A Postmodern Love Read online

  “Just a college.” An expression of distress flitted over her face.

  He didn’t dare press on, and naturally assumed that it was one she was not proud of.

  A thrilling happiness peaked in his head as he listened to her aristocratic voice, and, whenever he could, he rested his eyes on her to let the reflection of flickering headlights, carrying with it sparks of life, jump from her face into his retinae.

  5

  Low clouds descended to the tops of high-rises in downtown Los Angeles and sprinkled down a steady drizzle that obscured the night lights. Thick mist billowed in sheets under the streetlights.

  Near 5th Ave and Broadway, the gallery was on the bottom floor of an old building whose majestic past remained visible in the ornate moldings high above and in the stately marble columns. In the front windows sculptures could be seen under cones of light. A tall wooden door appeared to have been restored and painted white. The whiteness extended to the inside, to all the walls and the ceiling, reaching up twelve feet high—an inviting freshness of light and space. Bright white fluorescent lights affixed to the ceiling seemed to reveal every detail of the teeming crowd below.

  When they arrived, the front door was open, and the din of conversation and fast-beat music resonated out into the street from the fully occupied gallery. The crowd spilled onto the pavement, with some smoking in the front while trying to avoid the drizzle.

  “Darling!” someone called out from the back as they entered.

  Lana stretched her neck this and that way, looking, and called out, “Dom!” and waved.

  From the back, a man squeezed his way toward them. Somewhat rotund and dressed in an orange suit and matching shoes, the man came to Lana and held her hands. His hair was dyed red and thinning. His eyebrows were raised so that his face assumed a seemingly permanent expectant gaze. He had a thin layer of powder on his face and a subtle bit of mascara around his eyes.

  “Darling, I’m so glad you’re here.” He leaned in to kiss Lana, smacking his lips loudly without actually touching her.

  “Dom, everything looks so perfect. A wonderful crowd,” Lana said and turned to Thomas. “This is Thomas Wilde.”

  Thomas extended his hand; Dom took and held it as he said, “Dominic Savoir, it’s a pleasure.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Thomas said.

  “Welcome to my gallery,” Dominic said as he inspected Thomas. “We’re proud to present Astrid Veesart. Select sculptures and paintings. She is one of the hottest up-and-coming artists working in the Los Angeles area.”

  “Thanks for having me.” Thomas had the sensation that he had ventured into an expensive store on Rodeo Drive, where the salespeople would check to see if he could afford to buy anything.

  Dominic appeared satisfied with what he saw. “Please look around and let me know which ones you might be interested in.”

  “No, no,” Lana interjected as she dragged Dominic away. “Thomas, please mingle . . . look around, won’t you?” Taking Dominic by the arm, she pushed him toward the back.

  “Is Lloyd coming?” Dom said.

  Thomas flicked the droplets of water from his suit with back of his hand and then wiped his glasses. He moved away from the door. Now part of the crowd, he could see the different sets of people. One set sported nose rings glistening under the bright lights, unnaturally colored hair moving among the crowd, chains hanging from their clothes, and tattoos decorating their skin. Another set wore suits with serious faces or judgmental eyes above elegant evening gowns. Occasional laughter rose above the peppering of voices conversing. A fruity smell of wine wafted from the back, from which a couple of waiters in black vests emerged to make the rounds, carrying trays with plastic cups of red or white wine and hors d’ouvres. Thomas intercepted a waiter and took a cup of white wine and a tiny crab cake. Sipping the wine, he strolled along and looked at the art. Suddenly, he noticed a man nearby watching him, a man with ruffled, subdued red hair wet from the rain, a scattering of freckles, his nose a tad saddled, and eyes unmistakably fierce and feverish, as if he was bent on finding something.

  “So what kind of yield are you giving?” the man said to Thomas.

  The noise made it hard for Thomas to make out what the man had said. “I’m sorry,” Thomas replied.

  The man, still wearing a black raincoat buttoned up to his neck, moved closer and said, “Are they stashing some money with you? What is your fund’s strategies?”

