The truth was that what remained of me in that patio chair was a papier-mâché mask, growing cold.
*
Pennsylvania. Lancaster County.
Autumn has settled in here long ago. Old woodlands sunk in misty clouds. Silence. The dark gray line of wet asphalt draws a stretched out S and disappears up ahead in the fog, which is growing thicker with every second. Atop a little knoll stands a bunch of tall, dark shrubs, like widows resting by the road. I pull over. I load a new roll of film in the camera, walk through the thick, wet grass, take a few pictures, then notice the wooden poles tied with barbed wire, open the aperture to focus only on what I need, and get closer. I let the wire come down from the top left corner of the frame and lead the eye toward the focus, which I choose to place down in the right third. The shutter clicks. I stride further into the moist meadow until I see the ruins of an abandoned barn. A bottomed-out roof, protruding beams and poles, shattered wooden planks, and rusty tin sheets are buried in weeds and obstinate shrubbery. And, as if the years of solitude and harsh climate were not enough, a wild walnut tree growing through the middle ruptures its insides spring after spring. How abandoned could an abandoned barn be! Couldn’t somebody simply tear it down?
My grandfather, Stefan Nichts’ shop looked somewhat like this the last time I saw it. Stefan Nichts was not my real grandfather. He was one of my grandmother’s brothers. He had been an artist and a master carriage-maker before World War Two—a quite wealthy man who had traveled and lived in Venice and Germany. Then, the communists came, appropriated everything he owned, and tossed him in a labor camp. After some years, he was released, went to the countryside, scraped some money together, and opened a shop in his village. Not for horse-drawn carriages, but for handmade donkey carts. He became a cartwright. I remember how people would come from all over to order and buy carts from him. I liked to hover around him in his dim workshop, handing him tools, listening to his stories (he had lots), fanning the fire with the bellows, and watching him work. I remember how, sometimes, in his dusty little windows, never touched by a woman’s hand and covered in thick cobwebs and mummified flies, a beam of sunlight would squeeze in, and countless tiny specks of dust would dance in it.
Grandpa Stefan Nichts would weld the carts in his shop and then drag their naked torsos out under the thick shadow of the walnut tree to dress them in warm, vibrant colors. I sometimes think that he got into crafting carts just so he had something to paint without his townsfolk taking him for a complete loon. Not that they took him for normal anyhow. When he was young, Grandpa Stefan had had an affair with a Greek woman who, malicious rumor has it, sucked his brains dry before leaving him. After her, he never married or had any children. Every day, he would drink bitter Turkish coffee that he boiled in a beat-up, ancient coffee pot, smoke filterless cigarettes, and cough. Every evening he’d go down to the pub, where he’d get drunk on menta (mint schnapps) and curse the communists. He would threaten to hang himself, wave his fist in the air, and yell, Nichts! Nichts! No! That’s why they called him Nichts. In my memory, he looks like the late Ezra Pound—messy haired and stubbly—in that 1971 Henri Cartier-Bresson portrait. Grandpa Stefan Nichts spent the last winter of his life sick, broken, and bedridden under the window in his lonely bachelor pad.
The last time I went to see him, I was a senior in high school. I hitchhiked from the city to the village. It was foggy and dreary. I rode in an old Soviet car, a tractor, and a truck and arrived in the village just before dark on a donkey cart. First, I peeked into his abandoned shop. It had been looted and torn apart. There were no windows, hinges or doors, half of the roof was missing. Wild walnut trees grew everywhere. I went out, crossed the weeded yard, climbed the run-down steps, and opened the door to his room. I swear I saw a fat rat clumsily jump down from his pillow, where somebody had left a piece of hard bread, and slide under the kitchen cupboard. Grandpa Nichts was trembling, freezing under the army blanket, soaked in his own urine, his head turned toward the ugly tapestry hanging by his bed. I had brought freshly ground coffee. I boiled it in his grotesque coffee pot. The scent of coffee chased the stench from the room for a moment. I managed to lift the old man’s pillow a bit, propping it up with two dusty wool coats. I found some cups, rinsed them with cold water, and took a few sips of coffee. He also wet his parched lips with the black liquid, but only to stain them a little. His once shiny and expressive eyes were now soaked in the foggy light of that departing winter day.
