‘That’s theory; practice is something else. I want to talk about Volatore Two.’
‘But you haven’t told me about Volatore One yet.’
So I told him all there was to tell about Volatore.
‘And I still don’t know if it was real. I mean, how can a woman have sex with an imaginary creature that only exists in a book?’
‘Everything is real – try to remember that.’
‘Even a hallucination?’
‘Even a hallucination. You experienced it; whatever it was, it happened to you and is part of your reality.’
‘You’re batting a thousand, Doc. I’m ready to throw away my placebos. Have you read Orlando Furioso, by the way?’
‘Yes, I have. Did you make up the name Volatore?’
‘No, he, the hippogriff, told it to me.’
‘Are you in love with him?’
‘Yes, but I want him to be somebody I can walk down the street with, and he can only assume human form if he takes over someone else’s body. I’ve told you all that.’
‘What if you did walk down the street with him in his original hippogriff form – do you think other people would see him?’
‘I’m afraid to try that experiment. Can we move on to Volatore Two?’
‘OK.’
‘He had the same smell and he knew about the painting of Ruggiero and Angelica in El Paso. He himself did a weird painting while in a sort of trance, then he came out of it, didn’t remember doing the painting, and hasn’t painted since. I keep wondering if Volatore played any part in that.’
‘Where is the original Volatore now?’
‘I don’t know. Somehow we dropped out of the Ariosto story and now we’ve lost touch.’
‘Have you tried to contact him?’
‘No, this double-reality stress got to be too much for me and I’ve just been trying to get my head straight for a while now.’
‘Do you want to find him?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘So will you try to reach him now?’
‘Yes, I will. It’s something I have to think about.’
‘What is there to think about?’
‘How to do it.’
‘Don’t you know how?’ The ripple pattern on the ceiling was moving faster, as if speeded up by his voice.
‘It’s a trial-and-error thing,’ I said, ‘and I’ll have to do it in my own time if you’ll allow me.’
‘You sound defensive.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I feel attacked.’
‘I’m not attacking you.’
I looked at my watch.
‘Isn’t my time up?’ I said. ‘You probably have someone coming for your next session.’
Dr Long shook his head.
‘Is it possible,’ he said, ‘that you’re not altogether sure you want to be with Volatore again?’
‘I have to go now,’ I said. ‘I’m expected elsewhere.’
Chapter 45
Random Passes, Wide Receivers
Olivia Partridge, my partner at Eidolon, is more of a pragmatist than I am; her thinking always leads to action.
‘We promised Ossip Przewalski a new show,’ she said, ‘a while before our recent Volatore binge, remember?’
‘I remember.’
‘So let’s do it, OK?’
‘OK.’
Przewalski rides a Harley Davidson and he paints nudes on Harley Davidsons. His approach is somewhere between Kokoschka and Redon and his last show was a sell-out. We swung into action planning the layout of the show, composing the ad for the art magazines, making up the invitation list and organising the catering.
I did this automatically while my mind was on other things. Sometimes I ask myself whether being human in the usual way is enough. Whether something isn’t missing. Some animality in another dimension. Well, I would say that, wouldn’t I? I have coupled with an imaginary beast and I can still see his strange eyes, his beaked face close to mine. Not a dream, not a hallucination. Part of my humanity. Maybe I’m not the only one. Maybe others have had imaginary-animal lovers.
Dr Long says not to bother with definitions but to deal with things in the simplest way practical. Occam’s razor and all that. But what is the simplest way? It seems that the original Volatore is transmitting something of himself to receivers who don’t necessarily have any connection with him. Joe Fontana had read Orlando Furioso and knew about the da Carpi painting but Alyosha Zhabotinsky, who might have read Gogol but not Ariosto was picking up scrambled Volatorisms such as ‘dim red taverns of sheep’. Are these the people he’s trying to reach? Not likely. He’s firing off random shots because he’s unable to aim his transmissions. I know he’s trying to reach me.
