Chapter 8: Angel Eyes    (print this)

BESIDES DEVELOPING a sudden twitch in his right eye—Henry kept thinking of Herbert Lom's character in the "Pink Panther" films, driven mad by Inspector Clouseau... perhaps he would wind up a super-villain as well—Henry felt much better. After hanging up with the icily precise Ms. No, he had taken a very long bath and drank a great deal of tea while listening to Sinatra sing in tribute on I Remember Tommy, the standards he had made famous with the Dorsey band early in his career. He wrote out everything that had transpired in the previous 24 hours in an old leather notebook, and writing had calmed him, just as it once had.

The fog had lifted somewhat and he now felt that the ease with which he had become slightly unhinged meant that he wasn't doing nearly as well as he supposed. But he also felt consoled by the knowledge that he had not turned into some kind of wise ascetic. He had not traded one false persona for another. He was still alone and still easily lost, and this made him feel perversely strong.

He was even humming "I'm Getting Sentimental Over You" as he turned off Shadow Lane and into the Scotch 80s neighborhood, where the moneyed class of Vegas had built elaborate homes during the Sixties and where Maude S— had rented a sprawling ranch-style home for her stay in town. Henry had even recognized the address on Waldman Avenue that Ms. No had given him while setting up the appointment to meet the artist, an appointment whose swiftness had made Henry suspicious (now that he was thinking clearly, there were many questions and curious events that needed some answers).

Henry scratched at his twitching eye, silently requesting whatever gods there were to make it stop for the duration of his meeting, and pulled up to the elaborate wrought-iron gates of Bobby Apollo's former home. The late crooner, a poor man's Tony Bennett, had built the home in his Strip heyday, and it still presented itself in all its Palm Springs-meets-Greco-Roman tackiness. Henry pressed the intercom.

"Yes." The voice was pure machine.

"Henry Bethel. I have an appointment."

The gate slowly slid back and Henry pulled into the enormous half-moon driveway. No other car was in sight. The house, a cobalt fake-brick with white trim and semi-opaque glass brick windows, shimmered and sucked all the light out of the sky at the same time. Incongruously, a very old screw bean mesquite tree (the Scotch 80s residents had planted them all over) presented a picture of Desert Gothic in the yard between the driveway and the street. Its twisted dark branches curled like wisps of suspended smoke outward, low to the ground, like a tree that had once aspired to the heavens and then thought better of it.

No doubt the tree appealed to Maude S—, but Henry already guessed at why she should lease this house, besides its privacy. For Bobby Apollo had fancied himself a sculptor, creating clumsy abstract ballerinas out of bronze in his declining years. The house, Henry knew, surrounded a central studio with a skylight that Apollo had designed himself.

Henry rang the bell, just below the leonine face of a heavy brass door knocker. There was a long pause, and fast-moving clouds blotted out the sun as a breeze blew down the street. At last, the door swung open. Ms. No, if anything, looked more severe than the night before, and she was all-business.

"Hello again, Ms. No," Henry said, smiling.

She nodded. "Your punctuality is unexpected and appreciated." She stepped aside and ushered him in.

"Really? Did I seem so dissolute to you last night? Or does my reputation precede me?"

Ms. No looked at him evenly. "Save your charm for Madame, Mr. Bethel."

Henry smiled. "It appears you don't like me already, Ms. No."

She turned and gestured. "Please wait here. Madame will be with you momentarily."

"Here" was, as Henry expected, an expansive sunken living room, pale blue walls anchored by wall-to-wall slate gray carpeting. Faux Doric columns separated it from a formal dining area, and it was empty but for two Empire-style chaise lounges hovering like barges in the ocean of shag. They were exactly the sort of things the 18th Century had envisioned the ancient Greeks draped over. They were framed by vast picture window overlooking a ubiquitous pool. Henry felt queasy for a moment, but it was nothing like his dream.

"I assume the house came furnished," said Henry, but he was speaking to empty air. Maude S—'s assistant had vanished down a dark hallway to his left. Henry sat down on one of the lounges, casting a glance at the faux Greek pottery that lined one shelf. A moment later he stopped, and stood up, and looked again. He walked over to the urns, their black and orange lines vivid against the blue walls. He was not an expert on ancient art, but the hair raised on the back of his neck as he realized that these were not contemporary knockoffs, but originals. His finger hovered in the air above one urn, tracing the line of the hero's-Hercules?-arm…

"Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss," said an amused voice behind him.

Henry turned, and for a moment the air seemed charged with electricity, as if a spotlight had illuminated everything, the flash on a camera recording some spectacular thing. But it passed, and standing there in the dining room was merely a handsome woman of average height, her red hair plaited in odd, swirling braids around her head, wearing a smart, black Donna Karan suit. The only eccentric touches were dark oval glasses and a pair of short velvet gloves. Her lips were the same deep red as her hair, which seemed to Henry voluminous yet fiercely restrained.