  Thomas shook his head. “I’m not sure that I understand.”

  The man surveyed around him, as if he didn’t want to be seen talking to Thomas; then he said, “Lana is back, right? She’s looking to place capital, right? Wait, you’re not . . . You’re not from Pershing Square?”

  “No. I’m not in that business,” Thomas said and wondered if the man had been mistaken; how would Lana know fund and capital, the jargons of hedge fund management?

  “Oh, sorry. I saw you with her, so I thought . . . Anyhow, how are you enjoying the show? Some pretty crazy stuff, eh.”

  “Yes. Thomas Wilde. Nice to meet you.” Thoms extended his and they shook hands.

  “Dietrich Gassiot. Anyhow, have fun,” the man said, and, as if he couldn’t waste another second, he plunged into the crowd before Thomas could question him.

  “What do you think these things mean?” A woman standing behind him spoke to her companion, and, hearing her, he turned his attention to the sculptures.

  Along the walls and in the corners and under focused cones of lights were objects composed of animals merging with a sundry of everyday things—hangers, hammers, forks, knives—all molded together in the most intricate and bizarre ways. The sculptures resembled animals bearing artificial things, having been spliced open and their inside painted red, spilling out scenes of grotesquery. Also scattered throughout the gallery were lithographs of Hollywood ghosts—Marilyn Monroe, Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall, Jimmy Stewart—hanging on the walls; they seemed to reside in a time when the modern becomes once more the ancient.

  “This is modern art?” A man said in a mocking voice, “It’s all nonsense.”

  Beyond the room they had entered, another, much more spacious, expanded. Many more sculptures were stationed throughout. Groups of people had congregated here and there, and under the fast-beat background music they were chatting and laughing and gesticulating wildly. Interspersed in the crowd, many women could be said to be very beautiful and in some ways even more beautiful than Lana, but their beauty was missing something that Thomas could not quite find the words for. There were yet other women who tried and failed to be beautiful with silicone in their breasts and noses, and fillers in their lips.

  On the far end of the room, near a door to the back, Thomas saw Lana, and he made quick mental comparison between her and the other women. Without the jacket, her shoulders were now thin and bare except for the single diamond sparkling on her neck, the pale skin above the black dress; and in that striking contrast, Thomas had an odd elation that she was his date and an equal hollowness that she was not actually here with him nor would ever be. All her expressions appeared precise and practiced, maybe all too practiced, like those belonging to a great actress, no smile wasted or grimace unintended, nothing extraneous or awkward. Yet there was also a naturalness in her demeanor and a complete lack of self-consciousness that he sometimes observed in very beautiful women. Either Lana had no idea that she was beautiful, which was not likely the case, or that her beauty was incidental to something she must hold in higher regard and was thus insignificant. But still, he could not quite account for other missing ingredients, some element deep within her that gave foundation to this outward aura. From afar, Thomas gazed.

  Lana was talking to two other women and Dominic, and then some other people joined them, enlarging the circle of talk and laughter. The group appeared to be very lively, and they laughed after any one of them said something. Two women were dressed in punk style, their scalps partially shaved and the rest of their hair dyed green and purple; ta
ttoos colored their arms blue, and nose rings and several earrings took up their entire earlobes. The others in the group were dressed more conventionally, with suits and evening dresses. Suddenly Dietrich Gassiot appeared and stood right in front of Lana; he was gesturing animatedly as he spoke to her while the rest of the group looked on with embarassment. After a minute, Dominic and the tattooed women moved off to talk to a well-dressed couple. Seeing that, Thomas made his way toward them; when he was close enough, he heard them.

  “Can we just discuss it please? How can you act like it was nothing,” Dietrich was pleading.

  “That’s enough. You’re making a scene. Please leave,” Lana replied.

  Dietrich turned and marched away; he appeared sullen and more sad than angry.

  “Why don’t you work with us? I think you’ll be great. It’s better than dealing with those hedge fund assholes. Those types of people can be tiring,” a man said, clearly refering to Dietrich.

