“What’s your earliest memory?” she asked Julian.
“Ha,” said Julian. “You don’t want to know.”
“Au contraire! I do.”
Julian drained his coffee, then crumpled the cup and tossed it into the back seat. They were crossing the Queensboro Bridge now, and stripes from the girders flicked rapidly over his face. “It’s pretty bad. Honestly, I’m not sure I should tell you.”
“Why?” Elsbeth said. “That’s not fair; I told you about my half sisters.”
“True,” said Julian, merging off the bridge into Queens. The skyscrapers had been replaced by rows and rows of two- and three-story houses and apartment buildings huddled together; there was graffiti everywhere. Julian lit a cigarette. “I didn’t grow up in a nice home like you, Charlie. I was a foster kid.”
“So?”
“So,” said Julian. He exhaled through his nose. “So I have no idea who my mom and dad were. So somebody left me in a shoebox on a church step when I was eight hours old. So I was in an orphanage for a while—I don’t remember that at all—but then I went to several different placements until they put me with Peg.”
“So,” Elsbeth said. She was scrambling to keep up, mentally shuffling through the images as Julian described them. “So, Peg. Was that your mom? Did she adopt you?”
Julian smiled, but Elsbeth thought it was the meanest smile she’d ever seen; he looked like the Grinch. “Oh, no,” he said. “She didn’t. But she had other ways of showing her love,” and he flipped his right forearm to expose the underside. It was peppered with silvery dots, as if acid rain had fallen on the tender skin there.
“What is that?” Elsbeth asked.
“Burns,” said Julian. “From her Swisher Sweets—you know, those little cigarillos you can buy at gas stations? Yeah. Peg was classy like that. She liked to play connect-the-dots on me when she was drunk.”
Elsbeth gasped. She could hardly imagine anything so horrible happening to anyone, let alone to Julian. Julian, who was so kind and thoughtful; Julian, who all the art magazines said was a genius—Photoplay had called him the best portrait photographer since Eisenstaedt.
Julian reached for his Camel pack on the dashboard and lit a new cigarette from the end of the first. “Amazing I still smoke, isn’t it?” he said. “The triumph of bad habit over memory.” He laughed.
“Where did this happen?” Elsbeth asked, as if geography would explain the brutality.
“Wisconsin,” said Julian. “That’s where I was born, in a city called La Crosse.”
“I know La Crosse!” said Elsbeth, sitting up in her seat in excitement. “It’s right across the river from where my grandma Ida lives. We used to go to this department store called, called—”
“Doerflinger’s,” said Julian.
“Yes, Doerflinger’s!” said Elsbeth. “It had an old-fashioned lunch counter and chocolate malts—”
“It was a shithole,” said Julian, “like everything else there.”
“Oh,” said Elsbeth. She sat back, feeling a little bad on behalf of the store and La Crosse, too; she had always liked it. But of course, Julian would know it better than she did.
Julian’s mouth crimped. “Forgive me, Charlie,” he said. “My memories of Wisconsin are not the best.”
Elsbeth nodded. She felt like a fool for having brought it up. “How did you get out of there?” she asked, trying to steer him to happier recollections.
“As quickly as I could,” said Julian and laughed. As with his smile, there wasn’t a trace of humor in it; if it had been an object, Elsbeth thought, that laugh would have been tinfoil. “By the time I was sixteen, I decided I’d had enough of Peg’s maternal love and hit the road. I took money from her purse and what I’d saved working odd jobs and started hitching. All I wanted was to get to New York—I’d read an article about it in a doctor’s office, and I was obsessed with it. It just seemed like the kind of place where you could be whoever you wanted.”
Elsbeth nodded again; she had heard much the same from her mother. “So you got to New York when you were sixteen?”
“Not exactly,” said Julian. “I had to work my way there. I started out in Milwaukee, then Indiana—”
“Doing what?” said Elsbeth.
Julian’s Grinch smile spread. “That,” he said, “I am not going to tell you.” He tossed his cigarette out the window; they were on 495 now, in a cement maze of liquor depots, carpet wholesalers, used car lots. “Let’s just say it was rather unsavory. Until I got to Pittsburgh, and then I managed to snag a job at Sears.”
