In Flesh and Stone

by Hal Bodner

  CHAPTER 7

  “Holy Mother of...”

  Nadine was, for the first time since Alex had known her, almost speechless. The older woman reached out her hand as if to touch the canvas and stopped, scant inches from the still tacky varnish, and drew it back.

  “Jeez, Louise,” she breathed. “It’s...it’s...” She gave up trying to express her opinion, taking it in with an expression of awe.

  Even Corey, normally not at all sensitive to art, was at a loss for words, gaping at the revealed splendor of Capricorn Emergent. He wore a pair of beige slacks which probably cost as much as a week’s rent on the gallery space, with a deep midnight blue silk shirt, open to midway down his chest, the muscles of his pecs and shoulders clearly evident beneath the sleek material. Alex couldn’t help noticing how nicely the color set off his complexion, highlighting the darker auburn and russet tones and forcing the brassier reds and starker sun-tinged yellows into repose. He looked a little pale and some tiny lines had made their appearance at the corners of his eyes. Doubtless, Charles Wannamaker had kept him awake all night and well into the morning and, though Corey was nothing if not a night owl, he usually restrained himself to a few hours of strenuous sex starting around one in the morning, just before the clubs closed, and was usually asleep by four. Charles, on the other hand, Alex knew to be an early riser and an inveterate napper and had many years of cross-time zone travel under his belt. He’d also recently discovered the benefits of Viagra. Charles would be tired, of course, but Corey must be exhausted.

  Corey had always been an amazingly good-looking guy, not only because of his physical gifts, but also due to his youthful exuberance and devil-may-care attitude towards almost everything. When Corey entered a room, even if his face had been swaddled in rags and his body hidden beneath layers of frumpy sweaters, his inherent energy alone was a bright beacon sufficient to cause heads to turn. But now with his fatigue showing, however slightly, Alex suddenly saw how he would age and was shocked to realize that if in the blush of youth, Corey was beautiful, as he grew older, he would become shockingly stunning.

  Alex turned his attention to the banker and was not surprised to see him perfectly tailored as always – though if Alex looked closer, he could see a slight smile of surfeited satisfaction whispering around the corners of his mouth, as if he were subconsciously trying not to break out with a boyish grin of pleasure. From the moment he and Corey had arrived at the gallery in response to Nadine’s call, he’d been drinking the younger man in with his eyes, mentally undressing him and, Alex was willing to bet, eager to try out more tricks from his sixty-plus years repertoire of sex, desperate to impress Corey and convince him to stay this time.

  The artist had stubbornly refused to reveal his latest work until both his best friend and his most ardent collector had arrived. Nadine had railed and raged against deaf ears but he had refused to give in. She’d paced the full length of the gallery while waiting for Corey and Charles until Alex imagined he could see grooves worn into the tile floor from the tromping of her heels.

  When the little bell over the door tinkled, signifying that everyone Alex required was finally present, he breathed a sign of relief. Had Corey convinced Charles to detour for breakfast and a few Bloody Marys, it might have been late afternoon by the time they showed up and Nadine might have been quite literally frothing at the mouth with frustration.

  Perhaps the only thing which could have diverted Charles Wannamaker from his temporary lover was the sight of a Restin masterpiece – and Capricorn Emergent was truly that. Charles’s attention was riveted to the canvas. He seemed to have ceased to breathe for a few moments. In his eyes, Alex saw the usual admiration and adulation he exhibited whenever he was confronted with a major artistic work. But there was also a gleam of something which could only be described as raw, unadulterated lust.

  Charles Wannamaker was certainly not the kind of patron who felt that, with enough money, he could possess anything. He was much too grounded and – well, there was no other word for it – too nice of a guy for that. Every Restin he had purchased was prominently displayed in his palatial home, not to show it off to visitors or impress them, but merely to allow him to see it easily, to admire it. In fact, there were at least two of Alex’s early major works of which Charles was particularly fond, paintings that would be the envy of any contemporary museum, hanging in his dressing room where only he could see them.

