The Prize (7 page)

“Then how about we bow out and wander around Hamburg? We can meet up with the crew for dinner.”

“Yes. Let's.”

“We'll take a cab straight to the Elbe, to one of the little restaurants there, and we can pretend we're in Venice.”

“W
E ARE IN
Venice!” Julia declared as they strolled along the riverbank after dropping off their luggage at a café where later they planned to lunch. A warm wind blew over the embankment. “Hamburg and Berlin are beautiful cities, but beneath all the
beauty, Germany leaves me cold. I can't forget what happened. It wasn't that long ago, when you think about it. Sixty years.”

“I understand. It must be strange. I feel it too. And I'm not Jewish.”

“When I speak to a German, Gerhardt or Tina, I see guilt in their eyes. Sometimes it feels like hate. You know, the way we come to dislike those who make us feel ashamed? Or maybe I'm being paranoid. It's just that when I thought I might be stuck in Germany without my passport . . .”

“I trust your instincts. I saw it in your work yesterday. That flash of disquiet and brilliance.”

“Disquiet?”

“Your work can be uncomfortable to look at. It makes us feel things we don't want to acknowledge.”

She smiled. “You mean not profitable.” She flung back a lock of hair. “I'm kidding. I wasn't fishing for a compliment. Or intending to turn the conversation to my work.”

“Of course you weren't.” Edward looked at her carefully. She was self-conscious and it touched him. They stopped to admire the water.

The sky grew cloudy and a dark shadow cast its long arm over the river. In the distance they heard the faint laughter of children. Julia looked out into the water and her face filled with momentary sadness, as if she were thinking of something that hurt her. For a second Edward thought about reaching for her hand, but he held back. Julia raised her head to push past it and, as if reading his mind, said, “It's nice to have this time with you. I thought you were upset with me.”

“Upset with you? Why?”

“I thought I must have said something wrong. At Strauss's gallery. At lunch. We were getting along so well and then, well, you didn't say anything. This is the first time we've really talked since then.”

“That's not it.” He stumbled to explain himself. He hadn't spoken to her because he'd been intimidated. Or was protecting himself. Or was shy. He wasn't sure. “I didn't want to encroach upon your time.”

“That's silly. I thought we connected.”

“We did.” He turned his face for a moment to the water and followed the sound of it and then sat on a bench and she followed. He remembered when he'd met her twenty years ago at the Academy of Arts and Letters. It was funny how memory took its time, had a life of its own. She had been one of the newly minted Rome fellows. He'd been in the business only a year or two and went to the ceremony and reception afterward to network. His friend Charlie, one of the young Turks at the gallery, was at the reception too. He introduced Julia to Edward, along with the other five fellows. How Charlie had memorized their names from the program and put name to face was impressive. It was clear then that he was on the verge of becoming a major player. Edward didn't have that instinct. Instead he was seduced by a kind of inexplicable magic, not the flashy, fashionable sense but the subtler kind, the kind that slips under the door and takes you by surprise. He knew it when he saw it and when he felt it, but he did not know how often it would come around or whether he'd be able to make a career out of it.

After he'd congratulated Julia on the Rome fellowship, she remarked that she hadn't deserved it. “I'm still too influenced by my predecessors. I haven't found my own voice yet. What's true to my core. That no one else can do.” She was a few years younger
than Edward, a strange creature who seemed to him then part decorative bird and part, well, he didn't know. At the time she was a little too curated for his taste. He offered his card and said he wanted to come see her studio one day, “that is, once you've found your voice,” he'd said, recognizing that he might have something to offer her.

“Maybe when I'm back from Rome. If I've made any art by then.”

“You've made no art yet?”

“None at all.”

“The fellowship committee endowed nothing?”

“Not really. It was only the idea that captured them.”

“So do you hope to be remarkable, then?”

“Yes, don't you?”

Did he? Of course he did—he was Harold Darby's son—only he'd never thought of it that way before.

Edward offered her a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter but she refused, saying her fiancé was waiting by the door. A man with an open face, looking impatient, leaned against a pillar by the doorway.

“What does he do?”

“He makes money,” she responded, and they both laughed.

From time to time after their short encounter he saw her name and work mentioned in trade magazines or gallery catalogues, and once even went to the trouble of finding out the name of her gallery, but for a reason he couldn't put his finger on he'd never contacted her.

“Your fiancé you were with? You know, when we met each other all those years ago . . .” he said as they stood up again and continued to stroll along the river. “Did you end up marrying him?”

She smiled. “Yes.”

“Are you still married to him?”

“Yes,” she said.

A
T AN OUTDOOR
café he ordered an expensive bottle of Gewürztraminer with lunch. He watched Julia's eyes turn soft after she finished her first glass and allowed him to refill it. They had traveled together for many days and he had watched her a lot, listening carefully and trying to intuit her gestures, but one couldn't really know someone else, even some of the time. The sun revealed itself from behind a sheath of dark clouds and pushed forth making everything, their plates, glasses, the surrounding trees and shrubs, shimmer, and everything that had come before faded for a moment into the distance. He looked across the table. With her white ruffled blouse underneath a trim black velvet blazer, long neck, pale skin, and clear eyes that shone a more liquid blue in the sun, she resembled a woman of a different era. It was a vacation just to look at her.

“What have been your impressions? You know, about the scene?” Edward asked.

“Have you noticed that it's bad-boy week? All those overbearing, obstreperous works.”