"And how many Grecian urns, do you suppose, were created a hundred years ago so girls could quote Keats like that?" said Henry.

"Not enough, I'm sure," said Maude S—. Her voice was… well, Henry couldn't quite place what her voice was. It was husky, but light, as if unaccustomed to use but beautiful nonetheless. "There are never enough opportunities to quote Keats these days I'm afraid."

"Only to point out his failings as a dead white European male I imagine,"
said Henry.

"Well, dead white Europeans are my favorite kind of male." Maude S— smiled.

Henry approached, hand extended. "Henry Bethel."

"Yes," said Maude, shaking his hand firmly. "I know."

She stood there, silently, looking at him. Henry felt awkward, and gestured. "You've certainly picked a representative place for your Vegas stay. Well, representative of the myth at least, which is what's important."

"Is it?" Maude pursed her lips. "Sometimes, I think too much has been made of myths." She smiled again. "But I do always look for… representative experiences. Do you fit into that category, Mr. Bethel?"

"I suppose you'll only know after you get to know me," said Henry.

She had not moved since he had turned around. Now she stepped down into the living room abruptly, but with grace. "Won't you sit down?"

Maude eased into the lounge in a repose so artful it was almost comical. Henry half-expected to be asked to peel her a grape. He sat down on the edge of the other lounge facing her, and suddenly realized by her smile that the pose was a put-on for him.

"If only you had muses to attend you," said Henry jokingly.

Maude laughed, and the sound was charming yet… harsh to Henry's ear. "How do you know I don't? You might be one of them in disguise."

"I hope not. My track record as muse is pretty poor."

"I don't think so, Mr. Bethel. Many have been inspired by your writings."

Now it was Henry's turn to strike a pose. "That's kind of you to say."

Maude righted herself, crossing her legs. Henry had yet to see her eyes, and it was slightly unnerving.

"I'm never kind, Mr. Bethel. I mean what I say." Her expression was serious.

"Please, whatever else transpires between us, call me Henry."

Her expression did not change. "Well, Henry, I think your criticism is always first-rate. That's part of the reason we're having this discussion."

Henry's heart jumped a little. "I feel I should tell you that I have since—"

Maude waved her hand. "I'm aware of your retirement, Mr. Bethel. The art world hasn't ceased to be a small and petty place. I'm not expecting a piece about my work or me. There are plenty to fill that uninteresting void. Still, you came to my show." Her gaze remained even.

"And you would still like to hear my opinion, unpublished or not?" Henry smiled, and geared up to render his response.

"Actually, no," replied Maude, to his surprise. "If your impression was unfavorable last night, you wouldn't have asked to meet me. Your reputation is better known than perhaps you might think. You are known for keeping a certain distance from the artists you have written about. So the question, Henry…" and here she suddenly stood and walked toward him, her arms crossed, looking in an instant imperious and skeptical, "… is this: why did you want to meet me?"

Deep within, Henry felt a tiny crack, a fissure in his composure. Tell her about Don Ix and his interest, a voice said. Warn her… warn her? About what? Where did that come from?

Henry swallowed and smiled, hoping his eye did not take this moment to start its new twitch. "I wanted to meet you, Maude, because your reputation is well-known as well. Or should I say, the reputation of the sculptures you do not publicly show."

She seemed a frozen for a second. Then, Henry thought he saw her shoulders sag somewhat, even as she smiled brightly. "Oh, I see. The enigma of the unseen. Is that all?"

"You seem dismissive for someone who seems to have cultivated an air of mystery," said Henry.

"An air of mystery and mystery itself are different things," said Maude. Her tone had changed. "One is a useful for creating both privacy and publicity. The other…" She gave a little shrug. "The other is, sadly, what belongs to me."

She turned away then, and cleared her throat. Inwardly, Henry smacked his forehead. Idiot.

Ms. No appeared in the doorway.

"Is it time for the delivery of those materials?" said Maude S—.

"They just arrived, Madame."

Maude turned and smiled as before. "You must forgive me, Henry. I have a very busy schedule today."

"Of course," said Henry, standing. "I hope I haven't offended you with my directness."

"Well," said Maude with a little smile. "I am still calling you Henry."

Henry walked toward the door. You stupid fool, he thought. Ms. No held the door with a barely contained smirk.

"Perhaps we can see each other again. In less formal circumstances."

Henry turned, surprised, and from the corner of his eye caught the smirk draining away from Ms. No's face. "Thank you. That would be highly desirable. If for no other reason than to make up for my rudeness."

Maude S— smiled. "I believe I have your number," she said. Then she turned away, and Henry watched the door slowly swing shut in his face.

He stood for moment, thinking. The sky was completely overcast now, heavy with rain. "Unravished bride of quietness," he said aloud, unexpectedly. Then his eye began its twitching.