Everyone else is out to lunch." She handed him a stack of telephone messages. He began to paw through them. "Leo, Leo," he said to his brother, "go sit down, my office is open. Bring us two cups of coffee, cream and sugar in mine."
Well, he was going to starve to death. The day before he hadn't gotten home until ten at night. What had he eaten that day? A Danish, a bowl of lentils, takeout, from some overpriced vegetarian joint around the corner. "There's some Chinese food in the refrigerator," Sistina had called from the bedroom. "You could reheat it." She couldn't have picked up a steak and asparagus? He paid the rent, he gave her money —she didn't earn $200 a week, after taxes, had no money of her own—he always left $50 or $100 around, for food and her taxis, she never walked and hated the subway. But instead of getting up to greet him she was sitting on the bed, wearing filthy sweatpants and a sweatshirt with a pink rabbit, watching TV. The cat, curled sensuously on the pillow, gave him a superior, baleful stare. "I can't eat that crap," he said. "Old Chinese food? Sistina, I have enough trouble with my stomach."
He might as well have been living alone. He had gone into the kitchen and gotten the pile of takeout menus down from on top of the refrigerator. Meanwhile she yelled out to him from
----
the bedroom. "So there was this man on TV and he was really amazing. Victor, we've got to try this. He took a watch, and made this woman spin the hands around. He wasn't looking. And then on a piece of paper he drew a watch face, and he wrote down the time on the watch, using psychic perception."
"And did he get the time right?" Victor said. Mexican, Chinese, Indian. He could call the deli on the corner.
"No," Sistina said. "He was about an hour or two wrong. But it was just amazing—" Meanwhile her story, her shrill voice, dragged on and on, lacking point of any kind. How many times had he fallen for this, listening patiently to some elaborate tale that added up to nothing? Also she would tell a story at a party, as if in relation to some subject brought up by someone else. After fifteen minutes of her
"Madrid called," she said. "They can't get the paintings out of customs."
"Don't speak to me," he said. He started to take off his jacket, limp from the heat.
"What happened to your sleeve?" Sasha said. "There's a big hole in it." He gave her a malevolent look. She had been with him since the gallery opened, the only one to stay this long. She had two girls who worked under her; now she was threatening to leave in August. Sasha had plans: to open her own space in the East Village with some German cowboy-type she had been living with since the summer before. Obviously she despised Victor; she acted as if by working for him she had been sold into white slavery. She used her tininess, her blondness, her lank blond hair, against him. A sour little bud of a face. Women's attractiveness was based on how closely they resembled the fetal stage of life. Sash could have been a
----
fashion model. In some ways she was more attractive than bulky Sistina. She was too short, however. Instead, she had wandered around the world, married and divorced a wealthy Italian drug addict. A bright girl, like a hornet, with a style for dress. Black, soigné, chic. No leopard-skin babushkas or hennaed hair so popular these days with girls on the street. And then there was her coldness, her polish: Why didn't she remain with an uptown crowd? He supposed SoHo held a certain excitement for her; it was strange to think of her as a person with ambition, however. She knew musicians; French jet-set types were always stopping by to say hello. She did her work but was surly; he figured when he was away she probably greeted clients with hostility. "Can't you call up for some food?" she said. "I can't leave, I'm the only one here. Everyone else is out to lunch." She handed him a stack of telephone messages. He began to paw through them. "Leo, Leo," he said to his brother, "go sit down, my office is open. Bring us two cups of coffee, cream and sugar in mine."
Well, he was going to starve to death. The day before he hadn't gotten home until ten at night. What had he eaten that day? A Danish, a bowl of lentils, takeout, from some overpriced vegetarian joint around the corner. "There's some Chinese food in the refrigerator," Sistina had called from the bedroom. "You could reheat it." She couldn't have picked up a steak and asparagus? He paid the rent, he gave her money —she didn't earn $200 a week, after taxes, had no money of her own—he always left $50 or $100 around, for food and her taxis, she never walked and hated the subway. But instead of getting up to greet him she was sitting on the bed, wearing filthy sweatpants and a sweatshirt with a pink rabbit, watching TV. The cat, curled sensuously on the pillow, gave him a superior, baleful stare. "I can't eat that crap," he said. "Old Chinese food? Sistina, I have enough trouble with my stomach."
He might as well have been living alone. He had gone into the kitchen and gotten the pile of takeout menus down from on top of the refrigerator. Meanwhile she yelled out to him from
----
the bedroom. "So there was this man on TV and he was really amazing. Victor, we've got to try this. He took a watch, and made this woman spin the hands around. He wasn't looking. And then on a piece of paper he drew a watch face, and he wrote down the time on the watch, using psychic perception."
"And did he get the time right?" Victor said. Mexican, Chinese, Indian. He could call the deli on the corner.
"No," Sistina said. "He was about an hour or two wrong. But it was just amazing—" Meanwhile her story, her shrill voice, dragged on and on, lacking point of any kind. How many times had he fallen for this, listening patiently to some elaborate tale that added up to nothing? Also she would tell a story at a party, as if in relation to some subject brought up by someone else. After fifteen minutes of her
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