Josef took off the next day without leaving a word. It was like leaving a lover out in the cold. Had no better words to express it. Meanwhile I was left with more questions festering around like maggots on a rotten corpse. I really hated that kind of feeling.
I just wished that I he would leave maybe a letter, or called me before leaving. But Josef was a man of secrets, even with me. He kept a lot of them, that I was sure of. But I never push him to reveal them. It would be better if he divulge it in person, in his own time. Even if I wouldn't like it. For lack of activity, I decided to accept an invitation to an opening night of an art exhibition.
Vittorio Ancapo was a client of mine who had a 'problem' in the past concerning a certain art piece that was stolen. I recovered it less than 24 hours and we became on-and-off fast friends. Ancapo flitted around the world seeking art most of his life, while I spent daylight sleeping in a chest. Irreconcilable differences - that was the state of our friendship.
The exhibition was held at a private mansion a few miles out of LA. The manor belonged to a Derrick Adaro, someone Ancapo might have ran into in his glitterati-filled world he was living in. As I entered the mansion compound, the most arresting feature of this piece of multi-million dollar real estate was a single marble clock tower. Under the red twilight, the Italian marble surface shone like dark red ruby. Cars were already parked in an orderly manner in the front yard, and as I came around the impressive fountain that doubled as a mini roundabout, a jockey bowed. I got out and he stretched his hand for the invitation and the car keys.
He then went off to park my car, where several other equally impressive cars had been parked, as I held the other half of my invitation and walked toward the massive main door. It was slightly ajar and I could hear murmurs and faint music floating out – or it could be my extra sharp hearing. I went in and was quietly surprised.
That door disguised an inner compound that was brilliantly lit by strings of little bulbs hanging in the trees and lining every corner. A shady, ancient-looking elm stood in the middle of the compound, completely strung with the same little bulbs, making it actually look more majestic and imposing. People dressed up in the height of fashion – important-looking men in sharply-tailored tuxedos and suits while the women dazzled with creations by the crème-de-la-crème of designers. Diamonds and other precious stones shone and cufflinks twinkled, coming alive under artificial light. Where were the art pieces, the paintings? I wondered.
"Micky!"
No one else in the world called me by that name but Ancapo. I turned around to hug him, but his arms were already around me and he squeezed me affectionately. I must say, Ancapo was a very strong man, and he often squeezed hard, intentionally. It was his way of making sure he was known physically.
"Ancapo!" I returned the hug as soon as I was able. We walked to the side where a row of chairs were and sat down. "Been a while, buddy!"
He nodded, smiling widely. "This time, it's very different, Micky. You'll see what I mean."
"You always give uniqueness to the art world, Ancapo. I still reel from that sculptor you presented last season."
Ancapo laughed at this. We both knew it was horrible, but Ancapo was like a trusted brand in the art world. An artist could thank the heavens or whatever that held the fortunes if Ancapo discovered him and got ushered into the beautiful but often ugly upper spheres of the art world. Burt Ingleheim – if that was his real name – presented him with several sculpture last spring and Ancapo decided to help him, because there was no one else rather than Burt being a real talent. So really, it was out of despair rather than a professional decision.
"Never again, my friend. That will be the last time I have anything to do with signore Burt. But let me direct you to the bar." He pulled me toward a long table where a small bar of sorts had been set up. He ordered for himself a dry sherry and Sidecar for me.
Whenever I met with Ancapo I always prepared myself to at least pretend to drink or eat. He meant well, but he didn't have to know what I really was, did he now? It was the least I could sacrifice for his companionship.
I always ordered Sidecar because I assumed no one heard of that drink, but now the past caught up pretty nicely. Anywhere I went with Ancapo, somehow Sidecar would be on the list. I looked down at the dainty martini glass as the liquid within and the salt around the rim twinkled sadly back at me. With the motion of a practiced actor, I sipped the drink, tasting nothing as it flowed into my throat. Then I saw the placard. It announced the name, the theme of the art pieces and voluminous other less important things.
Music in Art
By A. N. Nemo
"He's half-Latin, half Liberian," Ancapo quipped as he pointed at the placard with an accusing finger, as if Mr Nemo himself was standing there. "That's why he opted to use initials instead." He took another sip. "But then if your name isn't weird, no one would stand up and take notice."
"I seriously resent that," I said, almost defensively. "Artists should be measured by what talent they have, not by their names!"
Ancapo laughed so loudly it turned heads. "Micky, don't feel touchy! I'm not talking about you. Although, your last name is rather catchy." He winked once at me and steered me away from that placard and back to the bar again. He motioned at the bartender and when he glanced at my glass I shook my head. "Let's face it, if your name is Jane Something or Peter Somebody Else, your art is not going to sell. There is something very – fetching, shall I say, about strange names. Let me list it down for you."
He showed me his hands that had thick, blunt fingers and capped them off one by one. "Monet, Pollock, Picasso, Matisse, van Gogh, Remington, Rodin – if you find the names hard to pronounce, the more artistic your pieces become."
