When the cold weather came, Avila and Gene moved their work space closer to the oil stove in the middle of the loft. It was never quite warm enough even there; the high ceiling drew the heat away, and cold drafts came from every side of the room. Often in the morning the big windows were frosted over, glittering in the sunshine like sheets of ice. There were fewer visitors now, and they worked in a quiet contentment, hardly speaking all day long.
On weekends, if the weather was clear, they took the bus uptown. They went to the Museum of Modern Art to see Tchelitchew's "Hide and Seek" and Calder's delicate mobiles, to the Guggenheim for Kandinsky. They toured the galleries together, and Avila made skeptical noises. There were no living sculptors he liked, and very few painters.
They looked at Greek and Roman sculpture in the Metropolitan, and Avila said, "Here is where most of the crap comes from. They paint their statues, bright colors, but when we dig them up the paint is gone, so for two thousand years we think sculpture has to be white. They make their sculptures to look alive, that's why they are so realistic in form, every proportion, every muscle, and what do we do? We make them look dead."
He had nothing but contempt for action painting and minimalist art. "A big mistake," he said. "In eighteen forty, they try to see if they can do without hard lines, invisible brush strokes and all that classical crap, so then everybody says, 'Oh, let's see what else we can do without.' First they do without perspective, then natural forms, then they do without drawing, and now if you get some house paint and paint a canvas gray, they call it art. Pretty soon the only thing left to do is leave the canvas blank."
In the evenings sometimes they went to the ballet with friends, or the theater, or to a movie. Avila was fond of the films of Chaplin and Buster Keaton that turned up occasionally at the Museum of Modern Art, or at the Apollo uptown; he could seldom be persuaded to go to a modern film. He liked everything that was choreographed, economical, and certain in movement; he detested the work of actors who were stars because they were handsome. "What you see makes what you are," he said. "Watch crap long enough, you are crap."
Sometimes when they had been to the Metropolitan Museum, or to a movie uptown, or to the Cloisters, they went back to Gene's apartment because it was closer than the loft. Avila's 'Hierophant' was on the bookcase, and Gene saw him looking at it whenever he entered the room. One day he said, "Don't you ever wish you could keep things instead of selling them?"
Avila shrugged. "Sure, I wish. If I was a rich man, maybe I keep everything, like Picasso. Or if I was a bird I would fly."
"I could give you back this one," said Gene.
"No. You bought it, it is yours. Let's talk about something else."
Gene thought about it for a long time. Next week, when they entered the apartment, there were two 'Hierophants' on the coffee table. Avila stopped when he saw them. He looked at Gene, then at the two bronzes. "What is this?" he said. He walked forward, picked up one of the statues and examined it minutely, then the other.
"It's for you, a present," said Gene.
There was something haggard in Avila's expression. "But how did you do it?"
"I had it copied."
"Copied, what do you mean? A mold, then another casting in bronze? No." He turned the two statues on the coffee table. "The patina is the same. Here, these are the marks of my tools. And here, the same. No casting could do this. Don't tell me, I know."
With a sense that he had made a catastrophic blunder, Gene said, "lt's my uncle, he has a special process -- I don't know how it works."
"I want to meet your uncle. What is his name, where does he live?"
"He's my uncle Walter. He lives out on Long Island, but he doesn't see anybody except me. He's real old and kind of eccentric."
"Now, more than ever I want to meet this uncle. Tell me his address, I write him a letter."
"No, I can't, Manolo; I promised."
Avila looked at him a moment. "You are lying, aren't you."
Gene did not reply.
"There is no uncle. And the money you have -- There is no trust fund either, and no parents dying in a plane crash. True? Is this how you get money, by copying things and selling them? How many copies of this have you made?"
"Only one, Manolo. Honest."
"Now you are crying. When a man cries, maybe he is telling the truth." Avila put his hand on Gene's arm a moment and withdrew it. "Show me how you make these copies."
Gene rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Do you want another copy of this?"
"No. I was worried there were others, that's why I was angry. If there is supposed to be one and there are three, four, then I am a liar. Make something else. Here."
He picked up a little brass bell. "Take this, we go to where you make them."
"I can do it here." Gene put his hand over the bell, reached and turned; when he withdrew his hand, there were two bells side by side.
Avila looked at them incredulously, picked them up, weighed them in his hands. He stared at Gene. "This is a trick?"
"No."
Avila put the bells down on the table. "How do you do it?"
"I don't know. I can't explain."
"And it is real -- not a trick."
"Yes."
After a moment Avila said, in Spanish, "By the Virgin and all the saints, I have seen many things, but never this. I am sorry that I have seen it, because I am a man who does not believe in magic or in supernatural things." He picked up one of the bells and set it down. "Listen to what I tell you. I know you did this for affection, to please me. I would show my gratitude and keep the 'Hierophant.' But I can't; it is a known piece, someone would see that there are two. You must destroy the one you made."
"Yes, Manolo."
"And promise that we will never talk about this again."
Avila had a record player and a large collection of records, most of them classical. Listening with him in the evening, Gene learned to love Satie, Pachelbel, Vivaldi. He bought these records for himself. Once when they were in his apartment, Avila looked them over and said, "These are all the same as mine. Why do you copy my taste? Buy other records, find out what you like yourself." He tried, but it was no good; the only things he could love were the ones he had heard with Avila.
In 1961, when they had been together for a year, Avila allowed him for the first time to cast one of his pieces in bronze. It was nothing like Avila's work; it was a standing figure made up of the shifting planes and curves that obsessed him then; when it was patinaed and polished, the light gleamed like water in the subtle intersections.
Gene wanted to offer it to a gallery, but this Avila would not permit. "You are thinking that you can sell it, if anybody wants to buy, and also retain it for yourself. Even if you say you will not, maybe you will change your mind later. You know what I am speaking of. I said we would never talk about it, but now it is necessary. This power that you have, if you use it to make money, to live, that is nothing to me. But anyone can see that this is a bronze made by the lost wax process, that it is the only one, there are no others. If you make a copy, you cheat the man who buys it. Even if he never knows, that does not matter. Make serigraphs if you want, or etchings, if you want to sell your work; then there is no dishonesty. An artist must not be a criminal,"
At first Avila had made a joke of the difference in their height. Once he had said, "Why do you sit down when I talk to you?"
"I don't want to look down at you."
"But if you are not taller than I am, how can you look down at me?"