Arms Race (3 page)

You, she said. Jump in this one.

But he's—the director said.

I'm just—I said.

Come on, ride with me, Katherine said. She dragged me into the cab. I let go of Lucy's
hand and climbed in. Katherine reached over to shut the door. Lucy climbed in anyway,
folding her long legs into the back seat.

She with you? Katherine said.

Yes.

Fine. Shut the door. We'll see you at the restaurant, she yelled out the window.
Driver, drive!

We slipped away from the kerb. Behind us, the director was shouting something. All
I caught was my name. He didn't look angry. I thought he looked scared.

Not many people got the chance to meet Katherine DuCroix. She lived upstate, and
came to maybe one of her openings a year. I'd once overheard a senior curator talking
to her on the phone.
Yes. Sorry. Sorry. Yes.
That was all you said to Katherine DuCroix.
Her work sold more than the rest of our artists put together. I couldn't believe
the warmth against my thigh was coming from
her
.

She slumped in the seat and shut her eyes. Up close, her face was small and round,
with a forceful nose and a lemon-twist mouth. Her brows had been plucked into sharp,
questioning lines. I'd never seen someone wearing so much make-up.

Oh my god, she said. Fucking people.

You must get those questions a lot, I said.

I do. She opened one eye and looked up at me. What's the secret of anyone's success?
Fucking the right curator?

No secret, huh, I ventured. I guess you're just born with it.

Gauguin was born with it, she said. Most people get it later in life. Anyway, where's
this damn restaurant?

I don't know, sorry.

Katherine frowned. Why not?

I'm just the intern. We weren't invited to dinner.

Katherine began to laugh with that same wheezing rasp. She didn't sound well. She
put a hand on my shoulder. You've just made my night, she said. I could kiss you,
whoever you are.

I'm Nick, I said. This is Lucy.

Lucy had come from a twelve-hour shift at the hospital. Her hair was pulled back
from her pale freckled face. The two women exchanged a nod.

Good to meet you, Ms DuCroix, Lucy said.

Likewise. It's a damn shame we don't know the name
of that restaurant. I love those
fucking dinners. But what do you know? My phone's off. Yours too, right?

Right, I said. I dug my phone from my pocket. Nine missed calls. I switched it off.

Good, Katherine said. I know this great Korean place. Let's go have some fun.

The enormous restaurant had just a few tables, lit up like small, expensive islands.
An albino waiter in a black vest led us to a booth up the back. Katherine kicked
off her shoes and stepped inside, and I turned briefly to take Lucy's hands. I'd
been volunteering at Reeves for years. I'd lose my internship for sure, but dinner
with Katherine DuCroix was worth it. I gave Lucy a terrified grin. She seemed exhausted,
but she squeezed my hands and managed to smile back.

Inside the booth Katherine was seated cross-legged at a low table. A huge painting
hung at her back—a seascape of sorts, wading birds silhouetted against a fiery sunset.
I realised it was one of hers. The birds were oilrigs, and the waves at their feet
were tiny boats. The water was on fire.

We sat, and a waiter brought pickles and
kimchi
, and a carafe of
soju.
Katherine
sloshed the clear spirit into porcelain cups.

So, Nick, she said. You work for a dealer gallery, but you're not a total asshole.
Are you an artist yourself?

Well, I said. I want to be a painter.

Really? Katherine said. Someone said that to Lucien Freud at a party once: I want
to be a painter. You know what he said? What a coincidence. Neither do I.

No, I really—

A joke, darling. Lucien Freud was diseased and mad. But you have the look of the serious artist about you.

I blushed stupidly. Wow, I said. Really?

Absolutely. I can always tell.

Uh—thanks. Art's what I want to do with my life.

Lucy was looking at me sideways. I guess I'd never stated it like that before.

Well, cheers to that, Katherine said. She raised her cup and drained it in a single
gulp, and I did the same.

Of course, you're insane, she said. Wanting to make art in this day and age. There's
no future in it.

How can
you
say that? I said.

I'm the exception that proves the rule. It's a lost cause.

