Michael Cunningham - By Nightfall

“I’d love to have something new in its place by then. If that’s even remotely possible.”

“Many things are possible. The trouble is, I’m hanging a new show this week.”

“Are you?”

“Victoria Hwang. Did you get the invitation?”

“Oh, I’m sure I did. This week is out, then?”

“Let’s think a minute. I could probably run up there late-ish on Wednesday afternoon.”

“If it’s too late in the day, the light will be gone. That part of the garden only gets light until around five.”

“I can get there before five.”

“Really and truly?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re a complete angel.”

“More than glad. I’ll have Uta check the trains, that’ll be faster than a car.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re entirely welcome.”

“You’ll call and let me know about the train? Gus’ll pick you up at the station.”

“Great.”

“I love you.”

“Love you, too. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Peter clicks off, gives himself a moment. Kings and queens, popes and merchant princes, were surely far more demanding than Carole Potter. Funny thing is, he likes Carole, and part of what he likes about her, perversely enough, is her aristocratic sense of entitlement. Without rich people who want it done now , who would animate the free world? In theory, you want everyone to live peacefully according to their needs, along the banks of a river. In fact, you worry that you’d die of boredom there. In fact, you get a buzz from someone like Carole Potter, who keeps prize chickens and could teach a graduate course in landscaping; who maintains a staff of four (more in the summers, during High Guest Season); a handsome, slightly ridiculous husband; a beautiful daughter at Harvard and an incorrigible son doing something or other on Bondi Beach; Carole who is charming and self-deprecating and capable, if pushed, of a hostile indifference crueler than any form of rage; who reads novels and goes to movies and theater and yes, yes, bless her, buys art, serious art, about which she actually fucking knows a thing or two.

The energy these people possess. The degree to which they care.

So, okay. One more job for Tyler. Get up there pronto, and make the Krim disappear.

And what can be magically summoned to take its place?

Hm. A Rupert Groff might be perfect, mightn’t it?

Of course it might. He can see it clearly, instantly: a Groff urn, shimmering in the shade at the far end of Carole’s southern lawn, the least cultivated and most English of her outdoor realm, all lavender and hollyhock and mossy pond. It’s the ideal spot for a Groff, one of the asymmetrical but heroic bronze urns that looks like some sort of pomo classic from a distance but proves, on closer inspection, to be inscribed all over with profanities, political screeds, instructions for building pipe bombs, recipes for eating the rich. This is, of course, what’s troubling about Groff—his satires of wildly expensive, beautiful things that actually are, as it happens, wildly expensive, beautiful things. Which is meant to be part of the joke. Which Carole Potter will appreciate.

She’ll also appreciate the idea that Peter is representing Groff. Admit it: Carole is cooling on you, and the failure of the Krim doesn’t help. Peter has been at this for almost two decades, and has never graduated to the majors. He’s been loyal to a body of artists who’ve done well enough, but not spectacularly. If he doesn’t step up soon, he can probably expect to grow old as a solid, minor dealer, respected but not feared.

It’d be good, it’d be very good, for the Chens to see one of those urns glowing in Carole’s garden. He can probably count on Carole to mention his name.

Would it be ghoulish to call Bette so soon?

“Hey, Bette.”

“Hello, Peter. Nice to see you yesterday.”

“So, the day after, what do we think about the shark?”

“Personally, I think it’s a dead shark in a big iron box and I can’t wait to get to Spain and start worrying about tomatoes.”

“Carole Potter just called me. She’s been trying out a Krim at her place in Greenwich.”

“Carole is great. You’re lucky to have her.”

“It’s thumbs down on the Krim, though.”

“Can you blame her? I mean, for one thing, they smell .”

“She has it outside.”

“Still.”

“So, listen.”

“You want to show her some Groffs.”

“Were you serious yesterday?”

“Of course I was. I was going to call him today.”

“Here’s the thing.”

“What?”

“Momma wants the Krim gone now and something else in its place, like, tomorrow . She has the Chens coming over.”

“The Chens are murderers.”

“Do you know anyone they’ve actually killed?”

“You know what I mean. It’s robber barons, all over again.”

“Does this mean that I’m foul and corrupt?”

“No. I don’t know. You have to sell it all to somebody . And hey, it’d be good for Rupert.”

“So you’ll call him.”

“Mm-hm. Right now.”

“You’re the best.”

“I’m thinking about my Spanish tomatoes.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

Ugh.

Just do it. Just push on through. Remember: it’s in the service of something. Remember that all this is quite possibly (please, God) leading you to connect with some genius, unknown, unknowable, some Prometheus who is now a child in Dayton, Ohio, or an adolescent in Bombay or a mystic in the jungles of Ecuador.

The day progresses.

Thirty-seven new e-mails. Answer fifteen of them, leave the rest for later.

Make more calls.

Tyler and his crew arrive, start crating the Vincents. Uta handles that. Peter says a quick hello, hides out in his office.

“Victoria, it’s Peter again, just letting you know that the Vincents are on their way out, you could bring your stuff over any time.”

New e-mail, from Glen Howard. He’s had a studio visit from the Biennial people, clearly his star is ascending, maybe Peter wants to rethink the idea of giving him only the back gallery in September.

Glen, the Biennial people visit hundreds of artists, and even if they choose you, you’d be surprised at how little difference it makes. Look at the Biennial list from ten years ago. You won’t recognize a single name.

Think about how to phrase that. It can wait until after lunch.

“Peter, it’s Bette. I called Rupert, he’s expecting to hear from you.”

She gives him the number.

“You’re the greatest,” he says.

“Don’t mention it.”

There’s a wry weariness in her voice—has she decided that Peter is, in the final analysis, just another one of the assholes?

Fuck that. He can in all likelihood sell a Groff right away, and that’s what artists need from their dealers, right? They need them to sell the work. Groff’s at a tricky juncture—he’s not yet celebrated enough to command huge prices, but his work costs a fortune to make.

Call Rupert Groff. Get his voice mail. “Hey, it’s Groff, you know what to do.”

“Rupert, this is Peter Harris. Friend of Bette Rice. Love to talk to you when you’ve got a minute.”

Leave the number.

Call out for lunch, for himself and Uta and Tyler and his crew. Uta’s busy—Peter Harris, a Very Good Boss, doesn’t mind making the call. For him, Caesar salad with grilled chicken, or smoked turkey wrap? Salad. Summer’s coming, time to cut out the carbs. (At what age do you stop worrying about things like that?) Then again, there’s his funny stomach (cancer?). Turkey wrap.

Seventeen new e-mails since the last time he checked. One from Victoria—she’ll do anything to avoid a conversation. PETER, IM DOING A FEW FINISHING TOUCHES WILL HAVE THE WORK THERE TMROW 11 AM LATEST, XXX V