Bright Fires Burn Fastest

by Unknown

  Charles Kidd inhaled slightly, interesting. “Go on”, he said.

  “It’s by an undiscovered artist, I mean literally no background. You just have to see the painting, you must.”

  “Hmmm, I am pretty busy, generally for the next…..”

  Then Polly delivered her trump card, “The other thing is the artist himself. He is more marketable than the painting. Personally, I would be surprised if he lasted a year. He’s utterly out of control.”

  Charles took seconds to decide, “Interesting, go on”.

  Polly then told an abbreviated version of Lucas’ life, his past and that art alone had dragged him away. She also embellished his desire to paint another version of his muse, whom he had moved to New York with. The homage to London done, it was time for the New York story in paint. The main houses loved repeat sales, it meant dollars. Polly again repeated how his life was one of perpetual crisis, he seemed only able to paint when in duress. Charles Kidd took the bait.

  “Ok, I will see this work, but just because its you.”

  And the fact I have tits and need this so badly you can look down my top and I wont bat an eyelid Polly had grinned to herself on the other end of the line.

  “We have a show this week so no can do. Next week, early. Bring him too, he sounds a treat.”

  “Very well’.

  “Oh and Polly, I know you will contact all the houses, its in your nature as a dealer. Just remember who you called first though, we at Christies can be very rewarding when we want to be. See you next week.”

  The line went dead and Polly let out a scream of jubilation. Christies, the name in fine art. There was Sotheby’s too but their focus lay in more classic work, Christie’s was the go to for the up and coming. Christie’s was the feather in the cap for any dealer. With the painting she had at her disposal anything was possible.

  For the rest of the day, as Charles Kidd had predicted, she called the rest of the houses. Some refused to speak to her point blank, that they would rue. Others showed interest but upon asking who else she had spoken to, the mention of Christies was enough to put them off. Cod didn’t fight sharks, it just didn’t happen.

  Polly also noticed that as the day wore on it was as if people knew she would be calling and knew what she was selling. She had been in the art world for four years but in no way had the influence to make waves big enough to reach the edge of the pond that was the East Village, let alone the ocean covering the whole city including the rarefied Upper West side dealers.

  Charles Kidd had been to work.

  He had the power to spread a rumour, build a stake for a painting and ultimately destroy it if he felt threatened. Polly would have to treat him with utter diligence and not be afraid to bite back. Deep down Londoners were all scared of New Yorker’s no matter their station.

  She also had to see Lucas, prep him and get the painting over. These people didn’t put forward paintings in their sales on the basis of a picture. Surely he would see how rare this chance was. She found her coat she had been wearing that night she met him and prayed aloud she could control him.

  She was shaking, perhaps the call with Charles Kidd was starting to set in. She had another glass of wine and dialled his number, if anything Lucas would approve of her methods.

  *

  April was awoken by a loud static crack then a voice from her buzzer by their flat.

  “Delivery, yo, delivery”

  “Alright”, April yelled getting herself up out of bed realising no one could hear her four floors up and without pressing ‘talk’ into the buzzer.

  She had drifted off just before six after a couple of drinks with her lunch and just awoken with it dark outside and freezing. There was also no sign of Lucas who had left at midday to meet this Polly about the painting.

  April pressed the ‘door’ button and heard a far off click and the sound of heavy boots coming up steps, the hundreds of steps to her and Lucas’ place.

  The Fed-Ex man was atypical of all of them. Short, fat, puffing and angry as to why he had to deliver packages.

  “Delivery”, he snarled, “Goddamn awkward”.

  April looked at the large brown paper object and knew exactly what it was.

  The painting.

  According to Lucas who had paid for delivery and at the insistence of Polly, the painting had been sent as fast as a plane could carry it. It seemed these toothy New Yorkers couldn’t wait to bask in the majesty of Lucas’ handy-work. Smug bastard.

  April signed, thanked the man who waited for his tip and closed the door.

  Pouring herself a drink she looked at the 8ft by 6ft painting and thought seriously about destroying it. It was beautiful, a most magnificent creation but it carried with it a sense of foreboding.

  Whether it was the way it had been constructed through so much hatred or what it had nearly done to both her and Lucas she couldn’t be sure. It had a history, but then all masterpieces did and no one wants to know a tale of happiness and joy. Bring on the pain and woe.

  The cork came out of the bottle of Montrachet Lucas had brought back for their dinner that night with ease. On that note she looked at her watch, it was almost seven. Knowing Lucas that meant that he was shitfaced. He was either back by four and sober or back by midnight and fucked.

  “Cheers”, April said aloud raising a glass to the covered painting.

  Since their week of paradise and almost euphoric sex, Lucas had been hardly there. This Polly, apparently making ‘tracks’ as the yank confirmed when they all met for an explosively strong coffee, had got the painting lined up for viewings by some of the major art houses of New York. Christie’s were front-runners.