  Charles was no profligate, throwing money at art because someone had told him it was “good” or particularly expensive. He didn’t care about its monetary value. He couldn’t give a damn about things like a painting or sculpture’s likelihood of appreciation. Charles knew Art -- Art that spoke to him; Art that breathed life; Art that transported him from the fast-paced life of currencies and mortgages and commodities into a place where he felt he had come home. It was both one of his most endearing qualities and, Alex suspected, it was also his fatal flaw.

  Though Charles was devoted exclusively to Corey, Alex feared eventually he would reluctantly give up on the younger man. Then, aging in a community which prized youth and beauty above everything else, he would undoubtedly give in to practicality. A string of young studs would provide balm to his broken heart and, predictably given Charles’s inherently generous nature, the old man would be taken advantage of. It would be a shame.

  Sometimes, Alex wanted to just smack Corey to get his friend to come to his senses.

  “How...?” Charles croaked. He paused to moisten his throat with a chilled mouthful of his favorite Montrachet, which Nadine kept on hand for his visits to the gallery. “How much?”

  As floored as she was by Capricorn Emergent, as taken as she was by the import of the piece both upon Alex’s career and the world of modern art in general, Nadine was at heart a businesswoman.

  “My dear Charles!” she exclaimed with mock surprise. “Talking about price already? That’s not at all like you.”

  “I have never...” Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead and he drained a third of his wine before continuing. “Never seen anything so...so...”

  “Incredible?” Nadine prompted. Unlike Charles and though she held a passion for art herself, money was definitely the gallery owner’s bottom line.

  “I was going to say religious, actually.”

  “Religious?” She shot a questioning glance at Alex, who shrugged.

  “Spiritual?” Charles sought to describe what he meant. “No...that’s not right.” He paused to think and came up with, “Soulful.”

  “Soulful?” Corey, on the other hand, was not one to withhold his opinion on anything. “Are you sure that’s what you mean?”

  Charles shook his head. “No, I’m not. I don’t know if I even have the words to describe how this makes me feel.” He touched his dove grey suit jacket with a closed fist in the vicinity of his heart. “It penetrates right here. Down to my soul. There’s a feeling of rightness to it. The storm rages in the background. The sea is wild and furious. The viewer knows countless sailors will meet their doom beneath its fury. Yet here, in the center...”

  His fingertips reached out as Nadine’s had done a few moments earlier. Normally, she would not have worried Charles would make the mistake of actually touching the still damp varnish and marring it with the oils of his skin. But his rapture was so evident, she stepped forward just in case.

  She need not have worried. Charles’s fingers remained infinitesimally poised in the air above the paint, tracing the line of Capricorn’s back.

  “There’s a sort of calming strength here,” he mused. “A sense of security. Perhaps even a kind of competence, maybe? A knowledge that this...this magnificent creature will calm the heavens and soothe the seas just by his mere presence. An overcomingness?”

  “Wow, Charlie! I never realized you were a poet. I mean, along with your other talents.”

  To everyone’s surprise, not the least of which was Corey’s, Charles shushed him with a brusque, “Not now, Corey. Not now.” He set h
is glass on an empty pedestal and leaned forward to examine the painting more closely.

  “One can practically smell the ocean, the ozone tang of the electricity in the storm. I love the work you’ve done so far, Alex, you know that. But this is what I’d hoped, what I always knew you were capable of. If I don’t buy this painting, it will haunt me for the rest of my life.”

  “Well,” Nadine drawled, ever the barracuda sensing prey. “I agree with you completely but, I was sort of thinking. This is a museum piece. I don’t know that I could set a price which adequately...”

  “Don’t screw around, Nadine.” Charles prided himself on his courtesy, on being the perfect gentleman no matter how nonplussed or angry he was with whomever he was speaking to. For him to cut her off in mid-sentence was shocking. “You’ll want an outrageous amount for it and you already know I’ll probably pay it.”