“As . . . a salesman?” said Elsbeth, picturing Julian in a plaid suit, hawking washing machines.
“As a janitor. But one day they had an opening in the photo department, and I jumped on it. I loved it. I loved developing the film and seeing other people’s lives, even if the images were really boring, like of a birthday party or a new grill or lawn mower. I started saving up to buy my own camera, and I found one at a garage sale, a beat-to-shit old Nikon—pardon my French.”
“That’s okay. I’ve heard it a time or two before,” said Elsbeth.
“I taught myself to shoot with that thing,” he said. “Black-and-white portraits, mostly. The guys in the stockroom. The bums in my neighborhood. My roommates. Very Gordon Parks, very derivative. Though of course I didn’t know that at the time. All I knew was I loved it, and I could develop the film at night, at work, for free. And one night the manager, Al, came in for something and caught me and I thought he was going to fire me, but instead he said, These are good, kid. You’ve really got an eye. And that was the beginning.” He shrugged and lit another Camel. “First he told me to submit to contests, even offered to pay the entrance fees, so I did. I won a prize in Art Forum—first prize, which meant money, and a show in Chicago. At the Klein Gallery, on Michigan Avenue—I had to borrow a suit from Al.” He laughed. “It was four sizes too big for me, but there you go. Then I started shooting kids, and then nudes, and a couple more prizes later . . . I was in New York.”
“Wow,” said Elsbeth. She was awed, both by the story—which no articles had covered—and by Julian’s disclosing so much. She had never heard an adult talk so much about himself, ever.
“Wow is right,” said Julian. “Nobody was more surprised than me. Sometimes when I wake up I think I’m still in Peg’s rat-trap by the Mississippi, with blue plastic on the windows.” He turned to Elsbeth, talking around his cigarette. “Do you think less of me, Charlie, knowing I wasn’t always the magnificent creature you see today?”
“Hardly,” said Elsbeth. “I think you’re even more amazing.”
Julian grinned. “You’re a pip, Charlie, you know that?” he said, and then the cigarette dropped from his lips and disappeared. “Fuck,” said Julian and stamped around under the steering wheel; the car swerved. There was a scorched smell.
“I think it’s under the clutch,” he said. “Take over a sec, would you?”
“What—” said Elsbeth, but she didn’t have time to say anything else, because Julian let go of the wheel. Elsbeth grabbed it as he bent down to fish around in the foot well. The car edged into the left lane, and Elsbeth jerked her arm back just as an eighteen-wheeler barreled past, blasting them with its air horn. She stared at the highway, terrified. She had done this sometimes with Liza when Liza wanted to fix her hair or put in earrings, but on suburban roads only; this was a whole different ball game.
“There!” said Julian, surfacing with the smoldering butt; he flicked it out the window. “So that happened. Thanks, Charlie.”
“No sweat,” said Elsbeth, although her armpits prickled and she had an awful taste of metal in her mouth. “I’ve done it before.”
Julian laughed his deep, happy laugh. “Of course you have,” he said, “there seems to be nothing you can’t do.” He took the right fork in the highway, beneath a sign that read hamptons. “You’re a marvel, Charlie,” he said. “That’s you being you.”
* * *
The hous
e Julian brought Elsbeth to was in Montauk and belonged to another friend—Julian had more friends than anyone in the world, apparently. Elsbeth climbed from the non–General Lee and shouldered a backpack of camera lenses Julian asked her if she’d mind carrying. This house reminded her a bit of a Nantucket cottage her family had rented the year Elsbeth was four: gray-shingled and covered in trellised beach roses, hydrangea bushes beneath the windows. The proportions were different, however; this place was the size of an airplane hangar, and inside just as stark and chilly. They entered a vast three-story room built of chrome and glass and white marble, full of the kind of art Elsbeth knew was art because one wondered, exactly, what made it art. Sculptures like melting bronze skeletons, woven mats, and sieves; a Lichtenstein woman mourned that she had left her baby on the bus, and one whole wall was taken up by what Elsbeth knew, from a private showing with Sol, was a Pollock. In the center of the room, bisecting the panoramic window featuring the Atlantic, a single strand of green gum stretched from the ceiling to a white pedestal. Julian’s naked children were there too—boy and girl, holding hands, blown up to billboard size so their glowering eyes were as big as hubcaps.