Dr Long asked me whether I was sure I wanted to be with Volatore again. Am I sure? Well, no. It’s a heavy trip, and scary because I sense in it the danger of losing my mind. R. D. Laing said, at the height of his vogue in the seventies, that the breakdown is often the breakthrough but that idea hasn’t had too many adherents lately and I don’t think it would work for me. I’m afraid of falling through a hole in reality if I keep messing with two kinds of it. So are my fears and doubts creating a barrier to communication from Volatore? I won’t think about that any more right now, I’ll think about other things.
Chapter 46
Expectation
‘Irene,’ I said. ‘You’re losing your figure.’
‘But you’re gaining a litter,’ said the look she gave me.
‘So who’s the father?’
‘I didn’t see his face – it was a speed-dating kind of thing.’
‘Maybe it’s time to have you spayed.’
‘What, you don’t believe in free love?’
‘Irene, nothing about love is free.’
‘Has life made you bitter? Talk to me about it, I’m a good listener.’
‘Some other time, Irene. Now I have to think of names for your love-children.’
‘You’re all heart, Boss.’
Chapter 47
Cometh the Hour
The painting stayed on the easel. We hadn’t framed it and we mostly kept it covered. People came and went; for some, but not many, we uncovered it but it stayed unsold. One day the Volatore smell walked in, bearing on its waves a small man with a beautiful hairpiece that concealed his baldness so realistically that it was like the acting of a method actor whose realism emphasises the artfulness of his art. This man was wearing Armani, Rolex and a confident smile. He had a red-carpet kind of walk; in his small way he was grandiose.
Olivia and I uncovered the tiny, tinies and stood on either side of his avenue of approach. He looked at the painting, sighed, closed his eyes, opened them and turned to us, at the same time taking out a large chequebook.
‘How much?’ he said.
It was a moment or two before I was able to take in the reality of his words.
‘You want to buy it?’ I said.
He nodded, and speaking slowly, as to a foreigner, said, ‘It is for this reason that I flourish my large chequebook.’
‘This one speaks to you, does it?’ said Olivia.
He closed his eyes again.
‘In a dream have I been there with the tiny, tiny dancing giants in the dim red caverns of sleep.’
‘Have you had this dream recently?’ I asked him.
‘Yes. Why do you ask?’
‘This is the first time I’ve heard of anyone seeing the subject of a painting in a dream before seeing the actual painting. You don’t happen to know Lenore Goldfarb, do you?’
‘This pleasure,’ he said, ‘I have not yet had. Again I flourish my chequebook and express my wish to know the price of this painting.’
‘This one is a rarity,’ I said. ‘In fact it’s unique, the only work of a man who gave up painting after producing it.’
‘As one would,’ said the odoriferous gentleman, uncapping his Mont Blanc. ‘I am ready if you are.’
‘Very well th
en.’ I drew a deep breath. ‘The price is one hundred and fifty thousand dollars.’
Unperturbed, he found a table to lean on, wrote the cheque in a large round hand, waved it in the air once or twice to dry the ink, and presented it to me. I looked at the signature: ‘Volatore’.
‘Volatore!’ I exclaimed.
‘Ah,’ he said preenfully, ‘this name makes a bell to ring, yes?’
‘Yes. Tell me why.’
‘Do you go to the movies?’
‘Sometimes. Are you an actor?’
‘Actors! Pfft!’ (With a snap of the fingers.) Have you seen A Midnight too Far?’
‘I’ve seen it,’ said Olivia. ‘Lola Trotter and Rodney Stark.’
‘And the credits?’ said Volatore. ‘Did you read the credits?’
‘No.’
He passed his hand over his wig and gave us a sidelong glance.
‘Hairstylist!’ said Olivia.
‘Hairstylist!’ he said, drawing himself up to his full shortness. ‘I, Volatore, made of Miss Trotter a thing of beauty, Ah! che bellezza! Without my art she would receive from no one a second glance.’
‘You’ve done a great job on her,’ said Olivia.
‘Thank you,’ said Volatore, bowing modestly. ‘I am also known for Volatore’s TurboScalp System (patent pending) which has stimulated Mr Stark’s performance to a level well beyond the limits of his talent.’
‘Can a TurboScalp System really do that?’