I promised him that I’d come see him again and asked if he wanted anything from the city. “Nichts,” the old man said, slipped down in bed, turned his unshaven face toward the tapestry, and closed his eyes.
I get in the car, turn on the lights, and drive.
Why can’t I remember what exactly we talked about? Why didn’t I spend more time with that fascinating old man? What more important things did I have to do?
Suddenly, in front of me appears a black, rectangular, coffin-shaped four-wheel buggy pulled by a black horse. I drive behind it, slowly taking a few pictures with my right hand. If it weren’t for the red reflective triangle affixed to it, this mysterious monochrome vision would have horrified me.
Lancaster, Pennsylvania.
This is Amish country. The Amish people, I know, have lived around here for centuries as if time doesn’t exist. They plow the land with horses and don’t use electricity, telephones, or cars. The Amish don’t believe in civilization, government, progress, art, music, secular love, taxes, 401ks, war, colorful attire, secondary education, or terrorism. The Amish believe in the Bible and its sufficiency, non-violence, equality and brotherhood, and the healing power of religion. The Amish believe in Jesus Christ as only Jesus Christ would believe in another Son of God. The Amish call themselves “plain people,” and Lancaster County is their territory. I take a little detour through Bird-in-Hand, Intercourse, and Paradise. These are all Amish towns. I can’t help but think about the vulgar connotations of their names.
I park in the center of Intercourse and step into a small, wooden cabin-store, illuminated by a gas lamp. The clerk is an elderly woman dressed like a servant out of a Vermeer painting. I also see two blond boys with typical Amish haircuts, wearing black pants, suspenders, and white cotton shirts. There is a red-faced old man with a beard but no mustache. All Amish men grow beards after they get married. Only beards, no mustaches. To them, the mustache symbolizes aggressive masculinity, conflict, and war. Intercourse, Pennsylvania. What if I ask the woman behind the counter for condoms? However, the silent humbleness of these people strangely tames my demons. I wonder if I should spend the night here. Intercourse. How righteous do you have to be, I wonder, to live in a town whose name meant “communion” two hundred years ago, and now is just the proper term for “fucking”? I exchange a few words with the old guy. I buy bread and milk, then get into my car, and figure out how to catch I-78 for New York. In a few hours, if the fog clears, I’ll arrive where this story has to end.
*
The morning Stella left, OPEC suspended most of its drilling projects, a train in southwest Germany crashed, killing forty-eight; in Kabul a suicide bomber took thirty-seven lives and injured 120; China approved sanctions on Iran; Pope Benedict XIV visited Turkey; seven American soldiers were killed by friendly fire in Fallujah; the problem with Kosovo’s status remained unresolved; and the Phoenix Space Mission was looking for a place to land on Mars . . .
*
In Pennsylvania—and during most of my drive as a whole—it just drizzles, but in New Jersey, it really rains, in Newark it pours, and in New York City, it’s a deluge. I slide into the tunnel to Manhattan and drive in the left lane, with only a few cars ahead of me. The camera is loaded with color film now; the aperture is set at 2.8, the speed at 3 seconds. I open the window, holding the steering wheel with my left hand and pressing the shutter with my right. I know that the chrome throat of the tunnel will stay light gray, I know how the brake lights of the vehicles ahead of me will look—like curly red line
s in the middle of the picture—the fluorescent lights under the roof will leave two diagonal white streaks that will converge in the middle to form a Y in the center of the rectangular frame. I know how this photograph will look, so why do I take it? Why do I keep taking pictures? Because I can or in spite of that? Why in the world do we do the things we do?
