Exiles in America(71)

Daniel had instructed Abbas to send both, so that dealers couldn’t claim

they looked only at the medium he hadn’t sent.

Bernard sat at his computer and rummaged through the debris on his

desk: magazines, diskettes, loose slides, a phone bill.

“We brought a fresh copy of the catalog from the Paris show,” said Daniel,

handing Bernard the booklet. “And the CD-ROM.”

“The Pompidou?” said Bernard, examining the booklet. “Hmm? Good

printing job?” A habit of uncertainty turned the simplest statement into a

question—one saw where his assistant had learned how to speak. Bernard

took the disk and fed it into a slot. He began to open files. “Yeeeees? Now I

remember. Very pretty. Egyptian? No? Iranian. Whatever. Deserty. But nice,

elegant.” He opened and closed images, refreshing his memory. “Too bad it’s

abstract. That was hot ten years ago. Now everyone is getting back to figura-

tive.”

Which was bullshit and it infuriated Daniel, yet Abbas remained smooth

and courtly. “But it is figurative,” he said. “Do you not see the bodies? The

torsos and sex organs?” He leaned closer, keeping his tone low and husky; his

French accent didn’t hurt. “Growing up Muslim, I learned to hide the erotics

of my imagery. But they are there, I assure you.”

“Yeah?” Bernard clicked back through the pictures. “Very subtle.

Very . . . visceral.” He frowned. “Reproduction never does justice to this kind

of work, however. I’d need to see the real thing. But you’re out in Pennsylva-

nia, right?”

“Virginia,” said Daniel. “He’s a guest artist at William and Mary.”

“Even worse,” said Bernard. “That’s a weekend trip, right?”

“Come for a visit,” said Abbas. “It is a dull town, but I know I can make it

interesting for you.” He was shameless.

Bernard winced. He disliked being tempted. “Sorry. No. My schedule is

locked tight for the next six months. There’s no way I can visit until next sum-

mer.”

“I can wait,” said Abbas. “In the meantime, let me show you this.” He

E x i l e s i n A m e r i c a

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bent down and slowly unzipped his portfolio. Daniel was impressed—the

man could eroticize anything. He lifted out a small framed canvas, one foot by

two, and set it on the desk.

It was a smaller version of Abbas’s orange gingerbread man, his body of

bodies, but with Arabic mixed with his little alphabet men. The picture sug-

gested a cross between a Persian miniature and a 1920s European abstract. It

was more concentrated than the big canvas, delicate and exquisite, the

portable Rohani.

Bernard frowned again. He’d been looking for a safe, noncommittal way

of saying no, but Abbas wasn’t giving it to him. One never knew how a dealer

would respond when cornered like this, if he’d turn nasty or propose mar-

riage.

“Beautiful,” he finally said. “Abstract, but it has figurative sensuality. I

presume that’s the Muslim influence? I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

He must not know Klee or Miró; the ignorance of dealers never ceased to

surprise Daniel.

“But I don’t know how to sell it,” said Bernard. “Beauty is out of fashion.

This kind of beauty. People want their art raw and edgy. But fashions change.

Maybe next year.” He returned the canvas to Abbas. He didn’t want this

temptation either. “Can I keep your CD and your catalog? Let me show them

to a friend. I’d like to hear what he thinks. You are in New York for how long?

Pity. But I can reach you in Virginia, can’t I?”

He was on his feet now, leading them toward the door. He had finished the

meeting and was getting rid of them.

“This has been a pleasure, Abbas.” He got his name right. “Thank you for

thinking of us. If you don’t hear from us in the next week or so, feel free to

give me a call.”

“Thanks for your time, Simon,” said Daniel at the door. “It was great to

see you again.”

“It was good seeing you, David. It’s been too long. Goodbye.”

They rode down in the elevator in silence and came out on the street. “Ass-

hole!” declared Abbas. “Big asshole! I come to him with a show in Europe

and good work in hand. I even flirt like a whore with the fat pig. What else

does he want?”

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C h r i s t o p h e r B r a m

“Welcome to New York,” said Daniel. “At least he didn’t say no.”

“They never say no. Not in Paris or Berlin either.”