Chapter 8 #3
She dismissed him with a nod, then walked around the corner with her eyes back on the map.
He watched her walk out of sight, then stood alone near the top of the stairs for a moment, hands in his pockets, not sure why he felt somewhat disappointed.
It wasn’t a huge deal, he told himself, and he was hungry—the bagel had gotten him through class, but he should refuel at some point soon.
He turned and made his way slowly in the direction Ivy had pointed him, and followed signs to the cafe.
He ordered a chicken sandwich for himself, and another coffee.
In his experience, American coffee paled in comparison to what he drank at home, but caffeine was caffeine, and jet-lagged beggars couldn’t be choosers.
He was about to pay for his meal when he remembered that Ivy was probably getting hungry, too.
She hadn’t danced this morning, but they’d spent plenty of time walking around.
He’d already met Hungry Ivy once before, and she shouldn’t be unleashed on New York City.
He smiled to himself at the sudden mental image of a petite, high-heeled Godzilla rampaging across Manhattan, tearing down buildings in a desperate search for sushi.
Then he hastily ordered a second chicken sandwich.
He sat and ate, watching the customers at the tables around him.
Mothers feeding squalling babies in prams, art students sketching in notebooks, tourists scrolling through their cameras and snapping selfies.
The cafe was loud and crowded, though, so he ate quickly, drained his coffee, and then set off to find a quieter place to wait for Ivy.
As he strolled through the galleries, he stopped in front of the works that piqued his interest. There was a giant sculpture made of thin, shining sheets of silver metal that looked like it might have been made by the same artist who made the mobiles in the atrium, and an abstract painting of a blooming flower bud in watery blue and shades of pink and mauve, the colors of a sky just after sunset.
The art department at Hillstone High had been small and pitifully underfunded, but even Justin knew a Georgia O’Keeffe painting when he saw one.
He kept moving, going wherever his eye took him and avoiding the most crowded rooms. Then he rounded a corner and stopped dead at the sight that greeted him.
The painting was simple but magnetic, and he barely noticed his feet carrying him towards the empty bench that sat a few meters in front of it.
He eased himself onto the bench and kept staring, taking in the few colors—deep blue, spring-grass green, flushed-skin pink—and the unusual sense of perspective.
The hillside was painted in two dimensions against the sky, but the circle of women was deep and three-dimensional, as if the artist had wanted to make them real and rounded against the spare outdoor backdrop.
The painting was huge, swallowing an entire wall, and it made the women’s circle feel like a globe, like their outstretched arms spanned the entire world.
He didn’t know how long he sat there in the quiet gallery, cataloging the details he found as he looked and looked.
One woman had blurry, unfinished feet, and another had a curved black line down the middle of her lower back, suggesting muscle and movement.
Two of the women were reaching for each other, but their hands didn’t quite touch, so that the circle was ever so slightly broken.
Another woman stood on one leg, her half-pointed foot suspended against the sky, and she cast her eyes down as though she was watching it move through the air.
“It’s called ‘The Dance,’” a voice said from behind him, and Justin jolted in surprise. He turned and found Ivy standing behind the bench, looking bemused.
“It’s something else,” he said. An understatement. Looking at it felt like watching familiar choreography, like he could stand up and join in at any moment and his body would remember what to do. He’d never seen the painting before, but it felt oddly, comfortingly familiar.
“Matisse,” Ivy said, sitting down at the end of the bench. “It’s only a study. The real one is in Russia, but I like this one better. It feels more joyful and less finished. Like the women are improvising the choreography, because he was only improvising the painting.”
Justin nodded, running his eyes over the painting yet again. “I see that. How do you know all this?”
Ivy paused. “I love this painting. It’s basically the only reason I agreed to come to New York.”
“Well, that and all the musicals.”
She chuckled softly. “Obviously. You like it?”
“Yeah.” Another understatement. “It feels like how dancing should feel.”
“It really does,” she agreed. “Although I wouldn’t know, since I’ve never danced naked on a mountaintop with four of my best friends.”
Justin glanced over at her, then quickly looked back at the painting. He felt his cheeks heating and cleared his throat. That wasn’t a mental image he needed to entertain right now.
“I get why you came all the way here to see it.”
“I see it every day,” she nodded, “but in miniature. I have a print of it. In, um, my bedroom.”
Justin’s cheeks burned hotter, and he glanced over at her again. She was staring at the painting, as if avoiding looking at him, and he could have sworn her cheeks looked a little pink, too.
“Well, now you can look at the real thing,” he said, pulling the conversation—and his thoughts—away from Ivy Page’s bedroom and her naked body on a two-dimensional mountaintop.
She nodded a little frantically, and he turned back to the painting. Tried to focus on the colors. Tried not to think about how much the green of the hillside resembled the green of Ivy’s eyes.
They sat in silence for several long moments, their bodies separated by half a meter of bench, and the museum map between them.
Whenever Justin felt restless, anxious to move, he reminded himself that Ivy had come a long way to see this painting, and that they had nowhere else to be.
Every few minutes, people wandered in and out of the room, joining them in their appreciation, but mostly it was him and Ivy alone, and together with the five dancers in their circle of joyful motion.
After a while, Ivy hummed in what sounded like contentment and picked up the map.
“Does the real thing live up to your expectations? Worth the trip?” he asked hopefully.
“Absolutely,” she smiled, and she really did look happy. “More than worth it.”
“Alright then, I guess you can go home now,” he joked.
“And miss the chance to make you sit through a musical? I wouldn’t dream of it.”
He sighed deeply. “I tried.”
She giggled again, just as she had last night, and the sound was better than he remembered. “I’m not going home, but I should go to the cafe and get some food,” she said, standing.
“No need.” He shook his head and handed her the chicken sandwich.
Ivy stared at the lumpy plastic-wrapped package for a moment, and Justin wondered if he’d made a mistake. “Oh,” she said, finally.
“Unless you want something else?” he asked, a little nervous. “I just figured you’d be hungry soon and, no offense, but I’ve seen what you’re like when you’re hungry, and for the safety of all concerned, I thought…”
She snatched the sandwich out of his hand and pursed her lips. “Screw you,” she said. “And thank you.”
“Screw you, too,” he shot back. “And you’re welcome.”