by Lucy Ives
Whit stared me intently down. “Nice to see you, babe,” was what he said.
“This is scaring me.”
He grinned idiotically. “Really? Am I?”
“This,” I repeated.
“Well, in that case, I’m sorry.” Whit turned to the wall and readjusted discreetly as an antique bachelor limped by.
When he showed himself again, his face was difficult to read. He just stood there, totally patient and obedient. Was part of him hoping that I would chastise him, granting him the public dressing-down he unmistakably craved and humiliating myself in the bargain, perhaps even losing my job, depending on how colorful things got? Or was he here to dig something up, sniff a smell? Probably he wanted to perceive what, in organic detail, he was sacrificing on the altar of his parents’ way of life, palpitate the goods one last time, obtain some sense of what those goods had been up to while he’d been out to sea on the SS Dooskin.
It’s an understatement to say that I desperately wanted Whit to leave, but I also knew that he knew that this was the very thing I wanted. And so, on account of the problem of mutual knowledge, I elected to engage in behavior I knew would throw Whit off. I’d get, I reasoned, the restraining order later.
I said, “Can we please just go in?” I was strict but quietly so. I pretended to be fed up.
Whit replied by amiably offering me his arm as if it were 2005, and we strode past the long Plexi case containing the museum’s mostly decomposed copy of the Book of the Dead.
Whit, meanwhile, had discovered something amusing in his silence and was chuckling to himself. “It’s funny,” he said, “I actually feel like I understand you so well. You know? You just make so much sense to me!”
We were wending our way around the remains of a temple that had once belonged to the Egyptian government, and before that to the Egyptian people. I let Whit’s comment settle. Then: “That’s nice, Whit. I’m glad you feel like you understand me.” I was outwardly cool, accommodating, but inwardly I imagined a god playing this conversation back on her all-knowing iPhone and uttering a thunderous pronouncement that would condemn Whit to an eternity scrubbing toilets and stripping motel beds: “STELLA: 1; WHITAKER: 0.”
“No, I mean, I really get it. I get you.” He was shaking his head. He took my hand in his and squeezed it, stopping and making a point of gazing soulfully into my eyes. “Your problem is that you just don’t know how to be around other people!” He sighed. “It’s going to be OK,” he reassured me, needlessly, I might add, unless he was referring to his own sanity. He swung open one of the heavy glass doors that separate the grounds of the transplanted temple from a hallway display of rare baseball cards. Whit gallantly held this door ajar.
“Wow,” I started to say.
But he was like, Hush now. He put a finger to his lips, skin at the edge of his eyes crinkling.
[ 6 ]
The scene into which we stepped bears description.
The American Wing is built around a sizable architectural piece, a customs house harvested from Salem, Massachusetts. Its marble front steps descend into an ivy-and fern-filled sculpture courtyard, where it’s all greens, gold, and ivory and pert adolescent breasts. The grandchildren of the tormentors of witches and warlocks swished up and down these sloped gray treads and passed beneath the snowy tetra-columned portico into a place of gossip and taxation; now you pass through into a total of five floors of period rooms, a mismatch with the 2.5 stories delineated on the building’s front, but whatever. It’s an impressive layout, and I don’t think the idea is that you are supposed to imagine what it was like so much as you are supposed to like how it is now, all pressure-cleaned and lit with recessed halogen. There is this fragrance, by the way, pertaining to all large open spaces in the museum, that makes me think that it is the exclusive task of some member of staff to think about how cleaning products smell when combined with high levels of western European and American midwestern BO plus CO2. It’s this comforting, vaguely herbal scent, with just the smallest touch of canned air or airplane, just the slightest industrial indication that you are not at home. I mean, it’s immaculate but not at all impersonal, which is a difficult atmosphere to pull off.
