Small shoots of conversation sprang up around the table, though Greg contributed
little to cultivating them. What Kori did in the way of work was not quite
clear; she seemed to be a free-lancer of some sort. Her talk was vapid.
If we didn't want her company the rest of the evening, we needed to keep
our mouths shut about going to the exhibit opening. Greg wouldn't say
a word, nor I, nor Elinor, I was confident; having, out of friendliness,
invited Jennifer to come, she doubtless felt a bit responsible for the
way Jennifer had let Kori attach herself to us, and wouldn't want to encourage
it further. Roger would follow Elinor's lead: he has his own life in his
law firm, but with the museum crowd he graciously leaves things in her
hands. But Jennifer, obviously, could not be relied upon. Before long
she had told Kori that we all planned to attend the opening of an art
show, a little after seven. "Wouldn't you like to go with us? It may not
be very good," she added apologetically, wheezing a little as if the thought
of it gave her an allergy.
Her prediction about
the exhibit was not unfair, though I wondered what she knew about it--perhaps
she'd heard Elinor make a remark to that effect earlier--and especially
whether Kori would care.
"But, you know,"
Jennifer continued, "the worst you can do is lose."
"Oh yes, that's
what Dear Abby says, isn't it? Or is it someone else? Anyway, I'd just
love to come."
Kori then got out
a small white telephone, dialed a number, and murmured a few words into
what I took to be an answering machine at the other end. We started to
empty our glasses and eat the remaining scraps of fish on the paper plates,
and then had to talk about who was going to ride with whom to the gallery
and where we'd park. Al helped us out. "Well, if you're all going to that
show, I'll come along too and I'll bring Kori here. I know that gallery.
I've got my parking place in a garage near there, twenty-four hours a
day."
Maybe that will
impress her, I thought; whatever he did, he had a fourteen-carat advantage
in that parking space. I managed to suppress the impulse to ask him whether
he minded having dogs in his car. He threw down a couple of dollars as
a tip and gestured to Kori, who was obliged to follow him in the absence
of any other invitation. Then Roger, Elinor, Jennifer, and Richard paid
and went off together; Richard was driving the four of them. Greg was
relieved to be paired up with just me. Though lacking vanity, he had seen
that Kori had picked him out. "What on earth for?" he asked, as we walked
out. "I never even looked at her. She's not my type at all, and I can't
believe she could think I was hers. After all, I'm an art historian, not
a lawyer or banker or successful car dealer. I'm not a swinger or 'cool,'
as she'd say."
"Maybe she likes
the idea of knowing an art expert--it has cachet. Or maybe it's that tweed;
it makes you look serious." I was only half-teasing; perhaps the creature,
having known too many free spirits in sports cars, really did yearn for
a man who looked solid and stable. Moreover, she might have a fantastic
idea of the salary range of museum curators.
"Well, it is
a good suit, I'll admit. Where could she find that creation she had on?
Clothes do make the man-or the woman."
"I don't know where
one would buy something like that," I answered, as we got in his car and
started down the avenue. "Maybe in the French Quarter? From a catalogue?
Maybe she made the thing herself! I suppose it could be considered as
sartorial aesthetics-but it's worse than those strange Surrealist creations
by Arp and Dali."
By the time Greg
and I parked on Camp Street and arrived at the gallery, the others were
already there and had gotten glasses of an ordinary California wine and
a few peanuts. As Jennifer had predicted, the exhibit was very uneven;
Greg and Elinor were rolling their eyes. If the worst you can do is lose,
most of these aspiring artists had lost, in my view: time, money for supplies,
and standing in others' eyes. But maybe they really had gained, or thought
so, which would be enough for them and their friends: I couldn't assess
the experience of their painting, only its results. In any case,
it would have been unbecoming of me to say anything, since I had already
participated in the judging; so I just wandered around, looking again
at the few canvases I had admired and seeing how people were reacting
to them, and exchanging greetings and pleasantries with the gallery owners
and a few of the artists. Kori was accompanied by Al, but showed little
appreciation for his attentions. She kept glancing toward Greg, I noticed,
but he managed to evade her, moving from section to section, hiding behind
panels, or mixing with others.
