Unknown - The Genius

“Who’d he sell to, Ethan?”

“Nobody knows.”

“Ethan, who did Hollister sell to?”

“Rita said it was Richard Branson.”

“Does that mean you’re going to get shot into space, Ethan?”

After two hours Marilyn was still nowhere to be seen. I made my way through white rooms covered in red canvases, white rooms covered with pink canvases, white rooms ready to be filled. As the Wooten Gallery has grown, it has gobbled up its neighbors, left and right and upstairs and downstairs. It takes up nearly a fifth of 567 West Twenty-fifth Street, not to mention the overflow space on Twenty-eighth or the Upper East Side prints gallery. As I fought through a clutch of John Ashcrofts, it struck me that I’d never be as big as Marilyn; even had I the ambition, I lacked the vision.

I buttonholed one of her many assistants, who, after consulting a series of people on walkie-talkies, returned with the verdict that Marilyn had retired to the fourth floor.

In the elevator I prepared an apology. My heart wasn’t in it, but it was Christmas.

Marilyn has two offices, much in the way she has two kitchens: one for

the world and one for herself. The big office with the high ceilings and the immaculate desk and the Rothko is downstairs, and she uses it to make deals and to impress her grandeur upon the uninitiated. The real one, with the Post-its and the coffee rings and the corner table mosaicked with slides, is off-limits to all but a few. I didn’t learn of its existence until we’d been dating for a year.

I found her slumped in her rocking chair, a quaintly mismatched piece of furniture and the only thing she kept when she sold the house in Ironton. Her fingertips dangled near a tumbler of scotch sweating into the rug. The room vibrated with the noise of the band four stories below.

“Where’ve you been?” I asked. “Everyone’s wondering what happened

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to you.

“That’s funny. Lately people have been asking me the same thing about you.

I waited. “Are you going to come downstairs?”

“I don’t really feel like it.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No.”

I wanted to deliver my apology, but I didn’t feel ready. Instead I knelt by her and put my hand on her arm, as hard as a crowbar. It occurred to me, not for the first time, that Marilyn’s beauty had a sharp, almost masculine edge to it, all strong features and sharp angles. She smiled, her breath scalding me.

“I hate these parties,” she said.

“Then why do you give them?”

“Because I have to.” She closed her eyes and leaned back in the chair. “And because I like them. I just hate them, too.”

“Are you sick?”

“No.”

“Do you want some water?”

She said nothing.

I went across the room to the mini-fridge and got a bottle of Evian, which I set on the floor near the scotch. She didn’t move.

“You’re not having fun, are you,” she said. “You wouldn’t be here if you were.”

I leaned against the edge of the desk. “I’d have more if you came downstairs.”

“I bet you’re seeing a lot of people.”

CCT ť

I am.

“People have been asking about you,” she said. “You said.”

“Like you went off to war or something.” “I haven’t.”

“Mm.” She sighed, her eyes still closed. “I tell them I don’t know a thing.”

I said nothing.

“What else am I supposed to tell them,” she said. “You can tell them whatever you want.”

“They ask me like I should know. They assume I have a direct line

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to you. “You do.” “Do I?”

“Of course you do.” She nodded. “That’s good.”

“Of course you do,” I said again, although I don’t know why. “Did you have a pleasant stay, living in my house?” “You were wonderful,” I said. “You know I can’t thank you enough.” “I don’t remember you trying.”

“If I didn’t say it before, then I’m sorry, and I’ll say it now: thank you.” “I shouldn’t need any thanks, but I do.” “Of course you do.”

“No,” she said. “I shouldn’t need anything from you. That’s not the way it’s supposed to be.”

I said, “It’s manners, Marilyn. You’re a hundred percent right.” She said nothing. She said, “Is it.”

“Is it what.” “Manners.”

I said, “I don’t understand.”

“Is that how we’re supposed to behave toward one another? Decorously?” “I thought so.”

“I see,” she said. “News to me.”

“Why wouldn’t we be polite to each other?”

“Because,” she said, looking at me, “I love you, you fucking idiot.” She had never told me that before.

She said, “When people ask me how you are and I can’t say, I am humiliated. But they ask and I’m supposed to know. I have to tell them something. Right?” I nodded. A silence.

She said, “You’ll never guess who called me.”

“Who.”

“Guess.”

“Marilyn—”

“Play along, will you.” The drawl crept into her voice. “Have a little holiday spirit.” Holidee spurrut. “Kevin Hollister,” I said. “No.” “Who.”

Guess. “George Bush.” She snickered. “Wrong.” “Then I give up.” “Jocko Steinberger.” “He did?” She nodded. “What for.”

“He wants me to represent him. He said he doesn’t feel like he’s getting enough personal attention from you.”

I was stunned. I’d known Jocko since he burst onto the scene as part of a group show organized by the late Leonora Waite. First her artist, then mine, he had always been a stalwart member of the gallery roster. I considered him moody but by no means treacherous, and the fact that he had gone to Marilyn, without speaking to me first, cut deeply. Losing Kristjana had been my doing, and no tragedy, but now I was down two artists in six months, an alarming rate of attrition.

Marilyn said, “He has new stuff and he wants me to show it.”

“I hope you told him no,” I said. “I did.”

“Good.”

“I did,” she said, “but now I think I’m going to tell him yes.”

A silence.

“And why’s that.”

“Because I don’t think you’re doing a very good job of representing him.”

“Really.”

“Nope.”

“Don’t you think you should give me the chance to talk it over with him before you make that decision for me?”

“I didn’t make the decision,” she said. “He did. He approached me, remember.”

“Tell him to talk it over with me,” I said. “That’s what you’re supposed to do.”

“Well I’m not doing that.”

“What’s the matter with you, Marilyn.”

“What’s the matter with you.”

“Nothing’s the m—”

“Bullshit.”

A silence. My head throbbed.

“Marilyn—”

“I haven’t seen you for weeks.”

I said nothing.

“Where have you been.”

“Busy.” “With what.” “The case.” ” ‘The case?’ ” “Yes.”

“How’s that coming.” “We’re making progress.”

“Are you? That’s good. That’s wonderful news. Hooray. Are you going to shoot any guns?” “What?”

“You know,” she said. “Bang bang bang.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Yes you do.”

“I honestly don’t,” I said, “and if it’s all right with you, I’m not done talking about Jocko yet. Just where do you get off thinking you can—” “Oh please,” she said. “Answer me, how do you think you—” “Stop talking,” she said.

A silence. I stood up to leave. “Drink some water,” I said. “You’ll have a headache if you don’t.”

“I know you’re fucking that girl.” “Excuse me?”

“‘Excuse me,‘“she mocked. “You heard what I said.” “I heard it, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Blah blah blah blah, blah blah blah blah, blah blah blah.” “Goodnight, Marilyn.” “Don’t you walk out.”