CHAPTER SIX #2
'It's all about politics in the end,' Winters said cryptically. 'Always.'
A click, and then she was gone.
+ + + + + +
The Hauptmann Gallery was pure Upper East Side: cologne in the lavatories, skinny women in short black dresses, reminding Kate of a row of crows on a telegraph wire.
A pianist played Chopin's Andante and the guests drifted round the paintings – all miniature oils - in syncopation.
They'd arrived in the midst of a daytime viewing, and it was obvious who the artist was.
He was a tanned, tubby guy with long hair tucked into a red beret and his jacket sleeves rolled up, a la 1985.
He'd clearly mistaken Kate and Marcus for Press because he made a point of standing close by them, smiling in a manner that was probably meant to seem inviting, but, through no fault of his own, wasn't getting results.
‘These are good,’ Marcus said. ‘I like the irony: all miniatures, all things that are huge in real life.’
There was an elephant, a blue whale, a number of bridges, the Chrysler building, a California redwood… all executed in miniature form. ‘I hadn’t realised,’ Kate said, feeling foolish.
‘Who’s your favourite artist? We’ve never talked about it.’
‘I don’t have one,’ Kate said. ‘I like drawings, photographs. The rest doesn’t do a lot for me.’
This comment had the twin effect of disappointing Marcus and dispersing the painter.
‘Are you serious?’
‘Afraid so. Mom and Dad loved it. When I said I wasn’t interested, I think they thought it was a kind of teenage rebellion. But I was just being honest.’
‘Cheryl hates it. She thinks it’s all pretentious. She thinks I just pretend to like it because I don’t want people to think I’m a meat-head.’
Kate looked directly at him. ‘That sounds like quite an unkind thing to say. What’s been going on with you two?’
Marcus gave a deep sigh. 'A month ago, she called me.
We were supposed to be going out – see a gallery, get something to eat - but she asked if we could skip the gallery.
I don't know why, but I made a big deal out of it.
I don't know why. I mean, I do really. I just got sick of going to those things on my own.
I wanted to share it with her, y'know? It's something that matters to me and I felt like…
Well, like she could make an effort for me.
That's how I saw it. Anyway, we didn't go out at all in the end.
Next day she said she wanted to put the brakes on the wedding. '
‘So it’s not really over then?’
'Officially, it's not even postponed. When I called the venue, the manager said we'd lose our deposit, so I left it where it was. Feb 14th next year. Do you want to get married? Get married and you can have my wedding slot.’
‘It’s going to be yours, Marcus. I know it will. You’ll get through this,’ Kate said, squeezing his arm.
Marcus didn’t look reassured. ‘About a week after that ruckus, my buddy, Chas, saw her coming out of the hospital. He works there.’
‘Chas is the ICU nurse, right?’
‘That’s it. He’s my Best Man. Well, he was going to be.’
‘He will. Be positive.’
‘He calls out to her. She clocks him, then she runs away. Literally, vamoose. She’s known him for years. Why would she split like that?’
‘That sounds weird. But maybe she was just, y’know, having a moment. We don’t always feel up to a chat, do we?’
‘But the hospital. I’ve been driving myself crazy, Kate, trying to work out what it could be. I sent her a ton of messages, but she won’t reply.’
‘Okay, well don’t send her any more messages. She knows where to find you. But listen…’
Before she could continue, a woman in a gaily-colored poncho and tan boots approached them.
‘Patricia Vance,’ she said, holding out a chilly hand with vivid green-painted nails. ‘Gallery Director. I heard you wanted to talk. How can I help?’
Kate did the introductions. ‘We’re trying to build up a picture of the protestors at the Ashworth exhibition in June.’
Vance glanced around carefully. It seemed ‘protestors’ wasn’t a word that went down too well in this austerely wealthy habitat. ‘Let’s step into my office.’
Vance's office was a surprise: a big old tatty sofa, a cluttered coffee table, and a small, snoring dog. Kate and Marcus perched on the sofa with the laptop between them, and Vance scooted across to them on an office chair that had seen better days.
‘We’ve managed to identify most of the protestors, but there’s a couple outstanding Kate said. ‘I wonder if you can help.’
'Who came up with the idea of a petition?' Marcus said as Kate looked for the relevant images. 'It's genius.'
'The first few days were quite troublesome,' Vance said, twirling her wedding ring.
'They threw eggs and flour at the windows.
It just… I guess it seemed likely that things might escalate.
And NYPD weren't being overly helpful. It was Anna, one of our summer interns who came up with the idea.
She listens to a lot of true crime podcasts.
As it turned out, though, protests like this tend to peak and trough.
They got noisier and more of a nuisance up to and including days 5 and 6, after which things calmed down. '
‘It’s these two guys.’ Kate turned the screen towards Vance; Vance put on a pair of spectacles for a closer look.
‘The… larger gentleman… yes, he was here. But he never spoke. Literally. Showed up every day, but never chanted, never shouted. Just stared through the window. Or stood on the opposite side of the road, staring in. Kind of creepy. I’m not sure he was really connected to the protests. He just… he was just there.’
‘And was that every day?’
‘Every one of the 12 days, yes.’
‘And this gentleman?’
‘You don’t know him? He’s quite a face. Radical priest. His name’s Father Torres. He was here every day, dawn til dusk with a megaphone. Specialised in one-to-one shouting matches with Brandon on the street. In the end, we had to smuggle him in and out via the goods entrance.’
‘Violent?’
A pained expression crossed Vance’s face.
‘Insults turned to shoves. Very playground stuff. He pushed Brandon at one point. It was enough for the police to arrest Father Torres, but they let him go a few hours later. And guess where he went. Right back here. They didn’t even confiscate his megaphone. ’
She tapped on the screen with a long, green fingernail and a video clip began to load.
From the tinny laptop speakers came the sounds of a street protest: rhythmic chanting, shouts, a siren, a woman’s voice – perhaps Vance’s – saying, pleading, ‘We don’t want any trouble.
Please leave, just leave’. The camera seemed to swim through the crush of bodies until it revealed Torres standing nose to nose with Ashworth, the muscles in his neck bulging in tandem with his eyes.
And cutting through all the other noises, the voice of the priest - Brooklyn with a distinct Hispanic undertone - hoarse and angry and aflame with religious zeal:
He that offends the Lord let him perish in the lake of fire!
He that scorns the Lord let him be crushed by a thousand rocks!
Marcus and Kate exchanged a look, then both gazed back at the screen, to Torres, his eyes on fire with anger, with religious zeal and… something else. The clear-headed, clearly stated, deeply felt longing to kill.