By Nightfall

“For you to come up here and help me think about what to put in its place.”

“I could do that.”

“I hate to impose.”

“No, it’s fine.”

“I just. It’s so different, when something’s in a gallery.”

“It absolutely is.”

“And I have a feeling that if you and I stand in that part of the garden together, you’ll think of an artist who’d never occur to me.”

“Only one way to find out.”

“You’re an angel.”

“When would be good?”

“Well. That’s the thing.”

“What?”

“It’s horribly boring and awful, but we have people coming over. Middle of next week. The Chens, from Beijing, do you know them?”

Fuck yes. Zhi and Hong Chen, real estate trillionaires, who buy art the way kids buy comics, which is not true anymore even of the richest Americans. They’re Chinese, for God’s sake, they’re the hope (and, well, maybe the destruction) of the future.

“I know of them.”

“She’s lovely. He can be a bit of a bore, frankly. I’m going to invite the Rinxes, to help me with Hong. Anne Rinx actually speaks Mandarin, did you know that?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Anyway. At the very least, I think the Krim needs to be gone by then.”

“Do you think the Chens are bringing schnauzers?”

Ha.

Okay, not that funny. Remember, Peter: you are some hybrid of friend and hired help. You have latitude, but you can’t get uppity.

“I’d love to have something new in its place by then. If that’s even remotely possible.”

“Many things are possible. The trouble is, I’m hanging a new show this week.”

“Are you?”

“Victoria Hwang. Did you get the invitation?”

“Oh, I’m sure I did. This week is out, then?”

“Let’s think a minute. I could probably run up there late-ish on Wednesday afternoon.”

“If it’s too late in the day, the light will be gone. That part of the garden only gets light until around five.”

“I can get there before five.”

“Really and truly?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re a complete angel.”

“More than glad. I’ll have Uta check the trains, that’ll be faster than a car.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re entirely welcome.”

“You’ll call and let me know about the train? Gus’ll pick you up at the station.”

“Great.”

“I love you.”

“Love you, too. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Peter clicks off, gives himself a moment. Kings and queens, popes and merchant princes, were surely far more demanding than Carole Potter. Funny thing is, he likes Carole, and part of what he likes about her, perversely enough, is her aristocratic sense of entitlement. Without rich people who want it done now, who would animate the free world? In theory, you want everyone to live peacefully according to their needs, along the banks of a river. In fact, you worry that you’d die of boredom there. In fact, you get a buzz from someone like Carole Potter, who keeps prize chickens and could teach a graduate course in landscaping; who maintains a staff of four (more in the summers, during High Guest Season); a handsome, slightly ridiculous husband; a beautiful daughter at Harvard and an incorrigible son doing something or other on Bondi Beach; Carole who is charming and self-deprecating and capable, if pushed, of a hostile indifference crueler than any form of rage; who reads novels and goes to movies and theater and yes, yes, bless her, buys art, serious art, about which she actually fucking knows a thing or two.

The energy these people possess. The degree to which they care.

So, okay. One more job for Tyler. Get up there pronto, and make the Krim disappear.

And what can be magically summoned to take its place?

Hm. A Rupert Groff might be perfect, mightn’t it?

Of course it might. He can see it clearly, instantly: a Groff urn, shimmering in the shade at the far end of Carole’s southern lawn, the least cultivated and most English of her outdoor realm, all lavender and hollyhock and mossy pond. It’s the ideal spot for a Groff, one of the asymmetrical but heroic bronze urns that looks like some sort of pomo classic from a distance but proves, on closer inspection, to be inscribed all over with profanities, political screeds, instructions for building pipe bombs, recipes for eating the rich. This is, of course, what’s troubling about Groff—his satires of wildly expensive, beautiful things that actually are, as it happens, wildly expensive, beautiful things. Which is meant to be part of the joke. Which Carole Potter will appreciate.

She’ll also appreciate the idea that Peter is representing Groff. Admit it: Carole is cooling on you, and the failure of the Krim doesn’t help. Peter has been at this for almost two decades, and has never graduated to the majors. He’s been loyal to a body of artists who’ve done well enough, but not spectacularly. If he doesn’t step up soon, he can probably expect to grow old as a solid, minor dealer, respected but not feared.

It’d be good, it’d be very good, for the Chens to see one of those urns glowing in Carole’s garden. He can probably count on Carole to mention his name.

Would it be ghoulish to call Bette so soon?

“Hey, Bette.”

“Hello, Peter. Nice to see you yesterday.”

“So, the day after, what do we think about the shark?”

“Personally, I think it’s a dead shark in a big iron box and I can’t wait to get to Spain and start worrying about tomatoes.”

“Carole Potter just called me. She’s been trying out a Krim at her place in Greenwich.”

“Carole is great. You’re lucky to have her.”

“It’s thumbs down on the Krim, though.”

“Can you blame her? I mean, for one thing, they smell.”

“She has it outside.”

“Still.”

“So, listen.”

“You want to show her some Groffs.”

“Were you serious yesterday?”

“Of course I was. I was going to call him today.”

“Here’s the thing.”

“What?”

“Momma wants the Krim gone now and something else in its place, like, tomorrow. She has the Chens coming over.”

“The Chens are murderers.”

“Do you know anyone they’ve actually killed?”

“You know what I mean. It’s robber barons, all over again.”

“Does this mean that I’m foul and corrupt?”