I shook my head. I want to make art like you. I love your Spirochette period, and
the Paralysis portraits. I've been to about a million of your openings. So, I hope
you don't mind me asking, but—is there a secret to your success?

For a second Katherine DuCroix's face was savage: teeth bared, her dark eyes blank
with rage.

Then she was off again with that cascading asthmatic laughter. She grinned at me
and I grinned back.

You got me, she said.

You got us all back there. Syphilis. Hilarious.

Katherine nodded, and her smile drifted away.

Hilarious, she said, but what if it was true? Some of the great artists had syphilis.
Cézanne, Margritte, Yoko Ono.

I wasn't sure whether or not to laugh. Lucy was watching Katherine with a look I
couldn't read. She hadn't touched her
soju
.

Didn't it drive them crazy? Lucy asked.

Absolutely, Katherine said. What if it made them brilliant as well?

Lucy lowered her elbows to the table and sat forward. Millions of people got syphilis,
she said. Only a few were brilliant. The rest just died.

Katherine leaned in as well, and the two women's faces were close. They all had visions,
Katherine said. Maybe they were all brilliant. They just didn't know how to communicate
what they saw. A disease can't teach you how to paint.

What a concept, I said. I could use it in my work. Self-portrait with syphilis.

You do self-portraits too? Katherine said. Tell me about them, handsome.

I gulped down another shot of
soju
. I wanted to get this right. They're self-portraits,
I said, but they're versions of me that have fallen in love with my own work. So—

Pygmalion? Katherine said.

Pig what?

Shaw had it. Never mind. Go on.

So, there's a portrait of me where I'm so obsessed with painting, I've forgotten
about the real world. There's another of me after I've lost touch with my friends,
and another after Lucy's left me—

You know, Katherine said, I could be the artist in your series.

Wow, I said. You—get caught up in your own work?

No husband, no kids, no friends. All I have is the world on the canvas.

Really?

Really. You have to choose between the real world and the one you're creating.

Wow, I said again. You had to choose between having a family and making art?

Katherine gave a little barking laugh. Not much of a choice, she said. No one would
have me. My friends all thought I was nuts. They chose partners and kids, I chose
painting. Pretty poor substitute for a nice cock.

Beside me, Lucy was shifting on her cushion like she couldn't get comfortable. I
didn't want her interrupting. I reached over and patted her hand.

But it's not really a choice, Lucy said. Most artists have children.

True, Katherine said. Most artists have children. Most artists lead happy lives.
Most artists are crap.

But you must lead a happy life, I said. You're so successful.

Hardly, Katherine said, and her face dropped, the weight of the years spilling out.
I don't tell anyone this, but I'll tell you. I start from zero every time. Every
new show starts out as a failure. I have no idea if it'll be any good.

Wow, I said. That must be tough.

It is, Katherine said. She looked me in the eye. It's very lonely.

Yeah, I said. That must be very hard.

There was a pause. We both drank.

When the waiter returned and Katherine ordered mains, in Korean, Lucy murmured in
my ear.

Babe, let's not stay too long.

What? Why not?

She's getting drunk and maudlin. And she wants to fuck your brains out.

What? I whispered. She's older than my mum.

Exactly. It's embarrassing.

We're just talking about art.

Please. You're just stroking each other's egos. I'd rather not sit and watch. And
can you stop saying ‘wow'?

So, Julie, Katherine butted in. What do you do?

Lucy.

Lucy. What do you do?

I'm a doctor.

A doctor, Katherine said. She poured herself another drink. That could be useful.
I have a very good doctor. You know, they found the files belonging to Hitler's doctors.
They think he might have had syphilis. It would explain his insane genius.

What? Lucy said. Are you trying to say the Holocaust was caused by
syphilis
? That's
so reductive. Besides, they had antibiotics in the forties. They could have cured
him in a week.

Sure, Katherine said. They
could
have cured him, but maybe he didn't let them. Why
kill your inspiration? Same for Brett Whiteley and Ralph Hotere. Same for Tracey
Emin and the Guerilla Girls. I think they all chose to be diseased. What does that
tell you?

You think people wanted that? Lucy said, outraged. It's one of the most painful conditions
there is! Why would—

Shush, Katherine said. Here we go.

