The Prize (35 page)

And then he felt, just as viscerally, that he shouldn't have: that he had been right to tell Agnes—whom he cared for, who relied on his judgment and, in her own way, cared for him too. These were the values he held most sacred; this was what made him different—he hoped—from someone like Savan. With Savan now a partner, the dynamic and energy of the gallery had changed. Savan had tainted what the gallery had meant to him. He couldn't let Savan bring down the quality of what he'd built. He'd have to walk away.

Agnes's photo took up half the cover page of the arts section. She was dressed in a white shirt and a man's suit jacket, no doubt to distance herself from her femininity. She told him once that she did not want to paint subject matter a woman would paint because then she'd never be considered successful. He looked at the photo again. The affect, posed in front of the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, looked calculated to elicit an impression.

He continued reading the article. Agnes Murray was the favorite to win. When asked if she was surprised by the nomination, she said, “My art is a mirror of the viewer's own projection. I'm very pleased that the judges saw themselves or their own experiences in my work.” He turned away from the paper and looked out the window and sipped his bitter scotch.

He looked back to the computer and continued reading the article. Along with Agnes, a young performance artist called Hugo London was a contender for the prize. He remembered reading about one performance when he pulled a giant boulder with some kind of pulley and walked through Central Park, a modern-day Sisyphus. The
Times
quoted him as saying that he was a successor to the extraordinary performance art of Marina Abramović, known as the grandmother of performance art. “Although art-world insiders swear that the artwork takes precedence over its maker, it is really a double act. After all, artists are the people who have the authority to deem something as ‘art.' They have all the energy, intention, discipline, and willpower that an inanimate canvas does not.” A third finalist was Maxwell Flower. His technique was to fill a dark room with rays of fluorescent light. The viewer was meant to be a participant in the work; when the viewer entered the gallery he or she was given a light saber. Edward had been dismissive. The
fourth finalist was April Stillman, an abstract outsider artist, relatively new on the scene. Leonard worked with her. Edward smiled, happy for Leonard. She was the least known of the four and apparently the long shot. He poured himself another inch of scotch and sprawled on the sofa and fell asleep.

H
E AWOKE THE
next morning stiff and groggy and went downstairs to make coffee. Holly and Annabel had already left. He'd overslept. If he still represented Agnes, the day would have been his. Gallery owners, dealers, collectors, and artists live for prizes. He couldn't bear to see Savan taking credit for it and endure the high-fives and pats on the back that would be going around the gallery. He called his assistant and said he was working from home. His BlackBerry vibrated in his breast pocket. He looked at the caller ID.

“Leonard. I know. Fucking unbelievable.”

“Did you see who else is up for it? April Stillman.”

“Congratulations. It's the only thing good about today.”

“I want her to win,” Leonard said.

“Of course you do.”

“Do you think she has a shot?”

“A quarter of a chance.”

“I don't know. You saw who's chairing the panel? Frederick Jackson. I'm sure Nate persuaded Frederick to put her up for the prize. If only to get Agnes off his back. She's the favorite, my friend. Can you imagine what it must be like to be married to her these last few months after those reviews? I don't know how he stays.”

“She
is
beautiful,” Edward said, looking at her photo again. “I'll give her that. And talented.”

“That she's a finalist is Nate's doing,” Leonard insisted. “She needs this.”

“I don't know, Leonard.” He stopped and looked out the window. “Fisher has his own reputation to think about.”

“Don't be such a purist. This has nothing to do with making art. This has to do with who you know and who scratches your back.”

“She's still a damn good painter. We can't take that away from her.”

“Think about it. In her high-mindedness she thinks she's done it on her own. She'd still be sitting up in that ivory tower if it weren't for me. And you. I brought Aaron Moss to her studio. He was the first critic to write about her work in the
Times
. The first painting she sold was bought by a Guggenheim heir. You did a brilliant job with
Immortality
. The show you mounted knocked it out of the park. What goes around comes around. You'll see.”

“Maybe.”

“Where are you? Are those birds I hear?”

“I'm still at home.”

“Stop hibernating. Walk into the gallery like you own it. You need to get out there again. I have three new artists whose work I want you to see. And there's April Stillman. I may be looking for a new home for her. You're on our dance card.”

“You're an animal.”

“So are you, my friend.”

H
E SLOWLY CLIMBED
his study stairs. Leonard was right. There were other artists to consider. He logged into his computer and a mountain of e-mails lit up the screen. He couldn't focus. His eyes were blurry and his head groggy from oversleeping. Holly never
let him oversleep on a workday. She barely seemed to think of him now. Anxious, he rose and paced, unable to sit at his desk. His gaze landed on the thick, agonizing swirls of his father's paintings and to the crook of the tree where embedded in a branch were the initials.

He lifted one of them off the wall, showered, dressed, gathered his things into his briefcase, and got in the car. With the painting on the seat next to him, he began to drive. Through the open window he inhaled the fresh air. It was unusual for him to be in Connecticut on a weekday, and as he wound through the small towns, he was surprised by the full and busy street life.

He hadn't been to Yale since he was a teenager visiting his father. He entered through the gates of the university and approached the gothic building where his father's office once was. As a boy it reminded him of a castle. He remembered climbing the winding stairs to his father's office and wondering as he saw students clustered in study groups in the lounge whether he would feel passionate enough about anything to want to dedicate his life to it. In a lecture hall, he sought out the original Tiffany stained-glass window, titled
Education
, that his father had once shown him. It showcased a panorama of allegorical figures signifying aspects of art, music, science, and religion. Looking at it as an adolescent had made him restless with want.

