Bright, Precious Days (39 page)

THE CITY WAS HOLDING ITS BREATH.
It seemed as if a seismic event was in progress, shifting the tectonic plates beneath the island, toppling monuments and sucking rivers of wealth into the sewers. Billions had somehow disappeared. One heard rumors of overnight cash transactions, of Picassos and Southampton beachfront homes dumped by investors to make margin calls, of moving trucks arriving at town houses in the middle of the night.

“This is beginning to look like a bloodbath,” Casey said.

They were sitting on flimsy chairs near the back of a crowded room at Christie's. The auctioneer stood at the front of the room, beneath a screen displaying the paintings on offer, the estimates, and up-to-the-minute bids. Casey had insisted that Corrine accompany her to the auction, out of a professed desire to get her out of the house, though, in fact, she didn't want to appear unaccompanied at such an important social event, and the two walkers she sometimes relied on were otherwise engaged. Although Corrine had been initially reluctant to come along, she had an ulterior motive for relenting.

Casey was selling a small
Mao
by Warhol, which she'd consigned this past summer, after Tom left her, when the market was still robust. Corrine had never failed to marvel at the irony of this gaudy image of the Great Helmsman hanging on the wall of an Upper East Side town house, but in the wake of one of those violent contractions that he would have recognized as revealing the internal contradictions of capitalism, he was about to find a new, possibly even more opulent home.

The trouble started early. The third lot, a small red-and-yellow Rothko oil on paper from 1958, estimated at four to six million, hammered for three and a half. The Roy Lichtenstein self-portrait that followed likewise failed to reach the low estimate. The room was increasingly hushed. “Purchased from the artist by a distinguished collector,” Corrine read in the catalog, and remembered a moment—ten, twelve years ago—when Russell had been flipping through one from Sotheby's, reciting the text to her, mocking the descriptions of the consigners: “ ‘From the collection of a distinguished New York gentleman, a longtime friend and former consigner,' ” he'd read. “Wouldn't it be nice for once to read a noneuphemistic version, like ‘From the collection of a scumbag arbitrageur whose wife is divorcing him for sleeping with the yoga instructor.' That would make for some diverting reading,” he'd said. She hadn't thought of that day since, Russell stretched out on the couch in the loft, reading a catalog, laughing at the prices and the faux Brit gentility of it all.

Ten minutes into the auction, most of the lots had hammered below the low estimate and five had failed to find bidders.

The depression was alleviated briefly with a manic burst of bidding on lot nineteen, when Jean-Michel Basquiat's
Untitled
(Boxer)
burst through the high estimate of fifteen million, as Corrine recalled meeting him once with Jeff. But the next lot failed to sell.

Meanwhile, she'd recognized many of the faces in the room, familiar from the society and business pages, although much of the bidding, tepid as it was, came from the ranks of Christie's employees manning the phones along one wall of the room, raising their hands as they pressed receivers to their ears. The identity of these phantom buyers in Asia and Russia was the source of fevered speculation. As the auction progressed, it became clear that their mood was subdued, to say the least.

Casey was becoming increasingly agitated as her own lot approached. The announcement of a de Kooning drawing from an important private collection inspired boos in the room.

“What could anybody have against de Kooning?” Corrine asked.

“That's one of the drawings from the collection of Dick and Kathy Fuld.”

“Who?”

“Jesus, Corrine. He was the head of Lehman Brothers, the man who single-handedly flushed it down the drain. Or at least that's what the people who are booing believe. The Fulds have sixteen drawings in this sale, and whatever happens, they can't lose, because Christie's supposedly guaranteed twenty million. And no one's really happy with that except, presumably, the Fulds.”

Casey clutched Corrine's knee as her painting appeared on the screen with an estimate of four to six million. Corrine tried not to imagine all the productive uses for that kind of cash.

The auctioneer described the painting as a small but brilliant example of the series, recently featured in a major show at the Asia Society. “Shall we start the bidding at three million?”

The room was silent.

It was hard to feel sorry for Casey, really, though at that moment, Corrine couldn't help doing so. She was embarrassed for her friend, even though it was unlikely that many people in the room knew the source of the painting.

“Shall we say two seven five?”

The silence persisted, punctuated by coughs and whispers.

The auctioneer brought down his gavel. “Pass.”

“I'm sorry,” Corrine said.

“Don't feel too bad,” Casey said. “Christie's guaranteed three million, so I'm not that upset.” She shrugged. “Shall we go?”

“Let's just stay for another few lots. I want to see what happens with the Tony Duplex.”

