Gwenda’s multi-media canvasses were a combination of “found image” collage and Warholesque lithography that aimed at profundity but settled for ponderous. One consisted of a couple of pages torn from a fetish porn mag, a print advertisement for adult diapers, and a black leather glove glued onto a canvas with a portrait of Marilyn Monroe silk-screened on top of it in black and blue ink. Another featured silk flowers glued into the mouth of an indifferently silk-screened image of Carmen Miranda, framed by headlines from the Post that read Long Island Lolita and Cop Shoots Cop.
Satisfied that everything was in order, Lucy left the gallery long enough to grab a falafel down the street so she would have something in her stomach. The last thing she needed was to get blotto on cheap wine. Collectors tended to steer clear of artists who ralphed on their shoes at openings.
The first thing she noticed when she returned was that Gwenda had finally arrived and was tricked out in a floor-length black leather evening gown and feather boa that made her look more like a drag queen than a diva. “Lucy! Where have you been?” she scolded.
Nevin appeared at Gwenda’s elbow, carrying a pair of clear plastic cups full of Chablis. His wide smile faltered at the sight of Lucy.”Hi, girls!” he said, struggling to hide his ill-ease. “I, uh, thought you two might like a drink—” He held the glasses out towards them, smiling uncomfortably.
“How thoughtful of you, Nevin,” Lucy said, taking the proffered drink. “Well, I better go man my post.”
“At least you’re close to the bathrooms,” Gwenda said with a faux smile.
“Yes. How lucky of me,” Lucy tossed over her shoulder.
It was going to be a long night. The opening was supposed to run from eight to eleven o’clock, which meant she had at least three solid hours of standing around in high heels on a hardwood floor, making small-talk with people she didn’t know. Her feet and calves were going to give her merry hell come tomorrow morning. But that was all part and parcel of the Art World, like it or not--which she would be okay with, if openings were actually attended by people genuinely interested in buying art. However, most of those now pouring into the gallery were social butterflies of a particularly shabby hue, concerned with appearing to be interested in the Arts while puffing up their egos at the expense of others. There were some unfamiliar faces, but most of those in the crowd were recognizable as inveterate opening-night parasites intent on nothing but guzzling free wine and scarffing down cheese cubes.
A half-hour into the opening, the gallery had become extremely crowded. Lucy was glad she’d decided not to wear her velvet dress, as the body heat of the attendees had raised the temperature in the room a good fifteen degrees. As she rocked back and forth on her feet, trying to alleviate the tension on her calves, she thought she heard someone call her name.
She frowned and looked around, then spotted Ezrael—Joth in tow—making his way towards her from across the crowded room. She smiled and waved, trying not to think about how happy seeing the two of them made her.
“There you are!” Ezrael said, smiling broadly. “Sorry we’re late—there’s a huge line to get in!”
“Ez! I was afraid you weren’t going to make it!” She threw her arms around the aging Muse and kissed him on the cheek.
“Of course I’m here! I couldn’t very well miss the social event of the season, could I?” he chuckled. “Besides, Joth would not have allowed me to be so remiss! Every hour on the hour I was asked if it was time to leave yet!”
“So—who’s your friend?”
Lucy was startled to discover Nevin hovering on the periphery of their little group, glowering at Ezrael. “Oh. Hi. Uh, Ez, this is Nevin.”
“Hello,” Ezrael said, holding his hand out for the younger man to shake. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you, Nevin.”
“I wish I could say the same about you,” Nevin said, ignoring Ezrael’s proffered handshake. “So, how long have you known Lucy?”
Ezrael’s eyes narrowed, but his smile remained outwardly friendly. “Not long. We met on the subway.”
“Really? You an artist, Ez?”
“No. I guess you could call me a patron of the arts.”
Nevin raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Really? You collect?”
“I have a...small collection, yes.”
“Anyone I might have heard of?”
“I would hope so! But I am not here tonight as a collector—I am here as a friend of Lucy’s, to provide moral support, if you will.”
