Intaglio: The Snake and the Coins

by Danika Stone

  The graffiti show would be dismantled after tonight, moving on to another city in the next days. This particular gathering was a private affair, with black-suited buyers from various galleries – some representing private buyers and interests abroad – carrying manila folders, checking items off lists as they walked through. Many of the paintings were now marked by yellow “purchased” dots on the name tags. More paintings were being pre-ordered even before the canvases had been stretched or painted. There were curators and agents in the crowd too, mingling and talking with one another. One elderly man was on his cell phone, arguing loudly in Mandarin. Meanwhile, Raya Simpson was holding court by the large frontispiece of the show, an anti-war painting full of lurid colours and obscene language that provided a bright backdrop to her bright white suit.

  Ava felt completely out of her element.

  She had dressed up for the event: a black silk second hand dress, new kitten heels and a silver pendant of a Chinese character that her father had given to her for her birthday. She still felt like a fraud surrounded by the opulence of the affair. At Marcus’s insistence, Ava had created a professional portfolio – photocopying it at an office supply store hours before the event. She had given out a number of copies already. For some reason, Kip Chambers took it on himself to introduce her around, so Ava was suddenly the uncomfortable recipient of much attention.

  “Ms. Brooks here is an amazing artist,” Kip repeated as he introduced her to one art director after another. “A real star to watch.”

  She tried to ignore his hand on the small of her back, smiling and nodding instead. Cole would be coming later. The university curators had called him a few hours earlier. They’d been having trouble getting his piece in place (there were concerns about the balance of the statue) and the head curator wanted his help moving it. Cole had promised Ava that he would be here as soon as he could, but in the meantime, she was left fumbling through the crowd.

  The throng of people parted and Ava caught sight of Raya heading up to the microphone near the front to speak. Suddenly there was a hand on Ava’s hip and she jumped. Kip’s fingers slid to her lower back once more. He leaned in, his breath warm against her ear.

  “You’re doing great,” he said quietly. “I’m sure you’ll be getting calls from some of these gallery owners.”

  She smiled at his words, but then his fingers began to move, going from a flat palm on her lower back – almost acceptable – to stroking gently where they rested at her waist, hinting at something more. He was watching her fixedly, his warm eyes full of unspoken promises. Ava felt a sliver of panic. Kip Chambers was attractive, of course, but it was the unspoken assumption in his gaze which worried her.

  “I want to talk to you later, Ava,” he said, his eyes dropping lower. “Alone...”

  Without answering, she pulled back, letting Kip’s hand fall away. She might be a novice at this, but she knew she didn’t want to be beholden to anyone for her success.

  Chambers least of all.

  : : : : : : : : : :

  An hour and a half later, and Cole still hadn’t arrived. In the intervening time, Ava had lost sight of Chim, Suzanne and even Kip. She gave out all of her portfolios and scribbled her name on the back of at least twenty different cards. The heels that had looked so cute when she’d put them on at the mall now pinched her toes and she was starting to get really fucking irritated.

  ‘Goddamnit, Cole Thomas. Where the hell are you?!’

  With a wave of anxiety, Ava glanced to the back of the stuffy, overcrowded gallery, trying to locate the door where Simpson had taken her the first night to talk about the summer art project. She just needed out of here for a moment.

  Seeing the door, Ava stumbled her way to the back, feeling her baby toe starting to pulse painfully. She knew she was going to have blisters tomorrow. ‘Just fucking great,’ she thought as she reached the door. She grabbed hold of the handle, pushing it open without knocking.

  ‘Oh my god...’

  She had it half-opened before she really saw what was inside – a woman in white on the desk, her head tipped back in ecstasy, skirt hiked up over her hips, while a man with longish brown hair pumped hard and fast into her. Ava blinked in shock before closing the door and backing away. She had the sudden, horrifying thought that either participant inside the room could have seen her seeing them, and the thought of that left her struggling with suppressed laughter.