“Ah, yes. First public sale since he shuffled off this mortal coil, I believe.”

Corrine nodded.

“Though I have no idea what a fucking coil is.”

“It basically meant ‘cares' or ‘worries' in Shakespeare's time.”

“You're such a nerd. Why are you so interested in Duplex?”

Corrine debated whether to reveal her interest or not, concluding that her possession of a Duplex gave her something in common with her friend. “I own one.”

“Oh, excellent. Duplex paintings are probably the only assets that have appreciated since September. The only thing better than death for the career of an enfant terrible is death by misadventure. I imagine Russell's doing pretty well on Jack Carson's posthumous book sales.”

“Will you please not make me feel any worse about this?”

“Why should you feel bad? You didn't sell him the drugs.”

“Shh, here it comes.”

“Next up,” the auctioneer said, “a work by the late Tony Duplex, one of the leading neo-Expressionists of the eighties, a confederate of Keith Haring and Jean-Michel Basquiat. This large oil on canvas from 1984 is a stunning example of his work from the period when he took his art from the street to the studio. Estimated at three hundred to five hundred thousand, who will start the bidding at just two hundred and fifty thousand dollars?…Thank you. Do I hear two seventy-five?…Thank you, sir….Lorna has it with her phone bidder now at three hundred thousand. Do I hear three twenty-five?”

“In this sale, that still counts as a bargain,” Casey said.

“Three fifty to the phone bidder. Who will give me four hundred thousand?”

A man near the front in a black suit and wearing bright pink reading glasses raised his hand.

“Why would Gary Arkadian be bidding?” Corrine asked. “He was Duplex's dealer.”

“Well,
duh,
he wants to set a new level for all the paintings.”

Corrine's heart began to pound as the bidding went past half a million dollars. The painting finally hammered at $800,000, which, with the addition of the buyer's premium, meant that someone had just paid almost a million. It was the only artwork of the night to sell for significantly more than the high estimate, the sale itself netting exactly half the low estimate—still enough, Corrine reckoned, to feed a million hungry New Yorkers for a month—inspiring much journalistic commentary about the collapse of the art market, along with the other major asset classes.

WHETHER OUT OF FINANCIAL DISTRESS
or a desire not to appear extravagant in the midst of the crisis, many companies and individuals were scaling back or canceling their holiday festivities, leaving thousands of waiters and cooks and bartenders and coat checkers idle. The panhandlers, who'd almost disappeared from the city streets in recent years, seemed to multiply overnight, and the importunate year-end letters from nonprofit organizations to their patrons manifested a shrill, apocalyptic tone. When, two weeks before Christmas, a prominent money manager confessed that his business was a fifty-billion-dollar Ponzi scheme, half a dozen charities were forced to close their doors, and thousands of New Yorkers discovered that their wealth was illusory. What made this story so resonant was the widespread suspicion that it was emblematic of the economy in general, that the financial markets were houses of cards, built on sand.

Russell had his own liquidity crisis. The spike in sales on Jack's book was staving off the inevitable, but McCane, Slade was still foundering. If he didn't buy any books, and didn't pay himself, he would just have enough money to meet the January payroll, and then, if he didn't find a buyer or an infusion of capital, he'd have to declare bankruptcy. In the wake of the crisis, Corbin, Dern's interest in buying the company had evaporated, despite Washington's best efforts. At this moment, no one was sure what anything was worth.

His emotional coffers were similarly dry. His discussions with Corrine always ended at the same impasse. He'd endured two sessions of marriage counseling before bailing; the more she told him, the less he felt inclined to forgive her. Thanksgiving and Christmas, fraught as they were with emotional significance, required some sort of détente and accommodation, although Russell wasn't ready to perpetrate the illusion of normalcy, or to be alone with Corrine and their kids. For the moment, Storey and Jeremy were shuttling between the loft and Casey's town house, and they were both showing the strain. After a series of complex negotiations, it was decided that Corrine would take Storey and Jeremy to her mother's for Thanksgiving, while Russell joined the Lee clan in their loft, where, with his best friend, he watched the Tennessee Titans annihilate the Detroit Lions.

“Jack would've been pleased,” Russell said afterward. “He was a big Titans fan.”

“Was there ever a memorial service?”

“I was thinking about organizing something in the spring,” Russell said. “A reading, maybe. Nobody else seems to be stepping up. Of course, there's no money for that at the moment.”

After the feast, Washington suggested they cut through the ensuing torpor by taking a walk.

“How'd you like a partner?” Washington asked as he lit a cigarette just outside the door of his building.

“Like a drowning man would like a rope.”

“I had a little windfall.”