"That's just silly, Ancapo," I said as I fake-swallowed another sip of my cocktail.
"Statistically it's true." He shrugged and took a delicate sip, noting a very gorgeous woman in a very risqué backless piece passing before us. "Now that woman could be out of Duchamp's Nude Descending a Staircase, No. 2."
"The only problem is," I said a short moment afterward, waiting for the woman to pass by an earshot, "she's not nude, and she's not descending anywhere. Tell me, Ancapo, when can I see the artist?"
"Oh, it's only a matter of time. He said he is having trouble with the flight – he's coming from Ohio, a town named Renew."
I racked my head for a place with that name, and as far as my unnatural long life was concerned, I had no memory of that place. "Sweet name for a town." Or it could be because I had never been in Ohio.
"He's one very pessimistic soul. When I contacted him two weeks ago, he was on the verge of selling off his pieces to another art dealer for a steal of a price! He thought that, after two months, I was no longer interested in his art. Then he went back to Ohio, leaving only his cell number with his agent."
I smiled slightly. "You know how to coax him out of his shell, in the end."
Ancapo beamed brightly at that. "I do, don't I?" He puffed his chest in a self-significant manner. "Here, let me show you his works. Some are near masterpieces, if I say so myself."
He ushered me into the house, which was an elegant amalgamation of Spanish and modern architecture. The imposing clock tower that rose above the house disappeared as we entered the house. Within the massive rectangular hall, the air was breezy, thanks to the unseen open veranda and windows. By now most patrons had also entered and milled about and their comments floated about in the air. Trying to catch them was like trying to catch very gentle butterflies – don't try too hard and they will come to you.
"… it's amazing how he captured the motion…"
"Did you see the sculpture? How it echoes the ripple of water?..."
"It's magnificent. Just look at the use of brush strokes to delineate the battle between light and darkness –"
"I beg to differ – darkness has already won. Look here –"
Ancapo, like a protective hen, immediately moved toward that person who was evidently about to touch the painting. "Excuse me, gentlemen, can I interest you in more refreshments?"
The men turned and began another talk, this time with Ancapo at helm. I smiled staring after them. That was Ancapo's foremost abilities – steering people to where he wanted them to be without they realising it, leaving me free to move about.
As I looked about, there were only five pieces, but the air was buzzing with excitement. I decided to choose a piece that had less people and walked toward it. It was a massive painting, measuring 110'' by 350''. So big, it almost reached the ceiling and covered most of the wall space. But amazingly, the subject was a study of a still-life of plants, of all things. Furthermore, the plants were so detailed, I could name all of them without referring to a book.
"It's watercolour, not oil paint," a voice next to me said.
"How in the world did he do that?" Another asked.
I could not help but join in the talk. "You're saying the whole canvas is paper?" Then I got a good look at the owner of these voices. A young woman, somewhere between 25 and 29, bespectacled, brunette hair tied into a ponytail. A middle-aged man, tall, soldierly-built and salt-and-pepper haired stood there pointing at the painting but his face was turned to her. Another man, smaller in stature, was scrutinizing the painting with deep interest. His face was wrinkled deep in concentration, seemingly ignoring the pair.
The young woman nodded at me, smiling. "Isn't it brilliant?"
I nodded in agreement. "Did he paint this as is?"
"Obviously not – that would be a hard thing to do." The small man turned to us. His voice revealed a lifetime abuse of alcohol and probably cigars. "He painted this layer by layer, careful not to let the watercolour run over. What I can't wrap around is the fact that the time he had invested in this piece." He shook his head.
"What's your verdict?" The tall man motioned to the painting. His fingers fell back in a neat folded position upon his chest, like a closed lotus.
"I shall keep it to the grave's mouth." With that he moved on to the next piece.
The young woman stared after the small man for a while, then turned to the tall older man and me, shrugging. "Weird." She rolled her eyeballs.
"Don't mind Mr Cress. He's prone to over-dramatisation. Personally I think it's an ode to Durer. Not a very brilliant one, but good nonetheless." He smiled at the young woman as she shook her head disapprovingly and left. Turning to me, he shook my hand, a firm nice one. "Saul Pendleton. Nice meeting you."
"Mick St. John. Did you say Mr Cress?" He nodded. "The art critique, Armando Cress?"
"Looks nothing like the art he critiques, no?" Pendleton said sneeringly. "But enough of the shark. Let's see the next piece."
I nodded as we walked toward the next piece. Compared to the first one, this piece was more intimate, more sedate, less imposing. Like night and day. Incidentally enough, the piece title was Night and Day.
A woman was seated in a lounging seat was staring at an open French window. There was no evidence of the sun except for a brilliant patch of carpet lit up in the darkened room. Shapes took distinct forms almost as if by magic and rendered near-recognisable by what little light available. The woman's face was not immediately clear – she was looking away from the painter. She was draped in luxurious, multicoloured fabrics that seemed to have an inner glow. Her one hand was extended toward the window, but the other hand was hidden. Her long hair fell about her naked shoulders in a delicious tangle.
