Belinda Book 2

But by the weekend it was the New York Post that had gone the farthest,

quoting freely from Midnight Mink president Blair Sackwell, who had been

"ranting" about the "Belinda scandal" on every TV and radio talk show that he

could book. He had publicly blasted Marty Moreschi and United Theatricals for

covering up Belinda's disappearance and trying to ruin G.G.'s famous salon in

New York.

"You don't get AIDS from a hairdresser," Blair was reported as saying, "and

G.G.'s employees don't have it and never did." G.G. had closed his doors

officially three weeks ago. One loyal customer, Mrs. Harrison Banks Philips,

was quoted as saying it was perfectly atrocious what had happened to G.G.

She'd gotten four anonymous phone calls in one day warning her not to use his

services. G.G. should sue.

"Of course, United Theatricals won't comment," Blair had thundered in a later

telephone interview. "What the hell are they going to say? Isn't anybody

asking why this girl ran away from home in the first place? When she ended up

with Jeremy Walker, doesn't sound like she had any place else to go!"

Blair had "waved" the catalog to television viewers on the David Letterman

show. "Of course, they're gorgeous paintings. She's beautiful, he's talented,

what do you expect? And I'll tell you something else, too, it's damned

refreshing to see a picture that doesn't look like a two-year-old threw a

carton of eggs one by one at the canvas. I mean, the guy can draw, for God's

sakes."

On the Larry King show Blair had railed against Marty and Bonnie. Belinda had

disappeared the night after the shooting. Blair wanted to know what had

happened in that house. The pictures were not pornographic: "We're not

talking Penthouse or Playboy here, are we? The man's an artist. And speaking

of pictures, I have a standing offer: one hundred thou to Belinda if she'll

do Midnight Mink. And if Eric Arlington won't take the picture, I'll take it.

I've got a Hasselblad and a tripod, for God's sakes. For years I've been

telling Eric how to make those photographs, I say, yeah, that's it, now do

it. All he does is press the button on the camera. Well, hell, I can do that

myself."

Syndicated columns were now carrying items about Blair and the exhibit all

over the country. Jody, my publicist, called from New York to say there'd

been another big piece in the LA papers all about Susan Jeremiah and the film

that was "censored" by United Theatricals.

My LA agent left two messages on the answering machine, but no comment. My

New York editor did the same thing.

At seven P.M. Sunday night I sat at the table with a glass of Scotch in front

of me. That was dinner. I knew that the museum people were just arriving at

the gallery on Folsom Street. Rhinegold had notified them of the special

showing a month ahead of time. And then mailed the catalogs all over the

world as instructed.

It was these people-from the Whitney, the Tate, the Pompidou Center, the

Metropolitan, the Museum of Modern Art in New York, and a dozen other such

places-who would have the first crack at the work.

But a good two dozen other people would be there tonight, the big rich art

patrons, the millionaires from London and Paris and Milan whose purchases

carried almost as much distinction as the museum purchases because their

collections were "so important," the people whom every art dealer sought to

impress.

These were the people who meant everything to Rhinegold. These were the

people who meant everything to me. Though anyone could buy one of the Belinda

paintings, these people were given first choice.

But would they come to a nameless gallery on Folsom Street in San Francisco

even for Rhinegold, who had always wined them and dined them in the proper

places in Berlin and New York?

I sat back with my arms folded, thinking about years and years ago in a

studio in the Haight-Ashbury when I wanted to be a painter, just a painter. I

hated these people, the gallery system, the museums. I hated them.

My mouth was dry, as if I were about to be shot by a firing squad. The clock

ticked. Belinda didn't call. The operator didn't break in on the voices

talking into the answering machine to say, "Emergency call from Belinda

Blanchard, will you release the line?"

It was late when Rhinegold came in. He was scowling. He wiped his face with

his handkerchief as though he was uncomfortably hot. Still he didn't take off

his black overcoat. He hunkered over in the chair and glared at the glass of

Scotch.

I didn't say anything. A wind outside was lashing the poplars against each

other. The voice talking to the answering machine said so low I could hardly

hear it: "-should call me in the morning, I was the one who hosted your tour

in Minneapolis, and I'd like to ask you a few questions-"

I looked at Rhinegold. If he didn't say something soon, I was going to die,

but I wasn't going to ask.

He made a face at the Scotch.

"You want something else?"

"How gracious of you," he sneered. It seemed he was trembling. With what,

rage?

I got the white wine out of the refrigerator, filled a glass for him, and set

it down.

"All my life," he said slowly, "I have struggled to get people to look at art

dispassionately, to evaluate the accomplishment that is there. Not to talk

previous sales and status buyers, not to talk fashion or fads. Look, that is

what I say to my clients. Look at the painting itself."

I sat down opposite him and folded my hands on the table. He stared at the

glass.

"I have loathed gimmicks, publicity tricks," he continued. "I have loathed

the devices used by lesser artists to publicize their work."

"I don't blame you," I said quietly.

"And now I find myself in the midst of this scandal." His face reddened. He

glared at me, his eyes behind the thick glasses impossibly huge.

"Representatives from every museum in the world were there, I swear it! I've

never seen such a turnout, not in New York or Berlin." I could feel the hairs

rising on the back of my neck.

He grabbed the glass of wine as if he was going to throw it at me. "And what

can one expect from such a situation?" he demanded, eyes flashing on me like

goldfish bumping the aquarium glass. "I mean, do you realize the danger?"

"You've been warning me about it continuously since this started," I replied.

"I'm surrounded by people who warn me about everything. Belinda used to warn

me three times a week."

So what the fuck happened? Had they spit at the canvases? Walked out

sneering? Told the reporters on the curb it was trash?

I let the Scotch warm me. I felt sad suddenly, immensely and awfully sad.

Just for one second it was Belinda and I alone upstairs in the studio, the

radio playing Vivaldi, and I was painting and she was lying on the floor, her

head on a pillow, reading her French Vogue and the deadline for this pain was

"someday."

"Someday." I'd been sitting in this room for five days. That's not very long.

Not very long at all, and yet it seemed forever. And she was where?

A loud coarse voice broke through the lowered volume of the answering

machine: "Jeremy, this is Blair Sackwell, I'm in San Francisco at the

Stanford Court. I wanna meet you. Come down here now."

I lifted the pencil and wrote down Stanford Court. Rhinegold did not even

seem to notice, to have heard. He continued to stare at the glass.

I looked at the blank television screen in the corner. On the eleven o'clock

news would they say the experts had pronounced the work trash? I looked at

Rhinegold. His lower lip was jutting, he was squinting as he studied the

glass.

"They loved it," he said.

"Who?" I asked, unbelieving.

"All of them" he said. He looked up. Face reddening again. Heavy cheeks

trembling. "It was electric in that room. The people from the Pompidou, who

bought your last painting! The people from the Whitney, who would never even

consider your work. Count Solosky from Vienna, who once told me you were an

illustrator not a painter, don't talk to him of illustrators. He looks me in

the eye and says, 'I want the Holy Communion. I want The Carousel Trio.' Just

like that, he says it. Count Solosky, the most important collector in

Europe!"

He was in a fury. His hand had curled into a fist beside the glass. "And

that's why you're unhappy?" I asked.

"I didn't say I was unhappy," he said. He sat up straight, adjusted the

lapels of his coat, and narrowed his eyes. "I think I can safely say that in

spite of all your efforts to destroy my integrity and my reputation, this

exhibit will be a triumph. Now, if you will excuse me, I am going back to my

hotel!"