“Where are you going? When will you be back?”
“I’ll tell you when I know more.” She kissed my cheek and hugged me tightly. I hugged her back, slightly bewildered by her sudden outpouring of affection.
“I’m so, so proud of you,” she whispered, tickling my ear with her breath. When she pulled away, she was all business, listing instructions on how to handle Nicky and prospective buyers, the minimum Nicky should be charging for each work, how the money would be deposited into our respective bank accounts, and other details that seemed unimportant at the time. But I listened dutifully as I always did. Melissa didn’t waste words.
“Don’t go blowing the money all at once either,” she warned. “Meet with Felipe and make sure you’re investing at least half of it. You never know when lean times will come again.”
I didn’t like the way she was talking, like I’d never see her again. “How long will you be gone?” I asked a little desperately. Ever since my grandfather died, she was the only family I had.
“I don’t know yet, but whenever you have a decision to make, ask yourself what I would do, okay?”
I nodded and impulsively hugged her again. It felt like she was breaking up with me. I didn’t understand what brought this on. I didn’t know how to keep her there either. My parents, my grandfather, and now Melissa. Perhaps I clung to the people I loved because I feared I might never see them again.
And then she was leaving the gallery, just the trail of her black gown against the tile floor, like a shadow retreating into darkness.
Melissa wasn’t at work for the rest of that week. I called her a few times, and she always called back, but our conversations were brief and to the point. It felt like she was holding me at arm’s length. I kept asking her when she’d return, but she wouldn’t give me a straight answer.
Nicky called me about a week after the opening and told me he had a buyer for the slumbering prince.
“That’s great, Nicky.” My enthusiasm felt a little forced. Melissa was always the one thrilled by the sale. For me, it was stepping back from the painting upon completion or seeing it framed and hung in a gallery, watching other people react to it. I wondered if I should ask how much it sold for, or if that would be rude. Melissa would know what to do, and she wouldn’t feel the least bit timid about it.
“The buyer has requested an audience with you,” Nicky said. “Andre too.”
That seemed strange, to want to meet the model in addition to the painter. I told Nicky that.
“This buyer is a bit eccentric, but he’s a very discerning collector. I’ve been cultivating him for years without success. This is a special opportunity for the both of us, Martin.”
I sensed the stakes of the situation. “Who is it?” I asked.
Nicky cleared his throat. I could tell he was choosing his words carefully. “He prefers to remain anonymous until introductions are made. He values his privacy highly.”
I supposed that wasn’t too surprising. Traveling in my circles, I heard all kinds of stories about the weird shit rich people do. Withholding his identity paled in comparison. “I’ll have to ask Andre, but I’m sure he’d do it, as a favor to me.”
“Talk to Andre and get back to me. Soon.”
I ended the call and texted Andre, who was agreeable. Then I called Melissa to get her read on the situation and to see if she might know the collector, but she didn’t pick up.
The whole thing—Melissa leaving town, the painting of Andre, and this mysterious buyer—they all felt connected, and not in a serendipitous way, but in a foreboding one.
There was usually a point in the evolution of my paintings when the canvas looked like a hot mess and I panicked that I’d taken a wrong turn or messed it up beyond repair.Anyone could have vomited these colors onto a canvas, I’d think. It was an existential crisis every time, but then I’d imagine Melissa standing next to me, what she would say. “Quit your bellyaching, Martin, slap some paint on there and finish this bitch.” Whether it was criticism or encouragement, the point was that she expected me to finish, and it forced me to carry on, one brushstroke at a time.
I needed her, not just to feel successful, but to be successful, and she’d abandoned me.
15. The Collector
DINNER WITHthe anonymous collector was something of a production. It began with Nicky sending a tailor over with suits for Andre and me, so that he could be sure we were properly attired, which was pretty insulting. It also seemed unnecessary, though I appreciated the new suit. I assumed the cost of it would come out of Nicky’s cut, but that was yet another negotiation I’d relied on Melissa to make for me in the past.
Andre kept asking me if this shit was for real. And I kept answering,I guess so?He had about as much experience courting eccentric art collectors as I did, which is to say, none at all.
That Friday night a limousine appeared at my apartment to pick us up. The footman, for lack of a better word, requested that we leave our cell phones at home, which I didn’t like. Also, the windows of the limousine were blacked out so that you couldn’t see through them, which seemed suspect. Nicky was already tucked into the limousine, sipping a flute of champagne with a bemused expression.
Andre too, seemed uncomfortable with the situation, but he didn’t say anything, maybe for my sake.
“Cool?” I asked him.
“Cool.”
We climbed into the limousine and the footman, whose name was Frank, joined the driver at the front of the car. Nicky poured us each a glass of champagne, but I didn’t drink mine. I was paranoid that it was laced with something. Like this might be some elaborate scheme to steal our organs and sell them on the black market. There was no limit to my imagination when I was feeling anxious. Creatively, it was a blessing but in negotiating day-to-day life, my paranoia was a curse.