‘He thinks it does, so it does. This is known as the placebo effect.’
‘Interesting!’
‘Yes, and profitable as well. High-powered executives, athletes, opera singers and many other professionals who must work to the highest standards swear by my TurboScalp System. It is because of this that my chequebook is so virile.’
‘Forgive me if I’m being too personal,’ I said, ‘but your smell …’
‘Ah, the smell of me!’
‘Yes, as you have to get close to your clients, doesn’t it present a problem?’
‘No. Only when I am receiving a transmission does the smell manifest itself. In my salon it happens not.’
‘So you’re receiving a transmission now?’
‘As your nose tells you.’
‘From whom?’ said Olivia.
Volatore shrugged and with both hands made a ‘It’s a mystery to me’ gesture.
‘It’s a mystery to me,’ he said.
‘If you don’t mind my asking,’ I said, ‘is your name always Volatore?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, is it Volatore every day or only on special days?’
‘My name is what you call a twenty-four-seven thing, every day of the year.’
‘Please don’t be offended by these personal questions,’ I I said, ‘but has it always been Volatore?’
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Only since 1958. In that year there was a popular song that was a big hit: “Nel blu dipinto di blu” was the title but it became known as “Volare” which is the infinitive “to fly”.’ He sang a few bars of the song. ‘My father liked the sound of that word, and he went on to the word for “flyer” which he liked even better, and he had the family name legally changed from Garzanti to Volatore.’
‘Tell me,’ I said, ‘what do you think is the special attribute that made you a receiver of these mysterious transmissions?’
‘This to me is also a mystery,’ said the hairstylist with the appropriate gesture.
‘Do you know why Orlando is furious?’ asked Olivia whose knowledge of Ariosto was limited to the title.
‘This I think must be known to everyone,’ said Volatore Three. ‘It began when he and Angelica drank from the two fountains, he from the one that made him love her and she from the one that made her despise him.’
‘This is not common knowledge,’ I said. ‘Have you a particular interest in Ariosto?’
Volatore Three smiled deprecatingly.
‘It is my hobby to render his Italian into English,’ he said humbly. ‘Mine may not be as good as what is already published but it gives me pleasure and harms no one. Ariosto’s elegance and wit can be approached in more than one way in a rhyming translation.’
‘Ah!’ said Olivia and I together.
‘Please telephone me when my cheque has cleared,’ he said, ‘and I shall have the painting picked up.’ He handed me his card which bore a Nob Hill address, bowed ceremoniously, and left.
‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ said Olivia. ‘I wonder who Volatore Four will be.’
‘Me too,’ I said, and the two of us took the cheque to the bank.
Chapter 48
Cold Water
Dr Jim Long was born in Pennsylvania, and sometimes when his mind is pedalling in busy circles he recalls a thing from his youth. He recalls a drink of water from a mountain spring in the Appalachians. He was hot and sweaty and tired when he came upon a stone trough with water flowing into it from an iron pipe. Cold sparkling mountain water filling the trough from an iron pipe that was beaded with droplets of condensation. There were leaves and sand and tiny crayfish in the bottom of the trough. He plunged his face into the water and drank the best drink he would ever have in his life. The leaves of the trees were stirring in the summer breeze. Everything was more than itself.
Dos Arbolitos is both home and office for Jim, with books everywhere and various prints and posters, among them John William Waterhouse’s Naiad. He smiles approvingly, then moves on to Waterhouse’s Destiny, where he shakes his head in admiration. ‘Yes!’ he says quietly, because in those two paintings he’s looking at the face and form of Angelica Greenberg. Her beauty is Victorian and she is quite simply the definitive Waterhouse woman from top to bottom. Her figure is long and lithe, her limbs all sweetly rounded, her body ideal for such naiad activities as swimming and dodging around trees. As to her face, the nose is long and elegantly retroussé; the delicately modelled cheeks echo her other roundnesses and offer to the viewer her large and lustrous sea-green eyes with their shapely brows under that shining coppery hair. Her lips are made for kissing, and her firmly rounded chin completes the face that is poised on the long and graceful neck of Angelica Waterhouse Greenberg.
