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‘Who do I trust?’ she asked the animal. As if sensing her presence, the arachnid tilted its tiny multifaceted eyes up toward her, then turned toward the white mouse still living in mute terror with its inevitable killer. To Susie’s horror, the tarantula leapt into motion, grabbing the mouse in a hairy flurry of legs, tumbling it in a macabre embrace onto its back before sinking fangs into its neck. Susie watched the small pink legs kicking hopelessly in the air as the life ebbed out of the rodent.
The whole execution felt like an ominous warning. Nauseated, Susie looked away. Just then her gaze fell upon a large white envelope with her name written crudely on it. She recognised it as the one that had been left for her the day of the costume fitting for the Klimt shoot. She’d been so busy with the gala and preparing the work for the exhibition that she’d forgotten all about it.
Inside were ten blank sheets of paper. She lined them up in a neat row over the desk. Each one was old and slightly yellow, frayed along one edge as if they had been torn out of books. Wracking her brains, she tried to work out why they seemed strangely familiar. Then she remembered. The book in Felix’s library, the unremarkable B-grade book with the torn out title page. There had been a whole shelf of similar ones. But what would you use aged blank paper for?
A chill flooded through her; whoever had sent these knew about her relationship with Felix, wanted her to stitch the clues together. The first step would be to match some of the torn pages to the books in his library.
She was interrupted by the sound of her mobile ringing.
‘Susie? Did I wake you?’ Alfie sounded excited, maybe even stoned on something.
‘No, I’ve been up for hours. Enjoy last night?’
‘Amazing. I totally loved it, and I got Tom Ford’s autograph – written on my stomach in eyeliner! But listen, I’ve come up with an amazing idea and it couldn’t wait.’
‘This better be good.’ Susie couldn’t help sounding wary.
‘It is. You know the central figure in the Poussin painting – The Triumph of Pan, the Bacchu
s statue – the one with the red mask on?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, you know how you were saying it was a little challenging to find local cultural references, well, there’s this character who wanders the streets of SoHo, nicknamed Mask Man. I saw him pass by the studio this morning and he looks extraordinary, really spooky; his whole face is covered. He’d be perfect in that role. It would only be significant to those in the know, but kind of niche and cool, don’t you think?’
‘Sounds intriguing. What’s he like physically?’
‘Tall, slim, walks like a youngish man and no one knows what he looks like under the mask. Naturally we’d get him to swap out his mask for ours, and it’s only partial nudity. I think it’s worth a go?’
‘Mask Man.’
‘I know, weird but good, right?’
‘Hire him.’
*
Gabriel waited for three days, marooned in an island of his own making. Painting furiously, the artist deliberately lost his conscious self between the gestures of the paintbrush and the paint itself as the work vibrated up through him and out onto the canvas. It was his natural state, this animal sense of creating. It was a way of absolving himself of pain, of longing, of wanting Felix. And these were his own paintings, his own voice, not the mimicry he’d whored himself for. Finally, on the end of the third day, between the Korean barbecue takeouts, the cigarettes and the Diet Coke coating his teeth, he stopped and stood back.
It was the best painting he’d ever done – and he felt that somehow it might be his last. But it had also afforded him the chance to arrive at a decision, a resolution that had been fermenting silently under his imagination during those fervent hours.
Without delay, he finally showered, slicked back his hair, splashed on some aftershave, pulled on a shirt Felix had once complimented him on and took the subway downtown to Chelsea. It was Wednesday. He knew the gallery director was always at Baum #2 on Wednesdays.
*
Sitting on a newly installed couch that still had half its plastic wrapping on, Felix stared over at his employee and then threw his head back in laughter. ‘Mask Man? You mean that nut who walks around in the Spider Man mask all the time? And Alfie bought it! That’s ingenious, Dustin.’
The young curator smiled. ‘It wasn’t difficult. I just slipped the guy ten dollars and had him pass us just as we left the diner this morning. Then I made a joke about how he resembled one of Susie’s characters. Alfie got really excited, told me I was a genius, and went on to say how Susie’s always looking to incorporate local street icons into the work.’
‘So what’s the plan?’
‘Well, I went on to say we could get “Mask Man” for him, but he had to understand that this was a vulnerable character with some mental-health issues, and as long as he could keep Mask Man’s real face and identity hidden throughout the shoot, there wouldn’t be a problem.’
‘I love it, and you’re due a promotion!’
‘Actually I was hoping you’d hand on some of the Jeff Koons duties to me… ’
*
