Chapter 22
The next morning, with a hot cup of black coffee in hand and rays of sun warming his kitchen, Paul rereads the scolding letter and laughs out loud.
It’s childish. Pathetic. A missive from someone’s deranged mind.
Why did he let it bother him so much? Paul isn’t a parasite; he’s a hero for bringing attention to Judith’s work.
Other letter writers have said as much—like the woman artist from Arkansas, and many more.
Why listen to some hateful outlier when most voices praise and thank him?
It’s a choice, he tells himself. And I choose not to listen anymore.
He folds the letter up and slides it into its envelope.
Sets it carefully on his desk. He won’t destroy it the way he did “Eddie’s”; destroying it would mean it has power over him.
He’d rather treat it like just another letter in the pile.
And the letters—good or bad, admiring or outraged—don’t mean much anyway.
Far more important and worthy of his notice is the day ahead: his first as consulting curator at Doven Gallery. The most important job he’s ever had.
He takes more care than usual getting ready.
With his brown pants he wears a white button-down shirt he forgot he had.
A little tight across the chest, but he likes how he looks when he checks the mirror: serious, quietly stylish, and mature.
Professional. He’s trimmed his beard and carefully combed his hair.
His worn winter coat won’t make much of an impression, but he doesn’t need to make an impression—he’s already in.
He heads for the train in high spirits, relishing the clear blue sky and hardly noticing the frigid air.
The world feels electric, rich with possibility, and the usual sights and sounds of the city—even the frosted bags of garbage piled on the sidewalks—delight him.
When Paul enters the gallery, Jahan welcomes him with a firm handshake and a beaming smile.
“Mr. Sorenson, so wonderful to see you.” Paul thrills to the sound of Mr. Sorenson coming from Jahan Davani’s lips but tells him to call him Paul—just as he did when they first met days ago.
The two men take their seats on the aggressively modern, uncomfortable chairs Jahan seems to favor, and Jahan leans forward, his brown eyes warm and keenly focused.
“I want this to be an iconic show. Legendary. And, Paul, you will play a huge part, involved in everything—but not the tiresome things. My staff will handle those.” He gives a big laugh, and Paul tries to match it.
The thought of staff handling “the tiresome things” is extraordinary, thrilling—but he tries to act as though he’s long been a stranger to grunt work.
“The show is about Judith, yes, but it’s also about you,” Jahan goes on, pointing his forefinger at Paul.
About me? Paul wants to ask, letting himself imagine, for a moment, that Jahan saw his old photograph in Harper’s and wants to feature his work alongside Judith’s.
“You and Judith are fused in the public mind. Judith is the star, of course,” Jahan says, evaporating Paul’s little dream.
“Her work will be the centerpiece. So will her death—whether we like it or not. But the story of ‘Judith and Paul’ is compelling, too, the one about this singular talent discovered by her brilliant photography instructor. People adore stories like this, so you must know how crucial you are—both behind the scenes and out on the main stage.” Here, Jahan makes a sweeping gesture with his arms. Paul has the sudden impulse to stand and take a bow—and he’s almost giddy enough at Jahan’s words to do it.
“Now. Let me give you the grand tour, introduce you to the staff. They’re absolutely dying to meet you.
” Paul floats up out of his chair and drifts after Jahan, allowing himself to revel in the moment as he shakes hands with one eager staff member after another.
With each handshake, he discards more and more of his old self—the shabby college instructor and has-been photographer—and leans into the bright new person who belongs in this golden world.