I Am Having So Much Fun Without You (24 page)

“Sure,” I said, gesturing down the hallway. “We can go back there.”

As we walked, I allowed myself to imagine various scenarios as to why they were here. Maybe this was about Ngendo; perhaps they wanted her back? That would be a godsend, as her repatriation would score me points with Anne.

“Well, this is certainly ambitious,” said Dave, taking in the installation. “It's so different from your paintings.”

“But that's what we wanted to talk to you about,” said Dave hastily, handing me the box. “I'm not sure if Julien shared our recent news with you, about the energy in our home? Amira did another reading of
The Blue Bear
. And it came back—”

“Awful,” said Dan, nodding sadly.

“It was full of red and purple energy. There was even some black. It's really bad news for us. This has never happened with any of our art.”

“Well, I'm sorry to hear that,” I said, surprised by the box's weightlessness. “Should I open this?” I asked. “Or save it for later?”

Dan placed his hand over his heart. “Open it,” he said.

I took off the lid and removed a single piece of tissue paper. Underneath this was a photograph of
The Blue Bear
in their house.

“Oh,” I said, holding it up to the light. “Thank you?”

“We're so sorry,” said Dave, “but we have to give it back.”

“Sorry if I'm a tad slow here,” I said, staring at the picture. “You want to send the painting
back
?”

Dan didn't give me time to react. “Once a negative reading
is actualized,” he explained, “it can create waves of bad energy throughout the house. If they linger long enough, the black energy particles can actually be activated in the body. It's terribly unfortunate, but the bear just didn't gel within our personal space.”

“I had black energy in my organism once,” said Dave quietly. “From my college roommate. It took me six months to get my system back.”

Dan reached for Dave's hand. “We spoke to your gallerist,” he continued. “Everything's arranged.”

“You spoke to Julien about this?” I asked, looking down the hall to see if I could catch sight of the man who had withheld such vital information from me.

“We did. It's very unfortunate news, actually. I hope everything's all right.”

“Jesus, well, that depends.” What I wanted to ask them was what the hell was going to happen to the money I got from the sale? And who performs energy readings on paintings? And why the hell didn't they give me back
The Blue Bear
when I
wanted
it in November?

But in terms of energy, it felt pretty important that I not get upset. This was my big opening, and dammit if I was going to let two crackpots dressed like they were just off the set of
Miami Vice
ruin it for me.

“Well, I'd prefer to sort the details out with Julien, if you don't mind,” I said.

“Right,” said Dan. “Of course. In the meantime, Amira said it would be very cathartic if you washed it.” He pointed at the photo.

“Like an anointment,” said Dave. “It will create the mental space necessary for you to welcome the painting back.”

Well, I'd had it with professionalism. I cracked. “I wanted
this painting back
months
ago. I actually
needed
it, and you guys wouldn't give it back to me. And now you're telling me that—” I stopped to try to calm myself and failed. “I'd like you to take that fucking
sculpture
out of my house.”

“Oh, you'll need to keep Ngendo,” said Dan. “Clearly, she still has work to do within your life.”

 • • •

They left—taking their holier-than-thou eye rolls and their Kombucha breath with them. I was about to toss the photo of
The Blue Bear
into the American machine when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“Julien,” I said, turning. “Jesus! Why didn't you tell me about the
Bear
?”

My well-prepared ex-gallerist handed me some wine. “What do you want? They only called me yesterday. I didn't want to upset you. Plus,” he said, raising his glass, “there's absolutely nothing to worry about. They don't even want a refund.”

“You're not serious.”

He smiled broadly. “I didn't believe it, either. I even called my lawyer. They're going to sign a donation form. So the only thing is, we can't resell it. But we can donate it or, I don't know, do you want it back?”

“Yeah, I fucking wanted it back! Months ago. But what good is it now?”

“Speaking of,” Julien said, putting his arm around me. “Your wife just arrived.”

After giving the photograph to Julien for his gallery files, I headed through the body-choked hallway to find Anne and Camille looking at something behind Alice's desk. I stood there for a while, watching them. Anne had put Camille in a pink-and-wine-colored dress with a butterfly collar and a little pair
of black boots. Beside her, Anne was in a camel-colored tunic I'd never seen over a pair of slim pink jeans. Close-fitting and cashmere knit, it hugged her every curve. Through the open space in Alice's desk, I could see that Anne was wearing my favorite pair of heels: round-toe stilettos in electric blue with an embellished heel of gold and silver chains. She'd put her hair up into a chignon that, owing to her Frenchness, wasn't strict, but tousled, and she had a simple gold bracelet around her wrist, which danced down her arm as she pointed at something in the book she was looking at with Camille.

Keeping my eyes on my family in order to avoid locking my gaze with some well-wisher who might try to interrupt me, I made my way to them, bending down to hug my beautiful daughter first.

“Daddy,” she cried, letting me sweep her up. “You're back!”

“No,
you're
back, sweetheart.”

“
Mommy said you're gonna do something really smelly.”

“That's right, love,” I said, kissing her again. “Very.”

With my hand still clasping Camille's, I stood up and greeted Anne. Her skin smelled like gardenias. I wanted to nuzzle my face against the soft place just above her cheekbone, wanted to let my mouth graze her ear, wanted the din of chitchat and drinking around us to fade away.

“You'll never believe what happened,” I said, eschewing how-was-your-vacation questions to tell Anne the big news. “The Continuists were here, the ones who bought
The Blue Bear
? The guys who wouldn't let me have it back?”

“Really?” she said, looking around us. “They're gone?”

I nodded at the door. “You know why they came? To bring me a photo of it to throw in the wash. They're sending it
back
.”

“The painting?!”

“And not because I asked for it. Because it has
bad
energy
.”

