literature

Ultraviolet Pt. 1

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The deck looked over a plain lawn.  For someone so creative she hadn't put much effort into interesting landscaping or flowers.  Then again the mid-March had not yet released its bony, grasping fingers on winter, holding on like a rescued swimmer afraid to let go of the safety of a known piece of debris.

I wondered if that was how Violet was holding on—like a swimmer.  Her eyes were shadowed and she was thin—past athletic sexy and into gaunt, almost heroin chic.  I hadn't seen her in years and although she was being more stylish with her hair and clothes, and looked better than most, her body was showing signs of wear that, in my humble opinion, slightly outstripped her years.

Even though I willed myself not to, I had begun making comparisons to Sara:  shiny, shoulder length, styled black hair to Sara's full, long, auburn tresses; Violet's almost haughty, nasal French café laugh to Sara's ringing, Midwestern farm-girl's, etc.

Violet was French, of course, and her accent sometimes slipped even into the way that she laughed.  She had an icy, appraising glance, but I had seen the other side of it, the one she saved for intimate moments when, smiling, she would tilt her head down, so that her eyes were more open, and blink her long sable fan-brush lashes over her shark grey eyes in a way that melted my insides.

"Pierre has designs on a pool," she lilted, vaguely waving her hand in the direction of an open place in the yard, "but I absolutely refuse to let him start one until he shows me even a design, never mind any money.  You know how he is," a sideways glance.  I nodded.

Pierre was her ostensibly gay, sometimes lover and fashion design partner, though his was the creative end and hers the business acumen.  Her creativity lay in myriad other pursuits, but included marketing, initially through her New York art house connections.

I once asked her why she bothered to interfere with Pierre's blatant homosexuality.  "Because I can," she said simply, with a wry half-smile, and a toss of her head.  I wanted to think she wasn't just being perverse.  It was probably an ego trip, knowing her.  Perhaps Pierre might tell me one day.

Ultraviolet was a photographer/sculptor/painter who took her name partly from the famous Salvadore Dali muse and Andy Warhol Factory Girl model and artist of the same name.  I vaguely remember there being a movie using that name with Milla Jovovich, which I haven't seen, but come to think of it there was a slight resemblance there:  the pale eyes, dark hair and slim form, mainly.

At precisely 5:00pm Pierre threw open the front door.  "Hellooo!" he called, as I involuntarily winced.  It wasn't that I had a problem with Pierre exactly.  On the contrary, he was a good friend, funny and astute, and had helped me on any number of occasions.  He had an almost automatic respect for other artists and especially friends of Violet's, though he was undeniably jealous at times.  It was just that he could be a little over dramatic.  I wouldn't even be surprised if he had timed his arrival to the minute.  I think I remember him saying something cryptic once like: "Always arrive on time and no one will criticise your shoes!" or something along those lines.  I suppose he had a point of some sort, but I always preferred to be fashionably late, something my employers and teachers had always hated.  Those first few minutes were a life and death struggle with the forces of disorder and chaos.  Small children in Turkmenistan were beaten and sent to bed hungry if the bell had rung before my hindquarters were in my chair.  Alarm bells sounded all the way up the chain of command to the president.  I was a dirty, rude, horrible person whose laziness and dissolution reflected upon everyone in those fine institutions.  It didn't matter if I worked three times as hard and stayed four hours later at the end of the day, the irreparable harm was done.  Black marks must obscure my Permanent Record like a Jackson Pollock painting.  St. Peter is going to be very disappointed when he finally gets his hands on that.  Let that be a lesson, kids: "Always arrive on time and no one will criticise your shoes!"  These days I am nearly always early, late, and exactly on time when I arrive at work: one of the many reasons I became an artist.  I do it for the children, too, those poor Turkmeni urchins.  No bells, no drama, no foot tapping, no more Pavlovian abuse.

But I digress, because the rest of the story is…difficult.

