“Technically, I hit that,” I said.
“Takes two to tango, Martin.”
I smiled and crawled on top of him. We spent the morning acting out scenes from the happy gay couple. Norman Rockwell couldn’t paint those pictures.
But maybe Caravaggio could.
12. The Muse
WE FELLinto an easy rhythm. While at home, Andre cooked and I painted. On our days off, we explored the city. I took him to my favorite art museums and restaurants. We went to the beach, rode bikes around the city, shopped, and drank coffee. In the nights we went dancing or to the movies or hung out at home on the couch, smoking weed and talking shit. I never tired of his company or having him in my bed.
The critic in me kept looking for his fatal flaw, the thing that would completely unravel the fantasy, but I couldn’t find one. I mean, there were things that bugged me, like the way he left his shoes in the middle of the room, or when he was cooking, he played his music really loudly, but those were greatly overshadowed by all the things he did that I adored, like he wouldn’t start eating until I’d sat down, and then he’d watch me when I took the first bite to see my reaction. Or when we were falling asleep, he had to make sure some part of him was touching me, even if it was only a hand or foot, like a touchstone. And he cracked me up with his sense of humor and his unique way of looking at the world.
I fell more in love with him every day.
One morning we were taking our time getting out of bed when Melissa called. I ignored the first two times, but picked up on the third. It must be important.
“Nicky Mazelli wants to see your work,” she said breathlessly. It sounded like she was in the car with the windows down.
“You’re fucking with me,” I said.
Nicoli “Nicky” Mazelli was an art dealer with a gallery in South Beach, one of the most prestigious and lucrative in all of South Florida. He’d adorned the mansion walls of many a millionaire and billionaire—celebrities, philanthropists, playboys, restaurateurs, businessmen and women, politicians. He was the don of the Miami art world. Nicky’s paintings sold for ridiculous amounts of money, and the artists he discovered went on to be the cocktail hour conversation between the who’s who of Miami. People of means traveled together and tended to want to one-up each other. So if your friend had a piece by a certain painter, it wasn’t long before you had to have one too. Of course, they usually admired your work as well, but more importantly, they could afford to drop a lot of money, which kept starving artists like me in paints and canvases for years.
Melissa had been trying to get an audience with Nicky Mazelli for years.
“I’m not fucking with you, Martin. He’s on his way over right now. With his people.”
“Shit, he’s coming here?” I glanced around frantically. Our clothes were everywhere. Dishes from last night’s dinner were still in the sink. My work area was a mess too. I was in love. Housecleaning wasn’t at the top of my list of priorities.
“He just called me this morning. I sent him some pictures of your paintings a few weeks back. He must have finally seen them. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Just be charming until I get there, okay?”
“Yeah, okay.” I ended the call and sprang out of bed, climbed into my clothes from last night, which still smelled like the curry Andre had prepared, which was delicious at the time, but smelled kind of funky the morning after. I didn’t have time for a shower. I took off the curry-scented clothes and threw them in my closet, grabbed a clean shirt and fresh pair of pants.
“There’s an art dealer on his way over,” I told Andre who was now sitting up in bed. “A very important one. He wants to see my pieces.”
Andre nodded. “I’m on it.” He pulled on his pants and a T-shirt, started scooping up clothes and throwing them in the closet. Downstairs he took over cleaning the kitchen, and I arranged the paintings so that they were properly lit. I cleared the coffee table and swept the floor. Right as I was closing up the trash bag to take it out, there was a knock on the door. I glanced down at my feet, which were bare. Well, this was my house.
I glanced over my shoulder at Andre, who was loading the dishwasher, then headed for the door.
“Martin Fonseca,” Nicky said. His bushy white eyebrows moved up and down enthusiastically as he took me in.
“Yes, sir.”
“Nicky Mazelli.” He shook my hand. He was a short man with a healthy amount of snow-white hair slicked back, thick Gucci glasses that made his eyes look huge, and impeccable taste in clothing. His suit alone probably cost what I made in six months at the restaurant. “These are my people.” He waved to the three individuals trailing behind him: a young man with an expensive-looking camera, a middle-aged woman with a tablet, and another young man who carried a handsome leather satchel, presumably Nicky’s. “Is now a good time?” Nicky asked as he strolled past me.
“Of course,” I said, which was merely an afterthought.
His people spread out over the studio. The photographer snapped pictures of everything, mostly the paintings, but other things too, like the windows, my shelves of paints and brushes, even Andre, without asking permission. Meanwhile the woman with the tablet typed furiously as Nicky spoke and the man with the handbag trailed a few steps behind them. Nicky himself swept through the room like a dancer doing the waltz, pausing in front of each painting for a moment, pivoting to see it at different angles, then moving on. He made comments like “unorthodox pairing,” “sexually menacing,” and “illuminating transitions.”
Melissa and I played this game sometimes, when we got bored at an artist’s opening. We’d travel from painting to painting and string together the longest, most convoluted sentences we could and then frame them as art critiques. Sometimes we drew others into it, to see which of us could get the most nods of approval. Melissa usually won. Her vocabulary was more extensive than my own.
But Nicky wasn’t faking it. Whatever mumbo jumbo he said meant something, at least to him, and it made me nervous as hell because I had no idea whether he was admiring my work or talking shit.
Around the time I was sure I’d sweat through my shirt, Melissa arrived, wearing her art manager uniform of all black with silver, jingly accessories, face powder, and deep red lipstick. She could have been going to a funeral.
“Nicky,” she breathed, kissing him on the cheek, then greeted me in the same manner. Andre didn’t rise to the level of her acknowledgment, something I’d need to sort out with her later. Melissa handed me a bottle of chilled champagne and told me to put it on ice, which seemed premature, but maybe she knew something I didn’t. Andre sat idly on the kitchen counter, staying out of the way while watching the activity with a curious tilt to his head.
I pulled a bucket out of the cabinet and filled it with ice, sat the champagne in the middle. “All good?” Andre asked me. I shrugged. I had no fucking clue. Melissa was now traveling in tandem with Nicky, nodding along with his very astute remarks.
