“So what’s my line when the locals accuse me of being a carpetbagger?”
“Labour has never had a better chance of winning the seat,” said Alf.
“But you’ve already admitted we haven’t got a hope in hell,” said Sasha.
“Welcome to the world of realpolitik,” said Alf, “or at least the Merrifield version of it.”
* * *
“So what’s your first impression?” asked Michael when Sasha and Charlie joined the rest of the team for lunch at the Roxton Arms.
“The Conservatives may have all the best constituencies, but Labour still have all the best people,” he said as he ate a ham sandwich that his mother wouldn’t have given plate space to.
“Right,” said Mrs. Campion after Sasha had devoured a pork pie, washed down with half a pint of Farley’s. “The time has come to foist you upon an unsuspecting public. Our posters and leaflets haven’t been printed yet, so we’ll have to wing it for the first couple of days. And just remember, Sasha, there’s only one sentence you have to deliver again and again until you’re repeating it in your sleep,” Audrey added, as she pinned a large red rosette to his lapel.
Sasha, accompanied by his chairman, agent, and a couple of party workers, ventured out onto the high street. When he encountered his first constituent, Sasha said, “My name’s Sasha Karpenko, and I’m the Labour candidate for the by-election on Thursday, March the thirteenth. I hope I can rely on your vote?” He thrust out his hand, but the man ignored him and kept on walking. “Charming,” muttered Sasha.
“Shh!” said Mrs. Campion. “It doesn’t necessarily mean he won’t be voting for you. He could be deaf, or in a hurry.”
His second attempt was a little more successful, because a woman carrying a bag of shopping at least stopped to shake hands.
“What are you going to do about the closing of the cottage hospital?” she asked.
Sasha didn’t even realize Roxton had a cottage hospital.
“He’ll do everything in his power to get the council to reverse their decision,” said Alf, coming to his rescue. “So make sure you vote Labour on March the thirteenth.”
“But you haven’t got a hope in hell,” said the woman. “A donkey wearing a blue rosette would win Merrifield.”
“Labour has never had a better chance of winning the seat,” said Sasha, trying to sound confident, but the woman didn’t look convinced as she picked up her bag and walked off.
“Hello, I’m Sasha Karpenko, and I’m the Labour candidate—”
“Sorry, Mr. Karpenko, I’ll be voting for Hunter. I always do.”
“But he died last week,” protested Sasha.
“Are you sure?” said the man, “because my wife told me to vote Hunter again.”
“Is it true that you were born in Russia?” asked the next man Sasha approached.
“Yes,” said Sasha, “but—”
“Then I’ll be voting Conservative for the first time,” the man said, not breaking his stride.
“Hi, I’m Sasha Karpenko—”
“I’m voting Liberal,” said a young woman pushing a pram, “and even we’ll beat you this time.”
“Hi, I’m Sasha—”
“Good luck, Sasha, I’ll be voting for you, even though you haven’t got a chance.”
“Thank you,” said Sasha. Turning to Alf he said, “Is it always this bad?”
“Actually, you’re doing rather well compared to our last candidate.”
“What happened to him?”
“Her. She had a nervous breakdown a week before the election, and didn’t recover in time to vote.” Sasha burst out laughing. “No, it’s true,” said Alf. “We’ve never seen her since.”
“And to think I was the only man you wanted!” said Sasha.
“You’ll be grateful to us when you find a safe seat, and become a minister,” said Audrey, ignoring the sarcasm. It was the first time Sasha had considered he might one day be a minister.
“Look who I see on the other side of the road,” said Charlie, nudging Sasha in the ribs.
Sasha looked across to see Fiona, surrounded by a team of supporters who were handing out leaflets and holding up banners that declared VOTE HUNTER FOR MERRIFIELD.
“They haven’t even had to print new posters,” said Alf bitterly.
“It’s time to confront the enemy head-on,” said Sasha and immediately marched across the high street, dodging in and out of the traffic.
“My name’s Fiona Hunter, and I’m—”
“What are you going to do about the Roxton playing fields being turned into a supermarket, that’s what I want to know.”
“I have already spoken to the leader of the council concerning the issue,” said Fiona, “and he’s promised to keep me informed.”
“Just like your father, full of promises, with bugger-all results.”
Fiona smiled and moved on, leaving a local councilor to deal with the problem.
“Will the Tories increase my pension?” said an old woman, jabbing a finger at her. “That’s what I want to know.”
“They always have in the past,” said Fiona effusively, “so you can be sure they will again, but only if we win in the next election.”
“Jam tomorrow should be your slogan,” said the woman.
Fiona smiled when she saw Sasha heading toward her, hand outstretched.
“How nice to see you, Sasha,” she said. “What are you doing in Merrifield?”
“My name’s Sasha Karpenko,” he replied, “and I’m the Labour candidate for the by-election on March the thirteenth. I hope I can count on your vote?”
The smile was wiped off Fiona’s face for the first time that day.
28
ALEX
Brooklyn
“When you return the Warhol to Lawrence and he gives you back your money, are you still sure you ought to be investing even more in Elena’s?”