However, tonight our corporate sponsor, WANSEE, had seen fit to make a small adjustment. No more were the marble blocks of the Salem customs house visible to the inquiring eye. Instead, someone had glued what appeared to be a ginormous plastic map to the spotlit edifice. It was a map, as far as one could tell, in other words, barring some Californian and Mexican sections that had been cut away to make space for the portico, of the North American continent. It was illustrated in imitation of a style contemporary with the French and Indian or Seven Years’ War, judging from the rococo frame of conches and scrolling vines, the slightly eccentric shaping of the Great Lakes, the zipperlike indication of the Rockies, the mushy sketch of the West Coast. It was obviously a Photoshop Frankenstein accomplished by an individual with limited knowledge of the aesthetics and cartographic progress of the era. WANSEE’s instantly recognizable trademark icon of three blue waves appeared in five locations. Were these current water holdings, or was the map an elaborate expression of ambition? In what I supposed was the neighborhood of Nevada, there was indeed such an icon, supporting a reading of this cartographic stunt as more victory dance than mere yen. We were gazing at WANSEE’s America.
A person dressed as a pilgrim and bearing a silver tray hove in sight and hung a left. He offered an array of twenty-five instances of the identical micro-tizer: an egg of caviar on a die of cheese on a stamp of rye.
“Nice,” said Whit and tossed four of these specimens onto a napkin.
“Cool ruff,” I told the pilgrim. The pilgrim wore a paper version of the starched collar of Thanksgiving lore and some sort of black velveteen doublet that looked to have been lately discarded by a regional theater company.
The pilgrim smiled obsequiously and spun away.
Whit was chewing. “They didn’t hold back on this one.”
“No,” I concurred.
Whoever had “designed” the party, WANSEE’s first at CeMArt, had made the interesting choice of leaving be the anachronistic late-nineteenth-century marble nudes (who disported themselves here and there among the vegetation), having added only a number of six-foot free-standing candle sconces, presumably of appropriate period style. With the lights dimmed, the effect was of some unholy Sabbath feted by Puritan patriarchs and frenzied naked Goodies Prim. It was kind of fantastic.
Whit was feeling up my right hip. He made some sounds of satisfaction as he masticated his Jarlsberg treat. “Nice,” he was repeating. It was disgusting.
I accidentally caught the eye of Marco Jensen, who was absorbing the conversation of a pair of female interns harnessed with matching J.Crew costume necklaces, the garish rhinestones of which evidently symbolized the wearer’s wealth, modesty, and intelligence. I watched Marco excuse himself.
I told Whit that maybe some white wine would be good, silently muttering a prayer that (1) Marco’s social existence was somehow post-Facebook and (2) even if it wasn’t, he had not, thorough being that he was, friended my soon-to-be former husband shortly after friending me last year. I also knew there was no way in hell either of these things could possibly be true.
“Right, white,” said Whit, eyes brightening. He winked, and went tamely, mercifully away.
Marco glided up. In fact, he seemed a new man (boy). “I didn’t see you today.” He was casual, agitating his wine by its stem.
“Sorry,” I said. I tried to shrug with my face. I mean, I tried this slightly pathetic-looking thing where I furrowed my brow. It was supposed to demonstrate a refined balance of confusion and regret.
“Oh, it’s OK.” Marco indicated he had intended only that his remark be interpreted literally. There might even have been a touch of concern. Then: “Isn’t this crazy? I mean, what is that?” He tipped his shapely head in the direction of the shell of the customs house. “Product placement?”
“I’m over it.” Marco frowned. “Who do you think is here from corporate? Paris was saying she thought she already saw the entire board.” He took a careful sip, searching my face.
“Oh.”
“That’s a big deal.”
“No kidding,” I told him. My right calf muscle had gone to sleep. I attempted to remove my foot halfway from my shoe and flex it surreptitiously.
“But anyway”—Marco took a step closer—“what I really wanted to say is that I talked to Irina, you know, in HR? I mean, about Paul, his situation.”
“Right.”
“All I know is they aren’t saying anything.”
“Is that what she told you?” I glanced in the general direction of Whit’s unfolding mission. He was now second in line.
“He’s just gone. When I was like, Oh my goodness, all shocked, she was like, I know.”
