“I can ask her about it,” Yale said. “I can take this up there with me.”
“What I want you to do—before you get all her stories, and I know that’s what she wants—is to see if she can remember what paintings might’ve been done from the sketches. Because this one, for instance—Yale, this is in the Musée d’Orsay! Maybe they’ll have interest in the sketch, you know? Display it beside the original. Not to sell,” he said, seeing Yale’s face, “but a loan or exchange. I can send the catalogs with you to Wisconsin. Of course there’s no Hébuterne catalog, or Sergey What’s-His-Face. And no Ranko Novak catalog, ha! But we’re going to load your trunk with books.”
“And you’re sure you don’t want to come?”
“I have so much to do for the Polaroids.” The Polaroid show didn’t open till August, but Bill was dealing with loaned Ansel Adams and Walker Evans pieces, and every time he talked about the exhibit he wound up flapping his hands in frustration. “I want you back up there very soon. You and Roman. He’s a fine specimen, no?”
Yale had no idea how to respond. “He seems like a quick study,” he said.
As he got in his car, Bill winked.
* * *
—
Yale sank onto a barstool in the darkest corner of Cheeks and pried his feet loose from the stickiness of the floor and ordered a Manhattan. It was a safe place to spend time, and they wouldn’t close till four, and he kept seeing faces he vaguely knew. The receptionist from the gay-friendly dentist on Broadway, Katsu Tatami’s ex, the tall Canadian Nico had once been obsessed with. He had a long purple lesion on his left cheekbone. A former staffer of Charlie’s came up to say hi, and one of Julian’s theater friends, the one who’d played Fortinbras in Hamlet. The place was oddly full for a Monday; some kind of bat signal had been sent up, apparently. The cute bartender wasn’t there, but the one on duty had a generous pour. A dusky guy in a ripped T-shirt dropped a matchbook in Yale’s lap, and when Yale opened it he found a phone number on the flap. It occurred to Yale that he was essentially single now, that he could go home with someone, take advantage of a warm bed and a shower, a distraction. The problem was he wasn’t sure he remembered how to flirt. It had been too long. That, and the fact that all he could think about were germs and bodily fluids. The whole bar looked to him like a petri dish.
Despite the number of people, everyone seemed subdued, just kind of nodding their heads to the Bronksi Beat and standing in little groups. Maybe because it was so cold out that the frost blasted in every time the door opened. The whole cruise-with-your-shirt-off thing worked a hell of a lot better in L.A.
Someone squeezed the back of his neck and he looked up to see Richard, the silver waves of his hair catching the bar lights. He got close to Yale’s ear, spoke loudly. “This is a rare sighting! Yale down here in the Deep South, slumming with the likes of me!”
“I just needed somewhere to go.”
Richard nodded like he understood. He said, “Museums should stay open all night, for this very reason. You could wander around the Field Museum. No one would dare assault you in front of a sarcophagus.”
“We should move all the museums to Boystown.”
Richard laughed. “If we moved the museums to Boystown they’d just turn into bars. That’s why I don’t move there myself.”
“You’d turn into a bar?”
“No, a raging alcoholic.”
He told Richard about running into Bill Lindsey outside. Richard said, “Start watching for him and I bet you’ll see him crouching in the corner every time you’re out.” He was surveying the room. “I want to shoot some video in here,” he said. “It’s so viscerally sleazy.”
Yale said, “Are you kidding? You’d be banned for life.”
“Mr. Technicality.”
“That’s my job. To suck the soul out of art.”
Richard said, “You either need more booze or less. Shall we get you more?”
The door opened again and more icy wind flooded the room. A new cluster pushed in, loud, already drunk. Julian was in the midst of them. Of course he was.
He hoped Julian wouldn’t see him, but Richard was waving him over—Richard had always had a thing for Julian, was always asking him to pose—and now Julian was heading straight toward them. He put both arms around Richard’s neck and hung there like a huge, drunk necklace. He wore a hat and a sweater but no coat. He slurred what sounded like “Richard, I can live in your house.” It might have been something else. He sounded like an old man who’d forgotten his dentures.
Richard said, “Julian, what are you on?”
Julian fell between Richard and Yale, caught himself on the bar. “It’s kid stuff. We were at Paradise! Let’s go back to Paradise! I didn’t wanna leave. Oh, Yale.” He put out a hand and touched Yale’s chin. “Yale, I had to tell you something.”
“No, you don’t.” Yale wanted to hate him, but he couldn’t. He was so pathetic. How could he hate someone this pathetic?
Julian reached up and took off his hat, and Yale coughed in surprise, struggled to recover. Julian’s head was completely shaved, albeit badly, his beautiful black hair—his unicorn lock—reduced to patchy stubble and scabs.
Richard ran his fingers along the top of Julian’s scalp, horrified.
“Why did you do that?” Yale said.
Julian made a phlegmy noise, a sick animal noise.
“Whoa,” Richard said. “Hey. We need to get you home.”
“I lost my key.”
“Yale, can you take him to your place?”
Yale blew out a mouthful of air and almost said, “I told you about the snoring,” but instead he said, “Charlie and I split up.” Because he’d have to say it sooner or later. Charlie couldn’t coerce him into sitting together at every event, putting on the couple show.
Julian, to Yale’s horror, began to cry. He put his face on Yale’s chest and didn’t get him wet but just sort of heaved there, his whole body shaking.
Richard said, “I didn’t know, Yale. I’m sorry. He can—Julian, don’t cry. Julian, you can come to my place, okay?” And Julian nodded, without taking his face off Yale. “Yale, where are you staying? Are you alright?”
“I have no idea. I mean, I’m fine. I was kind of gonna sit here till four.”
“Oh, Yale. Come with us, then. Is that why you asked me the other day? I’m a dolt.”
Yale said, “You’re not. And I shouldn’t. I can’t.” Not if Julian would be there. He couldn’t wake up sober in the morning and eat eggs with Julian. He couldn’t take care of Julian vomiting in the night.