Veronica remembered what she’d been doing at two. The whole thing now seemed dreamlike. What Marzen had done, and had made her do, confused her. She wanted to tell Ginny but it seemed too weird to communicate.
“I don’t even remember how it started,” Ginny was going on. “He took me to this kiosk at the end of the main path. He said I looked beautiful in the moonlight — Christ, what a line. I knew what he was planning. Next thing I know I’m bare-assed on the floor of this kiosk, the moon in my eyes. I never saw his face.”
Veronica chewed her lip. She hadn’t seen Marzen’s face either. “What happened next?”
“He went down on me,” Ginny said bluntly. “Pretty good technique, I can tell you that. Average guy doesn’t know what he’s doing. Anyway, I’m just about to get off, and Gilles stops.”
Veronica didn’t have to ask the rest. “I got the same treatment from Marzen,” she admitted. “He told me I had to love myself before I could love someone else.”
“Gilles said the exact same thing to me!”
“Transposition,” Veronica mumbled.
Ginny laughed. “Boy, are we a couple of dopes. At least I don’t feel so silly now.”
Veronica watched the pulse of ripples in the water. Then she thought of her orgasms, their ferocity, the raw wildness of their release. “I wonder what kind of game they’re playing.”
“I told you. They’re trying to mystify us. Men think women are impressed by shit like that, the idiots. But…”
Ginny’s eyes beseeched her. Ginny was the most straightforward person Veronica knew, yet now there was only confusion in her expression, utter doubt. “I think I could fall in love with the guy,” she said.
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth. Some French musclehead makes it with you, and you’re ready to fall in love? You? The literary destroyer of love?”
Ginny didn’t answer. She returned her gaze to the water. Eventually she said, “I started my story. Did you start your painting?”
“Sort of,” Veronica said, remembering Khoronos’ request that they create while they were here. She hadn’t put anything on canvas yet, but she knew she would paint her dream. The Ecstasy of the Flames, she might call it. Or The Flame Lover.
“My story’s going to be about—”
“Don’t tell me!” Veronica insisted. “Khoronos said we weren’t supposed to talk about our projects till they’re done.”
“Speak of the dilettante,” Ginny said. “Here he comes now.”
They stood up quickly. Khoronos was crossing the yard with someone. “I wonder who he respects more, artistically,” Ginny ventured with some resentment. “Us or her?”
“I couldn’t care less,” Veronica claimed, yet she admitted a little resentment of her own. The woman Khoronos led across the yard was Amy Vandersteen, who seemed to have achieved the best of both worlds: the only thing bigger than her bank account was her critical acclaim. Veronica liked most of her movies — psychologic sojourns of womanhood insinuated through a dark Polanskiesque eye.
Khoronos approached them, in gray Italian slacks and a black silk shirt. “It’s my pleasure to introduce Amy Vandersteen,” he said. “This is novelist Virginia Thiel and expressionist painter Veronica Polk, both quite well-received in their fields.”
They exchanged smug handshakes. Amy Vandersteen wore clothes that reminded Veronica of Stewie: white leather pants, black boots, and a Day-Glo red cardigan over a bright blue T-shirt which read “Birdsongs of the Mesozoic.” New-wave Cleopatra, Veronica thought. The woman’s hair hung perfectly straight, with high straight bangs, and was dyed snow white. Designer contacts made her eyes purple.
“I’ve seen your books in the stores,” she told Ginny. She had a cool, nasally voice. “I’ll have to read one sometime.”
“Don’t hesitate to buy film rights,” Ginny joked.
“Unlikely.” Amy Vandersteen wasn’t joking. “I write all my own scripts.” She turned to Veronica. “I haven’t heard of you.”
“You will,” Veronica said.
Then she turned back to Khoronos. “I’d really love to see the rest of the estate, Erim. You have impeccable taste.”
Khoronos led her back toward the house.
“Jesus,” was all Veronica could comment.
“You were right,” Ginny said. “She is an asshole.”
“Stewie!” Jeri blurted over the line. Some unnamed excitement raged in her voice. He’d hired her from St. John’s as a secretary. “You got a call on line one! It’s the—”
“Calm down,” Stewie replied. He felt disaffected today, depressed or something. “Who is it?”
“It’s the Corcoran!”
This sounded funny. “What do they want? A donation?”
“They want you, Stewie! They want—”
“I got it,” he mumbled. He punched the extension. “Stewart Arlinger here.”
“Mr. Arlinger,” came a dry and rather sexless voice. “This is D. F. Pheeters. I am the director of the schedule of events for the Corcoran Gallery of Art.” The voice pronounced schedule as shed-yule. “You are the agent of Veronica Polk, the expressionist?”
“Yes,” Stewie perked up, “not that I’d label her as an expressionist. I believe my client’s work transcends categorization.”
“Yes, of course.”
It was true, Veronica had gained some notoriety over the last year. Making waves was the name of the art game. But had she made enough waves for the Corcoran?
“We’d like to do a show,” the voice told him.
This statement, coldly conveyed, locked Stewie up at his desk. “You mean a joint show, a filler or something?”
“No. We’d like to show Ms. Polk’s work exclusively.”
“Uh, when?”
“First week of next month. We have a cancellation, Shiver, the abstractionist. We want your client in that slot.”
This was difficult to believe so abruptly.
“Mr. Arlinger? Are you there?”
“Uh, yes, yes, I was just thinking.”
Now the voice seemed impatient. “Well, are you interested or not?”
“Yes, uh, yes, we are—” How should he address the genderless voice? Sir? Ma’am? Director? “There’s a minor probl—”
“Mr. Arlinger. Surely you’re aware of your own client’s schedule. She is either available or not. Which is it, Mr. Arlinger? If you’re not interested in showing your client at the Corcoran, I’m rather certain I can find someone who is.”
“We are interested,” Stewie said, but what else could he say without sounding incompetent? “My client is out of town for a short time. I’m expecting a call from her very soon.”
“Is your client prepared to show new work?”
“I—” I don’t fucking know! he wanted to yell, because I don’t know where she is, and I have no idea how to reach her! “I’m not sure to what extent, and I apologize for this inconvenience. She wanted to get away for a little while. I’m certain she’ll be in touch very soon.”
“Very soon, you said that twice, Mr. Arlinger. How soon?”
“I’m not sure,” Stewie confessed. “It wouldn’t be wise for me to make a commitment before talking to her first. She’s very secretive about what she’s got ready to go. But I’ll get back to you the minute I hear from her. I just need a little time.”
“A week is all the time I can give you, Mr. Arlinger. If I don’t hear from you by then, I’ll presume you are not interested in showing your client at the Corcoran Gallery of Art.”
“I understand,” Stewie said. “And thank you very m—”