The winner of first
prize was standing by his painting, a still life with vegetables--one
of the few pieces of high quality. He and I engaged in conversation. Some
time must have passed; he went to refill our plastic wine glasses. Behind
me, I heard a man's voice saying indignantly, "He worked and worked all
his life, and supported his wife and children, and then he was killed
by a truck, right in front of his aunt." Whether the aunt's presence
added to the injustice, I wasn't sure, but being reminded of what is,
at best, our precarious human condition is always fitting. As the painter
returned with our drinks, a very different voice, across the gallery,
gave a sort of squeal and pronounced the name Viagra.
It was Kori, all
right. She had managed to shake Al; the man to whom she was speaking turned
out, thank heaven, to be not Greg, but instead a tall, dark-haired fellow
with a small mustache. To my delight I recognized Mario d'Angelo, who
works at another gallery in town, owned by someone from California who
probably uses it as a tax write-off. Leaving aside the possible pertinence
of Viagra to his case--about which I knew and wished to know nothing--I
realized that he was perfect for her: superficially sophisticated, artificially
blasé, silly. He might even like the poodle. Mario caught my eye just
then; I smiled in encouragement. I said goodbye to the prize-winner and
looked around for Greg. I had to maneuver around an old hag with blue
hair and three shades of rouge, and then a woman so ample in proportions
that she must have gotten Omar the Tentmaker to do her dress. She was
attempting to converse with a huge, lusty-looking man, a living Brueghel;
their stomachs stuck out so far that they almost needed megaphones to
reach each others' ears.
Greg was engaged
in talk with someone I didn't recognize.
"Well, that's not
really pertinent, since I'm divorced now," I heard him say.
The man at his side
nevertheless thrust into his hand a business card. "But you might get
married again, or know some young couple who's having problems, or an
older couple for that matter . . ." He then walked off.
"Who was that, Greg?"
I inquired.
"Some fellow who
does marriage counseling--he's got an office on Maple St. He's going around
trying to drum up business. He wanted to enroll me among his clients,
though I told him I wasn't interested--it's too late for my first marriage,
and I don't plan on a second. Of course maybe I should follow the principle
of--who said it, supposedly, Dear Abby?-- 'The worst you can do is lose!'"
He laughed.
"What nerve! I wonder
how many times he's been married. Most of those people are cranks anyhow."
I certainly didn't think he could do anything for Jack and me. "Oh, well.
Listen, I want you to look back there, over to the right; see who Kori
is talking to?"
"It's Mario d'Angelo,
isn't it? Good--maybe he'll keep her off of me for a while. What happened
to Al?"
"I don't know,"
I answered. "Oh, there he is, with Richard and Jennifer."
"Well, I think he's
lost out; she's batting her eyelashes at Mario." "They were speaking .
. . very personally, you might say. I heard her squeal 'Viagra.'"
"Good Lord! How
could they get on that topic so fast? Surely she hasn't recommended it?
It may have been a speculative crack about Al."
"I don't want even
to think about it. If Mario likes her, fine; I hope he'll take her away."
I was writing the
script. Soon, she came over to Greg, with Mario at her side. Syrup dripped
from her mouth, rounded and dark like a bing cherry. "Oh, Greg, so good
to have met you. But I'm afraid I'm not free the rest of the evening--sorry.
Mario here and I are going down to Galatoire's."
"You lost out, Greg,
and you didn't even want to be in the running," I said when they'd walked
off.
"Thank God. Let's
go find Elinor and Roger and head downtown. Imagine what the waiters at
Galatoire's are going to think when they see the poodle suit! Though,"
he added as an afterthought, "maybe it's no worse than what some tourists
wear."
Leaving the exhibit
and the few artists still standing around, hoping for compliments or a
sale, the four of us walked to Greg's Explorer. Jennifer and Richard had
told us goodbye and gone off. As we were driving down to Canal Street,
Greg put on a tape--one of the Brandenburg Concertos. He rolled down his
window and turned the music on high volume, sending into the streets a
baroque blast that competed quite well with a car alarm not far away and
the cacophonous racket of a couple of boom-boxes carried by youths on
the sidewalk. "Sorry," he said to us, raising his voice, "if it's a bit
loud. After Kori and now this awful show, my nerves are a little raw.
I just need to . . . well, make a statement, as people would say!"
"If you keep blasting
like that," shouted Elinor, "it will reach as far as Galatoire's sidewalk,
and Kori and her swain will have to listen to Bach while they're waiting
in line."
"Oh, I just love
Bach!" I said, imitating her voice.
Continued
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