Arms Race

by Nic Low

  Shut up, dick! Tama says. You don’t wanna mess with these guys.

  The oars aren’t doing much, and it takes forever, but once we clear the little point the current takes us out towards the middle of the bay. I look back. Midsummer this far south, there’s already faint light in the sky. I can make out cars pulling up beside the Four Square supermarket on the waterfront. They’re making a line, blocking off the road down to the wharf. The police truck’s red and blue lights pick out figures in the dark, black clothes, the glint of automatic weapons.

  A bus comes down the hill and turns towards the wharf. They stop it at gunpoint, and make everybody get off and lie on the ground. I can hear static and feedback in the dawn air. Someone’s bellowing into a megaphone and it might as well be in another language. Tama’s saying something to me but I can’t hear him.

  We’re getting close now. I can hear the creature stir.

  Oi, you okay? Tama says. He shakes my arm.

  I open my mouth to crack a joke but nothing comes out. I feel the thunder of long arms running across the ocean floor. We’re way out in the bay now, crouched in a rowboat right over the creature’s great unblinking eye. The shore’s crawling with people, all luring him out. Down on the beach a hunter’s dog stands frozen, pointing out to sea, a loud growl of fear in its throat.

  I look at the rifle in my hands and I know it’s useless. But it’s the only jawbone I’ve got. I know it’s my calling, to raise him. I’ll raise him up and I’ll tame him.

  Before anyone can stop me I’m on my feet in the middle of the boat, a luminous orange angel in my high-vis vest. It’s the uniform of the reckoning. The uniform of Tino Rangatiratanga. I think of Dad’s fierce eyes and I open my arms to the wharf with rifle in hand, towards the lights and the voices and all the people, and I begin to chant.

  Aah-uu-tai-na, ah-hee!

  There’s a flare of light. A flare of light and a fierce crack and a huge wind picks us up. Someone cries out and beneath us the surface of the bay explodes. With a roar a blue-black knot of ancient muscle surges up beneath us like a blunt-nosed submarine. He rises. The octopus, the mighty octopus Te Wheke, rises from the boiling sea. Oceans thunder from his back. He rises and we fall, and as I fall my gaze takes in the frightened faces of the hunters and the farmers hunkered down behind their utes.

  Eight tentacles go hissing out across the waves—as thick as mighty tree trunks, as thick as mighty waka horned with weed and lethal suckers—and the last thing I see before I hit the water, before a tentacle lashes through the front of the pub in an explosion of wood and glass and the gas tanks go up with a thumping flash, before another great arm hurls the police truck through the front of the Four Square, the last thing I see is the gleaming, dripping moko carved upon the creature’s face and the look in its single world-sized eye that says, finally: it’s time.

  MAKING IT

  MY CAREER began for real in Manhattan, on an unusually mild winter’s evening, with a total fucking scrum. I opened the gallery door and peered out into the street. A huge expectant crowd looked back. There were patrons and buyers and star-fuckers and wannabe artists. I imagined, for one dishonest second, that they were there for me.

  My job was to hold the door open. I held the door open.

  Oh my god, someone yelled. Here she comes!

  The crowd surged forward, shoving and shouting. A phalanx of security guards pushed a beachhead into the fray. Reeves Galleries weren’t taking any chances. Goose, golden egg, etcetera.

  Next came a huddle of gallery big shots: the director, two publicists screaming into their phones, the senior curators, plus my bemused girlfriend Lucy, straight from her hospital rounds. In the centre of the huddle, at the centre of everything, was the artist. Katherine DuCroix. Close enough to touch.

  Katherine DuCroix was the rebarbative darling of the east-coast art world. Her enormous surreal self-portraits graced some of the most expensive walls on the planet. She’d already gone down in history for the most MacArthur Fellowships (three), and the shortest acceptance speech (‘Fools’). She was stout, fierce and a little bit mad: a female Napoleon.

  Tonight she wore a pearl silk blouse and heavy black eyeliner, and her wild grey hair was twisted into a bun. She might have been three times my age, but I thought she was beautiful. She looked like she was about to stab the director.

  I’m so sorry, he shouted. The cabs should have been here at eight. We’ll get to the restaurant soon.

  I let the door swing shut and joined Lucy at the back of the pack. To our left a man with long tangled hair lunged through the crowd like a drunken prophet. He strained at a gap between two guards.

  Katherine, he yelled. Tell us your secret. How do you do it?

  Dude, I yelled, you have to draw with a mechanical pencil.

  Nick! The director fixed me with a ball-shrinking glare.

  I blushed, but when he turned away I saw Katherine DuCroix looking at me. She seemed amused. My heart gave a squirming flip.