His father's office now belonged to Professor Margery Greer. He saw her plaque on the door. He continued down the dark hallway reading the plaques until he found Kincaid's office. He adjusted the painting underneath his arm and knocked on the door. Through the slight opening he saw Kincaid leaning over a manuscript, his cluttered desk lit by a green lawyer's lamp.

Kincaid looked up and motioned for Edward to come in. When Edward was a boy, Kincaid had been tall and distinguished. Now his shoulders were painfully hunched and his face craggy. His gray hair was combed back from his forehead. He wore a tie and sweater underneath a tweed blazer. He had been strikingly handsome with eyes the color of turquoise. Now those eyes were rheumy and clouded. Kincaid peered up through his bifocals.

“Professor Kincaid. It's Edward Darby.”

Kincaid came around his desk and reached out to shake Edward's hand. His nails were yellow and pointed like talons. He patted Edward a little too forcefully on the back, as if he had lost sight of his own strength. He must be in his late seventies, Edward thought.

“Of course it is. Sit down, dear boy. How's your mother?” He offered Edward the wooden chair across from his desk.

“Well. She lives in a retirement community in New Canaan. And Mrs. Kincaid and Violet?”

“Violet married a young professor from the department. He got a tenured position at Stanford. They live in San Francisco.”

“And Mrs. Kincaid?”

“She followed Violet to California. She was tired of being the widow of a living corpse. Her words, not mine.”

His clothes were old, the collar of his shirt frayed and a moth hole in the rib of his sweater. His cheeks were blotchy and freckled with brown spots.

“She never understood ambition.”

Edward's attention was drawn to the books on the shelf behind the desk. Facing out and displayed on a stand was a large volume called
The Unrealized Self: How the Romantics Invented the
Modern Age
. Below the title in large gold foil was stamped the author's name: John Kincaid.

“And you, Edward?”

For a moment he couldn't answer; he was still taking in the title of the book.

“I'm in the art business. A principal at Mayweather and Darby.”

“Well done. Your father would have been proud.” He picked up his unlit pipe from the ashtray and brought it to his lips. “They won't let us smoke here or in any of the buildings or classrooms. Harry would have hated it.”

“I suppose he would have.”

“I'm sorry I didn't keep in touch. I'm not much good at it.”

“You weren't alone. It wasn't easy for people to see him like that.”

Kincaid's eyes clouded. “No, it wasn't.”

“I wanted to give this to you. For years the painting hung on my wall and I never noticed. Look, here in the crook of the tree. The initials.” He held out the painting on his lap.

Kincaid's face lost its color. He was speechless and then struggled for words. “Your father . . . Harry . . . We were close. I never had a better friend.” His knotty fingers nervously fondled his pipe in the ashtray.

“That book.” Edward pointed to the shelf. “Wasn't it the collaboration you and my father were working on together?”

“It grew out of our conversations about the Romantic poets. But after Harry became ill, I reconceived it. It went through hundreds of revisions. Years of research and contemplation.”

“I saw pages of the manuscript among his things.” Once when Kincaid and his father were arguing in the study his mother told him that she thought Kincaid was jealous of his father because he
was the faculty star, the one who received all the honors and prizes in the department.

Kincaid took the book off the stand and handed it to him. “I gave up everything for this bloody book. It took everything out of me.”

Edward read the back copy. It had won several prizes. He read the inside flaps and turned to the acknowledgments page to see if his father was credited. He wasn't mentioned. He recalled a line from the manuscript he had uncovered among his father's papers.
Each choice the author makes more clearly reveals his character
. The office smelled old and destitute. African masks, sculptures from India, paintings, books, stacks of old and yellowed manuscripts on the radiator—they had been put there years, maybe even decades before and had not been updated or replaced.

“He trusted you. Your friendship meant everything to him.”

“It meant too much to him.” He cleared his throat.

Edward turned toward the window. He couldn't quite find the words. Students meandered down the path. Another group talking loudly burst out the door of a hall across the courtyard after class. All the trees were gloriously in bloom.

Kincaid stood up and moved toward the window and looked out. “Your father's gone.”

Edward picked up the book again. “He was in pain.”

Kincaid took the volume from Edward's hand and placed it back on its stand.

“Don't look for things you won't understand . . . Manic depression. It's a disease.” He picked up his pipe and put it down again and banged out the tobacco onto his desk. “Feelings torture us but for God's sake they don't kill us.” He stroked the stubble on his
chin and picked up the pipe again and brought it to his lips. “Your father had furious amounts of energy. He propelled everything into his work because somewhere inside him he felt inert. That's not something medication can control. It was part of his brilliance. And his darkness.”

He raised his eyes to the clock on the wall and stood up. “May I take you to lunch? I'd like that. I don't have much company these days.” He motioned with the tilt of his head to the manuscript sitting on his desk. “Except this.” He sucked on the pipe again.

Edward couldn't swallow. He looked at his watch and moved toward the doorway. “I'm afraid I have an appointment in the city. Another time. I'm sorry to have come unannounced.”

“I'm glad you did. You were just a boy,” he said, unable to finish his sentence. “It's remarkable how the years fall away.”

He dusted the shoulders of Edward's jacket. “I'm glad to see you looking so well,” he said, and held out his hand. Edward noticed his tremor before he took it.

He walked through the doorway, stopped, and turned around. “I'm selling my father's manuscripts and papers to Yale. One of his former graduate students is working on his biography. Readers will decide about your book, Professor Kincaid. About whether my father should have been credited.”