"Call me stupid," I said slowly, tracing the painting in the air, "but this quite reminds me of a Caravaggio."
"You're stupid."
I turned to stare at him.
"And yes," Pendleton quickly added – either because of my stare or not – "this does look like Caravaggio. Light and shadow interplay in a very subtle manner. You can even plumb the darkness for more emotions – like that hand. I can see her hand pointing – or maybe reaching for something. And the fabrics! Look at the printed patterns. Reminds me of Matisse."
I silently agreed. The patterns were precise but subtle. The darkness was nothing like the chiaroscuro I saw on a Leonardo, but it worked well with the atmosphere. "Just one complaint: I wished there were more skin." We both laughed good-naturedly and moved on to the next piece.
In the middle of the hall stood a sculpture. Actually, it sort of reclined. It took a lot of floor space, and velvet ropes were hung about it, surmounted by dainty silver poles. As we approached it, the appearance of a lumpy piece of clay did not escape me.
"Did you bring an elephant?" I asked Pendleton.
"No, why?"
"Then whose did number two here?" I pointed at the piece.
Pendleton's eyes shone with humour, but the way he contained himself sent a subtle signal to me that my humour was rather out of place. Feeling numerous disapproving stares pierced me at the back, I let out an uncomfortable 'ahem' and peered at the piece, salvaging any piece of dignity I might have after that unfortunate distasteful humour slip.
The sculpture was cast out of bronze. Yellowish light, courtesy of the chandeliers hanging above us, lent an ancient aura to it. It seemed to me a simplified human figure – I wanted to add crude, but Pendleton might disagree – in recline. From the figure a single extension flowed out at shoulder level. That extension became a set of wavy lines as it reached the floor. The lines were deceptively delicate and thin for a bronze construction.
"Getting second thoughts, are we?"
I nodded without acknowledging Pendleton. "I guess he won't be giving out tricks of his trade soon. Melancholy, Stirring the Pond of Truth. Wow. That's one small pond."
"You don't get it, do you?" said a new voice. Pendleton and I both turned. It was the woman whom Ancapo described as the No.2 Duchamp. With a gentle yet authoritative pull she grabbed my hand. Still with the same gentleness, her hand over mine, she slowly moved my hand in a circular motion over the bronze wavy lines.
"What do we know about ripples?" she breathed into my ear.
"It – moves in a concentric circle."
She nodded. "And...?"
She might be drawing me out, so I decided to play along. "If given enough time and space, it can become a wave."
"When, my dear man. When."
So Pendleton had decided to play along, too.
The woman went on: "So what do you think will happen if Melancholy stirs the Pond of Truth?"
"A tidal wave?" I guessed.
She straightened herself so fluidly, I suspected that the dress she wore was nothing more than body paint. "A better answer than Mr Critique himself. Where is he anyway?"
"He wanted to take a rest outside," a familiar voice floated around a painting that was hanging from a slender wire. It was the brunette with the ponytail. She pushed her sliding spectacles upward and turned to the walking Duchamp No.2. "Ms. French, the crowd is ready."
The two ladies turned and walked hand in hand to the outer compound. A podium surrounded by fat paper lanterns transformed the breezy night into an airy, fairytale-like atmosphere. Ms French walked to the podium, followed by the brunette. Ms French flashed a smile to her audience.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I'm sorry to announce that Mr Nemo is unable to make it tonight. His aid informs me just now that he has an unavoidable problem that he really needs to sort out before he can come here to Los Angeles." Moans and groans of disappointment arose, but French raised her graceful arms, placating them. "But he sends his regards, and wants us to enjoy his arts without any distractions. So without further ado, I present to you –"
A shriek of terror pierced the air, rudely interrupting French's speech. A confused look appeared for a second on French's face before something heavy suddenly landed beside her. The brunette screamed her surprise, and when she saw what had landed there, she screamed again in terror. She jumped off the podium and ran back into the hall, still screaming her head off.
As the screams wreaked total havoc among the crowd, I ran as fast as I could against the tide of panicked men and women. As I made it to the podium, I realised someone else was already there. It was Pendleton. He turned to me and shook his head.
"It's – God, it's Armando Cress," he sputtered in disbelief. "Dear lord..."
He moved away as I leant close to the body. There was no mistaking it; it was Armando Cress. I could smell his blood about him that was trickling from the wound somewhere behind his head. His eyes were closed, almost tranquil, unlike the cacophony around him.
I leant back and was prepared to stand. As I did so, the wrinkled eyelids began to flutter and open slowly but surely. I could hear a collective startled sigh around me. Cress's eyes roved around before focusing on mine. The eyes were clear, sharp and intelligent. They were not the eyes of a man who had just taken a fifty feet fall. Instinctively I leant closer, my eyes still trained on his. In one breath, Armando Cress's seven last words on earth were:
"There is no music in the arts."