Complementary Colors Page 11

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was crooked.”

  “Don’t you dare embarrass me.”

  The ribbons tumbled onto the arm of the chair, and I brushed them off. A rich tone sang against my fingertips. I rubbed the fabric to see if I could make it louder.

  Julia grabbed my wrist. “Stop that.”

  I sank into my chair.

  “Sit up, you’ll wrinkle your clothes.”

  I sat up.

  “How much did you take?”

  “You said one line.”

  “That doesn’t—”

  Two men stepped onto the stage with a covered canvas. They adjusted a couple of hangers on the backdrop. The taller man removed the sheet. Everyone stopped talking, or maybe my heartbeat drowned them out.

  Under the stage lights, the colors flowing over the canvas turned garish. The men lifted it up.

  “Turn around,” Julia said.

  But the only thing I could do was stare while two brutes manhandled a sliver of my soul. A woman wearing headphones directed the men on how to hang the painting.

  “You need to tell them it’s upside down,” I said.

  Julia shot a smile to someone as they walked by. “Don’t be so melodramatic. No one cares.”

  “I care.”

  “Turn around, Paris.”

  I did.

  The staff dropped colored bits all over the floor as they danced between the darkness behind the cameras and the offensive light coating the set.

  Our host joined us on the stage. He sat in a chair on the other side of the coffee table positioned between us.

  “Paris, this is Mr. Allen Rock.”

  His rubber mouth stretched into a toothy smile. “Are you two ready for your interview?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Julia flipped her hair back. “I just have to tell you what an honor it is to be on your show.”

  I snorted. She probably never even watched it.

  “The pleasure is all mine, I assure you.”

  I sat forward in my chair, then back.

  “Be still.” To Allen, Julia said. “Sorry. Paris has never been on TV before.”

  “Well, there’s absolutely no need to be nervous. Just pretend we’re sitting in a coffee shop discussing art over your favorite cappuccino.”

  “Vanilla,” I said.

  Allen gave me a questioning look.

  “My favorite is the vanilla cream mixed with the house blend.”

  There was a second of absolute silence, then Allen laughed. “I did say your favorite, didn’t I?”

  Julia turned her smile on me. Her mask of civility was perfect, but hell churned behind her eyes.

  “We’re about to go on,” Allen said.

  “So dear sister, what’s your favorite flavor of coffee?”

  A crack appeared in Julia’s expression, and for the first time, fear radiated from her gaze.

  I grinned at her.

  A faceless voice in the darkness counted down from ten.

  “Paris…”

  I kept grinning. “Julia…”

  Everything went quiet, and we were welcomed to the distinguished program by a theme song and canned applause.

  Allen smiled at the camera. “Good morning, America. Today on the Allen Rock Show, we have a very special guest. Hailed as a revolutionary abstract artist, he has become one of the fastest growing names among collectors across the globe. And we at the Allen Rock Show have the privilege of hosting his first televised interview. Will you please join me in welcoming Paris Duvoe and his sister and agent, Julia Duvoe?”

  The applause rose and fell on cue. Allen gestured to us with a wave of his hands. “I want you to know how wonderful it is to have you with us today.”

  The smile Julia wore turned excruciating. “Thank you.”

  “Last month, I was invited to do an opening at the prestigious Killian Gallery.” Allen crossed his legs and tugged on his jacket. “Although it wasn’t my first time attending an art exhibit, I am by no means a connoisseur. But standing in that gallery, between those works, I was completely overcome by the powerful presence radiating from them.” He addressed the camera again. “Now, those who know me will tell you I have never been a fan of abstract art. I guess, like a lot of people, I don’t understand what the artist hopes to accomplish by turning a still life into bizarre shapes.

  “But that day in the gallery when I walked by those paintings?” If his smile got any bigger, it was going to run off and leave him. “I didn’t have to understand the picture. I felt it. After that, I had to meet the man who created those works.”

  Julia beamed.

  I stared at my feet. Still attached. So all was well.

  “And now I get the opportunity to introduce him and his genius to the world.” There was another round of fake applause complete with whistles. “Mr. Duvoe—”

  “Just Paris.”