“What does that even mean?” This came out a little franker than I had intended. I had my eye on Whit, who was engaging the barkeep, a female in a hot-, as in heavy-, looking full-length corseted dress and matching Pilgrimess wimple.
“So it means”—Marco lowered his voice—“Irina was like, we don’t really have much of a read on this thing. Meaning this is beyond the museum’s purview.”
“That’s pretty specific.”
“I mean, not really.”
“But, you’re saying, something happened?”
“Look, Stella, I have no clue.”
Marco and I were both glancing over each other’s shoulders to make sure there was no one in range. I felt the stirrings of what was sure to eventuate as a vicelike ache just above my brows, along the hairline, with a 20 percent possibility of a full-on crown of thorns by the time ten P.M. rolled around.
“So, basically, no one knows anything?”
“From what I know? No.” Marco finished his wine. He tipped the glass fully up. Lowering the vessel, he added, “It’s obviously serious.”
I might have had something more to say regarding the issue of seriousness, but it was at this moment that Whit and Chardonnay returned in triumph, and Marco raised an eyebrow and vanished.
—
THERE WAS NOBODY WHO KNEW as much as Paul Coral knew about the museum. Paul also knew a lot more about my personal life than most people do. We’d have a conversation, I mean, it would be possibly fifteen minutes at lunch, and by the end he would have gotten more out of me than someone with whom I had been acquainted for years would have in, say, a year, not that I’m much on quantifying my own indiscretion.
Paul was from upstate and, judging from his cultural references, had lived through some portion of the seventies. He was of medium height, slim with a potbelly, white, had droopy blue eyes set in an oversized, gourdlike cranium to the rear of which adhered the remains of a head of theoretically blond hair, and was extremely refined in his speech, with an aristocratic accent I was not quite able to place, which fact suggested, to me at least, that he had made it up. The only thing I knew about his life outside the museum was that he was a Catholic, since he had at one time shown me a gold medallion he wore for St. Anthony, recoverer of lost things.
Paul was also the only person I knew at the museum, aside from some very senior curators, who referred to the museum’s harried, aristocratic director, Nicola Di Carboncino, by first name and using the correct Milanese pronunciation. It was rumored that they made it a point to have lunch together once a month. I have no idea whether this is entirely true, but you would have thought that this might have given Paul some sort of protected status, at least within the institution.
Paul was also reputedly a poet. This last detail I picked up by chance at some point when I was up near Columbia. I was surprised to see a poster for an academic conference at which Paul appeared to be opening the proceedings with some sort of homily. There was a Q&A period scheduled. Which is to say, with him. There was even a little author photo, which was really what caught my attention to begin with, since there he was in a pantheon of people one would genuinely have heard of, for example, Judith Butler and Cornel West. The theme of the conference was simple enough. This was a little less than a year ago. The poster advertised, in elaborate script, ironic against a background of a pale graphic of the Dow or some other index, “On Debt.” This, by the way, is the kind of thing you can get away with in the humanities, this sort of juxtaposition-as-argument kind of thing. I should have gone to hear him speak, this is what I should have done, but I can assume only that I thought I was busy that weekend. From what I gathered, Paul Coral was, I mean, is—or, perhaps, the other way around—relatively famous. By which I mean, for a poet in America.
—
THE GARDEN COURTYARD of the American Wing was now filled to capacity with white-collar museum staff and wealthy New York persons of taste and various allies off of WANSEE’s no doubt strategic list. It was WANSEE’s party, and this meant they could do what they wanted. (Which they ex facie had, see freshly affixed map.) Were we all supposed to be ecstatic at the prospect of privatization of the earth’s water? Merely impressed that such things could be accomplished, and legally? Relieved? The inclusion of so many employees of the museum itself was by no means a standard thing, but was likely intended to demonstrate WANSEE’s bounty, stimulate institution-wide compliance, etc.