There was a sudden flurry of motion towards the front of the gallery that sent ripples throughout the room. People stopped in mid-conversation to turn and try to get a look.
“What’s going on?” asked Lucy, standing on tip-toe in order look over the sea of heads filling the gallery.
“It would appear a celebrity has entered the building,” Ezrael commented dryly.
“Oh? Who?”
“Terry Spanner,” Joth said, even though the angel had its back to the crowd.
“I thought you said it was a celebrity!” she said, rolling her eyes.
“Uh—I better get back to my station,” Nevin said suddenly and hurried back to the front of the gallery.
“Such a forceful young man,” Ezrael said carefully, his eyes on Lucy’s face as she watched Nevin leave. “Is he always so—proprietary?”
She blushed and shrugged. “You don’t understand—you’re not seeing him under the best of circumstances. He’s been under a lot of stress lately—”
“So I take it. Is he still seeing that woman?”
“Not really. He just hasn’t gotten around to breaking up with her yet, that’s all.”
“Oh. I see.” Ezrael took a deep breath and clapped his hands together, smiling as he rubbed them together. “How about I go get us something to drink? I’ll be back in a minute. I’ll leave Joth with you, if that’s all right?”
“No—I don’t mind. It’ll give me someone to talk to.”
Within seconds Lucy lost sight of the Muse amidst the crowd. There had to be at least two hundred people squeezed into the gallery, all standing around talking and laughing, cups of cheap Chablis clutched in their hands.
“Good evening, Ms. Bender—what a delightful surprise running into you and your ward here tonight!”
Lucy turned to find, to her horror, the daemon Meresin standing at her elbow, dressed in a meticulous black silk Nehru jacket, a glass of red wine held in one finely manicured hand.
Joth made a noise deep in its chest like a tuning fork struck against a piece of Waterford crystal. Lucy reached out and placed a comforting hand on the angel’s arm.
Meresin smiled and held up a hand. “Please, there is no need to be alarmed, on either your or the elohim’s part! I am not here to harm either of you! I’m merely here as a patron of the arts.” As if to illustrate, the daemon gestured to a sculpture that consisted of a fashion mannequin tightly wrapped in silver duct-tape so that it resembled a mummified street-walker. Lucy noticed the installation boasted a fluorescent orange “sold’ sticker.
“I find it pretty hard to believe that of all the art openings you could have attended in this city, you just happened to pick this one,” Lucy commented acidly.
Meresin shrugged. “Believe what you like, my dear. I’ve been on the Ars Novina’s invitation list for ages. In this case, the decision to attend tonight’s opening was that of my client’s.”
“Client—? You mean Spanner?”
Meresin nodded. “He is looking to redecorate his lobby. Something guaranteed to shock and titillate the yokels waiting for an audience with his august personage. He feels the current lobby is too—sedate.”
“What do you care about art?” Lucy snapped. “Ez told me what you are, what you do—! I thought creatures like you couldn’t stand to be around art and artists.”
Meresin’s smile was as sharp as a fox’s. “Please, Ms. Bender! You speak to one of the sephiroth—what your ancestors once called a Prince of Darkness—not a bum-scratching imp! Over the ce
nturies I have seen more art than any living human could ever dream of! Granted, I was always trying to destroy it or demolish the creator, but that’s beside the point. Being exposed to the arts is like being exposed to radiation: in small doses, over a lengthy period of time, it can and does have its effect—even on daemons.”
Lucy frowned. “Are you telling me that you’re a lapsed devil?”
Meresin chuckled, although he was careful not to show any teeth. “Let us say I have a more catholic interpretation of how I might best serve the Machine than my fellows. Over the years I have striven to become more... .sophisticated in achieving my ends.
“My function is subtle yet vital. I do my best to ensure that the handiwork of the Blessed is kept from inspiring others. In some cases that means making sure that private collections are stolen or destroyed, in others it means dynamiting ancient burial vaults. But most often it means guaranteeing that an artist’s failings are encouraged at the expense of their gifts. Take my word, my dear: wretched excess, gambling and bad marriages have been the unmaking of many a masterpiece.