I step on the gas and accelerate. I want to get out of this tunnel. I want to cross to the other side. I’ve wanted to go to the other side for a long time now, damn it. For such a long time I’ve dreamed about going beyond and finding Stella and hugging her and taking her face in my hands and squeezing it like a rubber toy, and kissing her the way only I can—hurting her lips with my crooked eyetooth. I’ve dreamed of messing up her hair, digging my face into the small of her neck, sniffing the skin behind her ears like a dog—like the dog I really am. Shoo, doggy. She’d pretend to chase me, Shoo! Go away, bad dog, and she’d laugh, and I’d push her down into the snow, and we’d roll around in it. She hates when I whitewash her, shoo, doggy! shoo! Stella hates the cold, shoo, doggy, but I do it anyway because I don’t know what else to do with my love. I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know how not to hurt her, when I now enter Manhattan through the merciless chrome throat of the Holland Tunnel.
Manhattan.
I am nearing the end of my journey. I can feel it. That buzzing in my head is stronger than ever. Buzzing in my head. Buzzing in the speakers is a sign that the system has not been grounded properly.
A little after midnight, I ring Danny’s doorbell.
“I’m coming,” the intercom crackles. Danny opens the door wearing a robe and white tube socks bunched up at his ankles and sagging in front, a couple of sizes too big. The loose socks with the dirty heels lead me up a flight of squeaky, wooden stairs. No woman should ever have to see a man in such socks, it’s disgusting. On the second floor, one of the apartments has no door—it’s just missing. The smell of marijuana, loud Indian disco music, and the voices of about fifty shouting people come from the inside. “We can join them later, if you want.” We climb up to his apartment. It’s the size of my garage in California. Loud Miles Davis blares from the speakers. “I’ll turn it down. I just can’t stand that shit they play down there. I don’t even know how they listen to it.”
A red paper lantern decorated with dragons from a Chinese restaurant has somehow been attached to the naked light bulb. The walls are painted yellow. Every inch is filled with books, movie posters, CDs, vinyl, tapes, paintings in different stages of development, photographs, newspaper cut-outs, and magazines. In the corner, there’s an amplifier and a guitar. Half of the wall is dedicated to small digital tapes labeled in Danny’s beautiful handwriting. “You’ll sleep here and I’ll sleep over there on that mattress.” I sit down. “What do you want to drink?” I lie down on the mattress, spread my arms, and look at the red dragons around the light bulb.
*
I had gotten up earlier than she did and was sipping coffee from a big yellow mug. The telephone rang. I turned down the TV and picked up. Jane. We exchanged words about Stella’s invitation to the Biennial. Stella appeared on the stairs, rubbing her eyes sleepily, wearing black cat slippers and a worn-out Fruit of the Loom shirt of mine covered in holes from countless washes.
Jane, Jane, how lucky was I supposed to be if Stella was getting out of the same bed I had slept in just moments ago?
Jane understood Stella, and Stella understood Jane. They talked about the theme of the Biennial—Author-Time—about Stella’s choice of medium, about the other participants—Kate Mason, Sarah Morris, Lou Meyer, Julian Hope, Malcolm Sype, Mary Heilman (unquestionably the star of the Biennial), Jim Dein, Robert Fox, Pyotr Oblonski (the new Russian prodigy), Bernard Foucault (who already lived in New York), Yasuma Morimura, and many others whom I hadn’t heard of. Stella would be one of the newest names there. I sat on the sofa with that stupid yellow cup in my hand. Between the muted CNN screen and me, the black cat slippers paced back and forth. Above them were the long, beautiful legs, covered with eternal blue bruises, the torn T-shirt which hardly covered her slowly freezing nakedness, the hand that scratched the knee, the other hand that held the receiver of the old black telephone.
*
I wake up in the morning from car alarms. Danny’s not here. I take a quick shower. As I go to open the refrigerator, I notice the tiny magnet calendar on the dirty door—today is Halloween. Danny comes in, carrying donuts and a newspaper.
“Good morning. Big fires in that California of yours, brother. Are they anywhere near your house?”
“Yep.”
“That’s not good.”
“Nope.”
“One would expect tsunamis.”
“If you’re meant to hang yourself, you won’t get hit by a car.”
“True.” Danny takes out a gallon jug of orange juice and pours what’s left of it into two glasses. “Now tell me everything. Last night you fell asleep like a baby.”
“I haven’t slept like that in weeks.”
“That’s why I let you.”
“Thank you.”