“Yes I am, Mother,” said Alex. “But after making such a fool of myself, I’ve decided to go back to school.”
“But you already have a degree.”
“In economics,” said Alex, “which is fine if you want to be a bank manager, but not an entrepreneur. So I’ve signed up for night school. I’ll be doing an MBA at Columbia, so that when I come across another Evelyn, I won’t make the same mistake. Meanwhile, I’m going to get a job at Lombardi’s in Manhattan.”
“But why support the opposition?”
“Because Lawrence told me they make the best pizzas in America, and I intend to find out why.”
September was a busy month for Alex. He enrolled at night school to do his MBA, and despite working during the day at Lombardi’s, he never once missed a lecture. His essays were always handed in on time and he read every book on the set texts list, and many that weren’t. Ironically, Evelyn had managed to achieve what his mother hadn’t.
His learning also progressed during the day, because Paolo, the manager of Lombardi’s, showed him how the restaurant had earned its reputation. With Paolo to advise him, Alex began to make some small changes to Elena’s, and later some larger ones. He would have liked to purchase a rollover oven from Antonelli in Milan, which would have made it possible to produce a dozen fresh pizzas every four minutes, but he couldn’t afford it until he’d returned the picture and Lawrence had handed over the half million. He would miss her. The Warhol, not Evelyn.
* * *
Alex was on his way to night school when he saw her for the first time.
She was standing on the platform at 51st Street wearing a smart blue suit and carrying a leather briefcase. It was her neatly cropped auburn hair and deep brown eyes that captivated him. He tried not to stare at her, and when she glanced in his direction, he quickly looked away.
When the train pulled into the station, he found himself following the vision and sitting in the empty seat beside her even though she was going in the wrong direction. She opened her briefcase, took out a glossy magazine, and began reading. Alex glanced at the cove
r to see a painting by an artist called de Kooning. He could have sworn he’d seen a similar one in Lawrence’s home, but decided I own a Warhol wouldn’t be a good chat-up line.
“Did de Kooning paint the same subject again and again?” he asked, his eyes remaining fixed on the picture.
She looked at Alex, then at the cover of her magazine, before saying, “Yes, he did. This one is from his Woman series.”
Her clipped accent reminded him of Evelyn, although nothing else did. He hesitated before saying, “Could I have seen one in a private collection?”
“It’s possible. Although there are very few in private hands. There are several examples of his work in MoMA, so there’s a chance you might have seen one there.”
“Of course,” said Alex, although he’d never entered the Museum of Modern Art, and only had a vague idea where it was. “You’re right, that’s where I must have seen it.” When the train pulled into the next station, he hoped she wouldn’t get off. She didn’t.
“Who’s your favorite artist?” he ventured as the doors closed.
She didn’t respond immediately. “I’m not sure I have a favorite among the Abstract Expressionists, but I think Motherwell is underrated, and Rothko overrated.”
“I’ve always admired Pollock’s Moon Woman,” said Alex, rather desperately. The painting he’d had to stare at for half an hour while he hid behind a pillar at Lawrence’s birthday party.
“It’s supposed to be one of his best, but I’ve only ever seen a photograph of it. Not many people have been lucky enough to see the Lowell Collection.”
The train pulled into the next station, and once again, she didn’t get off. Lawrence Lowell is a personal friend of mine, so if you’d like to see his collection … he wanted to say, but he was afraid she’d think she was sitting next to a lunatic.
“Do you work in the art world?” he ventured.
“Yes, I’m a very junior assistant in a West Side gallery,” she said, closing her magazine.
“That must be fun.”
“It is.” She put the magazine back in her briefcase, and stood up as the train pulled into the next station.
He leaped up. “My name’s Alex.”
“Anna. It was nice to meet you, Alex.”
He stood there like a statue as she got off the train. He waved as she walked down the platform, but she didn’t look back.
“Damn, damn, damn,” he said as the doors closed and she disappeared from sight. He’d have to get off at the next stop, turn around, and go back to 51st Street. It would be the first time he’d missed a lecture.
* * *
“Paolo, I need some advice.”
“If it’s about how to run a pizza joint, there’s not much more I can teach you.”
“No, I have a woman problem. I only met her once, and then I lost her.”
“You’re way ahead of me, kid. Better you start at the beginning.”
“I met her on the subway. Well, met would be an exaggeration, because my attempt to open a conversation with her was pathetic. And just as I got going, she left me standing there. All I can tell you is her first name, and that she’s an assistant in an art gallery on the West Side.”
“OK, let’s start with the station where you first saw her.”
“Fifty-first Street.”
“Expensive shops, lots of galleries. Let’s try and narrow down the field. Do you know which period the gallery specializes in?”
“Abstract Expressionism, I think. At least that’s what it said on the cover of her magazine.”
“There must be at least a dozen galleries that specialize in that period. What else can you tell me about her?”
“She’s beautiful, intelligent…”
“Age?”
“Early twenties.”
“Build?”
“Slim, elegant, classy.”
“Then what makes you think she’d have any interest in you?”
