Chapter 4: I've Got You Under My Skin    (print this)

CONVERSATION CEASED as if the air had been sucked from the room, leaving it a soundless void, all eyes now fixed upon the dark, hooded figure above them. Henry peered through the gloom and could make out that Maude S— was wrapped in a long, burgundy velvet gown; her arms sheathed in black opera gloves, her face almost completely obscured by the great, owlish hood.

“Thank you all for entertaining my sacred monsters,” she said. Her voice was clear and strong, and somewhat light, not at all the voice Henry thought he had heard in his ear a second ago. That voice had been like water rushing in an underground river.

“And my thanks to Elise Valkenburg for giving these monsters a grotto in which to rest from their weary journey.” There was some laughter and a smattering of applause. “They are quite at home here in your radiant city, even though they have no fortune to give.” Some more laughter, somewhat nervous, thought Henry. He glanced around, seeing some rapt faces, some smirking at the theatricality of it all.

“Of course, fortune is never written in stone, is it?” Henry could swear she was smiling, even though he really couldn’t see her face. “At least, not until after the fact. Only Time enthrones us.” As she said this, her arm drifted out above them with a broad gesture, as Kristine and Oliver, Elise’s gallery assistants, slowly wheeled out another sculpture though the parted curtains that separated the storage room from the main space. It was the same base as the rest, but the grand throne upon it sat empty. The inscription was plain to see even in the gloom, for, unlike the rest, it was cut in gilded Roman letters:

THE EMPEROR

There was another smattering of bemused applause, and a guffaw or two. But when everyone’s eyes turned back to the catwalk, Maude S— was gone. There was a moment of confusion, broken at last by Elise’s clapping, which brought on a full-blown ovation of sorts.

“Who is she kidding with that The Lady Vanishes crap?” It was Doug Hardin, one of Henry’s former graduate students. He had sidled up to Henry in the dark, along with the ever-present Jenny Matsui and Ginger Arnold.

“Life is all about entrances and exits, Douglas,” said Henry. Hardin’s art consisted of keeping pictures of crooked politicians in clear jars filled with formaldehyde.

“You should know, professor,” said Jenny teasingly. Jenny painted oil portraits of violent war scenes onto the D cups of white bras. “Wow, it’s great to see you here. How are you? What have you been doing?”

“Practicing to be a sunshine millionaire,” said Henry. He was looking over her shoulder at Elise as she disappeared behind the storage room curtain. “How are you doing?”

“I graduated, and you didn’t even come to my show,” said Jenny with a pout.

“Sorry, kiddo, I can’t keep track of each fallen robin.”

Jenny gave him a quizzical look. “It’s a Leonard Cohen song, dummy,” said Ginger with the unkind affection that fast friends cultivate. Ginger took photographs of people’s knees.

“Yeah, you’re well out of it, prof,” said Doug. “Although I could use some help with my fucking committee.”

“That would require talking to Dayton. I don’t think you could afford my new hourly rate for talking to Dayton.”

Jenny laughed, and Ginger said, “What do you think of these, professor?”

“Please, Ginger, my name is Henry. And these are very interesting.”

“Vedddy interesting,” said Doug. “That’s what you say when you don’t want to say anything.”

Henry smiled. “Good, Doug, nice to see you weren’t always asleep.” Henry caught sight of Elise again. “Listen kids, nice to see you, but I’ve got to ask Elise something.”

“Are you writing again?” asked Jenny. “Is that why you’re here?”

“He’s not writing again,” said Ginger wearily (which was how she said everything). “You just wanted to check out the Garbo of sculpture, right?”

“If she was a real recluse, she wouldn’t leave her studio,” said Doug.

“Well maybe that wasn’t even her,” offered Jenny. “She probably hires someone to go around pretending to be her.”

“Oh, is that why the melodramatic bullshit is piled so high here?”

“Shut up, Dougie,” said Ginger. “These pieces are really beautiful. They have the drama, not her.”

