Is this the smoking section?
It is now, she said.
Can I bum one?
She retrieved a pack of unfiltered Camels from her pocket and gave it to him. Help yourself.
You don’t mess around.
She smiled. That’s true. I don’t.
He cupped the flame as she lit it for him.
I’m Julian Ladd. He waited to see if his name registered; it didn’t. Rye and I were in the Brodsky Workshop together.
Of course, she said. I’m Constance. I’m—was—his assistant. She reached out her pale little hand, and he shook it.
Is it true what they’re saying?
Sorry?
About Rye. That he—
She looked at him with annoyance. That’s the conclusion.
I never knew him to be depressed.
She shook her head. It’s horrible. They found his shoe—
It’s always just the one, isn’t it?
She nodded as if the thought had never occurred to her.
One shoe in the road, never two, or in this case, one shoe in the river. It’s almost Lacanian.
Her phone chimed. She looked relieved and glanced at the text. I have to go. She took a final drag on her cigarette and dropped it to the ground. You’re coming to the house, aren’t you?
He hadn’t planned to, but he told her he was and needed a ride.
You can ride with Louis.
Who?
Over there.
She pointed at a bear-size man with a thick beard who was getting into a vintage red Mustang. Julian walked over and introduced himself.
Nice wheels.
My tribute to Eggleston. Need a lift?
Thanks. Julian got in. Very nice. What year is it?
’Sixty-five. Bought her at a police auction. She runs pretty good considering her age. It was an interest we shared, me and Rye. There’s a nice old Porsche in his garage. What do you drive?
I live in the city. I bought my wife a Range Rover to drive to the supermarket.
Louis glanced over at him and smiled. That’s pretty funny. That kind of says it all, doesn’t it?
Yes, it certainly does.
They both chuckled.
We’re getting divorced, Julian said.
Welcome to the club, my friend.
There wasn’t much traffic on the Taconic, and you could feel the wind gusting against the car. In the short time since they’d left the grange, the sky had grown dark. The clouds looked yellow.
Louis peered up over the wheel. That can’t be good.
Hail was always a surprise. A million little white balls pummeled the hood of the car. Jesus, Louis said, slowing down. Holy shit.
Some of the other cars pulled over to the shoulder, but Louis kept going. The land looked battered. When the hail finally stopped, the white sky seemed to throb in the aftermath.
Well, that was fucking weird, Louis said.
They drove in silence, like soldiers after a battle, their tank riddled with bullets. After a while, they turned off the highway onto a two-lane road flanked with open fields.
I used to print for him, Louis offered soberly. Back in the day. When he was still shooting film. At one point, we even went back to doing dye-transfer prints. Very time-consuming. But nothing really compares. Are you a photographer?
We met in the Brodsky Workshop.
Ah, the infamous Czech visionary.
I’m in advertising, actually. I gave up photography a long time ago.
Smart move. Tough to make a buck these days. I’m lucky if I get hired for one of the catalogues. It’s not the same anymore.
No, it’s not the same.
I blame the downfall of western civilization on Steve Jobs.
You can’t stop progress, Julian offered ironically.
When they shut down Polaroid, I went into a dark place. Back in 2010, I actually made the trek out to Kansas to Dwayne’s Photo with fifty rolls of unprocessed Kodachrome a couple days before they stopped developing it.
Really? How was that?
Sad. About a hundred times more morbid than this—and our friend Rye would agree. Kodachrome made the world a lot easier on the eye.
Julian nodded. I didn’t shoot much color.
Ah, a purist. I hear some people are going back to film. That’s what the editors tell me. But the business has changed; there’s no money in it anymore. Not for dweebs like me, anyway. You can barely get by on what they’re paying these days. Freelance—it’s free all right. And I get it, you know. The technology’s outsmarting us. I suppose there’s no going back.
It doesn’t matter, really, Julian said darkly. The world’s ending.
Yeah, Louis snorted. That’s what I hear.
Julian looked out at the wet, barren landscape. It appealed to him. He wondered if the weather was so bad in the city. He thought of his apartment, the sound of rain filling the empty rooms. And then he thought of his wife and was momentarily paralyzed by the realization that, even now, after everything she’d done to him, he still loved her.
They turned into a narrow lane so thick with pine trees it was like going through a car wash. They crossed a bridge over a wide stream, then followed a circular gravel driveway up to the house. It was an old stone Colonial, one of the earliest homes in the area, Louis told him, circa 1670. There was a large red hay barn, and a three-bay carriage house with a light over a doorway, a blur in the hard rain.
This is some place, Julian said.
Yeah, this is real money.
I didn’t know they were so well off.
It’s all hers, Louis said. Her father owned Hogan Foods.
Ah, Julian said, as if he knew. That explains it.
I guess we should park over here. Louis pulled off the driveway onto the grass alongside a few other cars. The rain was thrashing down. As they got out, two drenched dogs lumbered over to greet them, their tails wagging.
Hey, boys, Louis said, Hey, Pal, Rudy. That’s a good boy. You, too, Rudy. Come on, now, let us get inside.