  “Hmmm.” Nadine deftly hid any offense at being interrupted. “I suppose we can haggle in the office. But.” Her tone hardened. “I’ll need to keep it in the gallery until after the exhibition we’re planning.”

  “I wouldn’t expect anything else.” Charles nodded. “I have a condition to the sale myself, in fact.”

  Nadine raised her eyebrows. This was highly unusual. The two of them had known each other for decades and bickering over price was not only par for the course, but a part of the process they both enjoyed immensely. Nadine would scream and claim poverty, cajoling and pleading when her tirades fell on his deaf ears, threatening even to destroy the canvas rather than to see it go for a sum so obviously insulting to its true value. Charles would calmly work his way through several glasses of wine, countering her histrionics with more reasonable figures until, at last, they both found themselves happy with the deal.

  “I want you to agree,” Charles said, “that half the gallery commission will go to the charitable fund we set up this morning to help Alex pay for Tony’s care. It was Corey’s idea, by the way. Selfishly, it had never occurred to me,” he apologized. “That’s why we were late getting here.”

  “You see?” Corey beamed. “I’m not a complete twink, after all.”

  “Done,” Nadine said, without hesitation, startling Charles – who had expected at least a token argument.

  “Wait just a damned minute!” Alex exploded. “Tony and I do not need charity.”

  “It’s not charity,” Charles hastened to soothe. “I know you’re not a poor man, Alex. And Tony makes a fine living himself. But he’s been in intensive care for what? Several months now? I know what those corporate health insurance policies are like. There’s a cap, which I’m sure Tony’s care has already exceeded. Even if Joseph waives his fees entirely and somehow manages to cut corners here and there, there’s only so much a physician can do to reduce health care costs. How much longer do you think it will be before the two of you are bankrupted by Tony’s illness? Six months? A year?”

  Alex’s face twisted in anguish.

  “I’m not saying Tony will be this way for that long, dear boy. For all anyone knows, he could wake up tomorrow, right? But even then, the medical bills are likely to be staggering. The two of you may be extremely comfortable but, well, I’m quite possibly one of the wealthiest men in this city. Though you may be able to manage things on your own, it will be extremely difficult and stressful. For me, on the other hand, while it certainly won’t be pocket change, it’s easily affordable. Besides, I have already made some calls and have made it clear to certain business associates – art lovers all, by the way – that I expect some healthy donations to the cause. After all,” he chuckled, “it’s deductible. They have no excuse.”

  There was a long silence, during which even Corey found himself unable to look directly at the artist.

  “Charles,” Alex finally breathed with heartfelt gratitude. “I don’t know how...”

  “Then don’t. Just accept it as a token of the esteem in which I hold you, and my affection for you. I’ve never told you this, Alex, but had I ever had sons, I would want them to be you and Tony.”

  “Not me?” Corey affected mild offense to try to lighten the mood.

  Charles fixed him with a stern gaze, belied by the twinkle in his eyes. “You’re not suggesting that someone of my social and financial stature would indulge in incest, are you child?”

  “Le Faim!”

  “What?”

  Nadine’s incongruous proclamation of the name of one of the city’s best restaurants took them all off guard.

  “If ever there was a reason to celebrate with lunch at Le Faim, this is it,” she said. “And if I’m gonna donate half my commission to Tony, I might as well go ahead and blow the rest of it on friends too, right? Lunch is on me. Besides, my three o’clock showing cancelled.”

  “You’re kidding.” Corey gaped. “You wouldn’t lend me forty dollars yesterday and you’ll buy me lunch for a couple of hundred today?”

  “A couple of...?” Nadine stammered in alarm.

  “When he’s with me,” Charles informed her, “he only drinks good wine. I’ll tell you what: If you pick up the meal, I’ll take care of the liquor. Trust me, you’ll get the better bargain.”

  “Deal. Lemme get my coat.” She darted towards her office. “Alex? You coming?”

  The artist had been standing silently, overcome with the emotional outpouring of love from his friends.

  “No. If nobody minds, I think I’d really rather be alone for a little while. I don’t mean to be rude, but I just...”