“Well said. Nice to see you all,” said Henry, pulling his hat down again and moving around them. He smiled to himself and felt a brief pang at seeing his old students. He had liked most of his students, and the few that he didn’t like he had gently demolished. The pang became a bloom of pain and passed.

He caught Elise’s elbow as she was giving Kristine some instructions.

“That was pretty Gothic after all, wasn’t it?” he asked.

Elise shrugged. “That little display probably sold at least a couple of these.”

“Listen, where is she now? Can you make an introduction?”

Elise waved her hand in exasperation. “An introduction? I didn’t even know she was going to be here! Her assistant called an hour before to say that she wasn’t going to make an appearance. Suddenly she’s on the catwalk, which no one is supposed to have access to!” She shot a look at the hapless Kristine.

“I swear I don’t know how she got up there,” said Kristine. “The access ladder is still locked. All we were told was to roll out the last piece at the mention of Time.”

Elise grimaced. “Her cold fish assistant insisted on that too. Next time, Kristine, you better damn well double check these things with me.”

“Oliver said he got your approval!”

“What!? Go find Oliver and tell him to get his ass over here.”

“Elise, please,” said Henry. “You can sort this out later. Right now I really would like to meet Maude S—.”

Elise sighed. “You’re better off talking to that icy sliver over there.” Elise threw her hand in the direction of a tall, thin woman who now stood by the Fool (a hideous tourist replete with finely detailed camera around his neck and fanny pack). The woman struck Henry as a dead ringer for Sigourney Weaver, but with higher, severe cheekbones. She was wearing steel-framed elliptical glasses and her dark hair was pulled back in an elaborate French twist. Her suit was as elegant and gray as stone, and she appeared to be entering information into a palm pilot.

Elise walked over to her with Henry in tow, a pleasantly artificial smile surmounting her irritated expression.

“Henry, this is Stephanie No, assistant to Maude S—,” said Elise. “Ms. No, this is the critic Henry Bethel.”

“Former critic,” said Henry, and silently kicked himself. Don’t blow it right off the bat, he thought.

“I’m familiar with your writing,” said No, and Henry could see what Elise had meant. Her voice was like an unwarmed stethoscope on your heart. “But you won’t be writing on this exhibition, will you.” It was not a question.

“I haven’t made up my mind,” said Henry. “But if I did it would not be for publication.”

No made a face that passed, in her mind, for a smile. “That’s what all writers say,” she replied.

Henry chuckled. “I would actually like to discuss these works with the artist herself, if it is at all possible.”

“Anything is possible, but that would be unlikely,” said Ms. No. “Madame is highly selective about who she talks to in the press, whether they are active or inactive.”

Madame, thought Henry. They really are carrying this isolated genius thing to the limit.

“Believe me, Ms. No, my interest is purely aesthetic. I look for conversation these days when it comes to art, not commerce. My card,” he said, handing it to her.

Ms. No took it and studied Henry’s current profession without a flicker of interest. “I will convey this to Madame,” she said. “If you will excuse me,” she said.

“There’s something I want to discuss,” began Elise, but the sliver had already glided swiftly off. “Snooty bitch,” Elise fumed. “Anyone else I would tell where to get off.”

“But not the Riddle of the Year, eh?” said Henry staring after her. He realized that more people had spotted him now, and any moment would be descending to find out what he had been doing. He had to make a quick exit. But as he walked briskly with Elise through the candlelit gallery, he suddenly realized that something was missing from the icons around them.

“Elise, where’s the Hierophant?”

“The what? Oh, Sinatra,” she said. “I was wondering when you would notice that. It sold before the show even opened” She lowered her voice. “I snuck someone in for a very private showing last night, in violation of my agreement, I might add.”

As they reached her office, Henry paused. “Who? Who bought it?”

Elise smiled. “Who do you think?”

Henry felt the awful thought come over him. “Oh no. He didn’t, did he? Christ, please tell me he didn’t.”

Elise shrugged sadly. “Who else but Win Stevenson?”