They tramped through the muddy grass to a small side porch. The air smelled of woodsmoke. Julian could feel the rainwater seeping into his socks. They entered a mudroom and hung their wet coats on pegs and wiped their shoes on the mat. He slid his hands through his wet hair and followed Louis into the living room. They’d become fast friends, and Julian was reminded of high school, when, through some anomalous act of cordiality, he was invited to a party. Some of the other mourners were standing around, eating off paper plates. They were an esoteric little group, Julian thought, obviously New Yorkers, and he assumed they were people Rye had worked with. You could always spot the editors. They looked underfed. They were wearing dark, expensive clothes, the women in shawls and high heels, the men in designer suits that looked a bit snug, the jackets short and boxy. The room smelled of perfume and leather, wet wool. Simone and her daughter were ensconced on the sofa in front of the fireplace. It was a rather austere room, he thought, sparsely furnished with antiques, the wide-plank floors scratched and worn. It occurred to him that he was famished. He found Louis in the dining room, navigating a trestle table laden with deli platters.
Some spread, he said, helping himself to a bagel and smoked salmon.
Jews, Louis whispered. They do good funerals.
They stepped up to the bar, where Adler’s assistant, Constance, was making the drinks. What’s your pleasure?
Well, there’s a loaded question. Some of that scotch, I guess.
As she poured the drink, he noticed a tiny tear tattooed on her wrist. Cheers, she said, and handed it to him. Here’s to dead friends.
Yes. Dead friends.
They seemed to be kindred spirits, he thought. She had a slight overbite and a little mouth crammed with teeth. He guessed she was in her twenties.
To happier days, he said.
She looked off into the room for a moment, her eyes watery and dull. They’re her friends mostly, she said, motioning around the room. He didn’t have ma
ny.
That doesn’t sound like Rye.
How well did you know him?
I’m not sure, actually.
You’re not alone, she said darkly. Nobody knew Rye. Not really. When was the last time you saw him?
It’s been quite a while, he said, and left it at that.
He stepped away from the bar and took in the view of the brown fields, the twisted black trees. It was still pretty raw up here. The rain had let up for now, and he could see the white sky, the distant Catskills. He swallowed the last of his drink and shook the ice around in his glass. One more, and then he’d go.
He went back to the bar, but Constance wasn’t there. He spotted her across the room, talking to a gray-haired man in an expensive suit. It was Henry Cline, the famous curator. They seemed engrossed in conversation, he thought, already drunk enough to feel a little possessive of her. She was a thin girl with the emphatic stature of a fashion model. Like the Degas ballerina, she stood with her hands clasped behind her back, a look of utter fascination on her face. Here was a girl who lived on ramen noodles and Smirnoff, just pretty enough to garner a few strategic favors from an old pervert like Cline.
He found the scotch and refilled his glass. There was a muffled energy in the room, as if they were all inside a giant balloon. It was a grand old place, drafty and damp. Books everywhere. Big painted chests and cupboards crammed with pottery. Abstract paintings on the walls—not his taste. Arranged over an antique bench was a group of family photographs: their daughter at various ages, Rye’s parents when they were young expats, and one of Ava, the moody academic in a black turtleneck, staring into the lens with an unsettling intelligence, as if she were looking right at him. There was a black-and-white shot of Rye at Deerfield, his hair long enough to curl around his ears, his hands pushed into the pockets of his khakis, a button pinned to his corduroy blazer that said DIVEST NOW and a smile on his face of pure, unadulterated privilege.
Even now Julian envied it.
As he stepped into the large foyer and encountered his own reflection in the hall mirror, he was embarrassed to see that he’d broken a sweat. He wiped it off with the sleeve of his jacket. He had no business being here. He needed to make his exit, and soon.
But he stood there a moment longer, in no particular hurry, his gaze drawn to the top of the staircase, where a greasy light poured in through the Palladian window. Somehow, he couldn’t stop looking at it, his eyes tearing from the glare.
After his third drink he approached Simone. She looked almost startled to see him. Julian, is that you? She rose from the couch, extending her arms.
Hello, Simone.
How good of you to come. They hugged, and he could feel the bones in her back under his fingers. How long has it been?
Many years, he said. I’m so sorry, Simone.
She held on to him tightly. When they broke, she analyzed his face. You look exactly the same.
Do I? So do you.
They were just words, he thought. Because in truth they had both changed. They weren’t the same people now.
Have you met Yana? She turned to her daughter, who rose from the couch and ambled over. Yana, this is a friend of your father’s.
Yana crossed her arms over her chest and stared at him with unambiguous distrust.
Good to meet you, Julian said.
I’m suddenly very thirsty, she told her mother, and left them alone.
Simone smiled apologetically. This is very hard for her. I’m sure you understand.
Of course it is. It’s a terrible thing.
She was squinting at him as if he’d been obscured by some strange light, some disfiguring aura. Tentatively, like she didn’t really want the answer, she asked, How are things going for you, Julian?
Well enough. I’m in advertising.
Is that so?
Pays the bills.
More than that, I’m sure.
