would be this weekend. “Meet you downstairs,” he said.
This was not just a sex weekend, a love weekend. They were here on busi-
ness. They were here for art. They had appointments at galleries, or rather
Abbas had appointments, set up by both Daniel and Elena. Tomorrow they
would go to Daniel’s favorite paint store and maybe a few art shows before
they finished at the Metropolitan Museum, which was open on Saturday
nights. In between, they’d spend hours and hours in bed, or so Daniel hoped.
He and Abbas had never shared a bed before.
“You will not be seeing any important painter friends or collectors this
visit?” Abbas had asked on the flight up.
“No, this trip is all for you,” said Daniel. “I’m just along for the ride.”
Daniel didn’t know any collectors, and seeing his New York painter friends,
important or otherwise, only depressed him.
He waited in the lobby for half an hour until Abbas came down in a hand-
some green overcoat with a cashmere scarf, carrying his portfolio case. Daniel
proposed they walk to the appointments. New York was a great town for
walking, he said.
They headed up to Fourteenth Street and west toward the Hudson River.
Daniel was glad to be back in the city, delighted by the variety of faces, the
wealth of features. He saw more people walking one block in New York at
lunch hour than he saw in an entire month in Virginia. There were all manner
of noses and hats, skin tones and hairstyles. Colors were drabber in cold
weather because of the winter coats, yet the people remained vivid. Daniel led
Abbas north into Chelsea, the new art district. SoHo was almost dead, the gal-
leries replaced by designer outlets and fancy shoe stores. The dealers had
moved uptown to this transitional neighborhood of auto shops and ware-
houses. The overpass of an abandoned train track spanned a cross street like
a black gate to Art Land. Most of Daniel’s experience with dealers had been
in SoHo, yet his stomach still knotted up as they passed through the gate.
Their first stop was S. R. Bernard, in the same building as Mary Boone and
a half dozen other galleries. Dealers tended to clump in one location like vul-
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tures. The exhibition spaces were identical: white walls and blond floors. Only
the art changed from gallery to gallery, although it didn’t change enough.
Daniel buzzed at a frosted glass door on the fifth floor, and they were
buzzed in. A male assistant came out from behind his desk. “Can I help you?”
Abbas was already frowning at the pictures on the walls—sinister black-and-
white photos in the style of Joel-Peter Witkin. Daniel introduced himself and
said that he’d brought an important Iranian painter to meet Simon Bernard.
“Yeeeees?” went the assistant uncertainly. “Simon has stepped out. I’m
not sure when he’ll return.”
“We have an appointment,” said Daniel.
The assistant marched back to his desk. He was as blond as the floor, and
remarkably tanned for November. He opened a notebook. “You don’t have
an appointment.”
“We do,” said Daniel. “For two o’clock on Friday.”
“Today is Thursday.”
“No, it’s Friday.”
The assistant pointed his chin at Daniel as if to say, Prove it. He let out a
sigh, turned a page, and said, “You’re Abba?” He pronounced it like the
Swedish pop group.
“Abbas. Abbas Rohani,” said Abbas with a stern, regal air. He knew how
to treat servants, and the boy was clearly a servant.
“Uh-huh,” went the boy. “Simon has you down. So he should be back any
minute. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Bottled water? Fruit juice?” It was
as close as he came to apologizing for his mistake.
Simon Bernard arrived fifteen minutes later, a large, pink, shiny man in his
fifties with a black leather jacket and martini breath. He was profusely apolo-
getic and thoroughly insincere. “Daniel Wexler? Yeeeees? Haven’t seen you
in ages. How are you?” He pretended to remember him but clearly didn’t.
I must be in love, thought Daniel, if I can introduce Abbas to a dealer who
forgot that he gave me my first show twenty years ago. Yet Daniel felt no pain
for himself, only anxiety for Abbas.
“And you are—?” Bernard asked Abbas. His tongue poked the inside of
one cheek as he looked him up and down. He seemed to like what he saw: a
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C h r i s t o p h e r B r a m
dark, handsome man who stood with his coat open, like a male model, dis-
playing a zigzag-patterned ski sweater. “Rohani. Uh-huh. Come into my of-
fice. Did you send slides or CD-ROM?”