They started down the street toward their next appointment.
“But you handle yourself well,” Daniel told him. “You were cool and con-
fident and never lost your temper. I like the new piece.” He pointed at the
portfolio. “You work well when you work small.”
Abbas accepted the compliment with a shrug. “One does what one can.
Short of sexual intercourse.”
“You might have come on a bit strong in that department.”
“You think? I was afraid I was not strong enough.”
“I thought you made yourself clear.”
Abbas frowned. “But you are not objective here. You are more tuned to
my body English than they.”
Daniel couldn’t argue with that.
“But yes, maybe I scared him. Only sometimes you can scare them into
saying yes. Have you ever gone to bed with a dealer?”
“Uh, not since graduate school.”
“Exactly! Only when one is young does one make that mistake.”
The next gallery was Eye Wash, a large space over a restaurant by the river.
It was run by a beautiful young woman named Sophie who wore T-shirt and
jeans. She was better organized than Bernard and actually expected them.
Nevertheless, there was a briskness about her, a know-it-all tone that didn’t go
away, not even when Abbas turned on the sexy smile. He was even smoother
with a woman than he was with a man. This time, however, Daniel was not
amused but worried, uneasy. Not because he thought Sophie would succumb
but because she was so pretty that Abbas should want her. Bernard was a joke,
but this girl was something else. If she had a sensual bone in her body, she
should want Abbas. She made Daniel see again how handsome Abbas really
was. So why did this Middle Eastern hunk waste his time with a middle-aged
art teacher? Was it because Daniel was the only game in town back in
Williamsburg?
He was relieved that Abbas got no more from Sophie than he had gotten
from Bernard: a promise to consider his work. Which wasn’t very promising
since there were no paintings in her gallery, only sculptures and constructions.
E x i l e s i n A m e r i c a
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One corner was filled by a piece called Chance: thousands of Lotto tickets
were stacked in several houses of cards, high-rises of luck—two of which had
already collapsed. It was fun, but was it art?
That was how things went for the rest of the afternoon. Nobody said no,
but nobody said yes, and it didn’t matter if the dealer was smart or dumb, po-
lite or rude, attractive or ugly. Elena’s contacts were as useless as Daniel’s.
They visited only six galleries, yet it felt like six hundred. None of the art on
display elicited either envy or scorn. Daniel had forgotten that his joke about
painting being what the dinosaurs did wasn’t a joke. The work was all gim-
micks, sometimes with craft, sometimes without, yet nothing was so absurd
that one could dismiss it with laughter. Too often, the piece was already laugh-
ing at itself.
When they finished, it was after five o’clock and pitch dark, the bleak early
dark of November. What now? The Dia Center had an opening tonight, but
there’s nothing like an afternoon of art dealers to kill all love of art. Another
man might have felt angry, but Daniel was only depressed.
“Want to get something to eat?” he asked Abbas.
“It is too early. I’m not hungry.” His face was tired and blank, worn out by
all the insincere expressions that had performed there.
“We could go over to Eighth Avenue and look at pretty men.”
Abbas lifted his eyebrows. “That is what you want?”
“Not really. But I thought you might enjoy it. Not something you get to do
in Virginia.”
Abbas thought a moment, then shrugged. “Oh, why not?” he said, and
they headed over toward Eighth.
What Daniel really wanted to do was to go back to their hotel and take
Abbas to bed. But he was feeling too sad right now, too vulnerable. The au-
tumn darkness poured straight into his soul. He felt like he’d failed Abbas this
afternoon. He needed to put some time between failure and sex tonight. It
wasn’t as if he believed he had to earn sex with Abbas—although success
could brim over in carnal gratitude. No, what Daniel feared was that he
needed sexual love so badly right now that it would break his heart if he didn’t
get it, or overwhelm him if he did.
They found a table at the Big Cup, the hangout for Chelsea boys who
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C h r i s t o p h e r B r a m
didn’t drink alcohol—it seemed like nobody in New York drank anything but
coffee anymore. They sat with their cappuccinos and looked around at the
young men—young for Daniel but peers for Abbas. Why was Daniel doing