  Lana replied, “No, don’t say that Harvey. It pays the bills. Besides I’m not fit for show business.”

  A woman next to Lana said, “Of course, you are. We can use elegance and class in our business . . .”

  Thomas stood still, listening intently and irresistibly, but then Lana saw him. She called to him, “Thomas.”

  He turned toward her, smiling.

  “Thomas, I hope you like the exhibit.” Before he could answer, she continued, “These are my friends, Helen Sikorsky and Harvey Green.”

  “Thomas Wilde.”

  The handshakes were quick, and they nodded to him. The woman’s dark hair was similar to the man’s, short and combed smoothly to the side, and their faces bore the expression typical of people who were used to being bosses, the overlords of some unspeakable realm. Thomas could see clearly a hint of irritation in their demeanor. He was about to make an excuse that he wanted to see more sculptures when Lana said to them, “Let me attend to my friend. We’ll catch up later.” She took Thomas by the arm and went off.

  “Who are they?” he asked.

  “Helen and Harvey? They’re in showbiz. They produced many Brandon Potts movies. A bunch of World War II flicks. Mindless, if you ask me. Completely inane. They owned him, Potts. He’s their bitch.” She laughed.

  “Really? What about you? Don’t you want to be in show biz?”

  “Oh, please. I’m very far from being delusional. The moment you want to be in show biz is the moment you cease to be their friend. You become their slave.” She laughed again.

  “Who was that man? He was asking about you. Some hedge fund stuff. You know anything about that?”

  “Oh, Dietrich. He’s an old friend. He’s harmless. Don’t mind him. Anyhow, do you like the art exhibit?” Lana held close to him.

  “It’s different. I’ve never seen this type of art before. At least up close,” he replied. As he walked next to her, a feeling of being chosen and looked at by other people came over him, and he relished it, feeling the elation pushing up the top of his skull and noting to himself that he would ask her about hedge fund, and Dietrich Gassiot later.

  “Well, it’s a continuation of Dadaism and junk art. I supposed it’s the next stage of development where the artist is consciously fusing abstract art with junk art.” They stopped in front of a sculpture. “Though junk does not denote something worthless but something that was once worthless and discarded and now assembled into art and thus something valuable.”

  “You know a lot about art,” he said.

  “Yes.” Raising her eyebrows with excitement, she said, “If you’re up for it, there is a party afterward at the artist’s place. Her apartment slash studio.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Great.” She looked to other end of the room and raised her hand to wave at someone. “I’m sorry I have to leave you for a moment, Thomas. There’s someone I just have to talk to.” And she parsed her way through the crowd, smiling and nodding to everyone.

  A chic art gallery displaying avant-garde art, a crowd of eclectic cosmopolitan Angelenos, some of them thumping and jiving to catchy music, and topping it all off the most beautiful woman he had ever known—the realization of these things, of what life should be, hit him all at once and made him want to jump. That this scene could only come straight out of some glossy magazines, or off some TV shows, dovetailed with his conception of what nightlife should be. He bounced on his heels, as he intercepted the waiters for more wine, smiling to anyone whose eyes he happened to catch. Throughout the night he met many people with whom he exchanged business cards, had a number of interesting chats, and even learned a few new jokes.

  Approaching 11:30, the crowd was thinning, and the waiters were going about to collect trash and plastic cups that had been scattered here and there. Thomas scanned the room for Lana and wondered if it was time for them to leave. He saw no sign of her; instead he saw Gassiot standing near the back, talking and gesturing vigorously, and as Thomas took a few steps sideways, he saw that Gassiot was talking to Lana. There was an intensity between them, as if they were trying to resolve a difficult matter. He moved out of Lana’s vision, not wanting to appear nosy.

  Ten minutes later, Lana came up behind him. “Thomas.”

  “Lana,” he said. “Ready to go?” But he was struck by a seriousness on her face.

  “I’m sorry. But there is no party afterward.”

  “What? Why not? It’s all right. We can just head home.”

  Lana took his arm and lowered her voice. “I’m sorry. Astrid is having a fit in the back. She’s very temperamental, like I said.”

