At the end of his second tour, Nicky’s gaze scanned the room and landed on Andre, who was inconspicuously drinking a Capri Sun. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” Nicky said, heading straight for him and offering his hand as a king would to his subject.
“Andre Bellamy.” He hopped off the counter and shook Nicky’s hand.
“Ahhh, the muse.” Nicky looked at me. “Wherever did you find him, Martin?” he said with a conspiratorial lift to his eyebrows.
“We work together,” I said, not wishing to go into the details of our living arrangement, though I’m sure Nicky had already divined that for himself.
“Yes, I can see that. You workvery welltogether.” He winked and I picked up on his innuendo. “Well, nice work, young man. You’ve really brought out the ardor in our young painter.”
“All in a day’s work,” Andre said with an easy smile. He glanced over at me, but his face was unreadable. Cool as a cucumber, that was Andre. I wish I had his laid-back attitude.
“The split is forty-sixty,” Nicky said to me. “Sixty to the gallery.”
My eyebrows rose. That was pretty steep. Usually the split between artist and dealer was fifty-fifty or better. I glanced over at Melissa, who only nodded, which meant they’d already negotiated and this was his best offer. “Thank you, sir,” I said with an uneasy smile. The reality was finally setting in. Nicky Mazelli was going to show my art. Shit was about to get real.
“That doesn’t mean I’m going to do all the work,” Nicky said. “I still need your charming personality. The buyers I deal with don’t simply buy a painting. They’re making an investment in your career. They’ll want to say they’ve met the artist, perhaps even get a little insider information they can share with their friends. Your accessibility gives me more bargaining power.”
“Of course, Nicky, whatever you want. I’m happy to do it.”
He glanced again at Andre. “You drink champagne, Andre?” he asked.
“Yeah, why not?”
Nicky smiled. “Why not, indeed. Let’s celebrate. To the artist and his very bewitching, veryyouthfulmuse.”
Melissa popped open the bottle and poured us all glasses. If I was happy, then she was ecstatic. She couldn’t stop beaming. Maybe it was the money we hoped to earn from the sale of the paintings, or the mere fact that Nicky Mazelli had finally taken an interest in my work.
“Our dreams are finally coming true.” She hugged me tightly and bounced a little in her ballet flats.
She said it like we’d been at it for a hundred years, when really, we’d only gotten serious about selling my art in the past two. Perhaps this was her reward for all the hard work she’d put into grooming me. Melissa was always a far better networker than me, and Nicky was the hub of the Miami art scene. She’d reeled in a big fish.
Nicky selected three paintings: the archer, Andre in flight, and another of Andre at the apex of a vault, inspired by watching him skateboard, though the skateboard was absent as was the half-pipe. A group of kids below watched him, their eyes looking up. It was difficult to tell if he was falling or flying, which is what I liked about it, that uneasy state of suspension.
Three pieces was generous for an unknown like me. Nicky rattled off promotion details to the woman named Vivie: an opening with an invite-only reception, press and interviews, a full-color program…. Nicky said someone would be by the next day to package and transport the pieces, which was a relief because it meant I didn’t have to do it. Part of me felt as though I hadn’t had enough time with these paintings, but I consoled myself with the fact that I still had Andre, my living, breathing work of art.
And there was already another painting brewing in my mind.
After they left I painted, using the sketch of Andre I’d done earlier that morning. It melded Andre’s sleeping form with the rainbow lantern, which gave his skin a stained glass appearance. My slumbering prince.
While I painted, Andre watched Food Network. He was always trying new recipes, dishes he’d seen Fang make or ones he’d found online or from television. A few times when we were out eating, he’d ask the server specifically what was in a dish, but they never knew every spice and seasoning or how long the meat had cooked, which frustrated Andre to no end.
“You should go to culinary school,” I said to him. I didn’t know much about Andre’s long-term ambitions. I did know that he dropped out of high school to move here and never mentioned reenrolling.
“Maybe,” he said. “Be expensive, though. I can learn most things from working in the kitchen.”
“I thought the same thing about art school, but I’m glad I went.”
Andre was quiet after that. He had a closed-off expression on his face, like he was brooding about something. In fact, he hadn’t said much of anything since Nicky and his entourage arrived that morning.
“Something wrong?” I asked. There was tension in our silence.
“Nope.” He hopped off the couch and started putting on his shoes. “I’m going out.”
I set down my brush and paints. “Where are you going?”
He grabbed his ball cap, stuffed his cell phone into his pocket. “Don’t know yet.”
That was something about him that troubled me. He’d literally walk out of the house, skateboard in hand, and take off with no particular destination in mind. Unless he was with me or at work, I never knew where he was. Not that I didn’t trust him. It just gave me peace of mind to know the basics.