“I have spent centuries trying to keep artists unstable, poverty-stricken and obscure—and, believe me, it hasn’t been easy! When I think of the mistakes I made with the likes of Mozart, Van Gogh, and Dickinson! But for every Starry Night, Magic Flute and Poems that escape me, there are a hundred Mona Lisas, La Traviatas and Pere Ubus that do not.
“Permit me a moment’s vanity, if you will. Any gibbering imp can coerce a psychotic to take a hammer to the Pietà. It is no great feat for a wall-eyed oni to provoke a drunken painter into slashing his canvas in frustration. But it takes a true Infernal genius—a sephirah—to encourage an artist to pervert his gifts by wasting them on lesser pursuits. I’ve found advertising to be most useful in this manner. I also have found that promoting an artist whose gift is False and convincing others that it is True to do the most damage to the Clockwork.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Lucy asked, eyeing the daemon suspiciously.
Meresin smiled and produced a black cigarette, already lit, out of thin air. “I sense a sea change in my nature. Perhaps, by being exposed to humanity and the arts for as long as I have, I have become adversely influenced. Contaminated, so to speak. We daemons are more like your kind than the angels are, in part because we share your failings, as well as your genitals. Do not underestimate the devil when it comes to temptation—which is to say, do not underestimate yourself.” A distant look passed across the daemon’s face, and for a brief moment Lucy glimpsed what she thought was longing in the sephirah’s dark eyes. He dropped his cigarette and stubbed it out with the toe of his boot. “Well—enough of that! I have a busy night ahead of me. Good evening, Ms. Bender.” He turned and fixed his jet-black eyes on Joth. “I envy you, elohim. Maybe, some day, I will be fortunate enough to meet a woman— or a man—who will break the chains that bind me to the Machine.”
Lucy watched Meresin shoulder his way through the press of bodies, not sure what to make of the daemon’s impromptu confession. She touched Joth’s arm. “Go find Ezrael.”
The angel nodded and began twining its way through the crowded room. Lucy tried to keep her eye on its golden head bobbing above most of those in the gallery, but her attention was diverted by a cough at her elbow.
“Excuse me—are you the artist?” asked a tall, thin man with a steeply receding hairline. He had a neatly trimmed goatee and a ponytail held in place by a black silk band, and was dressed all in black except for a bright red matador’s jacket. “My name is Page Uxbridge,” he said, smiling. “I own a gallery in Midtown—perhaps you’ve heard of it? The Matador?”
“Yes I have, as a matter of fact,” she said. She wasn’t lying to be polite, either. What she had heard was that the Matador liked to snap up artists and flog them for all they were worth for a season or two before dropping them. It was bullshit, but the kind of bullshit that made the Art World spin in Manhattan.
“I’m very interested in your vision—it’s retro, without being camp,” Uxbridge said, gesturing to House Dog. “Could you tell me a little more about the history behind these pictures—?”
Joth scanned the crowd for Ezrael’s halo, but could not spot it. The Muse’s aura was the color of a robin’s egg, laced with vivid veins of gold, but most of those the angel saw were far weaker than Ezrael’s. Indeed, some did not seem to possess halos at all. As Joth continued to scan the gallery, its attention was captured by a lavender halo with pinkish undertones, like a cloud just before sunset. Intrigued, Joth moved in its direction, curious to see what manner of deathling possessed so lovely a glow.
The halo belonged to a little girl standing next to the refreshment table, carefully sipping the ginger ale the bartender had poured for her. The child looked to be no older than four years old, with big green eyes and naturally wavy hair the color of a taffy apple. Dressed in a red corduroy jumper and matching P.F. Flyer sneakers, she was wildly out of place amidst the sea of leathers, stiletto heels and other fetish fashion.
Joth had seen such deathlings on the streets, but it had not had a chance to study them very closely. Fascinated, the angel dropped onto one knee to get a closer look, bringing it face-to-face with the small deathling.
The little deathling giggled and pointed at Joth. “You’ve got a shiny head!”