  Katherine DuCroix was the reason I wanted to be an artist. There’s nothing unusual in that: she inspired a generation. But I was more obsessed than most. Our apartment was wallpapered with prints from her Spirochette series. I’d gone to see all her recent shows, on both coasts. I’d even painted my own versions of her self-portraits, trying to get inside her skin. And there she was, smiling up at me.

  Please, the long-haired man cried again. Tell us where your ideas come from.

  Move back, a publicist shouted. Give us some room here!

  Shut up, Katherine said. Let me answer that.

  The publicist looked shocked. Katherine was famous for refusing to take questions, though there were rumours that Reeves didn’t let her. I wondered briefly, absurdly, whether the security guards were there to protect the crowd from her.

  You want to be an artist? she called out. The crowd could barely see her, she was so short, but her smoke-rough voice carried through the crush. You want to know the secret of my success?

  The man stopped pushing against the guards. Yes, he said. His face wore a look of such sincerity that I felt bad for mocking him.

  Then shut up, Katherine said, and I’ll tell you.

  The man fell quiet, and others who had heard the promise fell quiet, and the hush spread through the crowd. Even the guards craned round to listen.

  Everyone asks what my secret is, Katherine said. But I never tell the truth, because no one would believe me.

  I’d believe you, the man offered. There were murmurs of assent.

  Well then, Katherine said.

  She looked out at the sea of faces. Even the blue-grey air and the traffic gleaming south along Fifth Avenue seemed freighted with expectation. I was pretty sure there was no secret to being an artist, but I realised I wished there was. I was holding my breath as much as anyone when she spoke.

  The secret, she said, is syphilis.

  There was a short pause. Everyone looked confused.

  I stifled a splutter. Then Katherine DuCroix erupted in a furious wheezing cackle, and I let myself go. The sound of our laughter billowed out through the crowd.

  Oh my god, Katherine said, turning to me. The look on their
faces. I’ve always wanted to say that.

  People will believe anything, I said.

  They will, she said. You’re cute.

  The long-haired man was staring at her, face flushed with humiliation. People around him were laughing, but it was a thin, uneasy sound. Behind us a single cab pulled up.

  Here! someone shouted. Katherine. Go.

  We were moving again. The security guards cleared a path to the waiting car. I felt Lucy’s hand, cool and firm, take mine in the crush. The director held the cab door open. Katherine tugged at my jacket.

  You, she said. Jump in this one.

  But he’s—the director said.

  I’m just—I said.

  Come on, ride with me, Katherine said. She dragged me into the cab. I let go of Lucy’s hand and climbed in. Katherine reached over to shut the door. Lucy climbed in anyway, folding her long legs into the back seat.

  She with you? Katherine said.

  Yes.

  Fine. Shut the door. We’ll see you at the restaurant, she yelled out the window. Driver, drive!

  We slipped away from the kerb. Behind us, the director was shouting something. All I caught was my name. He didn’t look angry. I thought he looked scared.

  Not many people got the chance to meet Katherine DuCroix. She lived upstate, and came to maybe one of her openings a year. I’d once overheard a senior curator talking to her on the phone. Yes. Sorry. Sorry. Yes. That was all you said to Katherine DuCroix. Her work sold more than the rest of our artists put together. I couldn’t believe the warmth against my thigh was coming from her.

  She slumped in the seat and shut her eyes. Up close, her face was small and round, with a forceful nose and a lemon-twist mouth. Her brows had been plucked into sharp, questioning lines. I’d never seen someone wearing so much make-up.

  Oh my god, she said. Fucking people.

  You must get those questions a lot, I said.

  I do. She opened one eye and looked up at me. What’s the secret of anyone’s success? Fucking the right curator?

  No secret, huh, I ventured. I guess you’re just born with it.

  Gauguin was born with it, she said. Most people get it later in life. Anyway, where’s this damn restaurant?

  I don’t know, sorry.

  Katherine frowned. Why not?

  I’m just the intern. We weren’t invited to dinner.

  Katherine began to laugh with that same wheezing rasp. She didn’t sound well. She put a hand on my shoulder. You’ve just made my night, she said. I could kiss you, whoever you are.

  I’m Nick, I said. This is Lucy.

  Lucy had come from a twelve-hour shift at the hospital. Her hair was pulled back from her pale freckled face. The two women exchanged a nod.

  Good to meet you, Ms DuCroix, Lucy said.

  Likewise. It’s a damn shame we don’t know the name of that restaurant. I love those fucking dinners. But what do you know? My phone’s off. Yours too, right?

  Right, I said. I dug my phone from my pocket. Nine missed calls. I switched it off.

  Good, Katherine said. I know this great Korean place. Let’s go have some fun.