  “Are you sure, dear boy? You don’t seem quite yourself at the moment.” Charles placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently.

  “Shouldn’t be more than an hour or two,” Nadine called to him from the doorway once she’d retrieved her coat, her handbag and her pocket calculator – so she could manipulate figures while they were dining. “I’m gonna lock up behind you but you know the security codes, right? There’s tea in the cupboard if you need a cup. Do you some good, eh?”

  She dashed back and planted a little peck of a kiss on Alex’s cheek, pulling away quickly before she embarrassed herself. “And don’t you dare mope!”

  The door closed behind them, followed by the perky beep of the alarm being set. Too quickly, Alex was left alone amidst the sculptures and paintings.

  Carefully, he re-draped Capricorn Emergent, shifting the cloth so as not to allow it to come into contact with the still drying varnish. His thoughts turned to framing possibilities. Though he usually eschewed so-called “contemporary” frames in favor of more classic styles, or even rustic virgin wood, he felt the Goat might be best complemented by something sleek and modern without embellishment. Chrome or polished silver would be too stark, of course, but maybe burnished platinum? It would add to the effect of the moonlight on the frothy water yet not distract from the central subject.

  He dithered about for a while, admiring the work of some of the other artists featured by the Shermer Gallery, scowling at some of the inept talents of a few of them. Although she’d confessed she didn’t care for them herself, Nadine insisted on carrying them as her “bread and butter” inventory. Alex was quite taken by one in particular, a charcoal effigy sketched in rough, broad strokes depicting a young man stretched naked and facedown by a rock with one arm out flung over his head, the other hidden beneath his prone body.

  It took some time before it dawned on him that his attraction to the drawing was rooted in the boy’s resemblance to Tony. The line of the back running from shoulder to waist and the plump swell of the buttocks were upsettingly familiar.

  “Turn around,” he whispered, imagining the youth actually was Tony. “Turn around and look at me. Tell me you’ll come back to me. Tell me how you love me.”

  As he spoke the final words, a sob was wrenched from deep within his chest. Alex had to master his emotions in order to not throw himself down onto the floor and collapse in mournful tears.

  “The worst part,” he murmured, “is that I can’t hear your voice.” His own voice rose wit
h dismay. “It’s only been a few months, and yet I can’t remember what you sound like!”

  The urge to cry out, to scream his anger and frustration, to give vent to a tremendous keening of mourning swelled past his ability to stop himself. He opened his mouth and drew in a deep breath, his emotions churning, the sound of his loss ready to echo from the ceiling of the showroom, to bounce from wall to wall, building in intensity like some ultrasonic weapon from a childhood comic book, to lift him with its power and hurl him to the ground, his bones shattered, his muscles torn, his heart squashed flat by his grief.

  A sharp slapping sound stopped him; the catharsis remained plugged up in his throat and chest, choking him. Alex turned, already half-expecting some variation on what he would see, put off only by the incongruity of its appearance in the gallery and not among its fellows at home.

  The young man who confronted him was subtly different from Alex’s recollection of his marble effigy. Though the artist had certainly admired the musculature of the statue, he hadn’t expected the materialization to reveal such an unbelievable hardness to the man’s body. Had he not already seen such a physique sculpted in stone, Alex would have nonetheless immediately thought of cool, adamantine marble as the only possible medium for capturing the effect.

  The statue was nude. Alex certainly knew that. But this vision of quintessential masculinity was not. His impressive torso was bare but for the decoration. It glistened with a sheen, as if he had just returned from a light workout at the gym, though the muscles and the chest did not at all resemble those on the carefully honed bodies of the gym rats who displayed themselves ubiquitously in the city’s many bars and clubs. These muscles were carved and strengthened from use, any excess body fat melted by hard practical exercise. Even the man’s forearms were taut and compact, slender but firm wrists giving way to a bulge of muscle, the biceps rippling under the warmly tanned skin, the shoulders and chest twitching almost imperceptibly in anticipation of the strenuous exercise to come.