We do ads for some of the big pharmaceuticals. One of our accounts is Motus.
She shook her head, unaware of it.
It’s an OTC laxative.
OTC?
Sorry. Over the—
Oh, right. Of course.
The preferred remedy of opioid addicts. Needless to say, we’ve had a banner year.
How sad. She shook her head. This world is—
He nodded in agreement. Yes, he said. It is.
They looked at each other a moment. He coughed. I was hoping to see Rye’s sister. We met once—
Ava. She’s stranded at O’Hare. Electrical storms, apparently.
Pity, he said. It would have been nice to see her.
Simone asked if he was married, and he told her he was getting divorced.
I’m sorry to hear that. Any kids?
We have a son.
She studied his face, perhaps understanding that he wasn’t going to talk about the boy, at least not here, not now.
Tell me, she said, shifting gears. What ever happened to that awful girl in your class?
He stood there, frowning with confusion. He could feel the pounding of his heart. Which awful girl?
Rye photographed her that year. It nearly ruined us. He sold it to the Met. It’s still hanging there somewhere, I’m told.
I’m not sure who you mean, Julian managed to respond.
The Polish girl—
Just then, her cell phone rang, a welcome intrusion. Excuse me, she said, and turned, cupping her ear, allowing Julian to politely recede and head back to the bar. He needed another drink. Of course he knew the photograph she was referring to.
It was a few years after the workshop when the news of Adler’s show started circulating around the city. As hard as it was to deal with his friend’s success in relation to his own failure, he’d been happy for Rye at the time—an exhibition at the Met was a big deal—and he made himself go. He’d left work early, claiming to have a dentist appointment. Like a thief, he roamed the galleries, skirting the peripheries, his head down, hoping he wouldn’t see anyone he knew. It was unsettling to be surrounded by so many of Adler’s portraits all at once, a whole chorus of humanity, but there was no photograph that affected him more than the one of Magda. She was sitting unclothed on a wooden chair near a window. The room was dark, save for the window light on her skin. Her body was sculptural, exquisite, and the expression on her face was one of longing, a smoldering discontent, as if in that moment it had become clear to her that she could never possess Rye, that whatever they had together would be over the moment he took her picture.
Julian stood there a long time, stirred by the image—her eyes, her breasts, the open window, the sheer, almost ghostly curtain—conscious of the people lurking behind him, trying to get a look. In a matter of seconds, he’d turned into what Berger called the sexual protagonist, eyeing her nakedness as though the photograph had been made just for him. Of course he knew all too well that was not the case.
Bereft, he drifted out into the street.
Compared with Adler, he was nothing more than a well-meaning amateur. He deserved the solemn purgatory of the advertising world. He left the museum that afternoon with a clear understanding of his own inadequacies and went home and packed up his cameras and drove them out to a storage place in Queens. It was like a burial, he remembered. He’d gone out afterward and gotten drunk, and he hadn’t taken a picture since.
Constance refilled his glass. You look like you need it.
Thanks, I do.
She’s good at that.
What?
Undoing people. Finding your weakness, whatever it is. She drills straight for the heart. Boring into it until you bleed. You can’t hide anything from Simone.
Julian shook his head as if he didn’t know what she was talking about.
At least you get to go home, she said.
Some of the guests were pulling on their coats. The thought of his empty apartment made him anxious. It was so terribly quiet.
Constance took out her cigarettes and motioned for him to follow he
r outside. They grabbed their coats from the mudroom and stepped onto the small side porch, then crossed the grass to a large slate patio with an awning and rain-soaked Adirondack chairs. The rain had slowed to a misty drizzle, but it was colder now, and raw. They stood under the awning, and he watched as her delicate fingers worked a couple cigarettes out of the pack as if they were preparing to draw straws.
You’re a very bad influence, he said, taking one.
You’re not the first person to tell me that. She smiled.
It was nearly dark. The sky looked bruised.
I’m finding this whole thing very depressing, he said finally. But in truth he wasn’t unhappy to be here. The situation, unfortunate as it was, allowed him the coveted agency of an insider. Ironically, he felt closer to Rye than ever before.
Poor Rye, Constance said, and he noticed a single tear running down her cheek. I hate to think of him floating around in all that cold water.
He put his hand on her shoulder. I’m all right, she said, and gently shrugged him off. I suppose I was a little in love with him. But everybody was a little in love with Rye. He was such a genius.
He nodded, but the comment annoyed him. He dragged hard on his cigarette and blew the smoke down to his feet.
They were having problems. He was basically sleeping up there. She jerked her chin toward the carriage house.
What kind of problems?
The usual stuff. She thought he was cheating.
Was he?
She shrugged. Not with me.
Julian watched her smoke. She had very pale skin and freckles, and he could see how young she was, and how sad.
I can’t say I’d blame him, she said. She’s kind of cold.
He smiled, a little surprised by her candor.
Sorry, she said. I’m just honest.
They stood there smoking together like kids cutting school. A strange glow fluttered behind the clouds.
It sure is quiet out here, he said.
The winters are very long. I’m thinking of moving to L.A.
The Vanishing Point Page 3
