Art on Fire (23 page)

Charlotte waved over a lesbian couple in tortoiseshell glasses. One wore a dark red cashmere sweater with black pants; the other, a navy-blue wool cardigan and bone-colored corduroys.

“Francesca,” she said, “This is Avery Patton and Diane Berman. Ladies, Francesca deSilva. Avery and Diane are hoping to buy
Birds, Everywhere
.”
⁶¹

Francesca nodded and tried to smile. A guy in a suit grabbed her elbow.

“I'm in love with you,” he whispered, too close to her ear.

“Excuse me?” Francesca leaned in politely.

“Yes,” said the man. “I am hopelessly, disturbingly, pathetically in love with you. And you're a lesbian, aren't you?”

“Phillip! Leave her alone.” Charlotte slapped the man playfully. “Don't answer that,” she whispered to Francesca.

The man laughed much harder and longer than was warranted. He handed Francesca his card. “Phil Hamil.” He extended his hand. “Don't listen to her. I'm your friend.” He bowed elaborately. “I want to be your slave.”

“Phillip, how much champagne have you had?” asked Charlotte.

“Thanks a lot, Charlotte. She'll never marry me if she thinks I'm a sot.” He looked hard at Francesca and grinned. “You wouldn't, right? Marry me.”

“Marry you?” Francesca wrinkled up her face. “Are you blind?”

“I'd say so,” offered a woman with a smoky voice.

Phillip Hamil patted Francesca's back and laughed. “I'm teasing. Of course I'm teasing. Why would you want to marry a schlub like me?”

“It's true, Phillip,” the smoky woman said. “She's more of a man than you'll ever be.”

Phillip doubled over, laughing. Charlotte returned to Diane and Avery, but they had disappeared. Only slightly discouraged, she flitted off to attend to other guests. Phillip curled his right hand around
Francesca's elbow; his left held a glass of champagne. The gold liquid matched his class ring, the jaundiced whites of his eyes, the yellow fading of his hair.

Francesca felt as if she were viewing everything through cheap sunglasses, the kind scratched from bouncing around in a pocket, against keys and a lighter. She stared up at
The Lisa Trilogy
, the three portraits of her beloved, posted on naked walls, and felt she'd done something unforgivable and obscene, dragging Lisa into the middle of this carnivorous world, splaying her for cheap entertainment. Glasses clinked; perfume made the air itch. The world was lit up and ugly. And the paintings, by association, seemed specious.

Sherry from the pizzeria arrived with a friend of hers, another female who looked nothing like a woman. They stood apart from the rest of the people, drinking club soda and staring at the walls, as if Francesca's paintings were dangerous animals at a zoo. Francesca waved heartily, comforted by their earthy, familiar presence, but just as she was about to penetrate the crowd to get to the other side of the room, someone tapped her on the shoulder. She turned to the right, flashing past several gawking faces, then stopped abruptly. Lucky Perkins stood before her, dressed in a wine-colored dress, décolletage down to her ribs. The dark color of the fabric against her fair skin made her seem dusted in flour. She waved slowly, one finger at a time. “You look like you just got hit by a stray bullet,” she said, popping a grape into her mouth.

“How are you?” Francesca extended her hand, growing dizzy.

Lucky leaned in intimately and whispered, “Don't pretend I'm not your worst nightmare.” She made a quick, scary face.

“It's nothing personal,” said Francesca.

Charlotte hurried over, practically knocking over an elderly couple in her zeal, and placed a hand firmly on Francesca's elbow. “Oh!” she called. “I forgot to tell you! Lucky has offered to entertain us. Francesca, you never told me you knew Lucky. And that she'd played the Opry.”

“The what?” Francesca asked.

Charlotte touched Francesca's arm with two fingers and placed her lips less than an inch from Francesca's ear. “Don't worry about
her,” she whispered, “That bitch. I took care of it. Let her make an ass out of herself if it makes her happy. You're the main attraction.” She patted Lucky's shoulder and walked off, into the crowd.

“I didn't know you sang,” Francesca said casually.

“Yeah.” Lucky pushed some unruly red hair off her face. “I'm trying to get back into it. I figured this is a good place to get my toes wet. I mean, you've been painting for like a week. And this gallery—if you want to call it that—” She looked around disparagingly. “This is half a step up from a church fair.” She rolled her eyes and flicked Francesca's collar. “You look fancy.”

“Thanks.”

“Anyhow. I wish you'd told me you were a squatter. You ate all my candy bars.”

Francesca cleared her throat. “It just happened. I was cold.”

“Poor baby. And did I do something to make you think I was a whore?”

“A whore?”

“Thank God you're a shitty painter or everyone would be able to recognize me all fat and splayed out like a prostitute. Why isn't the Chinese girl naked?”

Francesca shook her head. “I don't know. That's not how I remember her.”

“So she wasn't a whore?” Lucky shook her head slowly, incredulous. “You're lucky Edgar isn't here. He'd recognize the couch. At least you got the couch right.”

“It's impressionistic. It's not supposed to be a portrait.”

“Sure, sure. That's what he always says.”

“If anyone should feel like a whore, it's—”

“Oh please. Don't even try it.”

“I like your dress,” said Francesca.

Lucky spread her arms so Francesca could get a better look. “Anyhow,” she ran her fingers up and down her arms, “I'm not going to press charges.”