“You're saying that you
personally
want to be my partner?”

He nodded, exhaling a vast cloud of smoke.”

“What kind of windfall?” Russell asked.

“I shorted the market back in September.”

“And you're just telling me this now?”

“It's unseemly to flaunt your Kiton suit when everyone around you is losing his shirt. Also, it would look really bad if it got out that my biggest short was Lehman Brothers.”

Russell had no idea how one shorted a stock, or even, exactly, what it meant, but Washington had always had a great head for business. “Jesus, that's rich. And Veronica doesn't know?”

“What do you think?”

“You'd really do this?”

“It's not like I'm giving you the money. It's an investment. Publishing's my business. I already did the due diligence for Corbin, Dern, and I know you're a great publisher. It'll be like old times, chief, and I expect an excellent return on my investment.”

“I'm not sure you realize how much I need. It's gotten worse since you saw those numbers.”

“I'm willing to kick in five large.”

“Five hundred thousand?”

Wash nodded.

“Holy shit, really? That could get me through to the summer. What kind of piece would you want?”

“We can work that out later,” he said.

“I don't know what to say.”

“Let's not get all sentimental here,” Washington said, taking a last drag from his cigarette. “It's an investment.”

If only his domestic crisis had a comparable resolution, Russell thought. Christmas remained a dilemma, the negotiations fraught. “I don't understand why we can't all be together,” Jeremy had said on several occasions. He refused to accompany Russell and Storey on the search for a Christmas tree. Storey did her best to act as if nothing was really amiss, but as the weeks of separation dragged on, she seemed to grow weary of the effort, becoming increasingly withdrawn and sullen. Finally it was agreed that Corrine and the kids would spend Christmas Eve together with Casey and her daughter at the Reyneses' town house. The young Calloways would be dropped off at the loft Christmas morning to spend the day with Russell, and on the day after, Corrine and the kids would drive up to Stockbridge to spend a few days with Corrine's mother.

Two days before Christmas, Hilary called to thank Russell for helping her get the job at HBO. She'd come by a couple of times lately, watching the kids when Russell needed a sitter. He asked her about her Christmas plans.

“Don't have any,” she said.

“You're not going up to see your mother?”

“We're not exactly getting along at the moment. I'll just stay home, watch
It's a Wonderful Life
and drink myself senseless.”

“You're welcome to come here,” Russell said. Over the past few weeks, he'd found that he actually enjoyed her company. She'd picked the kids up at school several times and stayed for supper afterward. As different as she was from Corrine, she was a kind of surrogate for her sister.

“Really?” she said. “Actually, that would be great.”

After he hung up, he realized that Corrine would probably be furious when she found out that Hilary was spending Christmas with him and the kids, which made the idea all the more appealing.

“So what's the plan?” Storey asked, after they'd been dropped off at the loft on Christmas morning.

“Presents,” Jeremy said, pointing at the pile under the tree.

“Well, yes, presents. And then I'm cooking a goose for the carnivores and a Tofurkey for our resident vegetarian.”

“Gross,” said Jeremy.

“What's gross,” Storey said, “is slaughtering innocent animals when there are lots of humane, nonanimal sources of protein and fat.”

Russell shrugged and said, “Aunt Hilary's going to join us.”

“Really?”

“Is that okay?”

“That seems kind of weird,” Storey said. “I mean, it's Christmas.”

“Well, she
is
family.”

“I like her,” Jeremy said.

“Does Mom know about this?” Storey asked.

Russell couldn't help being surprised that Storey was suddenly looking out for her mother's interests, after being instrumental in her exposure.

“I haven't mentioned it to her, no.”

“I don't think she'll like it.”

He almost said “Tough luck,” but thought better of it. “Well, I don't suppose she has to know.”

“It would've been nice if you'd talked to us first.”

“She called to see how you guys were and sounded kind of lonely. I thought it was the right thing to do. As you yourself pointed out, honey, it
is
Christmas.”

“Fine,” Storey said as Jeremy rummaged under the tree for his presents.

Hilary arrived at five, wearing a Santa hat and bearing gifts. Underneath her coat she was wearing a short red dress with white faux-fur trim.

“I wanted to look festive,” she said.

“I'd say you succeeded,” Russell said.

Storey was decidedly chilly in her greeting, while her brother seemed determined to make up for his sister's reserve.