  “Why? What’s the matter? It looks like a great exhibit,” he said, wondering if the vigorous discussion between Dietrich and Lana had something to do with it.

  “The reporter didn’t come. She was counting on having a piece in the newspaper. It would boost her profile tremendously.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. It was still very successful.”

  “Yes, it was. But everything good, everything idealized, is always wrecked by the common thing.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

  “You know. The economic side of art. Nobody bought anything. It’s a financial calculation for them.” She gestured to someone leaving and waving to her.

  “How so?”

  “It’s a cold calculation. Don’t you see? They calculate the odds of the artist becoming famous, in which case they can get a sizable profit on their investment. It’s just another investment, you see.” Her eyes beamed fiercely. “I don’t even think they understand anything about her art. I hate to generalize but . . .”

  “Her art is very different.”

  “Yes, it’s avant-garde. In fact, I’m convinced most people here don’t understand or care about art in general. These rich assholes,” she said softly, seemingly embarrassed by the profanity. “But sometimes I can’t blame them. Some of the artists and their work are just full of pretentious shit. It’s all about money on both sides. Some of these so-called artists don’t even know what they’re doing. Worse than that, they’ve no vision, no edge. Except Astrid. She exposes societal perversion, the animals cut in half and raped by household objects.”

  “I see.” He was curious about this different side of her, a hard, profane realism poking through the practiced refinement.

  “She is in a real fix. She put everything into the show tonight. I had to help her. I gave her all the money I had.” She lowered her eyes.

  “If you need help, I’ll be glad to help you,” he blurted out, wanting to be a hero.

  “No, I couldn’t possibly accept. We hardly know each other.” She raised her eyes with a tentative scrutiny.

  Something too logical but appearing capricious, cunning but appearing innocent, that could advance his cause with her, urged him on. He said, “It’s all right. Really. I don’t mind. I’m a pretty good judge of character. I can trust you.”

  “Thank you, Thomas. Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure . . . Well, it depends
on how much,” he added with a tad of uncertainty in his voice. “As long as I’m able.”

  “You really don’t have to. Money is always such a sensitive subject for most people, but we can’t help it. We have to live.”

  “Like I said, it depends on how much.”

  “Well, the amount I’m going to get soon is five thousand. If you could advance me that much, I’ll just sign the check over to you when it comes. That will really help me and Astrid, too, though indirectly. Currently I’m penniless, haha.”

  “Okay.” He was enormously relieved; the amount was substantial but doable. Even if he were never to get it back, it would do very little damage to him. Assured at last that he had made the right move, he bounced on his feet with relief and at the same time saw himself rising, at least in her eyes, in her face now visibly brightened.

  “Okay. I’m glad that’s settled. Should we just head out then?”

  “About that. Please go ahead without me.”

  “Why? You’re not coming?”

  “No. I feel obligated to comfort her. After all she’s a good friend; she needs me now.”

  Lana took a step toward the door. She kissed him on the cheek. “Be safe driving home.”

  “All right. Good night then.”

  The rain was now very light; a few drops marked the pavement. Thomas breathed in the night air and found it refreshing. He lingered in front and looked through the window into the gallery but couldn’t see Lana anywhere. Then he walked slowly away.

  After a few steps, he passed a man standing on the sidewalk; the man was wearing a black baseball cap and a black jacket zipped up to his neck. “What the fuck,” he mouthed. He remembered the nondescript baseball cap casting a shadow over the face, the black truck outside Lana’s apartment. Could she be right that the man had been following her? Stopping a few feet away, he took out his phone and pretended to make a call. As he held the phone to his ear, he turned back toward the man with the baseball cap. Under the baseball cap, the man’s face was too dark to make out its features. He noticed a black truck parked in the street right in front of the man. Holding up the phone in front of him, Thomas feigned the movements of texting when he was actually turning off the flash and taking a picture of the man and the truck. Zooming onto the license plate, he made sure he took a good enough picture of it before putting the phone in his pocket and making his way back to the car.