  The enormous restaurant had just a few tables, lit up like small, expensive islands. An albino waiter in a black vest led us to a booth up the back. Katherine kicked off her shoes and stepped inside, and I turned briefly to take Lucy’s hands. I’d been volunteering at Reeves for years. I’d lose my internship for sure, but dinner with Katherine DuCroix was worth it. I gave Lucy a terrified grin. She seemed exhausted, but she squeezed my hands and managed to smile back.

  Inside the booth Katherine was seated cross-legged at a low table. A huge painting hung at her back—a seascape of sorts, wading birds silhouetted against a fiery sunset. I realised it was one of hers. The birds were oilrigs, and the waves at their feet were tiny boats. The water was on fire.

  We sat, and a waiter brought pickles and kimchi, and a carafe of soju. Katherine sloshed the clear spirit into porcelain cups.

  So, Nick, she said. You work for a dealer gallery, but you’re not a total asshole. Are you an artist yourself?

  Well, I said. I want to be a painter.

  Really? Katherine said. Someone said that to Lucien Freud at a party once: I want to be a painter. You know what he said? What a coincidence. Neither do I.

  No, I really—

  A joke, darling. Lucien Freud was diseased and mad. But you have the look of the serious artist about you.

  I blushed stupidly. Wow, I said. Really?

  Absolutely. I can always tell.

  Uh—thanks. Art’s what I want to do with my life.

  Lucy was looking at me sideways. I guess I’d never stated it like that before.

  Well, cheers to that, Katherine said. She raised her cup and drained it in a single gulp, and I did the same.

  Of course, you’re insane, she said. Wanting to make art in this day and age. There’s no future in it.

  How can you say that? I said.

  I’m the exception that proves the rule. It’s a lost cause.

  I shook my head. I want to make art like you. I love your Spirochette period, and the Paralysis portraits. I’ve been to about a million of your openings. So, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but—is there a secret to your success?

  For a second Katherine DuCroix’s face was savage: teeth bared, her dark eyes blank with rage.

  Then she was off again with that cascading asthmatic laughter. She grinned at me and I grinned back.

  You got me, she said.

  You got us all back there. Syphilis. Hilarious.

  Katherine nodded, and her smile drifted away.

  Hilarious, she said, but what if it was true? Some of the great artists had syphilis. Cézanne, Margritte, Yoko Ono.

  I wasn’t sure whether or not to laugh. Lucy was watching Katherine with a look I couldn’t read. She hadn’t touched her soju.

  Didn’t it drive them crazy? Lucy asked.

  Absolutely, Katherine said. What if it made them brilliant as well?

  Lucy lowered her elbows to the table and sat forward. Millions of people got syphilis, she said. Only a few were brilliant. The rest just died.

  Katherine leaned in as well, and the two women’s faces were close. They all had visions, Katherine said. Maybe they were all brilliant. They just didn’t know how to communicate what they saw. A disease can’t teach you how to paint.

  What a concept, I said. I could use it in my work. Self-portrait with syphilis.

  You do self-portraits too? Katherine said. Tell me about them, handsome.

  I gulped down another shot of soju. I wanted to get this right. They’re self-portraits, I said, but they’re versions of me that have fallen in love with my own work. So—

  Pygmalion? Katherine said.

  Pig what?

  Shaw had it. Never mind. Go on.

  So, there’s a portrait of me where I’m so obsessed with painting, I’ve forgotten about the
real world. There’s another of me after I’ve lost touch with my friends, and another after Lucy’s left me—

  You know, Katherine said, I could be the artist in your series.

  Wow, I said. You—get caught up in your own work?

  No husband, no kids, no friends. All I have is the world on the canvas.

  Really?

  Really. You have to choose between the real world and the one you’re creating.

  Wow, I said again. You had to choose between having a family and making art?

  Katherine gave a little barking laugh. Not much of a choice, she said. No one would have me. My friends all thought I was nuts. They chose partners and kids, I chose painting. Pretty poor substitute for a nice cock.

  Beside me, Lucy was shifting on her cushion like she couldn’t get comfortable. I didn’t want her interrupting. I reached over and patted her hand.

  But it’s not really a choice, Lucy said. Most artists have children.

  True, Katherine said. Most artists have children. Most artists lead happy lives. Most artists are crap.

  But you must lead a happy life, I said. You’re so successful.

  Hardly, Katherine said, and her face dropped, the weight of the years spilling out. I don’t tell anyone this, but I’ll tell you. I start from zero every time. Every new show starts out as a failure. I have no idea if it’ll be any good.

  Wow, I said. That must be tough.

  It is, Katherine said. She looked me in the eye. It’s very lonely.

  Yeah, I said. That must be very hard.

  There was a pause. We both drank.

  When the waiter returned and Katherine ordered mains, in Korean, Lucy murmured in my ear.