Julian was encumbered by several tripod bags and another backpack with his cameras; he began to divest them now, sloughing them onto the marble foyer floor. “Rosa?” he called. “Anyone home? Got a drink for a thirsty man?”
“Jules,” growled a voice, “you reprobate,” and a man arose from what Elsbeth now realized was a couch, though she had mistaken it for another installation—it looked like a clump of oversize sugar cubes. The man was wearing a pinstripe oxford with the collar turned up and salmon-colored shorts, and his feet were bare; he had a flip of blond hair and looked like every preppy boy who had ever scared Elsbeth at school, especially when he came over to Julian and punched him in the shoulder.
“Ow,” said Julian, rubbing it.
“You wuss,” said the man, “you’re supposed to fight back.”
“Can’t,” said Julian, “slow reflexes. Late night,” and the man gripped him around the neck and rubbed his knuckles in Julian’s hair.
“Who’s this?” he drawled, releasing Julian and turning to Elsbeth. “Let me guess, dear, you’re the cage dancer from Limelight?”
“This is Charlie,” said Julian, “my new model. Charlie, Richard; Richard, Charlie. Remember, I told you we were coming out to shoot today?”
“Riiiiiiight, right,” said Richard. He squinted. “Wait, did you?”
“I said Saturday.”
“Riiiiiiiight,” said Richard again. “Except is it Saturday? I guess it’s Saturday. Hey,” he called, “Brie, it’s Saturday.”
“You don’t have to shout,” said another voice from the couch, and a woman uncoiled from it like a snake charmed from a basket by a flute. She was the most beautiful woman Elsbeth had ever seen besides her mother: short black hair cut in a bi-level like a boy’s; ice-chip eyes; cheekbones that rivaled the sculptures in the room. She wore a skintight hot-pink dress with a cutout over one breast that almost but not quite exposed her nipple, and she too was barefoot, a diamond band on one toe.
“Since this jerk won’t introduce me properly, I’m Brianna,” she said to Elsbeth. She undulated to Julian and kissed him a little too long on the mouth. “Juuuules,” she said. “Soooooooooo good to see you, you beautiful genius. Did you just looooove that review in the Times? Did you just die?”
“I did,” said Julian. “But then I came back to life.”
Brianna hung on Richard’s shoulder and swung back and forth as if he were a garden gate. “I’m sooooooo destroyed,” she said. “We were up all night, or was it two? We had people,” and she pushed at Richard’s face. He batted her hand away.
“Get them some mimosas,” he said, “or Bloodies.”
“Get them yourself,” said Brianna, “I’m not the maid. Speaking of, where is she?”
“I think I sent her to the store, three or four days ago,” said Richard. He lit a cigarette and held it between thumb and forefinger in a way Elsbeth had seen French exchange students do. “You coming on the yacht?” he asked Julian. “Get some sun on that pitifully wasted body?”
“Thanks, but no,” said Julian. “We’re going to shoot out back.”
Richard looked Elsbeth up and down. “You could shoot on deck,” he suggested. “Plenty of room.”
“Ohhhhhhhhh, doooooooooooooo,” said Brianna, pouring herself a Diet Coke.
“Can’t,” said Julian, “I get seasick,” and he winked at Elsbeth. “Besides, you know I like organic settings. There’s never anything better than when your subject synthesizes with nature, right, Charlie?”
“Right,” said Elsbeth.
Brianna redraped herself on Richard. “Your name is Charlie? You’re named after a boy?”
“That’s her work name,” said Julian. “It’s going to be her supermodel name.”
To Elsbeth’s surprise Brianna didn’t laugh soda out of her perfect nose at this, nor did Richard scoff—though he wasn’t really paying attention; he had wandered to the counter and was chopping something on it with a credit card. Jesus, thought Elsbeth, was that coke? She didn’t know anyone who had actually done it, but she’d seen it in movies, and some seniors at school had just been suspended for dealing.
Brianna tipped her head and peered at Elsbeth. “I guess you do have a look,” she said. “Doesn’t she have a look, honey?”
“Sure, absolutely,” said Richard. “If Jules thinks she has a look, she has a look.”