Joth nodded its understanding. “That is my halo.”
The child frowned and tilted her head to one side. “Only angels have halos. Are you an angel?”
“Yes. I am Joth of the elohim. But not just angels have halos.”
The little deathling seemed to take this information in stride.”Do I have a halo?” she asked.
“Yes. It’s a very beautiful one.”
“Really?” She tilted her head back, squinting one eye, trying to see for herself. “Is there purple in it? I like purple.”
Joth cocked its head to one side. “Yes. There is purple in it,” it said. On closer inspection the angel could see thin lines of darkness spider- webbing through the brighter colors. For some reason, this made Joth anxious, although it was at a loss to know why.
“My name is Penny,” said the little deathling. “It’s short for Penelope. Is your name short for anything?”
Joth shook its head.
Penny fixed Joth with a dubious look. “Are you really an angel?”
“Yes.”
“If you’re an angel, why can’t I see your wings?”
“I am hiding them.”
“Why?”
“Because if I had my wings out, it would be hard for me to get around in a room this crowded,” he replied truthfully.
Penny pursed her lips and nodded. Joth’s explanation seemed to be good enough for her. “Are you an artist, Mr. Joth?” She asked the question with the off’-hand nonchalance of a child parroting an adult phrase heard but not fully comprehended.
“No. Are you?”
“No, silly!” she giggled. “I’m here with my mommy and daddy.”
“Are your mommy and daddy artists?”
“My daddy owns a gallery,” she replied, as if this should answer the question. “Do you have a mommy and daddy?”
“No.”
“Penny!”A tall, fashionably thin woman dressed in a black sheath dress and a bright red matador jacket lurched out of the crowd and grabbed the child by the arm, yanking her away from Joth. The woman leaned down, wobbling drunkenly on her four-inch high heels, to scold her daughter. “What did I tell you about talking to strangers, young lady!?”
“Mommy, he’s not a stranger!” Penny protested. “His name is Joth! He’s an angel!”
“Angel?” slurred Penny’s mother. She squinted at Joth, somewhat baffled, as the elohim rose to its full height. “You’re a biker?”
Penny rolled her eyes and sighed loudly, exasperated by her mother’s obtuseness. “No, Mommy, he’s a real angel—like on the Christmas tree!”
“Kids!” the woman laughed nervously. “Where do they get their ideas? Now,
come along, sweetie—”
Joth fixed Penny’s mother with its unblinking gaze. “The father touches her,” it said as nonchalantly as if it were commenting on the weather.
Penny’s mother blinked and wobbled even more than before. She turned to stare in disbelief at the stranger her daughter had been talking to. He was a tall, thin, somewhat Native American-looking fellow with long dark hair plaited into a single braid. Despite a feeling that she knew him from someplace, she did not recognize him.
“Do you know who my husband is?!” she asked indignantly.
“He is Page Uxbridge, age forty-nine, owner and proprietor of the Matador Gallery, located on West 57th Street,” Joth replied. The angel’s voice was not loud, nor was it accusatory. “You are Carla Mearig-Uxbridge. You married one another four-and-a-half years ago, immediately upon the discovery of your pregnancy. You are his third wife, Penny is his second daughter. His older daughter, Patrice, is twenty-three. She does not have any contact with her father since his divorce from his second wife, Yvonne, in 1981...”
“I’m very interested in showing your work,” Uxbridge said. “I can bring you some real attention—far better than what you’ll get in a show like this.” The gallery owner handed Lucy a bright red business card. “Here—promise me you’ll give me a call in a couple of days? I’d love to see what else you have in your portfolio!”
“I appreciate your interest in my work, Mr. Uxbridge...”
“Page! Please, call me Page!” he smiled, flashing capped teeth.
“Uh, okay, Page.. .When would be a convenient time for me to call—?”
Uxbridge abruptly fell silent as he caught sight of something going on at the other side of the gallery. Curious, Lucy turned to look over her shoulder in the direction he was scowling.
Angels on Fire Page 17