He looked up from his glass.

“The galleries we've visited mostly show work by male artists. It's all about bold images and conspicuous display. And there's this tendency to glamorize sloppiness. Have you noticed the penchant for extra-large and sinister phallic objects?” She stopped and looked down at her plate. “It's just something I've noticed. How men command attention.” She took another sip from her wine. “You're laughing at me.”

“I'm not laughing.”

“But you were smiling.”

“I guess I was. Affectionately,” he said.

“You were brilliant yesterday. Your talk,” she offered.

“I didn't make a fool of myself?”

“Oh, no. I haven't stopped thinking about it. The way in which you spoke about bringing inventiveness into preconceived and tired ideas. How art has the power to suggest that the most ordinary spaces of human life can be made special.”

The sun came out in full force. The river was sparkling. A parade of small toy sailboats sailed in the current. Children were playing in a little garden park. “We're in a painting,” Edward said. It was a game he used to play with his father. “What painting is it?”

“
Sunday in the Park
, of course,” she said.

He threw back his head and laughed.

“I love the sky here,” she said, closing her eyes as if the sight slightly pained her.

T
HEY ARRIVED AT
the hotel in time to shower, dress, and meet the others for drinks before the dinner gala. In the morning they were headed back to Berlin. “Edward and Julia have turned up,” Savan announced to the group when they walked in. He detailed the galleries and museums the group had visited. “Shame you had to miss. I know you would have enjoyed it. Myers put on a great show. It was called
The Disobedients
.”

Edward escaped to the bar. He wasn't in the mood. Savan's desperation to please stemmed from inner hollowness, or loneliness, as Julia had perceived—or both. A person didn't try that hard otherwise.

Julia caught up with Charlotte, who was known for her special gift for organizing dinners, painstakingly inviting just the right combination of high-profile celebs to ensure the evening was a success. Edward had been to two or three of her parties. When Julia entered the room Charlotte embraced her and they spoke eagerly and with warm affection, and in the moment he regretted he wasn't part of their intimacy.

He needed another drink. He started on vodka and wished he hadn't. He should switch to beer, but it was too late. The vodka had run through his system, making everything a little easier.

Savan wandered over and clapped Edward on the back. He felt himself recoil. He wanted to have his drink alone and reflect upon the day with Julia. It had been a relief to be with someone for whom he didn't have to be on guard or put on a show.

“When I spoke with Nate the other day, he said Agnes is happy.” Savan raised his eyebrows.

“Happy?” Edward said.

“With you. And the gallery.”

“Why shouldn't she be?” He was relieved when Julia and Charlotte wandered into the mahogany-paneled bar for a drink and broke into their conversation. Julia mentioned that she'd learned that Cabot White had taken on Christopher Landis. Julia said she'd gone to school with him at RISD.

“It's been fascinating to watch his career. Every time he takes a new wife, his work changes direction.”

Edward laughed.

“No, I'm serious. He reinvents himself with each woman.”

“I suppose that's one way of doing it,” Edward said. “Of course, that means I'll always be a bore.”

“It's terrible, isn't it? To be always left out of the party,” Julia said, a solemn look on her face.

“Jimmy Oldman is a reinventer too. Do you know Jimmy? He's got that new shop in L.A.”

“Is he monogamous?”

“Jimmy?” Edward laughed. “Jimmy's the least monogamous person I know.”

“Too bad he isn't here to spice up the group.”

Edward leaned over the bar to address Julia. “What about you? Are you monogamous?”

“Hopelessly so,” Julia sighed.

“Kids?”

Julia shook her head and her face darkened. “Long story.”

Savan and Charlotte divided the bill. Edward moved closer to Julia.

“I suppose we could too,” Julia said. Her cheeks were flushed after several glasses of wine.

“You mean reinvent ourselves?”

“Yes, why not,” Julia said, reveling for a moment in her liberation, and then slinking back into herself.

Tina entered the room and with a clap of her hands motioned for the Americans to follow her to the dining room.

Charlotte possessively took Julia's arm and escorted her out of the bar. The women spoke in whispers. Julia looked back at Edward and then allowed Charlotte to pull her away. He held back and watched her from across the room. She stopped and looked over her shoulder, noticing that he hadn't followed, and motioned with a nod for him to come.

6 HAMBURG

W
HEN HE RETURNED
to his hotel room he was too wound up to sleep. He'd had too much to drink. The minute he undressed and lay down he thought about unfinished business at the gallery, calls he needed to make, e-mails that required an answer. He'd wanted to be a dealer because he revered art, but not necessarily the business of it. The constant jockeying for position. The bravado and showmanship. He thought about calling Holly to say good night but couldn't bring himself to do it. He felt far away from her.

The hotel room was stuffy, even with the ceiling fan swirling above him, churning warm air. He watched it spin around and pulled at the neck of his T-shirt and closed his eyes. He was dizzy, the room now spinning in the blackness behind his eyes, even as he lay flat on his back. He thought about Julia, and how she hid her understated beauty behind those oversized glasses. Something was disturbing her. Something at home. Maybe there was trouble with her marriage, trouble with her work. He didn't know. But there was something else about her. He smiled thinking about her, and felt a stirring in his groin. He switched on the light and got out of bed. He poured himself a scotch from the bottle he'd bought for his room, moved a chair near the window, and sipped it, lost in thought.

His phone rang. It was Holly. For a moment he considered whether he should answer, not quite wanting to break his mood.