“I agree. But if there was the slightest chance, I—”
“You’re a much better catch than you realize,” said Paolo. “You’re bright, charming, well educated, and I suppose some women might even find you good-looking.”
“So what should I do next?” Alex asked, ignoring the sarcasm.
“First, you have to realize that the art world is a small community, especially at the top end. I suggest you visit the Marlborough on Fifty-seventh Street, and talk to an assistant who’s about the same age. There’s a chance they’ll know each other, or at least have met at some opening.”
“How come you know so much about art?”
“The Italians,” said Paolo, “know about art, food, opera, cars, and women, because we have the best examples of all five.”
“If you say so,” said Alex. “I’ll start first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Not first thing, that would be a waste of time. Art galleries don’t usually open before ten. The sort of clients who can afford to pay half a million dollars for a picture aren’t early risers like you and me. And another thing, if you turn up looking like that, they’ll think you’ve come to collect the trash. You’ll have to dress and sound like a prospective customer if you want them to take you seriously.”
“Where did you learn all this?”
“My father is a doorman at the Plaza, my mother works in Bloomingdale’s, so I was educated at the university of life. And one more thing. If you really want to impress her, perhaps you should…”
* * *
Alex was up, dressed, and bargaining in the vegetable market by four thirty the following morning. Once he’d delivered his purchases to the restaurant, he returned home and had breakfast with his mother.
He didn’t tell her what he had planned for the rest of the morning, and waited for her to leave for work before he took a second shower and selected a dark gray, single-breasted suit, white shirt, and a tie his mother had given him for Christmas. He then carefully took the Warhol down from the wall and wrapped it in some brown paper before placing it in a carrier bag.
He took a taxi into Manhattan, a necessary expense as he couldn’t risk carrying such a valuable painting on the subway, and asked the driver to take him to West 57th Street.
When he arrived at the Marlborough Gallery, the lights were just being switched on. He studied the painting displayed in the window, which was by an artist called Hockney. When a young woman sat down behind the desk, he took a deep breath and strolled in.
Don’t be in a hurry, Paolo had told him. The rich are never in a hurry to part with their money. He walked slowly around the gallery, admiring the paintings. It was like being back in Lawrence’s home.
“Can I help you, sir?” He turned to find the assistant standing by his side.
“No, thank you. I was just looking.”
“Of course. Do let me know if I can help you with anything.”
Alex fell in love for a second time, not with the assistant, but with a dozen women he wished he could take home and hang on his bedroom wall. After being mesmerized by a small canvas by Renoir, he remembered that he had originally come in for a reason. He walked across to the assistant’s desk.
“I recently met a girl called Anna who works at a gallery on the West Side that specializes in Abstract Expressionism, and I wondered if you’d come across her?”
The young woman smiled and shook her head. “I only began working here a week ago. Sorry.”
Alex thanked her, but didn’t leave the gallery until he’d taken another look at the Renoir. He didn’t waste his or her time asking the price. He knew he couldn’t afford her.
He moved on to a second gallery, and then a third, and spent the rest of the morning fruitlessly entering a dozen other establishments, and asking a dozen other young assistants the same question, but with the same result. When the bells of St. Patrick’s Cathedral rang out once, he decided to take a break for lunch before continuing his quest. He spotted a small queue waiting outside a sandwich bar, and headed toward it, still clutching his Warhol. And
then he saw her through a restaurant window.
She was sitting in a corner booth, chatting to a handsome man who looked as if he knew her well. His heart sank when the man leaned across the table and took her hand. Alex retreated to a nearby bench, where he sat despondently, no longer feeling hungry. He was just about to go home, when they came out of the restaurant together. The man leaned over to kiss her, but Anna turned away, not smiling. Then she walked off and left him standing there without another word.
Alex jumped up from the bench and began to follow her along Lexington, keeping his distance until she disappeared into an elegant art gallery. As he walked past N. Rosenthal & Co. he looked inside and saw her taking a seat behind a desk. He waited for a few moments before turning back. He then sauntered into the gallery without even glancing in her direction. A customer was speaking to her, and he pretended to be interested in one of the paintings. Eventually the chatty woman left, and Alex walked across to the desk. Anna looked up and smiled.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“I hope so.” He took the Warhol out of the carrier bag, removed the wrapping, and placed it on the desk. Anna took a careful look at the painting, and then at Alex. A flicker of recognition crossed her face.
“I was hoping you might be able to value this picture for me.”
She studied it once again before asking, “Is it yours?”
“No, it belongs to a friend of mine. He asked me to get it valued.”
She took a second look at him before saying, “I don’t have enough experience to give you a realistic valuation, but if you’d allow me to show the painting to Mr. Rosenthal, I’m sure he could help.”
“Of course.”
Anna picked up the painting, walked to the far end of the gallery, and disappeared into another room. Alex was admiring a Lee Krasner called The Eye is the First Circle, when a distinguished-looking gray-haired gentleman wearing a double-breasted dark blue suit, pink shirt, and red polka-dot bow tie emerged from his office carrying the painting. He placed it back on Anna’s desk.
Heads You Win Page 26