  April was happy, she guessed. It was what Lucas wanted, guessed he deserved, if someone who was born with talent and money but a drunk and bone idol most of the time did. She had never been jealous of him but that was before he had success. The lovable but naughty puppy was growing up and that worried her. Fully-grown dogs were harder to train, habits died harder.

  Realising she was being a bitch she downed a second glass of red wine feeling the fermented grapes trying to fight off the cold seeping through every crack in their run down apartment.

  April walked over to the painting and ran a hand along the edge, knowing what lay beneath. She pictured the image underneath. Her face and his smashed together in one moment in time. A moment of such blinding hatred and passionate love it seemed impossible to gain both from the solitary frame the paints were bound to.

  No, she told herself. She was happy for him. With repeated strain though, the bow will break and break hard when it does. When enough was enough.

  None of this was helped by his absence. It was nearly eight.

  At eleven the door swung open and April merely looked up from the second bottle of Montrachet down. She hadn’t gone back to sleep.

  “Baby”, Lucas said, trying to hide a drawl.

  April just tried her best not to throw any of the nearby implements at him.

  “Sorry I am late…” Lucas repeated, pulling a bottle of whisky from behind his back. “Drink?”

  She looked at the figure in front of him. Something was going to happen, something bad. That she knew. She didn’t want it to, she just knew.

  “Lets celebrate”. Lucas said pouring two glasses so full of whisky he must have been smashed.

  Taking a gulp he handed a glass to April and the clink of glasses reminded them of the silence.

  Lucas took in her form, told her he loved her and then put a hand on the painting.

  “Its here, why didn’t you say?”

  April laughed, “Its not exactly hard to notice..”

  Lucas shot her a look as if to say ‘go fuck yourself’ but didn’t actually say it.

  “Polly has lined up the sale, there are buyers in place.”

  April, try as she might did have to raise a glass. For fucks sake she thought to herself, she was here to support him. He had rescued her. He had brought her here, she had fuck all mon
ey herself. He was just on the up and she above all knew what she had signed on for when she became involved with him. She should take him for what he was not the man he one day might become.

  Lucas unwrapped the painting and for some minutes just stared.

  “So, who is the buyer?” April asked at last, finishing her whisky and pouring one for both of them.

  Lucas took a moment to come back to reality, “Someone from London, ironically. Good friend of the guy selling it, some guy at Christies.”

  April walked up behind Lucas and put her arms around his waist and kissed the back of his shoulder, “Good”.

  They stood there in front of the painting of the both of them, the thing that bound them.

  Lucas made it over to the bed and sat up against the pillows, patting them for April to come next to him.

  “Two secs” she said, slipping her phone into her dressing gown and heading to the bathroom.

  She heard Lucas put on ‘3 Rounds and a Sound’ by Blind Pilot and hurriedly scrolled to her placed calls. From there she deleted the fact she had called Tom, the guy she had met at the airport. She should never have called him but she had been bored, alone and pissed off with Lucas.

  Opening the door she made her way over to Lucas and dropped her gown on the floor leaving him to take a short intake of breath. She lowered her full body against his and kissed him. She loved him, he was just him. And that, perhaps, would always be the problem.

  As kisses intensified and the light went out the painting looked down on both of them. April had said it herself, the painting had an ability to make people behave strangely even in its short life time to date. The painting had a history of violence and the future, really, shouldn’t have been expected to be any different.

  Chapter 5

  Tom felt the prickle of shaving foam on his face, he had left it on too long. In the blackness of night he stood naked in front of his mirror, knowing tomorrow would be the day. He dropped to the floor and started doing press ups hoping it would tire him enough to sleep, or at least want to eat. Great dollops of foam and drips of sweat collected on the floor.

  Two hours of Ashtanga Yoga earlier in his front room had done nothing to calm his nerves. What the fuck was the point in meditation if all it did was irritate.

  Out over the buildings of New York he looked from his 5th floor apartment. The inmates peacefully sleeping, dreaming happy.

  They knew nothing. They had nothing compared to him, or wouldn’t if Pine signed like they said they would the following day.

  That small thought made him feel better, the thought that he was better, more capable and certainly more prepared than the rest of them.

  His mind always worked. You couldn’t just make hay when the sun shone, you also had to toil in the rain.

  With that he began to shave, humming aloud as he did. He laid out his favourite pinstripe, tailored recently by Binto’s in Chinatown. With the grey he went with a sky blue shirt by Gucci and blood red tie from Coach.

  He lay down on his bed knowing he wouldn’t sleep but hoped being horizontal would at least give him ‘rest’ time.

  Over and over he played the details in his head. The lights blurred and he sat up and began again, the same thoughts in the same order. He finally had his bait ready for Martin Lewis that he couldn’t possibly resist, now it was merely the timing.

  Midnight struck. Today was the day.

  *

  Polly awoke to a buzz on her phone.

  ‘Christies sale – 4.00pm’

  She didn’t require reminding.

  The sun wasn’t fully up and the East Village was bathed in tangerine. From her small window she couldn’t see a single soul wandering the streets of Manhattan.

  She stood by the window with the pan of water boiling behind her looking up at the square of sky visible from where she lived.

