Angelica Lost and Found (21 page)

‘As I’ve said.’

‘Are you comfortable with that?’

‘I think there are things we need to sort out.’

‘Like what?’

Jim had his notebook in his hand and was leafing through it.

‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘The session where you said you had a reality problem and I said, “That’s called life.” Which seems to me now a little flippant. The fact is that I’d never had a client with your looks before and I was showing off. Trying to be cool.’

‘Go on.’

‘You said you were living in two realities, maybe more, and you were trying to understand them so you’d know how to deal with them. And I said that was a waste of energy, that it didn’t matter how many realities there were, you just had to handle them one at a time and do whatever had to be done.’

‘Perfectly sound advice, I thought. Still do.’

‘Wait, now we’re coming to the heart of the matter: I said that everything that happens to you – even a hallucination – is real; it’s part of your reality.’

‘So?’

‘The thing is, Angelica, sometimes you have to let go of part of your reality. Life is, after all, a succession of losses.’

‘How can you say that! Was it a loss that you and I found each other?’

‘I’m talking about the loss of such things as youthful illusions; and adult delusions.’

‘Get to the point, Jim.’

‘Your Volatore thing, for example.’

‘My Volatore
thing
? I don’t believe I’m hearing this. Are you jealous, is that it?’

‘I don’t want your Volatore reality to interfere with the reality you and I share.’

‘Are you afraid that Volatore is stronger than you are?’ All sorts of thoughts were running through my mind when I said that. I remembered Vassily Baby and the ease with which he had expelled Volatore. ‘Jim, are you afraid of Volatore?’

‘I don’t want to have to compete with him.’

‘What about coexisting with him?’

‘A
ménage à trois
with an imaginary animal! What a great idea! Or we could bring in the Tooth Fairy and make it a foursome, how about that?’

‘All right then, you tell me what we should do.’

‘I already have: lose Volatore.’

As I looked at Jim, his face didn’t seem to be the one I had kissed aboard the
Mariposa
. I remembered my heartfelt relief when he climbed back on deck after being knocked overboard. Where was that relief now? And who was this stranger laying down the law for me? I knew in my heart that there was something wrong in Jim’s rightness and something right in my wrongness. I may be crazy, but I feel I have a moral obligation to be true to my craziness. No matter what happened I wasn’t about to give up Volatore.

I must have been silent for a while because Jim said, ‘So where do we go from here?’

‘Home,’ I said, and left.

Chapter 57

Shame and Blame

I’m ashamed of myself. Why did I behave that way with Angelica, denying not only her beliefs but also my own? Why this cowardice? What am I afraid of? I’m afraid of opening myself to the same reality I’ve encouraged her to accept without question. So how can I now regain my belief in myself? I need to become as brave as Angelica. She makes me want to be a better man than I am.

Chapter 58

Ars Longa
,
Cuddly Catering

I still had my Jim problems on my mind but for the moment the Ossip Przewalski show provided a welcome distraction. Nudes on motorbikes would seem, to some art-lovers, a trashy subject, but Ossip Przewalski’s paintings are definitely not trash. As I’ve said before, his approach is somewhere between Kokoschka and Redon, and Toby Shure, art critic of the
Chronicle
, has said of his work, ‘With instinctive insight, Przewalski has reached into the Zeitgeist and come up with an image emblematic of our speed-and-sex-crazed time. These blurred and frantic female nakednesses with their elongated testosteronal steeds between their legs are the perfect eidolon of our going-to-hell-as-fast-as-possible culture.’

The place was filling up fast and the atmosphere was right. The paintings bejewelled the white walls with colour and a warm and cheerful buzz suffused the gallery. Students from the Conservatory of Music, recruited as a small string orchestra, were harmoniously stringing their way through Vivaldi’s
L’estro armonico
while champagne and canapés were being dispensed by girls wearing biker jackets and little else – black bras and panties, garter belts, black stockings and boots.
CUDDLY.CATERING.COM
, said their jackets with justifiable confidence.

Olivia and I were flaunting our assets in very tight black designer jeans, high heels, pink shirts open down to here, leather biker jackets with the Eidolon logo (a spooky sibylline face) and the words
Ars longa
,
vita brevis est
, and visored biker caps.

Moira Lesser, Arts and Entertainment reporter for CBS5 TV, arrived with her crew to interview Ossie. Standing him in front of
Nude on Harley No. 15
, she told her viewers, I’m coming to you live from the Eidolon Gallery in downtown San Francisco where Ossip Przewalski’s new show is opening.’ Turning to him, she said, ‘To me this painting says many things about our world, our time. Can you share with our viewers some of your thoughts when you stand before a blank canvas ready to begin?’

‘Well,’ said Ossie, ‘at that point I have a girl and a bike in front of me. Suzie is one of my favourite models – she’s a natural redhead with pale-pink areolas and a lovely bush.’ Ignoring the look on Moira’s face he continued smoothly, ‘The bike is my new XR1200, red. Red is the quintessential motorbike colour. Think bike and you see red.’

‘Yes,’ said Moira, ‘and if you could tell us a little about what drives you, your motivation?’

‘I like naked women, I like motorbikes and I like money.’