“You are soooo lucky,” Brianna told Elsbeth. “Jules is going to immortalize you.”
“Come on,” said Julian.
“It’s true,” said Richard. “If she’s your muse, she’ll be preserved for posterity: shown in galleries, hung in museums, studied in art history courses throughout the millennia. You are the maestro, it’s beyond dispute.” He hoovered up one of the lines on the counter with a rolled-up bill. “Who wants a bump?”
“I don’t think you need any more,” said Brianna.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” said Richard.
“We’re good,” said Julian. “I’m on the clock.”
“God, you’re boring,” said Richard. “I don’t know why I hang out with you.” He slapped Brianna on the rump. “Go get ready,” he drawled, “debauchery awaits.”
“I am ready,” said Brianna.
“You’re not going to change?”
“I’ll just take this off,” she said, drawing her hands down her hot-pink body.
“Charlie,” said Julian, “why don’t you meet me out back? I’ll just see these guys on their way and get us a couple of drinks.”
“Okay,” said Elsbeth and tried to thank them, but she was so flustered that instead of saying “Thank you” or “Thanks” she said both: Thanksou. Luckily nobody noticed; Richard and Brianna were arguing, and Julian was pressing a button that allowed the far glass wall to slide up. Elsbeth crossed the white marble and exited onto the lawn.
The grounds, like the house, were punctuated with oversize sculpture: a melting dolphin, a giant spoon. There was an expanse of grass and a pool, which seemed redundant: Why would anyone want chlorinated water with the ocean just beyond the dunes? Elsbeth yearned toward the beach, but she wasn’t sure where Julian wanted her, so she sat on a lounge chair next to some bushes clipped to look like big rabbits. She hugged her knees to her face and closed her eyes. The sun was hot on her face.
Inside, Julian and Richard and Brianna were talking; there was a burst of laughter, and a sound like a slap. Then they must have been coming closer, because Elsbeth heard Richard drawl, “Little older than your usual jailbait, isn’t she, Jules?” and Julian saying, “Lay off, you pervert,” and Richard saying, “I didn’t mean it like that; I just meant you’ve graduated from grade-school to pubescent.” “I’m trying something new,” said Julian, and Richard said, “Just don’t try anything in my house that’ll get you arrested. That’ll get me arrested. And promise me the fi
rst decent photo of the series,” and Julian said, “Done,” and there was the whap of footsteps, deck shoes or flip-flops, over patio flagstones and crunch-crunch-crunching on shells. Then Elsbeth heard Brianna asking, “Do you think he actually fucks those little girls he brings here?” and Richard saying, “Why, would that get you hot?” and Brianna saying, “You are officially filth,” and Richard saying, “You brought it up, you hussy,” and the car doors went chunk, chunk, and there was the pop of crushed shells and purr of motor as they drove away.
Elsbeth sat paralyzed. Did Julian—do that to his models? She didn’t think so; he had never made the slightest move toward her. Had he? Elsbeth wasn’t very experienced; the farthest she’d ever gone was second base, in the back row of a movie theater with the guy who’d also given her her first kiss: Paulie T, who had a cute face but also a tongue like a reptile, darting in and out of her mouth. Elsbeth had gotten rid of him as soon as possible. What if Julian did hit on her? What was wrong with Elsbeth if he didn’t? She and Liza and Very had discussed these scenarios at length: they didn’t want anyone in their school to take their virginity, the guys were all so immature. Until they met the right one, they would be the queens of Everything But. Julian might be the one: tender-hearted, synesthetic, world-famous, and a genius. Yes, Elsbeth decided, he was definitely it—and if he wasn’t interested, it was because, despite Elsbeth’s self-improvement program, she was deficient, ungainly, still too fat.
As if she had called him over, there was the sound of ice cubes, and Julian pulled over a chair. “Mind if I join you?” he said, handing her a glass of club soda. He lit a cigarette.
“So that,” he said, “was Richard and Brianna. I’ve known Richard my whole time in New York. He’s a Wall Street dude, a serious collector. Exceedingly wealthy. Extremely. Obscenely.” Julian exhaled and watched the smoke twist off over the dunes. “He’s kind of an asshole, isn’t he,” he said.
“Yes,” Elsbeth said with relief. “A total asshole.”