  Sunlight poured down in beams through a patchwork sky. The rays could be made out individually.

  “Please”, she said aloud, unable to remember the last time she saw something so sublime.

  It had moved so fast and she took a moment over a triple strength Trader Joe’s ground bean coffee and cigarette to reflect. From that first meeting with Lucas and her contact with Charles Kidd it seemed to have escalated faster than she could control.

  Maybe it was the right time for Lucas, maybe it was a time suitable for the artist and at this particular painting. Chatter on social media websites endorsed by Christies and Kidd himself had generated unprecedented feedback for a debutant artist at a sale, particularly one not from New York.

  So much of today’s success was down to luck. Everyone was so qualified, so damned motivated. Soaring expectation, generational progression, underdeveloped evolution. For Polly, late twenties, last chances came along far quicker than they did in the old days.

  Lucas’s rare talent and her tenacity had combined at that exact turn of the earth when those in the know were willing to accept it, and just as importantly, pay for it.

  Already Lucas’s face adorned the front cover of ‘ARTnews’. His name spread like a plague from the chic brasseries of the Upper West Side to the dingy artist hang outs along Rivington Street.

  Within two weeks he had made more impact than it had taken other, more established artists, obsessed with doing things the ‘correct way’ a decade to do. The painting was one thing, his manner another. The longest interview anyone had got was when he asked a journalist for directions to the nearest liquor store. That aside it was grunts and V-signs, his fast becoming trademark. It was nonchalant, it was self-deprecating, it was wild. It was what New York used to be.

  Polly stepped into the shower and felt the water run over herself. Without fully understanding why she went down to her knees letting the jets thump into her back. Bowing her head she thought of her father. A father who had only ever wanted the most for her, the best for her.

  He had always given her a motto to live by, a mantra for the ages. He had always said that when the time was right she would understand, she would know when she was on the precipice of her calling and these words would make sense.

  “To be truly ready, truly mature and truly sound is to be able to say the right thing, at the right time, to the right person, in the right manner.”

  For years she had toyed with these words, lied to herself that ‘this was that moment’. And there, in her shower, on her knees, it clicked. He spoke not of words or manner, it was something higher, something greater.

  He spoke of virtue.

  Saying the right thing was just, saying it at the right time was prudent, saying it to the right person, brave. Lastly, saying it in the right manner was temperance.

  To be utterly ready was to be utterly complete as an individual.

  Stepping out onto 11th the sunlight still poured down in beams. In silence she made her way north on the R Train until she reached 53rd. Alighting she walked with confidence amongst the commuters. In her jeans, red hooded top and black jacket there was some scorn of those that dressed for dinner parties in the daylight. Polly didn’t even notice.

  She made her way down to 49th and crossed Broadway. There, sandwiched between two skyscrapers stood St. Malachy’s, ‘The Actors Chapel’. She made her way up the eight steps and pushed open the heavily iron ridden door into silence. Churches were randomly dropped like aid packages around Manhattan, the only solitude in such a place.

  Polly listened to the hum of the organ at the front of the chapel and apart from the player she was there alone. In front of the shrine of St. Genesius she stood and merely looked at the ancient painted face gazing back at her. This place became the place to come and pray to the gods of creativity looking down on the humble few. The Patron Saint to those that created the bold and the new.

  Lighting a candle and placing it in a clear vile underneath the picture Polly bowed her head and said a mumbled prayer.

  To the right of Genesius was St. Jude Thaddeus, Patron Saint of lost causes. She could only grin in grim realisa
tion.

  Polly knew that Lucas had done all he could. He had painted the masterpiece and now played the part. It was solely down to her now, and to the buyer, whoever that may be. All it would take would be today and she would be made forever. Not in money but in self-appreciation, harder to find than a billion dollar note.

  She said her farewell to St. Genesius and touched his alter one last time.

  Stepping out the brief hint of sun had gone and been replaced by a brooding sky. Casting aside any fears of omens Polly walked away.

  Rain brings change, it always did. Polly only hoped it was a change for grace, and a change for good.

  *

  Tom leaned back in his chair and let the hum of the office surround him. He waited for some time listening to his own heartbeat, the lump rising in his throat.

  His tie was stifling and a shaking hand raised and released the blood red knot choking him.

  “Come on”, he yelled aloud making the office stop.

  Standing, he raised a fist to the air and circled around so everyone in the room could see him. He had knocked each and every one of them out in the dying seconds of the 12th Round. They looked aghast, they looked intrigued.

  The floor manager walked over and had to grip Toms arm tightly before he swung around.

  “What is it Tom?”

  Tom threw down a piece of paper he had just opened from Fed Ex that had arrived on his desk.

  The manager looked over the paper, the contract.

  “What the hell is this?”

  “It’s done”, was all Tom said.

  As the news sunk in, the letter formed words and these became sentences. The manager started to do a little jig of his own.

  The last two words were the most important.

  ‘Martin Lewis’, signed so recently the ink still held its sheen.