‘Thank you,’ said Moira. Facing the camera then, ‘I’ve been talking to Assip … Ossip Przewalski, at the opening of his new show at the Eidolon Gallery. Moira Lesser, CBS TV, San Francisco.’

She drew her finger across her throat, the crew packed up, and she and they were gone.

I might mention here that Ossie arrived at the opening of his show as Lenore Goldfarb’s arm candy. She was lustrous and tinkling in full chandelier and he was in leather except for a blue denim shirt open far enough to display a tattoo of a full-frontal nude redhead on a Harley. Rumour has it that Lenore has commissioned him to paint her, presumably with a body double but her own jewellery and a naked bike.

Joe Fontana was also here by my invitation. When Lenore saw him she gave him a very hard look, doubtless recalling the fifty thousand dollars for the tiny, tinies. Joe apparently still had no recollection of her and that event.

Our usual Ossie A list had been invited. It included the local Harley Davidson CEO, high-ranking members of Hells Angels and the other clubs, the Mayor, the Chief of Police and other dignitaries. My own additions to the list were Sergeant Hennessy, Joe Fontana and Volatore Three, who brought in his wake Lola Trotter and her boyfriend, pop sin-singer Billy Viro. Dad showed up looking spruce and successful, to be hovered over by Olivia who took pains to keep both his glass and his eye filled. I had invited Jim and here he was. Explanations seemed unnecessary so we hugged and kissed without explaining.

People were mingling well, the cuddly caterers were handing out business cards and perhaps telephone numbers along with the champagne and canapés. Things were mellowing nicely and red dots were breaking out all over as Ossie’s nudes sold briskly, his instinctive insights in demand as always.

Sergeant Hennessy – his name is John – arrived with his wife Kitty. He was quite handsome in a dinner jacket and I was surprised to realise that he was about the same age as Jim. Kitty was about my age and frisky. She reminded me of Ruby Keeler.

‘Vivaldi might do for a reel,’ she said, ‘but I’m more of a buck-and-wing girl.’

‘I thought you might be,’ I said. ‘You have a Ruby Keeler air.’

Her eyes brightened with recognition of a kindred spirit.

‘You’ve seen
42nd Street
?’

‘It’s one of my favourites – I’ve become kind of hooked on Depression films.’

‘They knew how to have fun,’ said Kitty.

‘Well,’ said Hennessy, ‘just around the corner was a rainbow in the sky. We haven’t got one.’

‘I’d like to learn to tap dance,’ I said.

‘Have you got rhythm?’ said Hennessy.

‘All us Jews got rhythm.’

‘Call me up,’ said Kitty. ‘We’ll have a session to give me an idea where to send you for lessons.’

Joe Fontana made his way to me looking serious. He was in good financial shape now, having bought into Marco’s Pizzeria Classica, and he had time on his hands.

‘I was thinking,’ he said, ‘of taking up painting.’

‘Your former patron is here,’ I said. ‘Lenore Goldfarb. Name ring any bells?’

‘None that I can hear.’

‘But you’re thinking of taking up painting. Having dreams?’ I said.

‘More like something I almost remember.’

‘Don’t give up your day job,’ said Hennessy.

‘I haven’t got one,’ said Joe. ‘All I do is collect money from my share of the business.’

‘Why’d Renzetti sell off a third interest in the place?’ said Hennessy.

‘He wants to spend more time coaching a kids’ rugby team that he organised.’

‘I don’t suppose painting as a hobby can do any harm to you or the general public,’ I said to Joe. ‘Just be careful.’

‘If you start smelling mostly like a horse, give me a ring,’ said Hennessy.

‘I will,’ said Joe. He thanked us and drifted away.

‘You guys probably have things to talk about,’ said Kitty. ‘I’m going to look at the paintings and maybe find some champagne.’

The crowd was thinning out.

‘I used to have an impulse to climb into your lap and tell you my troubles,’ I said to Hennessy.

‘Looks as if you might have found a better lap,’ he replied, grinning at Jim.

‘Do my best,’ said Jim.

We left together and he did.

Chapter 59

Jim on the Brim

The painting I fished out of the water. I haven’t really looked at it since I brought it home. Angelica said it was a lot of tiny, tiny dancing bad luck and we’d both be sorry if I picked it up. Did it try to drown me? The boom knocked me overboard when she let go of the tiller. Had I told her what happens when you do that? Now I can’t be sure. Anyhow, this seems like a good time to see what’s what with this thing.

Chapter 60

Paradise Lost

I wanted to know how (and if ) things were with Volatore Three, the hairstylist and inventor of TurboScalp. I still had his card so I invited him round to the gallery for drinks. In view of the fact that the hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar painting had turned up in San Francisco Bay I thought he might be in a delicate state and would be glad to avoid the hurly-burly of a more public watering place. We were in the process of taking down Ossie Przewalski’s show but I doubted that the hairstylist would be disturbed by a roomful of nudes on Harley Davidsons.

Remembering Volatore Three’s grandiosity, I was surprised and saddened by his present appearance. He had always been a small man but this afternoon he seemed so diminished that I could have sworn he’d lost a couple of inches. His wig looked dispirited; his Armani hung loosely on him; his Rolex, I guessed, had no good times to offer and apparently his Mont Blanc and fat chequebook could buy him no joy.