“What’s with this grass now? Where did you get it?”
“It’s a long story. You go first. Are you still working with Hito-san?”
“From time to time.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Well, so, so. It’s not like before.” We munch on donuts.
“Why?”
“Those tricks he did by hand in a darkroom twenty years ago can now be done with Photoshop in a couple of hours. A whole bunch of his clients left.”
“Why?”
“Cheaper photographers.”
“But it’s Hito we’re talking about here, man. He’s a fucking legend. He’s world famous . . .”
“Famous-shmamous. They don’t care. Should we have coffee here or do you want some fresh air?”
“Let’s go out.”
Starbucks. Danny is buying.
“How’s the job at Christie’s?” I ask him.
“Still wrapping.”
“It’s the Bulgarian trademark. Christo started it.”
“Somebody’s got to do it.” Danny shrugs and stirs his coffee.
“I guess. And what do you do exactly?”
“I handle things people have bought at the auction. The auctions are on Sundays, right? So we pack whatever’s been sold and transport it to the new owner. Every single day, I go to work knowing that today, maybe I’ll pack another Picasso or Clemente, a Rubens, a Michelangelo, or an Etruscan mask . . . that kind of thing. I’ve wrapped . . . well, everything you can imagine, man—paintings, sculptures, photographs. The installations are the hardest, of course.”
“Sounds exciting.”
“Whatever.” Danny takes a sip of his coffee and stares at the rim of the table. “But sometimes I . . . cry. Tears start falling from my eyes, just like that, I don’t even know why.”
“You’ve got to lay off the drugs, pal.”
“No drugs, bro. Forget the drugs. There’s no drug like art, man. No other high like that. If I’m lucky enough to come across something real my hands start trembling, my whole body shakes, tears roll down my cheeks, I don’t even think about smoking, shooting up, drinking, popping pills, fucking . . . I’m telling you, man. Theres no high like that, nothing even comes close! Everything just stops. Seriously.”
“So do you always handle . . . such artifacts?”
“Not that often, actually. There aren’t that many out there, man. They’re . . . it’s like . . . it’s pure energy, bro. Energy. Life.” Danny is getting worked up. “That’s what makes a painting different from an identical copy. The life in it. I mean—life. A piece of life is built into it. And it just recently dawned on me what it’s all about: life. That’s what every true collector wants—to buy a piece of someone else’s life. Do you really think somebody cares about what you paint, what style, or how good you are? No one spends millions of dollars on craftsmanship. They only write million-dollar checks for
life!”
“Life, huh?”
“Fuck yeah.”
“Life.”
“That’s what they buy, the vampires. I’m telling you . . . pieces of life. If it’s there, the price doesn’t matter.”
“Danny boy . . . I’m gonna get myself another coffee. Do you want one?” I leave him alone for a minute. I get back. His knee has not stopped bouncing up and down. He’s all nerves, shaking the table, spilling coffee. “You’re so passionate about art, man. You’re on fire.”
“I know, right? It comes with the territory, I guess, ha ha. I bubble-wrap masterpieces. How many people in the world have touched as much art as I have? And I mean touched.”
“No kidding.”
“I’ve been blessed.”
“Good for you. And how about money? You OK in that department?”
“I’m hurting, man. I’ll never be able to buy a car or a place to live. I won’t be able to get married if I keep going like this.”
“There must be a way.”
“Easy for you to say.” I stare at my coffee and decide not to go there.
“What are your plans?” I ask.
“I just want to save up some money and continue my education.”
“The one you have isn’t enough?”
“Christie’s offer these classes. They take about a year and a half. For art specialists, appraisers, consultants, and such. You can work in galleries, museums, etc. . . . But it’s a lot of money.”
“How much?”
“About fifty grand.”
“That’s a lot.”
“Yeah, it is. If I’m good, though—and I’m good enough to know I’m good—I will end up making decent money. And I’ll be surrounded by art all the time, I’ll be a broker, a consultant, I’ll be in the process . . . so to speak. I’ll start collecting on my own, too.” Danny downs his coffee and groans. “So that’s why I’m doing the Cartoon Network.”
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