Edward Lee: Incubi

Khoronos glanced at his watch, a Rolex. “The show’s nearly over. I’d like to browse a bit more if you don’t mind.”

“Please do.”

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Ms. Polk.”

She nodded as he stepped away.

“Who was that? The man of your dreams?”

Stewie stood beside her now. He was her manager/sales agent, though he liked to refer to himself as her “pimp.” He made a point of dressing as ridiculously as possible; this, he claimed, “externalized” his “iconoclasia.” Tonight he wore a white jacket over a black “Mapplethorpe at the Corcoran” T-shirt, pink-spotted gray slacks, and leather boots that came up to his knees. His perfectly straight black hair and bangs, plus the boots, made him look like a punk-club Prince Valiant.

“He’s just some guy,” Veronica answered.

“Just some guy? Looks to me like he put some serious spark into those girlieworks of yours. Quit staring at him.”

“His name is Khoronos,” she said. “What is that? Greek? He doesn’t look Greek.”

“No, but I’ll tell you what he does look. Rich. Maybe I can milk him. He likes Vertiginous Red .”

“Oh, Stewie, he does not,” she complained. “It’s my worst paining in years.”

“He likes it. Trust me. I saw it in his eyes.”

Several patrons greeted her and thanked them both. The usual compliments were made, which Veronica responded to dazedly. Most of her consciousness remained fixed on Khoronos, across the room.

“I think he’s a critic,” she said a minute later.

“No way, princess. That guy’s suit, it’s a ’Drini, a megabuck. Art critics buy their suits at Penney’s. And did you see the diamond stickpin on his lapel? He’s money walking.”

“Shhh! He’s coming back.”

“Good. Watch Stewie take him to the cleaner’s.”

Stewie’s commercial intuition always hit home, which was why Veronica tolerated his ridiculous wardrobe and haircut. He’d sold twelve of her paintings tonight, one of them-called Child with Mother , an inversion of the traditional theme — for $10,000. She felt intimidated now, though. She felt second rate, even though she knew she wasn’t. “Don’t ask for more than a thousand,” she said.

Stewie laughed.

God, he’s good-looking , she thought as he approached. The little tingle worried her. Stewie was right. She was hot.

“A most impressive show,” Khoronos said in his strange accent.

“Thank you. Would you care for some champagne?”

“Oh, no. Alcohol offends the perceptions. The muse is a temple, Ms. Polk. It must never be reviled. Remember that.”

Veronica was close to fidgeting where she stood.

“Hello, sir,” Stewie introduced. “I’m Stewart Arlinger, Ms. Polk’s sales representative.”

“Khoronos,” Khoronos said, and declined shaking hands. He viewed Stewie smugly as a hotel owner viewing a bellhop.

“Are you an art critic?” Veronica asked.

Khoronos laughed. “Heaven forbid. I’m nothing like that, nothing like that at all. Nor am I an artist myself.”

“What are you, then?”

“I’ve already told you.” The faint, measured smile returned. “I’m a voyeur. And art is what I feast my vision upon.” Abruptly he turned to Stewie. “I would like to buy Vertiginous Red .”

“I’d be happy to sell it to you, Mr. Khoronos,” Stewie answered. “ Vertiginous Red makes quite a profound and important creative statement, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’m aware of the work’s artistic significance.”

“But I’m afraid the asking price is considerable.”

Khoronos frowned. “I didn’t ask you how much it was, I told you I wanted to buy it, Mr. Arlinger.”

Stewie didn’t waver. “Twenty-five thousand dollars.”

Veronica almost fainted. Goddamn you, Stewie! That piece of shit isn’t worth twenty-five CENTS!

Khoronos’ face remained unchanging. “My people will be here at eight a.m. sharp. Please see to the painting’s proper exchange.”

“That’s no problem at all, sir.”

Khoronos was suddenly peeling bills off a roll of cash, which he then stuffed into an envelope and handed to Stewie. He turned to Veronica, smiled that cryptic smile of his, and said, “Good night, Ms. Polk.”

Then he walked out of the gallery.

“Christ on a surfboard!” Stewie frantically counted the money in the envelope. Veronica was too dizzy to think.

“I don’t believe this,” Stewie muttered. He handed Veronica the envelope. It contained $25,000 in hundred-dollar bills.

Thoughts of Khoronos swam in her head all night; she’d scarcely slept. Late next morning, the phone roused her.

“Hi, Veronica. Long time, no hear.”

It was her friend Ginny. “How are things in the novel gig?”

“Not bad. You’ll love this, though. My publisher actually had the balls to tell me to make my books shorter because the price of raw paper went up. That’s like telling you to use less paint.”

“The things we do for art. What’re you going to do?”

“Write shorter books. Fuck art. You should see my mortgage.”

Ginny wrote grim, deceitful novels which critics condemned as “pornographic vignettes of bleakness which trumpet the utter destruction of the institution of marriage in particular and morality in general.” Ginny swore these reviews increased her sales, while the fringe critics hailed her as a genius of the neo-feminist movement. Her themes were all the same: men were good for nothing but sex and could never be trusted. Her last one, Love Labyrinthine , had sold a million copies.

“I met the most wonderful man the other day,” Ginny said.

“I thought you hated men.”

“Except for bed warmers, I do. But this one was different.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

“Would you listen! I was doing a book signing at Glen Burnie Mall last week. At signings, most people fawn over you. But this guy spent the whole time talking about the function of prose mechanics, syntactical projection of imagery, creative dynamics, stuff like that. And it was really funny because there wasn’t a shred of falseness in him. When was the last time you met a man without a shred of false—”

“Never,” Veronica said.

“He was so enthused , you know? About literature, about art. When was the last time you met a man who was enthused about—”

“Never,” Veronica repeated. “There aren’t any.” But then her brow rumpled. This man sounded a bit like—

“What did he look like?” she asked.

“Oh, God, Vern. A panty-melter. Tall, slim, great clothes, and a face like Costner or somebody. He was older, though, and really refined, and he’s got the most beautiful long gray and blond hair. An accent too, German maybe, or Slavic.”

Veronica smirked hard. It sounded just like Khoronos.

“His name is Khoronos,” Ginny dreamily added.

The pause which followed seemed endless.

“Vern? You still there?”

“Uh—” This was too much of a coincidence. “I met him last night during my show at the Sarnath. He paid twenty-five grand for one of my canvases, and you’re right, he is sexy.”

“This is outrageous!” Ginny wailed. “Then he must’ve invited you to the retreat too, right?”

“What retreat?”

Ginny impassed. “It’s a get-together he has every year at his estate, an art-group kind of thing. He called it his ‘indulgence,’ his chance to be an artistic ‘voyeur.’”

Veronica’s frown deepened.

“He said he likes to be in proximity to artists, to talk, party, get to know each other. Something like that.”

Veronica simmered. Her face felt hot.