Sex, Murder And A Double Latte. Kyra Davis
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was surrounded by numerous canvases that Donato had apparently thrown a bucket of paint at. I squinted in an attempt to make the pictures more appealing. Who, exactly, decided that this was art? I could throw paint. In fact I was really good at throwing things.
I took a step closer to one of the pieces in an earnest effort to find some redeeming qualities. It was a big green splash mark. I checked the title. Verdi.
“Ah, this one is my favorite.”
I nearly spilled my drink down my dress. I hadn’t realized that Donato was behind me with Marcus, of course, right behind him.
“I love your use of color,” Marcus cooed.
I shot him a withering look, but he wasn’t making eye contact.
Donato, on the other hand, was watching me attentively. He obviously expected me to say something.
I took a long sip of my drink. Think, think, think. “Um, yes, well, it’s very…it’s very…green.”
“Yes, exactly!” Donato grabbed my free hand and placed it against his heart. “You understand. It’s green.”
Now even Marcus looked a little embarrassed. I peeked over at Anatoly who, still standing at the bar, was just within earshot. He was having a ball. Hell, he probably hadn’t been so amused since the time I made a fool of myself at Starbucks. Donato, who still hadn’t let go of my hand, was eagerly waiting for my next artistic insight. But I couldn’t continue this conversation, not without saying something that would get me thrown out. This called for desperate measures.
“Have you met my friend Anatoly?”
For a nanosecond Anatoly’s mouth hung open in a somewhat unbecoming fashion. Then he pulled it together enough to slam the rest of his drink. Oh, this could be fun after all. “Donato, Marcus, this is Anatoly. He recently moved here from New York. Anatoly, this is my friend Marcus, and of course this is Donato, the man we’ve all come to admire.”
“His work,” Anatoly corrected.
“What?” I had become distracted again by Donato’s pecs.
“We’ve come to admire his work, not him, his work. We went over this, remember?”
I did a quick visual survey of the table being used as a bar. It wasn’t quite big enough for me to crawl under. Fortunately Donato seemed oblivious to my humiliation.
“The two are interchangeable,” he said. “To admire my work is to admire me and to admire me, is to admire my work.”
“Yeah, you’re a piece of work all right,” Anatoly replied.
This time it was Marcus’s turn to redirect the conversation. “So, Anatoly, how did you and Sophie meet?”
“We met at Starbucks. I let her read my New York Times.”
I felt my right hand involuntarily clench but I managed to keep a smile plastered on. Anatoly’s eyes traveled down to my fist.
“She’ll have another martini,” he informed the bartender. “Mr. Balardi—am I pronouncing that right?”
“Donato.”
“Donato, I’m curious about the blank canvas over there.” Anatoly gestured to an empty canvas proudly displayed behind us.
“I’m so glad you asked this. That is my tribute to minimalism.”
“Your tribute to minimalism.” Anatoly spoke the words slowly.
“Yes, it is simplicity in all its purity.”
“Uh-huh.” Anatoly crossed his arms over his chest. “Tell me, Donato, do our tax dollars fund any of this?”
“Sooo, Anatoly, what part of San Francisco did you move to?” Marcus asked.
“I found an apartment in Russian Hill,” Anatoly said.
“What?” My drink sloshed over onto my platforms. “But I live in Russian Hill.”
“Well, this works out perfectly!” Marcus clapped his hands gleefully. “With you two living so close, I’m sure Anatoly wouldn’t mind giving you a lift home.”
“I thought you were giving me a lift home, Marcus.”
“Oh, I am, or at least I was. It’s just that…” Marcus transferred his jacket from arm to arm. “Well, you know I only have the two seats, and Donato is going to need a ride too….” Marcus’ voice then dropped to a low mumble.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?” I asked.
Marcus sighed and stuck his hands in his pockets. “Donato took the bus here.”
“I enjoy taking public transportation on occasion,” Donato said. “It gives me a feel for the people who make up a city, the people I do not usually have opportunity to meet.”
I was glaring at Marcus. He was engrossed in Donato’s tribute to minimalism.
Anatoly shrugged. “I didn’t drive here either, but I’d be happy to share a cab, Sophie—my treat.”
“Really, that’s not necessary.”
“No, I insist. It wouldn’t be right to force the artist to take the bus twice in one night. After all, there is a limit to how much time one can spend amongst the proletariat. And those people are known for their inability to appreciate spilt paint.”
Well, so much for Marcus’s attempts to avoid an explosion. But instead of taking offense, Donato just cocked his head to the side and smiled. “It is the rare individual who expresses his opinion when it is not popular to do so. I wonder if you would be willing to defend your views as vigorously as you attack others’.”
“I wasn’t attacking your views,” Anatoly said. “I just don’t like your art. Fortunately for you, there seem to be a lot of people here who disagree with me.”
Donato laughed, and Marcus exhaled. “Yes, there certainly is a wide range of opinion in this country in terms of what is acceptable in the art world and what is not. Pity we do not see eye to eye, but I do appreciate your candor.”
Anatoly nodded, but didn’t smile. I was beginning to think that the appropriate place for my drink was not down my throat but on his face.
Another patron approached Donato to question him about the source of his inspiration. He excused himself to give the woman a tour of his more complex pieces—those would be the ones with two colors.
Marcus took in Anatoly’s brown shoes and black pants, and then surveyed the room for men more likely to swing his way. There was one man that stuck out more than the rest. Not because he was especially gorgeous but because he so obviously didn’t belong there. He was no more than an inch taller than me and he wore his naturally highlighted brown hair pulled back into a high ponytail, which served to accentuate his goatee, groomed into a point like Lucifer’s. He was wearing a studded biker’s jacket and a pair of black velvet pants. I had to check the latest GQ, but I was pretty sure that wasn’t the new men’s look.
He strode over to Verdi and leaned in close enough that I felt the urge to remind him that this was a look-but-don’t-touch kind of event. He leaned back again and shook his head with a deliberate slowness. “This is shit.”
Anatoly took a large step forward. “I’m glad there are other people here who agree with me.”
“Where’s the social commentary?” the guy asked. “Where’s the controversy? This isn’t art, this is navel lint. A crucifix dipped in cow’s dung, a black-and-white photograph of a man sticking his fist up another guy’s A-hole. That’s art. That’s the kind of stuff that will make people stop and really think about their contrived Middle American sensibilities.”
Anatoly stepped back again. So much for bonding with Velvet Pants. Disappointed, the stranger’s head swiveled to Marcus in hopes of finding someone