“You’re what?” Lulit said.
“I’m taking her,” Hayes repeated, his hand encircling my wrist. “May I take her? I’m taking her.”
“Hayes, I’m working.”
“She’s working.”
“It’s your birthday, it’sParis.” His angelic face broke my heart just a little.
“I know and I appreciate that, but we have all day tomorrow. We have tonight.”
“If I buy something, will that make a difference?” His eyes were scanning the walls.
“I don’t want you to do that.”
“What if I want to do that?”
“I don’t want you to do that,” I repeated.
Lulit caught my eye then, and the expression I read on her face left me cold. She was entertaining his offer. Knowing full well that he would go to extremes to close the deal. Her eyes said it all:Go. Sell. Art. To rich white men.
“No.” I shook my head.
“What’s still available?” He turned to Lulit. “She said there were still two left. Which ones are they?”
“There’s a Ramaswami. And one of Kenji’s sculptures.”
“Which Ramaswami?” he asked, and Lulit gestured accordingly.
Nira Ramaswami’s work, typically oil on canvas, detailed the plight of women in her native India. Forlorn figures in fields, young girls at the side of a road, trusting brides on their wedding day. Stirring, passionate, dark eyes and solemn faces. They had always been compelling, but the Delhi gang rape in December 2012 brought about a surge of interest in the subject matter and she was suddenly in high demand.
“This one?” Hayes’s eyes lit up. “I like this one.”
Sabina in the Mango Tree.
“It’s not cheap.”
“How not cheap is it?”
“Sixty,” Lulit said assertively.
“Thousand?”
“Thousand. Euro.”
“Fuck.” Hayes paused. His eyes going from Lulit to the painting. Of all Nira’s pieces in the fair, it was the most uplifting, hopeful.
His hand was still encircling my wrist. “If I buy it, will you let me take her?”
“No. Hayes, donot. I’ll be done at eight.”
“Will you let me take her?” he repeated to Lulit.
She inclined her head, ever so subtly.
“Good. Done.”
“Hayes, you’re being ridiculous. I’m not going to let you do this.”
