Sara Paretsky: Body Work

The next Monday at breakfast, I was startled to see my name jump off the Herald-Star ’s “Around Town” page, in a small paragraph about the Body Artist and Club Gouge. “Angry customers, who objected to her nudity, tried to lie in wait to attack her, but local PI V. I. Warshawski quickly sent them about their business.”

I called the club owner to find out if she’d leaked the story. “Do you know who used my name to prop up some bogus story?”

“What do you mean, bogus story? You called me yourself to tell me that bunch of guys was hanging around the club. I figured I was a little short with you, so I did you a favor, giving you credit. Next time, hire your own publicist.”

“Ms. Koilada, those punks didn’t object to your artist’s nudity. I don’t know what pissed them off, whether it was her mocking them with her cat drawing, or the woman who was painting her when they charged the stage, but-”

“But nothing,” she snapped. “You don’t know what they objected to. Neither do I. But the idea of a nude artist offends some people-”

“And titillates others,” I interrupted in turn. “So this little story will bring more people to Club Gouge. Congratulations.”

I hung up, making a face at myself. A phone call like that was a waste of energy, and I should have known better than to make it. I went down to my office and tried to put the club out of my mind-not so easy, since my cousin Petra had taken a job there. I learned this from her texts: She, like, totally loved the club! tps r aweso cows gr8! I got the tps but didn’t understand the cows. Petra sent back one impatient word: coworkers.

Two weeks after our outing to Club Gouge, Petra bounced in midafternoon on Sunday. Mr. Contreras, her honorary “Uncle Sal,” so adores her that she was taken aback when he started lecturing her over taking the job at Club Gouge.

“You’re a young gal, Petra Warshawski, but not too young to know right from wrong. What are you up to, wanting to work in a degenerate place like that? And that-that woman, that Olympia, who owns it-she’s no better than a madam in a brothel. I saw plenty like her in Italy during the war, and I know one when I see one.”

“Are you talking about the Body Artist? She is not degenerate! Her performance is totally cutting-edge. You live, like, in a cocoon here. You don’t know anything about art or you’d know that just because someone is naked up on a stage it doesn’t mean they’re a bad person! If some man painted a picture of her naked and hung it in a museum, you’d think, wow, he’s a totally great artist. Well, she’s a totally great artist, and she doesn’t need a man or a museum to make her famous. You saw her, Vic. Explain to Uncle Sal how she’s reclaiming her body and how that helps all women reclaim their own bodies.”

I eyed her thoughtfully. In the seven months I’d spent around my cousin, this was the first time she’d revealed any awareness of women’s issues, in the arts or anywhere else.

“Pretty sophisticated analysis, Petra. The Body Artist tell you this, or did you think about it in the middle of the night and have one of those lightbulb moments?”

Petra flamed crimson and shifted her weight in her high-heeled boots.

“Does she have a name?” I asked.

“Of course she does, but she likes to be called the Body Artist, so we all respect that. So what did you think of her, if you can say it without being a total snot?”

“You’re right, I was a snot. Sorry. I found it disquieting to watch her. The way she talks, the way she holds herself, she seems contemptuous of her audience, or at least of people like me. Maybe she’s bold and heroic, turning stereotypes on their heads, and I only was uncomfortable because I’m not liberated enough. But maybe-”

“Liberated?” Mr. Contreras exploded. “Sitting stark stone naked in front of an audience? I’m ashamed of the both of you. Victoria, you’re a grown woman. You shouldn’t sit back while the kid gets into bad company. And Petra, this isn’t healthy, watching a woman take off her clothes in public.”

He was seriously upset, using our real names like that, instead of “Cookie” and “Peewee.” Petra made her pouty face, and went to put her arms around him. She danced him back down the stairs, hoping to coax him back to his more usual good humor, or perhaps to persuade him that the Body Artist wasn’t degenerate. As I was shutting the door behind them, I heard her say, “But, really, Uncle Sal, you can’t tell me you didn’t look at girlie magazines when you were in the Army. Why is someone nude onstage any worse?”

When I was alone, I felt hollow, restless. I didn’t want to be with Mr. Contreras and Petra and their argument, I wanted a relaxing evening with good friends. I could hear Jake across the hall playing with a group of students or colleagues, maybe girlfriends, and tried to suppress a sense of jealous exclusion. At the end of January, he was leaving for a European tour. Between rehearsals and the run-up to Christmas-the busiest season for a musician-most of his life was spent away from me these days.

I cleaned the week’s dishes out of the kitchen sink, and then, inspired by Jake’s group, did a few breathy vocal exercises. Finally, out of nervous irritability, I looked up the Body Artist’s website.

It was an odd site. She had a blog, which was mostly a series of ramblings on women in the arts, but the bulk of the site was dedicated to her body painting. You could actually buy “pieces of flesh,” as she called them-photographs of the various images we’d seen last night at Club Gouge. Each picture-priced from a hundred to a thousand dollars, depending on size, format, and content-had the number of buyers clocked under it. The most popular were the lilies growing out of her vagina and the winking blue eye.

Looking at her site added to my rumpled feelings. Who was exploiter, who was exploited? I finally went down to Mr. Contreras’s place and collected the dogs. Petra was curled up on the couch, Mitch at her side, but she was still arguing her case with my neighbor. I took the dogs and fled before the combatants could drag me back into battle.

The December night was cold but clear. We ran east, all the way to the lakefront. By the time we returned home, Petra had left. I gave the dogs back to Mr. Contreras but refused to let him reopen his grievance over the Body Artist and Club Gouge.

“Pitchers and catchers report to Mesa in two weeks,” I said. “Everything will get better after that.”

“Except Cubs fans. Don’t go trying no fake smiles on me, doll. I’m not in the mood. Spring training means lowlifes getting ready to piss on the grass.”

Mr. Contreras was a Sox fan. He’d grown up west of old Comiskey, and he hated being here in Wrigleyville during the baseball season. At least loutish Cubs fans meant a change of grievance for him, but I didn’t feel like listening to that, either.

The year was winding down, and my own workload was heavy. Hard times meant a big upswing in fraud. Even though my clients were slower in paying their bills and negotiating reduced fees for big inquiries, I still had more business than I could comfortably handle.

The only times I saw Jake were when I could make it to one of his concerts; now and then, I’d go out for a late supper with him and some of his fellow musicians. We spent Christmas Day together, and then he left to visit his mother and sister in Seattle.

Lotty and Max flew to Morocco over Christmas; Petra went skiing in Utah with her mother and sisters. Even Mr. Contreras left, although it was only to drive to Hoffman Estates, near O’Hare, where he spent a few days with his unhappy daughter and her two sons. I didn’t like the feeling of isolation, home alone in Chicago. I put the dogs in a kennel and flew down to Mexico City for a week of art, music, and warmth.