Behind her desk, I saw Alice, who had been pretending she wasn't listening, raise her eyes.

“Don't worry, Alice love, it's not a business thing. It's just a bunch of nutters who do energy readings on their art.”

She waved her hand through the air, pretending she hadn't been eavesdropping.

“Bad energy?” Anne repeated, looking nervous. “Do you have to pay for it?”

I shook my head no. “But I can't sell it. They've drawn up some contract: donation only. So we can keep it . . . if we want?” I flinched.

I wanted terribly, acutely, to take her hand. I didn't. We stood there staring at each other, until she took a deep breath. “Why don't we just focus on tonight? And then we'll see.”

“Richard!” said Azar, coming over. “Twenty minutes good? And you must be Anne-Laure,” he said, kissing her. “It's lovely to finally meet you. And hello there, princess.”

During the several times I'd brought her by the gallery, Camille had developed something of a crush on Azar, the proof of which was evident in her immediately flushed cheeks.

“In the meantime . . .” He made an apologetic smile before turning back to me. “Can I steal you? There's some people—press—I'd like you to meet. If you two want to run in the back there to see the installation, by all means, you should.”

Azar whisked me away to speak to this person and that one, but my mind was in the back room with Anne. I wished I'd been beside her when she saw the finished installation under the lights, the ominous empty clotheslines with their waiting pegs, and the flag glowing in the background, like something stuck and bled.

I spoke with a couple of journalists and bloggers while the crowd around us swelled. People were pushed out into the
street, drinking and smoking. The reception area was too small to accommodate all of them, but Azar was firm about not letting the “laypeople” into the back space until we were ready to start the washers. Then the party would continue there until the wash was done, and I hung and tagged the items.

After I'd made the rounds, making progress with my sound bites, Azar made eye contact with me and tapped a knife against his glass.

“
Tout le monde, bonsoir! Merci d'être venus!
Now, if you'll just follow us into the back room, we're going to start the show!”

Like any event mixing food and humans, the exodus occurred in fits and starts of people getting refills on their beverages and loading up their plates with extra cheese and grapes. It took a good ten minutes to get even half of the attendees to the back, by which point Azar said he thought that was as good a time as any to start.

I took my place by the machines and scanned the room for Anne. She was standing in the corner with Camille, looking around at all the people. And then she looked at me. I couldn't read her face.

“Thank you again for coming,” shouted Azar above the noise. “I'd like to say a few words about this installation, mostly that we're very proud to have Richard Haddon here. Richard is a British citizen who spent a great deal of time living in America, and now the poor sod lives here.” People laughed. “And when we agreed to work on this together, the war in Iraq had not yet started. And now it has. What you see before you is a living representation of the absurdity and senselessness that has informed this conflict from the get-go, absurdity that will be replicated by the act that Richard is about to undertake, a kind of sacrificial washing of regretted items in oil.

“Some of you who donated things are actually in this
room,” he continued, looking around. “Others mailed them in. And many of the objects were chosen by the artist himself, but each one has a certain relationship to the country it represents, and most call to mind mistakes. On the left, we have America. On the right, the United Kingdom. Richard is going to begin the washes on both machines, calling out each item, and when he's done, he'll hang the articles on the clothing lines back there and identify them with dog tags. We invite you to enjoy this space while the machines are running, but when the drying starts, we'll be putting up a guardrail around it because of the hazardous material. We have masks in the reception area for any of you troubled by the smell, and I'd also like to point out the various exits: one there to the right, and one down the hallway behind you. Again, thank you for being here. Let the wash begin!”

The swell of the crowd gave me courage, but not quite enough to get rid of the uneasy feeling in my stomach. I would be starting with the American machine and washing Lisa's last letter. I was going to have to push myself into a dissociative state in order to maintain the nerve to call it out in my wife's presence.

Positioning myself in front of the American washing machine, I picked up the first article, and yelled, “Expired U.S. passport; Colin Peterson.” And then I tossed it in. I picked up another item: “Used T-shirt from Columbine, Colorado; Julia Mavis.” I went on like this until people had started chitchatting again, by which point, I wasn't hollering so much as passionately mumbling. Then there was only one item left to cite. I looked nervously around the room and saw that Anne and Camille were still there in the corner, watching my every move. I swallowed hard and said, “A final letter; Lisa Bishop,” and then I tossed it in, my heart pumping so quickly, my vision became blurred.

Trying to convince myself that I hadn't played out of bounds—that the intersection of the personal and the public wasn't disrespectful when it was art—I poured a full quart of oil into the machine, set it to cold/cold, light spin, and then, after a second's hesitation, I pressed start. I moved quickly to the British machine, calling out the items with as much confidence as I could muster while I sent out a silent prayer to please not let anything explode while I was standing in front of the Tricity Bendix.

When I finally turned around, I wasn't surprised to find the room half emptied, with pockets of people paying only a cursory amount of attention to what was happening in the spinners. I scanned the room of fickle art lovers for my wife. In the corner where she had been, Julien stood now, entertaining Camille. And then I realized why. Anne was coming toward me, an agenda on her face.

“So,” she said, with a look that squashed any hopes I'd had that my installation might have impressed her.

“This is quite a crowd.”

“Anne,” I said, “it wasn't, it was just that I—”

She held up her hand. “Just one thing, I don't want to ruin this—but you still have her letters?!”

“I got rid of all of them,” I managed. “Except one.”

Anne's gaze followed mine to the Whirlpool machine. Her lip twitched. “You destroyed it.”

I nodded. I watched her expression turn from hurt to hurt less to bemused.

“Well.” She sighed, walking away from me to trail her finger along the washing machine's glass window. “You think the stuff in there is going to make it? Did you sign an insurance rider in case it blows?”