Will Chancellor - A Brave Man Seven Storeys Tall

— That guy? You’re talking about the one with the four-pronged cane?

— Why? People with canes can’t have orgies? How about people in wheelchairs? Speaking of which, can we change rooms? I can take a lot, but that photograph fucking creeps me out. Kurt’s never had a hard-on he didn’t use.

Jera motioned to the bartender, and they were admitted to a private room of green leather couches and mercury-backed mirrors. They had traded Kurt’s nude portrait for a wall of Helmut Newtons. There were no speakers back here, so they could actually hear each other.

— The police broke in on him last year with nine prostitutes and a Versace ashtray full of cocaine.

— They must have taken the ashtray along with the coke, because now he just snorts off plates.

— What?

— I mean, it’s no big deal. It’s not like Kurt’s the first person I’ve seen do coke.

— I was talking about Immendorff.

— How many years do they give you in Germany for that kind of thing?

— We’ll see. The trial is in a few months. He’ll be fine, though. He’s friends with Gerhard Schröder. I’m guessing the worst that happens is he loses his professorship, but that would be kind of cold at this point. He’s not well.

— Did Kurt and Hal study with Immendorff?

— They were at Städelschule. I was at Leipzig. Kurt and these other guys live his lifestyle — seven days a week instead of Immendorff’s two — but have none of the man’s talent. There are so many young artists in Berlin willing to sacrifice everything for their art, but so few who are willing to learn how to see, much less draw. Somewhere along the way they forgot that it’s easier to suffer for something than to fight for it.

— But you’re here.

— This is research.

— That’s convenient.

— I paint large wooden panels. I’m not crazy about comparison, but people say I paint in the same vein as Bruegel or Bosch. I see a bit of George Grosz, but the work’s really its own thing. Here.

Jera undid the elastic strap of a sketchbook and opened to a ribboned page. Owen looked at finely hatched lines and minuscule dapples of shadow. It must have taken Jera a week just to get the gleam of the bottles.

— How do you make the lines so small?

Jera unpalmed a maroon drafting pen.

— It’s a rapidograph.

Owen unscrewed the cap, revealing a needle-thin point.

— That drawing is amazing.

— It’s just a study. But it’s close, I’ll give you that. Look at this.

Jera showed Owen a partially finished drawing of the interior of the Wasserturm . Owen recognized it at once:

— I just moved in there tonight.

Jera pursed his lips, pressure building as if he might detonate some plosive sound.

— How long have you been in Berlin?

— Just over a month.

— And Kurt took you on as a roommate in the Wasserturm ?

— He wants to collaborate on a piece for Art Basel.

Jera lifted his eyebrows and screwed his head:

— That’s great. I’m happy for you. Really.

Kurt and Brigitte returned from the bathroom, but were intercepted by Immendorff just as they entered the back room.

One of Brigitte’s friends approached Owen. She introduced herself as Saskia with a succinctness that suggested that she didn’t have a last name because she would never need one.

She appraised Owen as she would a statue. Smoke rolled out of her mouth in thick clouds. Words followed exhalation, cold, high, and cirrus thin:

— You should find new friends. Or go somewhere else.

He fell through the wisps.

— Why?

Saskia exhaled as a response.

— Seriously. Where should I go?

— New York, Paris, London. There are many places.

— But here I am.

— You don’t belong here.

— What?

— You don’t belong here.

Owen asked for a cigarette. Saskia offered her pack and then offered him her lipstick-stained cigarette to light it with. In his experience, women who wore lipstick that red touched his arm and laughed at anything, hoping another guy would notice.

— I’ve got work in New York on Friday, she said.

She let the syllables linger in a way that suggested she was considering bringing him as a diversion. She squinted.

— Are you from New York?

— California.

— Los Angeles?

— North of LA.

— Things are different here. Find a hole to hide in and watch your drinks.

And with that admonition Saskia evaporated. She remained glued to Brigitte’s hip, but she was finished with Owen.

Jera was back at his sketch. Without looking up, he said:

— They’re all trouble, but that one is lethal. Stay away, my friend.

— How do you know Kurt?

— We were in a group show at the Todd Zeale Gallery.

— Did you collaborate?

— With Kurt? No.

— Is he a good artist?

— He makes a lot of money. He’s no Immendorff.

— Do you think he’s any good?

— If Kurt had any discipline, he’d be a mediocre painter.

Kurt somehow managed to be everywhere at once. He rolled right into Owen’s calf.

— I thought you usually described me as a force.

— But I never meant it as a compliment.

— Don’t worry, Owen. He’s frustrated because no one wants to buy Flemish reproductions from a dreadlocked white guy.

— I had dreadlocks for two years. I was eighteen.

— You should grow them again. You’d give critics something to write about.

— You know I do this for the work, not the press, not the volume.

— People buy loud.

— And you’ve got a whole team in some factory cranking it out.

— Is it my fault if I can do more in five seconds than you do in a year?

— What do you call the picture, Pedicabo ? Really great stuff. I’d like to buy it.

— The bar owns it. Not me.

The private room crowd stopped talking and listened.

— Well, I don’t know what to say. I have to have it.

— You can’t afford it, Jera.

— A trade then.

Kurt registered his audience.

— Didn’t I hear something about you having a show up?

— The opening was last month. You went to the afterparty.

Kurt didn’t appear to hear.

— I’ll trade it for whatever doesn’t sell. If you sell out the show, I’ll give you the picture for nothing. But I think we both know that’s not going to happen.

— Two pieces are already gone.

— And it’s been up three weeks. I know for a fact one went to your uncle. Is your gallery even in Berlin? Doesn’t matter. Fine. Let’s see, what am I getting? I’m going with some allegorical work. Parable of the Blind? Ship of Fools ? Something I could buy at the airport that’s taken you over a year.

Jera laughed, but didn’t deny any of it.

— Fine. Sold. I haven’t destroyed the film yet. I’ll have Michael print another and send it over next week.

Jera looked at the picture behind the bar. His nostrils flared and his breathing stopped. Owen could see that Jera only wanted to buy the photograph to remove it from the world. Now there would be two of these pictures in existence rather than one. Owen couldn’t hear what Jera was mumbling, but hydra would have been fitting.

— Have your gallerist call Michael when the show’s down. Let’s go out. This bar turned into a business meeting.

Owen recognized the heaviness and emptiness in Jera. He looked like a high-schooler watching the gravel kick from a prom limousine that had just left without him. Which confirmed that Owen had fallen in with the assholes.

It was a short walk to the next spot. This bar was louder, but not cacophonous; darker, but with the early electric glow of amber. Owen walked through a projector beam and was temporarily blinded. A standing crowd barely watching the Antonioni film on the wall turned to see whose silhouette was blocking the cliff scene. It took a minute for Owen to realize that they were motioning him to move.