  She stumbled her way to the front door, the remembered image leaving her snickering. That was not the picture of Kip Chambers she needed to have stuck in her head all night, but it seemed to be burned into the back of her retinas. She had no idea how she was going to work with him after seeing that. Reaching the empty street, Ava glanced in both directions and stepped into the alley. As expected, Chim and Suzanne were there, along with a balding, middle-aged man in a dark suit. The three of them were tucked into the overhang near the back door, toking up.

  Chim glanced up as Ava’s heels announced her approach.

  “Hey Booker,” Marcus said with a mellow smile. “How’s it goin’?”

  Ava walked up, her hand outstretched.

  “I need a fucking smoke, Chim...”

  : : : : : : : : : :

  Half an hour later, Ava’s mood had improved significantly. Even her shoes that were half a size too small didn’t seem so bad anymore. She was still in the alley but she now floated on a blur of alcohol and cannabis. The exit to the alley was a brightly swirl of colour housed in a black frame of buildings, the blurry neon signs reflected in the puddles painted in pastel shades. ‘Like a Monet,’ Ava’s mind whispered, and she giggled.

  Chim and Suzanne left her to talk business with the pot-smoking man in the black suit. It turned out he was the director of the National Gallery. He was here tonight because he was putting together a show of non-mainstream painters. She grinned hazily: Ava had just secured her first official gallery show, and it was going to be amazing!

  The event was going to be completely graffiti-focused. Ava would do an installation in the huge gallery space next summer, which might or might not impact Simpson’s project. It wasn’t a choice though… this one was a national opportunity. Shaking his hand once to seal the deal, she headed toward the front doors of the gallery. A single thought kept running through her mind: ‘I need to tell Cole.’

  Walking back inside, she noted a distinct change in the atmosphere. For one, it was a hell of a lot quieter. The steady chatter that had filled the room like a rush of water was now a dull whisper. Secondly, everyone was turned toward the fronts-piece artwork – the anti-war painting – where two men stood, chest to chest, shouting at one another. The crowd around them was rapt with attention, a communal breath held in expectation.

  ‘That’s Cole and Kip...’

  “… and what I’m saying,” Cole growled, his voice rising angrily, “is that your work is blatantly simplified. It doesn’t tell the whole truth or even part of it. It gives a commercialized talking point agenda of disobedience. Nothing else!”

  Ava’s feet took her forward, the blood draining from her face. ‘This is fucking bad,’ her mind screamed. She could see Chim coming from the other direction, his nose flared angrily, hands rolled into fists. It was the look he got right before he started an act of civil disobedience. It scared her to see the expression here.

  “You think you have a right to judge that?” Kip barked.

  He took a half-step forward, hands rising in fists, but Cole didn’t move back in the least.

  “You bet your ass, I have a right,” Cole yelled, gesturing at the artwork. “If you’re putting this… this bullshit out there for public consumption, you’d better get ready to answer some hard fucking questions about it!”

  Ava was almost near the front. She could see the fury rising like mist off a lake. For a second she flashed to herself standing between the two of them, her hands upraised. She stumbled in confusion, another memory – like a radio station caught between two channels – threatenin
g to overwhelm her.

  “She doesn’t LOVE you!”

  “You LIE!”

  “Then ask her yourself! She’s made her choice!”

  “Stop it! BOTH of you! Please!”

  Ava gasped, blinking rapidly to force the after-image away. She had no idea where this memory was from. ‘Something I dreamed...?’

  “You want to ask me something, then go ahead ask,” Kip snarled. “Everyone’s listening.”

  “I want to know what you’re saying!” Cole barked. “Without the BS!”

  “I’m saying I’m against the war,” Kip said in mock sympathy, “so shoot me.”

  He laughed as he said it, looking to the crowd for support, and Ava saw Cole’s face change like quicksilver. Expression darkening with outraged fury.

  “What the hell does a punk like you even know about fighting and dying for a cause?” Cole roared. “Because my sister died in this fucking war just so you have the RIGHT to put your bullshit artwork up on a wall and say whatever the hell you want about it.”

  The harshness left Ava gasping.

