When he answered the door, he wasn’t surprised to see her. “I guess Michael called you.”
“Yes. Why didn’t you?” she asked.
“He probably told you I’m a total wreck. As you can see, he exaggerates.”
“He’s concerned about you.”
“I can handle it,” he said, forcing a smile. “I’m okay.”
In spite of his attempt to play down his reaction to Frank Howard’s death, she saw the haunted look in his face and the bleak expression in his eyes.
She wanted to hug him and console him, but she was not very good with people in ordinary circumstances, let alone in a situation like this. Besides, she sensed that he had to be ready for consolation before she dared offer it, and he was not.
“I’m coping,” he insisted.
“Can I come in anyway?”
“Oh. Sure. Sorry.”
He lived in a one-bedroom bachelor apartment, but the living room, at least, was large and airy. It had a high ceiling and a row of big windows in the north wall.
“Good northern light for a painter,” Hilary said.
“That’s why I rented the place.”
It looked more like a studio than like a living room. A dozen of his eye-catching paintings hung on the walls. Other canvases were standing on the floor, leaning against the walls, stacks of them in some places, sixty or seventy in all. Two easels held works in progress. There were also a large drawing table, stool, and artist’s supply cabinet. Tall shelves were jammed full of oversized art books. The only concessions to ordinary living room decor were two short sofas, two end tables, two lamps, a coffee table–all of which were arranged to form a cozy conversation corner. Although its arrangement was peculiar, the room had great warmth and livability.
“I’ve decided to get drunk,” Tony said as he closed the door. “Very drunk. Totally smashed. I was just pouring my first drink when you rang. Would you like something?”
“What are you drinking?” she asked.
“Bourbon on the rocks.”
“Make it the same for me.”
While he was in the kitchen preparing drinks, she took a closer look at his paintings. Some of them were ultra-realistic; in these the detail was so fine, so brilliantly observed, so flawlessly rendered that, in terms of realism, the paintings actually transcended mere photography. Several of the canvases were surrealistic, but in a fresh and commanding style that was not at all reminiscent of Dali, Ernst, Miro, or Tanguy. They were closer to the work of René Magritte than to anything else, especially the Magritte of The Domain of Arnheim and Ready-Made Bouquet. But Magritte had never used such meticulous detail in his paintings, and it was this realer than real quality in Tony’s visions that made the surrealistic elements especially striking and unique.
He returned from the kitchen with two glasses of bourbon, and as she accepted her drink she said, “Your work is so fresh and exciting.”
“Is it?”
“Michael is right. Your paintings will sell as fast as you can create them.”
“It’s nice to think so. Nice to dream about.”
“If you’d only give them a chance–”
“As I said before, you’re very kind, but you’re not an expert.”
He was not at all himself. His voice was drab, wooden. He was dull, washed out, depressed.
She needled him a bit, hoping to bring him to life. “You think you’re so smart,” she said. “But you’re dumb. When it comes to your own work, you’re dumb. You’re blind to the possibilities.”
“I’m just an amateur.”
“Bullshit.”
“A fairly good amateur.”
“Sometimes you can be so damned infuriating,” she said.
“I don’t want to talk about art,” he said.
He switched on the stereo: Beethoven interpreted by Ormandy. Then he went to one of the sofas in the far corner of the room.
She followed him, sat beside him. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Movies,” he said.
“Do you really?”
“Maybe books.”
“Really?”
“Or theater.”
“What you really want to talk about is what happened to you today.”
“No. That’s the last thing.”
“You need to talk about it, even if you don’t want to.”
“What I need to do is forget all about it, wipe it out of my mind.”