Bonnie was present, sporting an ankle-length caftan of dark green silk that would not have appeared out of place in any episode of the Star Wars franchise, and actually she looked quite good. If there is something unusual about your physique, I think you have to be careful with formal attire, but the caftan had full sleeves and was distractingly, elaborately belted. This is like how I am short. Regardless of whether I would in fact wish to, I simply cannot rock a miniskirt. Additionally, it was now only a matter of time until my nonsensical choice of escort came to the attention of Bonnie—as well as, what was even more unpleasant as a probable eventuality, Fred.
[ 7 ]
I was saved by electronic chimes.
The lights dimmed twice then stayed down for good. Silence dropped into the crowd and was at once universally assumed. A cone of brightness grew from a spot originating on the second-floor balcony, and the gaunt figure of Nicola di Carboncino stepped stiffly into its center.
Di Carboncino’s cordless mic was already live. After looking down into it for several long seconds, he commenced.
“Good evening.”
Polite applause partly covered the labored breath that followed this salute.
Di Carboncino smiled wanly. He was a reptile, spotted, white haired, red lipped. Hot light agreed with him, and he seemed to ken to his task. “I should like to take this opportunity to welcome all of those who have elected to honor the inauguration of this museum’s newest exhibit with their presence. Thank you all so very much for your support.”
The temperature of the salle jumped two or three degrees as numerous monied do-gooders felt themselves acknowledged. The initial affective reaction was shortly matched by continued careful clapping.
“Thank you, thank you.” Di Carboncino’s eyes grew noticeably larger, rounder. He appeared very much to look out at us, his public; to absorb the fact of the audience. “Now I am pleased to welcome to this, shall I say, stage, the coordinator of this very same extraordinarily enticing exposition, the extremely distinguished curator of our department of the arts décoratifs of North America.”
There came some patter as glasses and snacks were shifted to make unabashed appreciation possible at the next opportunity.
“I hope you all shall welcome him.” Di Carboncino, smiling, revealed his flawless and certainly false upper teeth. “I look forward to his continued leadership at this institution, as I believe he may set the very highest standard for curatorship, even”—di Carboncino’s perennially black brows flew up—“internationally. I give you, Dr. Frederick Lu.”
The assembly gave in to unrestrained applause. Di Carboncino, quivering, handed the mic over to Fred l
ike it was a long-stemmed rose.
I studied Bonnie’s expression across the crowd. Her mouth had become small, from what I could tell, but it was not at all obvious that/if she objected to the theater transpiring before her.
Frederick Lu was now holding the microphone with three fingers. He made it look light, easy. His left hand was fitted palm side in into the corresponding pocket of an insanely well-cut blazer. He was the consummate impresario and wore, otherwise, this unclassifiable expression of mildness, his face strangely smooth, free of any tell.
Fred blinked. “Thank you so much, Nicola.” He inclined his head in the direction of the Italian’s exit. “And let me reiterate how pleased we are to have everyone here with us this evening.” The informality of his fluent American English was, I hated to admit it, a significant relief. The throng settled. It lapped its drinks.
Things were set up nicely.
“As you all know, the title of this show is ‘Land of the Limner.’ It tells the incredible story of painting in early America, as well as in later, more modern America, and in just a few moments I am going to invite you all to preview the galleries. Tomorrow we open to the public, and I can’t tell you, though it may be slightly immodest of me, how thrilled I am to be bringing some of these works to a wider audience for the first time in the history of their conservation and exhibition.”
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Dr. Sexnerd III!” Whit stage-whispered rather more audibly than not, patting the ball of my right elbow. “Here’s who was keeping you so late at the office, eh? Yum yum!”
I didn’t look at him, just shrugged, fighting off the desire to slap him in the face.
Fred pedaled magisterially forward. “As scholarship and curation have brought us new syntheses of facts and artifacts from the historical record, it has become ever clearer that we may need to reevaluate the way we understand the confluence of art making and daily life in Colonial and earlier industrial times. To put it simply, this is just a very exciting time in our department at the museum and for studies of American art objects more generally. It’s an honor and a joy to be able to participate.”