  “It’s no lie, Thomas. Ava and I are to be married before the ship sails.”

  “My god, Ava… you… you said yes?”

  “Thomas, I’m so sorry...”

  Ava staggered. She felt like she was underwater, the vision of the two men in the gallery coming to her through a haze of blue, colours muting.

  “You dumb shit...” Kip cursed, his body compressing slightly, ready to fight. Her hand rose to her mouth. Cole was going to throw a punch, she knew it.

  Chim stepped directly between the two men, his hands coming up.

  “Please know that I still think of you with the utmost respect and admiration...”

  “Relax, guys,” Marcus ordered. His words were calm though his face was furious. “This is not the time or the place… both of you!”

  Chim caught Ava’s terrified eyes as she made it to the edge of the crowd. He headed toward Cole, his back turned on Kip, blocking him.

  “Time to go, buddy,” Marcus repeated coldly. “Walk away, Cole. NOW!”

  Cole let out a blast of swearing. He stormed past Ava, kicking open the door with a bang and heading out onto the street. The gallery exploded into excited chatter, a number of people rushing up to Kip Chambers, trying to get his side of the story. This had been entertainment for them, Ava realized in dismay, but what she’d seen with Cole worried her. The feeling of her dreams swirled in the room.

  “I needed to make a choice… It wasn’t fair to either of you to leave things uncertain...”

  She pressed her eyes closed, tears prickling behind her lids, just as Marcus made it to her side. She blinked rapidly, fighting the sinking sensation of being dragged into a waking dream.

  “I’m so very sorry, Thomas. I never meant to hurt you. Please try and understand that I—”

  Marcus put his arm around her shoulders. Ava glanced up, confused with her surroundings. The haze of alcohol and marijuana was still swirling around her; she felt like she might be sick.

  “You okay?”

  She nodded mutely and Chim tightened his hand on her arm. He led her away from the crowd before anyone started asking questions. She rubbed her hands over her face, forcing her composure down in place, like a suit of armour. She’d had plenty of practise pretending as she grew up, and tonight she was going to use that skill. Ava gave the people they passed a tight smile, waiting until they got through the crowd to ask the question that was pushing for release.

  “What just happened?” she whispered. She’d never seen Cole so angry before. Chim sighed, his back to the crowd.

  “I’m not talking about it here. Fucking vultures,” he sneered. He added in a quieter voice. “You need to give Cole some time to calm down before you go looking for him, Ava. He’s going to be in a hell of a mood after this.”

  She knew it was good advice (whether she chose to follow it or not). Marcus had spent the last few years protesting the war, but he also knew his facts. She slid on her jacket, heading out at Chim’s side. Under a streetlamp, he told Ava a condensed version of events that led to tonight’s confrontation. A slow-motion series of snapshots flashed through Ava’s mind. She remembered the headlines when she was in junior high school. Bits of war footage. Things she’d seen on television reappearing, now saturated with deeper meaning.

  Connections...

  She’d been front page news when she’d died: an eighteen-year-old hometown girl, daughter of a high-ranking vet. The young woman was the youngest female officer to die up to that point: Hanna Thomas, barely out of high school, killed in action in her very first mission overseas.

  ‘That girl in the headlines,’ Ava realized in horror, ‘was Cole’s sister.’

  Chapter 13: Coming to Blows

  Cole wasn’t answering his cell phone, and Ava was in no condition to drive. It was too cold to walk, a Saturday night to boot, so she ended up taking a cab home, alone and miserable.

  Two hours later, he called.

  “Where’d you go?” she asked.

  There was a pause.

  “I needed to blow off some steam,” Cole muttered, refusing to explain further. He sounded empty and hollow. “Sorry, Ava… I just couldn’t be there.”

  She could hear him breathing hard as if trying to control himself. Her fingers tightened around the receiver.

  “Chim told me what happened to your sister,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize...” Her words trickled away to nothing, unsure what else to say.

  “Yeah.”

  There was an emptiness to the sound which Ava recognized. She knew that part of herself… the anger so deep it could only come out in destruction. ‘Broken...’

