Page 118 of All That We Are Together
I wanted to tell him I wouldn’t stay there in Paris forever, but that I felt I had to be there just then, and if I tried hard enough, I could find whatever I was looking for. I wanted to tell him that I hated holding him back, seeing him wither each day, smoking absently, leaning on the windowsill in the living room, and watching the city as it buzzed at all hours. I wanted…
I wanted things to be different.
But a part of me couldn’t help thinking that if I gave in, if I left even though I was still unsure, it would mean putting Axel on a pedestal again, making him the center of my world. I liked the way things were now, that feeling that we were at the same level and could look each other eye to eye and not think about the difference in age or all we’d been through. Just being us. Starting over. Ready to paint the story we wanted to live with each other as if life were a blank canvas.
110
Axel
“Are you sure you want to come?” Leah seemed uncertain.
“Of course. It’s not that big a deal. Or maybe it is. But I’ll deal with it.”
I kissed her on the forehead to try to ease the tension there, and we walked outside. The nights were getting warmer, and I left my suit jacket at home. It was a relief, a little victory that gave me back a bit of my former life. Leah nodded distractedly when I told her this, then took my hand as we walked to the restaurant where the gallery was hosting a dinner for a few artists and friends of the owners.
We got there early and sat at one end of the table across from Scarlett and William, who greeted us with their usual condescending attitude. Leah didn’t seem to notice and smiled timidly. Not long afterward, Hans showed up, and the rest of the guests soon followed. Lucky for me, an artist named Gaspard sat to my left. He was one of the few interesting people I’d met in those months. At least I didn’t wish I was deaf every time I talked to him. His English was rough, but we still chatted—I wanted tokeep up appearances. Those past few days, the situation with Leah had been tense, and I wanted her to know that no matter what happened, we’d keep going. Together.
I don’t know how, but I wound up talking about Byron Bay.
“That place sounds different,” Gaspard said.
“It is,” Hans butted in. “It’s nothing like here; things there work in their own way. I’ll bet you’d like it.”
“Well, if I ever make it down there, I’ll give you a call,” Gaspard told me.
Unless I’m still here, I thought, but I kept those words to myself, digging around in my dish of ratatouille and trying to ignore Leah’s stiffness and the roar of voices around me. Thinking about her barefoot, lying on the ground, smiling, her hair in disorder, I had to set aside my fork and take a long sip of wine. I could have used something a bit stronger. Something to give me a little strength.
“The market demands an immediate response,” Scarlett said while the artists looked at her doe-eyed. “It’s sad to say, but there needs to be productivity. We’re not the ones asking for it, it’s our customers, but they are the key to any business. Everything revolves around them.”
“Things are moving fast,” a young man said.
“We must adapt to the circumstances.”
“Or change them,” I said. I couldn’t hold back anymore.
Next to me, Leah squeezed her fork.
“How do you suggest we do that?”
“I’m not suggesting anything,” I replied. “And you’re right, the customer is the boss, but a lot of times customers don’t knowwhat they want until they see it. It’s not just about giving them what they’re looking for. It’s about surprising them.”
“That’s an interesting perspective,” Hans said with a nod.
“That may work for the gallery in Byron Bay, but here, things are different. We don’t have much margin for error,” Scarlett noted before wiping her mouth with her napkin. “Surprising the customer is a risk.”
“An appetite for risk is a requirement for this job. Or at least it should be.”
The waiter interrupted us to place a tray of desserts on the table and took away the empty plates. I was thankful for the pause, because I didn’t know if I could restrain myself much longer without telling her that her approach to the business was cowardly. Still pensive, I grabbed achouquettedusted with powdered sugar and put it in my mouth.
I wasn’t so stupid or so idealistic that I couldn’t understand Scarlett’s position. And in a way, she was right: there were times when the market demanded something, and to an extent, you had to give it. There were artists who were talented but lacked a personal style, and they needed guidance to find what they were best at. But then there were the ones like Leah, who poured their entire personality into the canvas and just had to do it that way, because anything else would be forced, dull, inauthentic. That type of artist you couldn’t push, but only accompany. One thing was being by their side, helping them improve, polishing their strong points; another was standing behind them and telling them which way they had to go and how.
I didn’t think there was a conflict between these two approaches.You just had to take a personalized approach with everyone. That meant more work for the gallerist, because you couldn’t sell everyone the same way, but the result was worth the effort. That was what I’d liked most about our work in Byron Bay: looking for talent, finding it, deciding how to place each artist, trying to fix weak points. It demanded time, study, interest. It would be easier to ask everyone to do the same kind of work and not bother with all the rest, but I couldn’t imagine anything emptier compared with the pleasure of finding the perfect place for each artist and helping them get there. I thought of how revolted Sam would be if she had to listen to what Scarlett was saying—Sam, who treasured every detail of her work.
I held out for the rest of the night thanks to the two drinks I ordered after dessert. When Leah got up and started saying her goodbyes, I did the same with relief. An anguished silence enveloped us on our way home.
She went straight to the kitchen, took a bottle from the cabinet, and served herself a glass. Her hand shook as she took a long swig. Around us, the tension grew dense, stifling. I even had the feeling it was dangerous to breathe.
“You didn’t drink at all during dinner,” I said, taking the bottle and sipping straight from the neck. I licked my lips and met eyes with her. “Were you afraid of what they’d think of you? Does high society look down on it?”