Russell opened a bottle of champagne, giving each of the kids a small glass. Storey had no choice but to turn civil after opening her aunt's present—a pink ensemble from Juicy Couture—but both she and Jeremy became mute at the dinner table, and Russell felt that his attempt to conduct a pleasant conversation wasn't succeeding in convincing anyone that this was just another Christmas. After dinner, both kids seemed to welcome his reading from “A Child's Christmas in Wales,” a Calloway Christmas ritual that went back as far as either could remember, but after fifteen minutes Jeremy stood up and said, “Mom should be here,” before retreating to his room. Storey, at least, had waited till the end of the reading before leaving the two adults and retreating to her room.

“Well, you tried,” Hilary said as Russell poured more wine into her glass.

“It wasn't that bad, was it?”

“Not for me. For them, though, it's heartbreaking. They'll never be okay with you and Corrine not being together.”

“They're probably going to have to get used to it.”

“Oh, come on. Get over yourself. You think you're the first husband who's been cheated on? It happens every day. Wives are supposed to get over it somehow, but when husbands get cuckolded, it's like the laws of nature have been suspended. With you guys, it's all about pride.

“You know, I'm kind of an expert on affairs,” she continued, “if I do say so myself. And if there's one thing I can say with certainty, it's that if somebody cheats, it's usually because the other party isn't giving them what they need. Think about it, Russell. Have you been there for Corrine? Have you been taking care of her needs?”

“If you mean sex, things were fine between us,” he said, immediately registering how hollow it sounded.

“I'm not talking about sex. When a woman goes looking outside the home, she's looking more for seduction and understanding. She wants to be desired, not just used.”

“And you're saying I used Corrine?”

“I'm saying it's something for you to think about. It's not just about having sex every few weeks.”

“This was a long-term thing; it happened over a couple of years.”

“Maybe you had your head up your ass for a couple of years. Wake up, Russell. Can't you just forgive her?”

“I don't know. I'd like to, maybe, but so far I can't. She lied to me.”

“You're being such a hypocrite. It's not like you haven't cheated on her.”

“Who says I did?”

“You're saying you never cheated on her?”

He saw no reason to confess to Hilary. “No.”

“Jesus, Russell. What about that banker chick you worked with on your stupid leveraged buyout? And then there was that girl who worked for you, the one who confronted you at Talese's Christmas party.”

Russell couldn't believe she knew about these prehistoric transgressions—couldn't believe that Corrine had confided in her. It felt like yet another betrayal.

“That's ancient history.”

“And then there was your jaunt to Madam Gretchen's house a few months ago. So let's not get too righteous here. She doesn't even know about that one, but she told me about the others. Maybe she forgave you, but that doesn't mean she forgot. The point is, she let you off the fucking hook. So maybe you should just get over yourself and think about doing the same for her.”

While he called a car for her, she said good night to the kids, who were sprawled on the bed in Jeremy's room, watching
A Christmas Story.

Perhaps it was the influence of a not inconsiderable amount of champagne, but his good-night kiss must have been more intimate than Hilary might have expected from her brother-in-law, because she pushed him away gently, saying, “That's enough of that.”

When he returned to Jeremy's room, Ralphie had just opened his yearned-for Red Ryder BB gun.

“Mind if join you?”

He took the silence as assent.

“This is, like, the crappiest Christmas ever,” Jeremy eventually said.

“Sorry, guys.”

“It's not Dad's fault.” Storey said.

“I don't care whose fault it is,” Jeremy said. “I'm mad at Mom
and
Dad.”

Washington made his investment through an LLC formed specifically for the purchase of part of McCane, Slade. They signed the papers on January 13 in Washington's lawyer's office, and afterward walked a few blocks south, bundled against the cold, to the Old Town Bar, a former hangout from the old days, where they'd once plotted to take over Corbin, Dern, their erstwhile employer, with borrowed money.

“When I saw the name you used,” Russell said, “I have to say, it aroused my suspicions. Art and Love, LLC?”

“That's your shtick, isn't it? An homage to your big theory about the two teams in life. Love and Art, Power and Money. We're the former, right? What's to be suspicious?”

“I don't know. For some reason, I thought I sensed the hand of my wife. Did she, by any chance, give you the money?”

“Where would Corrine find a half mil?”

“That's what I can't figure out.”

“You know she's looking at real estate in Harlem?”

“Still?”

“I'm not sure I approve of white people in Harlem.”

“Not sure I do, either.”

“She wants us to split a town house with you guys.”

“There is no
us guys.
”

“Fuck that. You know, you're way less fun without her. You two are like a hyphenate: Russell-Corrine. You've always been the couple that made the rest of us think marriage was even possible. She loves you, not the other guy. But the hell with it—the papers are signed, so you should know, the money
is
from Corrine. She's the one who's saving your ass.”