“No. I don’t know. You have to sell it all to
“So you’ll call him.”
“Mm-hm. Right now.”
“You’re the best.”
“I’m thinking about my Spanish tomatoes.”
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
Ugh.
Just do it. Just push on through. Remember: it’s in the service of something. Remember that all this is quite possibly (please, God) leading you to connect with some genius, unknown, unknowable, some Prometheus who is now a child in Dayton, Ohio, or an adolescent in Bombay or a mystic in the jungles of Ecuador.
The day progresses.
Thirty-seven new e-mails. Answer fifteen of them, leave the rest for later.
Make more calls.
Tyler and his crew arrive, start crating the Vincents. Uta handles that. Peter says a quick hello, hides out in his office.
“Victoria, it’s Peter again, just letting you know that the Vincents are on their way out, you could bring your stuff over any time.”
New e-mail, from Glen Howard. He’s had a studio visit from the Biennial people, clearly his star is ascending, maybe Peter wants to rethink the idea of giving him only the back gallery in September.
Think about how to phrase that. It can wait until after lunch.
“Peter, it’s Bette. I called Rupert, he’s expecting to hear from you.”
She gives him the number.
“You’re the greatest,” he says.
“Don’t mention it.”
There’s a wry weariness in her voice—has she decided that Peter is, in the final analysis, just another one of the assholes?
Fuck that. He can in all likelihood sell a Groff right away, and that’s what artists need from their dealers, right? They need them to sell the work. Groff’s at a tricky juncture—he’s not yet celebrated enough to command huge prices, but his work costs a fortune to make.
Call Rupert Groff. Get his voice mail. “Hey, it’s Groff, you know what to do.”
“Rupert, this is Peter Harris. Friend of Bette Rice. Love to talk to you when you’ve got a minute.”
Leave the number.
Call out for lunch, for himself and Uta and Tyler and his crew. Uta’s busy—Peter Harris, a Very Good Boss, doesn’t mind making the call. For him, Caesar salad with grilled chicken, or smoked turkey wrap? Salad. Summer’s coming, time to cut out the carbs. (At what age do you stop worrying about things like that?) Then again, there’s his funny stomach (cancer?). Turkey wrap.
Seventeen new e-mails since the last time he checked. One from Victoria—she’ll do anything to avoid a conversation. PETER, IM DOING A FEW FINISHING TOUCHES WILL HAVE THE WORK THERE TMROW 11 AM LATEST, XXX V
VIC, THAT’S GREAT, SEE YOU TOMORROW AT 11, YOU WILL OF COURSE LET ME KNOW IF I CAN HELP IN ANY WAY.
Bobby arrives at noon to cut his hair. “Hello, handsome.” Bobby’s as flirtatious with Peter as Peter is with his middle-aged women clients, and probably for the same reasons. Still, Bobby is good, and he’s willing to make house calls on Mondays, when all the salons are as shuttered as the art galleries.
They go into the bathroom together, and Bobby gets to work. Bobby is a monologist, Peter drifts in and out.
He’s met an Argentinian, a little older than he but drop-dead gorgeous (Bobby has never, it seems, met any man who wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous), he wants to take Bobby to Buenos Aires for a week but Bobby’s not sure, I mean, I’ve been there before, right, Peter? I mean they seem nice enough but then you get to some faraway place with them and they’re paying all the bills and they expect, well, never mind what they expect (it’s a tradition between them that Bobby implies dark sexual acts but never goes into detail), and frankly, well, you know me…
There’s more. There’s always more (how does Bobby do it, how does he never run out of things to say?), and Peter gets drifty (will Groff call him back, has he lost Bette’s respect?). Then:
“Peter, darling, have you thought about getting rid of some of this gray?”
Huh?
“Just a thought. What’re you, forty-five?”
“Forty-four.”
“We’d do it gradually. Week by week. I mean, you wouldn’t show up one day with the gray all gone. People wouldn’t even notice.”
Something like a trapdoor opens in Peter’s belly.
“I guess I’d thought it was sort of… distinguished.”
He doesn’t tell Bobby he’d thought it was sort of… sexy.
“Distinguished is, like, sixty. You’d look ten years younger.”
Peter is taken by a surprising tumble of feeling. Does he really look that old? Is it pathetic to want to look younger? He couldn’t, really, could he, even if he wanted to? People would notice, no matter how gradually it occurred; he would be a man who colored his hair and he would lose his seriousness forever, though maybe Bobby could just get rid of
Fuck you, Bobby. Why did you bring it up?
“I don’t think so,” he says.
“Think about it, okay?”
“Sure.”
Bobby finishes, pockets his cash. Peter walks him to the front door, past Tyler and his crew, who are not, it seems, in any particular hurry to get the Vincents down. Shaved-headed Carl, one of Tyler’s assistants, gives Peter a look—is it possible he thinks Peter is fucking Bobby? Fine, let him think so.
On the sidewalk Bobby kisses the vicinity of Peter’s face, hops onto his pale blue Vespa, and putt-putts off. Bobby is like the girls in forties comedies, pretty and avid and calculating, still young enough to be confident that the big surprises are yet to come, worried only about whether or not to go to Argentina with some lothario. There he goes, pert and unapologetically trivial, off to the next adventure.
Peter walks back in. Back to business.
Another dozen e-mails. Read them later. Right now, reply to Glen Howard.
HEY, GLEN, HOW GREAT ABOUT THE BIENNIAL PEOPLE! HERE’S HOPING THEY HAVE THE GOOD SENSE TO TAKE YOU. SORRY TO SAY THE FRONT GALLERY IS COMPLETELY BOOKED FOR THE FALL, BUT I PROMISE WE’LL GIVE YOU A BEAUTIFUL SHOW AND WILL GET A ZILLION PEOPLE TO COME SEE IT. YR OWN, P.
Rupert Groff calls back.
“Hey there, Peter Harris. What’s up?” He sounds shockingly young.
“You know Bette’s retiring, right?”
“Yeah. Big drag.”
“I’m a fan of your work.”
“Thanks.”