“Charges?”

“That's right, baby. That's what happens when you break into a mansion and live there. The police put little handcuffs on you and
take you off to jail.” Lucky rolled her eyes, half amused. “What balls! Just be grateful you have a shrewd agent. She's saving your skinny tomboy ass.”

Charlotte struggled to mount a small, wooden chair. The silver discs sewn into the fabric of her dress glistened under the track lights, refracting rainbows on the ceiling. Balancing precariously, she tapped a spoon on a plastic champagne flute, but no one paid any attention. She enlisted Phil Hamil's assistance. He whistled like a hunter retrieving hounds. “Everyone,” he bellowed. “Feast your eyes on this elegant lady.”

Lucky smiled. “Well, this is my cue,” she said. “Lovely to see you again.” She kissed Francesca's cheek and walked determinedly through the center of the room toward Charlotte's office. Charlotte leaned on Phillip Hamil's shoulder as she addressed the crowd. “Well, this has been a thrilling evening so far, hasn't it?” She smiled intimately. There was uncertain applause. Charlotte cleared her throat and peered down at an index card positioned away from her face. She read over the tops of her glasses: “Lucky Perkins is a local artist and musician. She performed her hit song, I Ain't Cheap,' at the Grand Ole Opry in 1974 and was a featured act at the Fat Cigar in Las Vegas for six years before relocating, with her husband, to the East Coast. In 1978, Johnny Cash declared her a rising star, and
Country Club
magazine said ‘Perkins sounds like Patsy Kline with an ellipsis at the end of every line.' (Charlotte looked up, a bit confused; there were good-natured smiles throughout the audience.) “Tonight, not only are we appreciating the exemplary talents of a young, local painter . . .” (Exuberant applause.) “But we are about to be treated to Ms. Perkins' first performance in . . .” Charlotte looked up. “It says here, five years? Could that be?”

Lucky smiled coyly and waved from the office threshold.

“Looks like we're the
lucky
ones! Ladies and gents, please welcome Lucky Perkins!” Charlotte hopped down from the chair with Phillip's assistance and the audience applauded wildly, convinced now that they recalled that name . . . Lucky Perkins. Lucky emerged, dwarfed by the large guitar strapped around her back. She kissed Charlotte and maneuvered awkwardly through the crowd, trying not to whack
anyone with the neck of her instrument, looking like a drag queen in too-high heels. People backed away, allowing her an important semicircle at the front of the room, positioned right before
Woman Reclining on a Blue Couch
.

“First, congratulations to Francesca.” Lucky extended her hand, inviting applause. She spoke at once, silencing the clapping. “Well, here's a little tune. Maybe a few of you remember it.” She took a long sip of champagne, then returned her plastic flute to the stool in front of her and perused, one last time, the lyrics to her song, typed out on a small piece of notebook paper. She swung her guitar around to the front and began to tap her foot, peering off through the crowd at a fixed point in the distance, jutting her chin forward and yanking it back in time with the rhythm, and singing in a strange, unidentifiable accent that Francesca had never heard trace of, all of it quite incongruous with the Porsche and the sophisticated gown.

Charlotte arrived beside Francesca. “What she thinks she has to gain from this little stunt I'll never know.”

“Revenge,” Francesca shrugged; it was all she could think of.

And Lucky sang:

Lucky grinned at the audience, reliving the glory.

And on it went. Francesca felt sick. The paintings had nothing to do with any of this; they seemed suddenly ridiculous, tainted by pretentious strangers who knew nothing about her. She stepped out into the cool, moist evening, undid her bowtie, and inhaled the sea air in needy gasps, unable to get it far enough into her body.
How ridiculous
, she thought,
renting this tuxedo. Who am I kidding
? She kicked at beach sand and cigarette butts along the curb.

The gallery door opened and a young woman stepped out. Shaped round and plush, with verve in her black eyes, she pushed her dark hair off her face and extended her hand. “Hi.”

“Hello,” Francesca said quietly.

“I'm Shanta Wall.”

Francesca shook the woman's hand, then looked away and lit a cigarette, wishing only to be left alone with her disappointment and angst.

“So, I really love your paintings.”

“Thanks.”

“No, I'm sure everyone says that—”

“Not really,” said Francesca. “A lot of people hate them.”

“Exactly,” Shanta replied. “That's how you know you're really good. If you weren't, why would anyone care?”

Francesca laughed uncertainly.

“Unfortunately, I have ulterior motives.” She held out a folded-up piece of paper. “In case you're ever in Boston. Or not. I'd travel.” Shanta grinned and shifted her weight from foot to foot. She was Indian, apparent now from her smooth features, her eyes, the thickness of her obsidian hair. She's beautiful, thought Francesca. And she followed me out here because she wants me. Because I painted those nine pictures. Even though I'm exactly the same fucked-up person I've always been, suddenly women like this want me.

The door to the gallery opened and Charlotte leaned out. “Hello? What are you doing out here?” Charlotte looked at Shanta, then back at Francesca.

“I'll be right in.”

“Wasn't that something?” Charlotte shrugged and rolled her eyes, looking like a child who'd had too much sugar. “Not as bad as I'd feared.”

“Yeah.”

“Francesca, there are a lot of important people here waiting to speak with you.”