The waiter—no, the chef himself—swooped down with a covered silver platter. He lifted
the lid, and a mushroom cloud of steam billowed towards the ceiling. Beneath, something
moved on a bed of seaweed. A dismembered octopus, still twitching.

Fresh meat! Katherine cried.

She stabbed at the pile and came away with a small blue-white tentacle that curled
itself round her chopsticks. She shook it off into her mouth and gave a grunt of
pleasure. Ungh. Fuck yes. Come on, you two.

I don't know, I said.

Don't be shy, Katherine said. It won't bite.

I forked a slice of tentacle into my mouth. It was
pungent and briny, shivering with
escaping life. It was like biting off someone's tongue while French kissing.

Lucy ignored the food. She was staring at Katherine with a look of disgust. So you're
telling us a garden-variety STD makes people brilliant? she said. Or is this just
some stupid story you feed to—

Lucy, I said. She's just kidding.

You're a doctor, Katherine said. You would want to treat it. But what if you could
reap the benefits? What if you could manage it?

Manage it? Lucy said. Manage your face falling off?

Maybe it was worth it.

Paralysis? Psychosis? For the sake of fucking
art
?

The truth! Katherine crowed. Fucking
art
! If you want to make art you have to make
sacrifices. You have to choose. Here, Nick, try this one.

She picked out a choice tentacle and offered it across the table, not to my plate
but to my mouth. I craned over. She dropped the twitching thing onto my tongue.

Jesus! Lucy said. She leaped to her feet. Her cheeks were spotted with colour. I've
had about enough of this. I'm sorry Nick, but she's deranged. We're going.

Katherine was cackling with laughter. She could see I wanted to leave, and Lucy could
see I wanted to stay. I sat, foolish with indecision, the octopus jerking in my mouth,
until Lucy stormed from the booth. I half rose to go after her.

Your girlfriend's right, Katherine said. I am deranged. Blame the disease.

But you're kidding, aren't you? Tell me you're kidding.

You say you want to be an artist, Katherine said. You say you want to know the secret
to success. You can run after her now, live a good life, jerk off over the catalogues
from other people's MoMA retrospectives, die a nobody. Or you can stay and I'll tell
you the truth. Come here.

She stretched across the table and pulled me close. In the gloom her eyes were black,
with just the faintest sparkle.

I'll tell you the secret, she whispered. It's not syphilis.

It's not?

No. It's a strain of syphilis. One very rare strain. That's what makes you a genius.

But—

You don't catch it by accident, Katherine said. It's been passed down the generations,
artist to artist. You'd be surprised who's got it. But you have to want it badly.
It means you'll never have a proper family. You'll never be part of normal society.
You have to be prepared to go a bit crazy.

This close, I caught a smell off her, something bitter and strange, and I was sure
I could see the ravaged skin beneath her make-up. She raised a hand and caressed
my cheek, and I was filled with horrified longing.

You have to be trusted, she said with quiet intensity. Not just anyone gets it. These
are the germs that lived in
Louise Bourgeois. This is Dalí in your bloodstream. This
is making love to Frida Kahlo. Imagine the things you'd dream. Imagine the things
you'd paint. You'd be a genius. Imagine that.

Imagine that, I whispered.

Those who have the disease choose who gets it next, she said. She ran a thick, clammy
finger across my lips.

I choose you, she whispered. Fuck me, and it's yours.

PHOTOCOPY PLANET

JORA CRADLED the book to his chest. He barely saw the rickshaws crammed with school
children, or the camels bridled and loaded, or the veiled and laughing women flowing
past. Through the dusty market and on up Fort Road he pressed the book close. He
muttered to himself as he went.

This time, please god, this time.

Jora was charming in English and a ball-breaker in Hindi. He was short and fiery,
and dressed like a rich Delhiwallah: a sharp grey suit, purple polo shirt, and small
dark glasses that turned clear when he entered the lobby of his hotel. He'd had it
built from honeyed sandstone like an old
haveli
. It was five storeys high, with twelve
rooms, an open-air rooftop restaurant, and no guests.