Incubi

“Oh, it’s not a compliment, it’s an observation. If your work weren’t brilliant, I wouldn’t say it was.”

“What if my work sucked?”

“Then I would summon the necessary gall to tell you. But only if you asked me first, of course.”

Veronica liked him. He looked aristocratic, she thought; that or refined through some vast experience. His face was strikingly handsome — perfect hard angles and lines. His eyes were dark, yet she could not discern their color.

Inexplicably, Veronica felt a tingle.

“Why exactly are you interested in subjective psychology in modern art, Mr. Khoronos?”

“The feminine mystique, I suppose.”

“What?”

“Your paintings are emblematic of the things men can never understand about women,” he answered, half eyeing the canvas she stood before. “It’s your camouflage that rouses my…curiosities. Not necessarily what your art is saying in general, but what you are saying about yourself.”

“That’s fairly rude, Mr. Khoronos.”

“I’m sorry. I was just trying to be objective”—he smiled again—“to an objective painter.”

The canvas he addressed was her least favorite of the new batch. It was called Vertiginous Red. A tiny stick figure stood within a murky red terrain while swirls of darker red — blood red — weaved across the background. The figure looked abandoned, which was exactly what she wished to depict. “All right,” she challenged. “What does this painting say about me?”

His answer came unhesitantly. “It’s an expression of sexual ineptitude, since you asked. Disillusionment in, oh, I’d say a very young mind. This painting is about your very first sexual experience.”

Veronica tried not to react. Is this guy psychic? Vertiginous Red was her attempt to paint how she felt after her first time. She’d been seventeen. The boy had left her hurt, bleeding, and terribly… disillusioned. She’d never felt more unsure of the world.

“Of course, that’s only my interpretation,” Khoronos was prompted to add. “Only you can know the painting’s true meaning.”

“Do you want me to tell you?”

He reacted as if stung. “Heavens, no. Artists must never betray their muse. In fact, I’d be disappointed if you did.”

Veronica felt embosomed by some smeary kind of wonder. She didn’t know what it was, she only knew that it was definitely sexual.

Khoronos glanced at his watch, a Rolex. “The show’s nearly over. I’d like to browse a bit more if you don’t mind.”

“Please do.”

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Ms. Polk.”

She nodded as he stepped away.

“Who was that? The man of your dreams?”

Stewie stood beside her now. He was her manager/sales agent, though he liked to refer to himself as her “pimp.” He made a point of dressing as ridiculously as possible; this, he claimed, “externalized” his “iconoclasia.” Tonight he wore a white jacket over a black “Mapplethorpe at the Corcoran” T-shirt, pink-spotted gray slacks, and leather boots that came up to his knees. His perfectly straight black hair and bangs, plus the boots, made him look like a punk-club Prince Valiant.

“He’s just some guy,” Veronica answered.

“Just some guy? Looks to me like he put some serious spark into those girlieworks of yours. Quit staring at him.”

“His name is Khoronos,” she said. “What is that? Greek? He doesn’t look Greek.”

“No, but I’ll tell you what he does look. Rich. Maybe I can milk him. He likes Vertiginous Red.”

“Oh, Stewie, he does not,” she complained. “It’s my worst paining in years.”

“He likes it. Trust me. I saw it in his eyes.”

Several patrons greeted her and thanked them both. The usual compliments were made, which Veronica responded to dazedly. Most of her consciousness remained fixed on Khoronos, across the room.

“I think he’s a critic,” she said a minute later.

“No way, princess. That guy’s suit, it’s a ’Drini, a megabuck. Art critics buy their suits at Penney’s. And did you see the diamond stickpin on his lapel? He’s money walking.”

“Shhh! He’s coming back.”

“Good. Watch Stewie take him to the cleaner’s.”

Stewie’s commercial intuition always hit home, which was why Veronica tolerated his ridiculous wardrobe and haircut. He’d sold twelve of her paintings tonight, one of them-called Child with Mother, an inversion of the traditional theme — for $10,000. She felt intimidated now, though. She felt second rate, even though she knew she wasn’t. “Don’t ask for more than a thousand,” she said.

Stewie laughed.

God, he’s good-looking, she thought as he approached. The little tingle worried her. Stewie was right. She was hot.

“A most impressive show,” Khoronos said in his strange accent.

“Thank you. Would you care for some champagne?”

“Oh, no. Alcohol offends the perceptions. The muse is a temple, Ms. Polk. It must never be reviled. Remember that.”

Veronica was close to fidgeting where she stood.

“Hello, sir,” Stewie introduced. “I’m Stewart Arlinger, Ms. Polk’s sales representative.”

“Khoronos,” Khoronos said, and declined shaking hands. He viewed Stewie smugly as a hotel owner viewing a bellhop.

“Are you an art critic?” Veronica asked.

Khoronos laughed. “Heaven forbid. I’m nothing like that, nothing like that at all. Nor am I an artist myself.”

“What are you, then?”

“I’ve already told you.” The faint, measured smile returned. “I’m a voyeur. And art is what I feast my vision upon.” Abruptly he turned to Stewie. “I would like to buy Vertiginous Red.”

“I’d be happy to sell it to you, Mr. Khoronos,” Stewie answered. “Vertiginous Red makes quite a profound and important creative statement, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’m aware of the work’s artistic significance.”

“But I’m afraid the asking price is considerable.”

Khoronos frowned. “I didn’t ask you how much it was, I told you I wanted to buy it, Mr. Arlinger.”

Stewie didn’t waver. “Twenty-five thousand dollars.”

Veronica almost fainted. Goddamn you, Stewie! That piece of shit isn’t worth twenty-five CENTS!

Khoronos’ face remained unchanging. “My people will be here at eight a.m. sharp. Please see to the painting’s proper exchange.”

“That’s no problem at all, sir.”

Khoronos was suddenly peeling bills off a roll of cash, which he then stuffed into an envelope and handed to Stewie. He turned to Veronica, smiled that cryptic smile of his, and said, “Good night, Ms. Polk.”

Then he walked out of the gallery.

“Christ on a surfboard!” Stewie frantically counted the money in the envelope. Veronica was too dizzy to think.

“I don’t believe this,” Stewie muttered. He handed Veronica the envelope. It contained $25,000 in hundred- dollar bills.

* * *