  “You can’t let it destroy you,” she said, recognizing the words as her father’s. It unnerved her. “Kip’s just… Kip. You know? Some artists are like that,” she added, “they just want to blow shit up. Cause a reaction… nothing more.”

  “Are you like that?” he asked, the words sharp and biting. (For a heartbeat she could remember standing between them, though in truth, it had been Chim tonight.)

  Ava frowned, closing her eyes and imagining Cole sitting next to her. There was the answer she knew she should give him. The easy one. She opted for the second one instead. The truth.

  “I used to be,” she admitted

  “Huh.” The sound was bitter and cold.

  “Cole,” Ava said quietly. “I want you to come by… I can’t… I can’t do this on the phone and I need to see you.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Not sure that’s a good idea right now.”

  Each of his words was hard, syllables pinched off and small. It left Ava feeling like more than just tonight was being destroyed.

  “Why?” she asked, the single word tight with pain.

  He let out a whistling sigh. It was the sound of someone with too much to manage… and no way to do it.

  “Because I’m in a bad fucking mood tonight, Ava. If I come over, I’m not going to be able to… to stop… and step back and just leave you again.” His voice darkened with the promise of more. “I’d be staying the night.”

  Ava could feel things sliding toward the edge of a steep precipice. For a moment she flashed again to the memory – something she’d dreamed once, long ago – of making a choice: ‘The wrong one...’

  “So you stay,” she answered in a shaky voice.

  : : : : : : : : : :

  Cole stood outside the door, listening to Ava undoing the lock on the other side. He knew, without a doubt, that he shouldn’t be here tonight. Things were too raw inside… and that asshole Chambers and his bullshit anti-war painting had put him in the kind of mood he usually had to just work his way out of. He was glad that the sculpture he’d just finished was already at the gallery, because he knew for a fact that otherwise he’d be down in his studio beating it to pieces. Destroying any semblance of beauty out of the stone.

  He was in that kind of
mood.

  For a second, Cole reconsidered being here. He didn’t want to freak Ava out… and she was always jittery as hell when he got intense. He thought about walking away, but then the door opened and Ava was on the other side.

  There was no choice anymore.

  She was beautiful. Her upper eyelids were lined in black like the night of the earlier opening this year, making her look exotic and sexy. She wore a black dress and a silver necklace, but she had bare feet. She smiled, and Cole felt himself tugged forward, a marionette dancing on her strings. He needed to touch her.

  “You okay?” she asked, her eyes worried. Cole stepped inside, locking the door behind him. He wanted to bury himself in her and never come out.

  “No, I’m not.”

  He reached out to touch her face, but she caught hold of his hand before it could reach its destination.

  “Oh my god,” she said in horror, catching sight of his knuckles. They were torn to shreds, ripped and bleeding. Cole glanced at them absently, as if only just discovering them.

  “What happened?” she asked in distress.

  Cole shrugged, not sure how to explain how sometimes the darkness was so black that he had to hurt himself and others to let it out. Had to give himself physical pain to focus on instead. He glanced up to see her staring at him in alarm, the lines on her face tight.

  “Got in a fight,” he answered dully. (There was always a fight to be had if you knew where to look. A Saturday night and alcohol just made it that much easier.)

  There was an awkward silence, and Cole wondered if she was going to ask him to leave. (And what he’d do if she did.)

  “C’mon,” she said shakily. “We’ve got to clean those up.”

  She led him up the stairs, her fingers around his wrist, mindful of the broken mess of his knuckles. Reaching the bathroom, she sat him on the side of the tub, swabbing his broken skin with alcohol.

  “Sorry,” she muttered, but Cole didn’t flinch or answer.

  He was strung out. Numbed. Even the burning of alcohol on his raw flesh didn’t hurt. He couldn’t feel anything anymore. Cole watched her work in silence. She wrapped his knuckles in bandages, then put the supplies away in the mirrored cupboard. She turned back around, arms wrapped around her waist.