‘That whole first session with Angelica,’ says Dr Jim to himself, ‘I was showing off. The things I said were OK but when I play the session back in my head I can hear myself showing off. “It’s called life,” ’ he says, mimicking his show-off voice. ‘OK, she’s a Waterhouse beauty but she’s also someone who came to me for help with her problems and I’m her forty-one-year-old shrink who started with her like a sixteen-year-old high-school kid and have since abandoned all professionalism and indulge in sexual fantasies. Very good, Dr Jim. Felicity said when she moved out that I lived too much in my head and acted too much out of it. She’d have made a pretty good shrink.’
Chapter 49
Death in the Afternoon
I hadn’t heard from Clancy since the evening of our dinner non-event and I felt a little guilty about not being kinder to him on that occasion, so when the preparations for the Przewalski show were well in hand I went round to Clancy’s Bar one afternoon. The place was crowded as usual and Himself was visible sitting at a table with a striking blonde who’d had some work done. She didn’t have a sign around her neck that said I’M SLEEPING WITH HIM but she might as well have. They were leaning towards each other in a sleeping-together kind of way while he lit her cigarette and she lit his fire. She had very thin arms.
I was hoping to disappear unnoticed but of course he saw me.
‘Hi, Angelica,’ he said with the front of his voice. ‘Come and join us.’ So I did. ‘The world doesn’t stand still,’ his face said to me very plainly.
‘Go for it, Clance,’ my face answered.
He interrupted our wordless conversation to introduce Blondie.
‘Angelica, this is Nikki. Nikki, Angelica.’ We shook hands. ‘Angelica is one of my oldest friends,’ he said smoothly.
‘Carries he
r years well,’ said Nikki.
‘And without surgical assistance,’ I replied.
‘Nikki’s published a monograph on Tanagra figurines,’ boasted Clancy.
Nikki was looking into the distance, humming the seguidilla from Act I of Carmen softly to herself. She was the right age for Dad’s ex-mid-life crisis, thirty-five or so, only five years older than I. Sitting there in her little cotton print with her thin arms and her worked-on face. The history-of-art lecturer who’d taken her to Rome, had he gone back to his wife?
‘Who was the publisher?’ I asked her.
‘University of California Press. Are you interested in Tanagra?’
‘My father had a couple of books on it. He said that although the pieces were small they had a bigness about them because of the wholeness of the artists’ vision. They reminded him of Daumier in the way the gesture contained the figure.’
‘What’s your last name?’ she asked me.
‘Greenberg.’
She nodded several times, made a ‘Whaddaya gonna do?’ gesture, and reached for a fresh cigarette.
‘Angelica,’ said Clancy. ‘What’re you drinking?’
‘Jack Daniel’s, please, a small one.’
‘Rocks? Water?’
‘No, just as it comes from the bottle.’
When Javier brought my drink I raised my glass to Nikki and Clancy.
‘Here’s luck,’ I said, downed it and left.
Chapter 50
Trained Perfection
On the way home in the cable car I watched the motorman working the grip lever and brakes. Another metaphor: how do I grip my destiny cable? And what about the brakes? I could feel the movement of that cable under me but I didn’t know how to make my life-car do anything useful.
That evening I didn’t feel like going out for dinner and I didn’t feel like cooking so I ordered Chinese from the Kwan-Yin. I had most of a bottle of Cava with it, scanned the TV schedule and decided to watch Rita Hayworth and Orson Welles in The Lady from Shanghai. Welles has never been venerated by me as much as he is generally thought to deserve but Rita Hayworth had married him and now they were both dead and she had outlived her beauty and her wits and was all gone, like champagne spilt on desert sands while her dancing flickered on demand for anyone with the necessary equipment. Fred Astaire said that she had been his favourite partner. ‘She danced with trained perfection and individuality,’ were his words. ‘Trained perfection’! From childhood up trained to delight an audience with the dazzle of her beauty, the grace and vividness of her movement, the spell of her charm, and to die knowing somewhere in herself that all of it was gone and she was alone except for her faithful daughter.