The rest of us were in the kitchen where Violet was entertaining us with wine and tales of art and travels, subtly name dropping.  I smiled both because Violet was a good story-teller, her European accent and word choices more erudite than I would have sounded, and because Sara had come with me, bringing her friend Antoine.  Sara and I had met at one of my shows and had been dating lightly for a couple of weeks, but it seemed a little lackluster.  I had hoped that bringing her to meet my famous former partner in crime would help give me a little more street credibility, as I wasn't very good at speaking about myself.  I always feel like that annoying Saturday Night Live character who, no matter what anyone said, came out with something, however seemingly implausible to top it.  Sara had prudently brought Antoine to act as chaperone, but I could sense a little sexual tension there as well.  I hadn't quite decided whether it was mutual or whether she was giving him just enough attention to keep me wondering.  I could see that she was impressed by Violet and her eyes glowed when my name came up in relation to our exploits.  I smiled to myself at the irony of Violet being my wingman.  

"So finally, David," she always called me David, never Dave, although she had learned the American pronunciation, "said to him, 'Governor if that is what it says to you, then that is exactly what I had meant for it to say!' after all of that!"  We all laughed, as much at Violet's imitation of me as at the story.  "I never saw an artist capitulate so fast to public opinion!" she chuckled.

"Public opinion?!"  I said with mock indignation, "It was the Governor of New York!  He bought the painting didn't he?  I didn't have the heart to tell him what it really meant, and it's probably still hanging in his living-room!"  We laughed again as Pierre came in—swept in, really.

"Jesus Squid!" he cried when he saw me, "Vi said you'd be coming!" slightest of emphases on the last word.  I wondered if that was one of the things that made people uncomfortable about gays:  that recurrent innuendo, but I knew it was just a role he played, the way that men felt compelled to ask about sports scores and women about clothes.  I stood as he crossed the room and gave him a hug.  There wasn't any point in staying in my chair; he would have lifted me out of it, as he practically did to my friends soon after.  Pierre was definitely a hugger—men, women, cats, dogs, trees, traffic cops, you name it.

After the introductions, during which he literally looked Antoine up and down like a museum curator sizing up a Greek Kouros statue (poor Antoine didn't know what he had gotten into), Pierre turned back to me, the man who had been Violet's partner, lover, and roommate before him, and said, "Vi, why," and he let that small rhyming phrase hang there [over]dramatically for a moment, "is this man drinking wine?  You know he's a whiskey drinker!" he said, eying my glass mischievously, "What was it you used to drink, Old Grand Dad 100 proof and soda or, oh, I remember:  Jameson's 12 year old and Red Bull!" he exclaimed, pleased with his memory, "I think we have some—"

"No!" said Violet, then realizing she had spoken a little sharply, she softened her tone, "Let's let our guests finish their wine first, surely!" she said smoothly, "We can do cocktails after dinner."

I looked at her with what I thought was an unreadable stare.  She was buying time, not wanting me to get started on what might be a long night of drinking quite yet.  I sighed, and a line from an old Roxy Music song that we used to listen to late at night flashed through my head:  "It's the same old story/ All love and glory/ It's a pantomime".  Mother of Pearl that one was called:  "Oh Mother of Pearl, I wouldn't trade you for another girl…"  My subconscious was so ironic for feeding me that one.

Glancing at Sara, it didn't seem as though she had caught the sharp tone in Violet's voice, and maybe I only had because I knew her better, and was more familiar with it.  She said, "This is quite good.  What is it?"

"Uh, oh," I thought to myself, Violet could either be very generous, or very condescending with her knowledge of wines.  She had been both with me, but tonight all she had said when pouring was that it was a Bordeaux, and I had been left trying to remember the difference between a Bordeaux and a merlot—without much success—something to do with regions and types of grapes.  I knew Bordeaux was a region, but remembered less about what grapes were in it.

"It's the very essence of Dionysus, my dear," she started, leaning forward, and in that moment I realized that she sometimes reminded me of a more modern Rosalind Russell from her part in the movie "Auntie Mame", somehow both regal and down to earth at the same time.  "It's Chateau Margaux 1990."

Sara nodded, eyes wide, but uncomprehending.  I didn't recognize the name either, but Violet waiting for a reaction meant something was going on.  It was actually the small sound of Antoine's glass clinking on the granite counter that gave the first clue, where he stared at it with a strange expression, as though it had just turned into a small live chicken in his hand.  He swallowed a couple of times as if tasting his mouth for the first time.
From a dream on 2011-03-28

I still have drinking and drug dreams, but no regrets.

Mother of Pearl: [link]
© 2011 - 2024 vikingjon
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