“So you’re not going to try and get the canvases back?” Polly asked, trying to speak neutrally.
“Uh-uh.” Jacky coughed. “I mean, after all, Zimmern’s the legal owner. If he doesn’t want to start proceedings, there’s not much the gallery can do.” He glanced at Polly and misread her expression. “It’s a disappointment for you, I know. But really we already have quite enough work lined up for the show, and Garrett’s promised to lend us anything we like from his own collection. ... That reminds me. He told me the other day that you may be collaborating with him on his memoirs.”
“Well, I won’t.” Polly spoke with heat. “He suggested it when I was in Wellfleet; but I said I wasn’t interested.”
“That’s too bad,” Jacky wheezed. “You know, you could do a lot worse, my dear. Of course Garrett is rather an old windbag, but he knows absolutely everyone, and he can get his hands on all sorts of funding. I’m sure you’d be paid very very well. I wouldn’t be too quick to turn his offer down, if I were you,” he added, in the negligent manner he reserved for his most serious remarks.
“I’ve promised to go back to the Museum as soon as the book is finished, anyhow,” Polly said, fighting the impulse to tell Jacky of the other offer Garrett Jones had made her. It would explain her refusal, certainly; but the whole story — very likely in an embellished version — would be all over New York in a matter of days.
“Oh, nonsense, darling. They can get on without you for a bit longer, I’m sure. And I expect Garrett could fix whatever leave or part-time deal you wanted in a jiffy. Why don’t you let me tell him you’re considering it, at least?”
“Well. Okay,” Polly said, thinking that it might be politic to stay in Garrett’s good graces until the book was finished.
“No need to make waves unless one has to,” Jacky remarked, appearing to read her mind. “Besides, we all know nobody gets ahead in this business without either money or connections. Preferably both.”
“I suppose not,” she admitted.
“Paolo said that to me the very very first week I came to work for him. Of course I thought it dreadfully crass; but alas, he was quite right.”
“How is Paolo, by the way?” Polly asked.
Jacky shook his head, bringing on another attack of coughing. “Not too well, I’m afraid. It’s beginning to look as if he won’t be coming back to the gallery.”
“So you’ll be taking over for good?”
“Well, yes; I think so. Paolo’s wife wants me to. I told her I’d like that, but I felt that there really had to be some drastic changes. Frankly, just between us, the Apollo hasn’t taken advantage of recent developments as it should have done.”
“Mm?”
“You know, there are a lot of exciting new artists coming along. And new collectors. For them Lorin Jones is almost an old master. Since you’re such a feminist, perhaps I should say old mistress. But somehow that doesn’t sound right, does it?” Jacky giggled, wheezed.
“Anyhow,” he continued when he had caught his breath, “I’d really like the Apollo to take a few more risks. I even considered whether we should move downtown; but I decided against it. Most serious buyers, you know, especially the foreigners, don’t really enjoy the trip to Soho. Even in a limo there’s all that awful midtown traffic to fight your way through, and the streets are dirty and full of spaced-out types. So by the time they get there they’re already unhappy and impatient, and in no mood to make a commitment. Much better to bring the work uptown.” He smiled.
“And you’ve discovered some new artists.”
“Oh yes. For instance, there’s this very very interesting woman from California called Ceci O’Connor who does pieces that rather remind me of Islamic wall decorations. The ones with all those bits of mirror embedded in plaster to form abstract or floral designs, you know?”
“Mm.”
“Well, she’s brought that basic idea up to date. I think she’s going to be a great success. The work is very strong, and really beautiful. And then it’s also metaphorically rather brilliant: the painter orders the world, and the viewer projects himself — or herself, darling, don’t get cross — into this new vision. You must come round and see her slides as soon as you have a free moment. How is the book coming, by the way?”
“Oh, all right, I guess.” Polly tried to summon enthusiasm, but failed.
“I know how it is,” Jacky said sympathetically. “It’s always the hardest part, the first draft. If you’d like me to look at the manuscript anytime, you know, I’d be glad to.”
“Thank you,” Polly said, thinking that if Jacky saw the book she was trying to write he would never ask her to tea again.
“I mean that. I’d really be happy to do anything I can. ... Oh, Tommy. That looks delicious. Shall I pour?”
In her empty apartment on the day after Christmas, Polly Alter sat moping in front of a work table covered with stacks of notes, transcripts of interviews, filing folders, three-by-five cards, and magazines and catalogues with markers in them. Stevie was off playing Christmas video games with a friend, and she should use the free time to work, but her book was now totally blocked. Whenever she looked through her papers, trying to get a perspective on the project, she became confused and depressed; she felt her subject splitting into multiple, discontinuous identities.
There was the shy little girl Lolly Zimmern; the flaky college freshman Laurie; the bohemian art student; the ambitious, calculating young professional that Kenneth Foster had taught; and the neurotic, unworldly artist that Jacky knew. There was the poetic lost child Laura whom Garrett Jones had married, and the obsessed genius who had died in Key West. According to her niece, Lorin was generous and sensitive; her stepmother remembered her as selfish and spiteful.
And what’s more, it was clear by now that none of the people Polly had interviewed were lying, not wholly anyhow: everyone had told her the truth as he or she knew or imagined it. All they agreed on was that Lorin was beautiful and gifted (the two things I’m not, Polly thought sourly). Otherwise, everyone seemed to have known a different Lorin Jones; and most of them also had different versions of the other people in Lorin’s life. As Lennie Zimmern had warned Polly, she had found out too much. How the hell was she ever going to make sense of it all?
Maybe what Lennie had said back in September was right, she thought. Maybe I should just talk about the paintings, instead of trying to write the biography of somebody I don’t begin to understand; somebody who probably wouldn’t have liked me or wanted me — or anyone — to write about her. If the grief and guilt I felt that last day in Key West was real, that’s what I’d do. It would be a lot easier besides, and Lennie would thank me. But then all these notes; all these wasted months — Polly groaned aloud.
If only Jeanne were here, she thought, forgetting all that had gone wrong between them, remembering only her friend’s intelligence, warmth, and sympathy. Remembering how, long before Jeanne moved into the apartment, back when she had lived three blocks away, they could call each other anytime. I need to talk to you, Polly would say. I’m in a total funk. ... Oh, my dear, Jeanne would murmur. I’m so sorry. Tell me about it.
Jeanne was up in Vermont now, but Polly could still talk to her on the phone; Ida would have the number. She shoved back her chair and went into the kitchen.
“No, she’s not in town,” Ida said in charged, emotional tones. “She’s in Vermont with Betsy. ... I don’t know when they’ll be back. They’re with friends.” Her pronunciation of the last word suggested that Polly was not in this category.
“Can you give me the number there, please?”
“No,” Ida said; it sounded as if she were breathing hard into the phone. “I don’t think I can.”