  Julia patted me on the knee. “Paris isn’t very big on formalities. He wants his people to feel comfortable with approaching him.”

  Allen nodded at me. “That’s very thoughtful of you. I’m sure fans appreciate that.”

  “Oh, they do. They do.” Julia gave me another pat on my knee, then a short squeeze that might as well have been a verbal threat.

  To me, Allen said, “Over the past several years, you have gained popularity as a contemporary abstract artist. Your paintings have earned remarkable bids at auction that are usually reserved for legendary artists long gone, and yet, very little is known about you.”

  I picked at a seam in the arm of the chair.

  Julia cleared her throat. “Yes, well, Paris is a very private person.”

  “And I bet that’s the secret to his success.”

  Allen and Julia shared a laugh.

  “So, Mr. Duvoe.”

  “Paris.”

  “Ah, yes, forgive me, Paris. Tell us about yourself.”

  I raked my fingernails over the velvety fabric. Happy tones played through the air, and the millions of fibers caressed my fingertips one strand at a time. “What would you like to know?”

  “Anything you like.”

  “Could you narrow it down please?”

  “All right. Why not start by telling our viewers when you began painting.”

  “I don’t remember.” I think his shoes were a size or so too big. They looked more like spit-shined barges than expensive leather footwear.

  Julia patted my arm. “What he means is, he was too young to remember. You see, Paris has always been the artist in the family. Always painting. Always drawing.”

  “Makes sense.”

  More sense than Allen did. I’m pretty sure his socks didn’t match. Of course it could have been the light. It was everywhere, running down the chairs, the walls, flowing across the floor.

  “Then tell us when you decided to pursue it as a career.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You didn’t decide to do this professionally?”

  “No.” I rubbed my knees. The fabric of my slacks wasn’t nearly as colorful as the bumpy texture of the chair.

  “What changed your mind?”

  “Noth—”

  “About twelve years ago an art collector saw one of his paintings,” Julia said.

  Mr. Rock sat forward in his chair. “So someone discovered you?”

  I rubbed my forehead. “Yes.”

  “And who was that?”

  Julia squeezed my arm. “Richard Nix. He’s passed away now, but he was the first to recognize the genius in Paris’s work.”

  I only had faint memories of the man. I’d been so high on Thorazine I’m surprised I could even hold a brush. I think he was at the hospital to visit his brother. Or maybe it was his wife. Could have even been his dog.

  I giggled.

  Julia tried to laugh, but it fell flat.

  Allen swooped in. “How old were you when this happened?”

  “Sixteen,” Julia said. “A prominent business man had purchased the painting and put it in his gour
met restaurant in New York.” Julia tossed me a quick glance, dared me to say otherwise. “That’s where Mr. Nix saw Paris’s work.”

  “Then would you say that was your beginning?”

  “No, that was after,” I said.

  “After what?”

  The dirt turned black with his blood, and I huddled in the shadows, too afraid to come out.

  “After his first showing,” Julia said. “It was small, but there were some known artists there. Both of the works he had on display sold for the highest amount.”

  “And how did it make you feel when someone recognized your talent among the ocean of other struggling artists?”

  Blues and oranges picked at my brain. A hint of bronze muddied the hue.

  “Privileged,” Julia said. “It’s an honor and privilege to have so many esteemed individuals recognize Paris’s talent.”

  I rubbed the arms of the chair with both hands and then my slacks. The music from the chair went even better with the light.

  “Such humble beginnings for a man the art community has titled as the next step in artistic evolution.”

  Is that what they thought of me when they looked at those terrible paintings? If it was, how did something beautiful make them feel? Like the boy who kissed me. The boy whose name I couldn’t remember.

  “Mi nombre es…” The space behind me was empty.

  “Paris.” Julia’s grip tightened. “Mr. Rock has a question for you.”

  I turned back around. Allen waved a hand at my painting.

  “Tell me about the painting you brought with you today?”

  “I didn’t bring it.”

  Allen tossed Julia a perfect smile, but his eyes were confused.

  “Julia brought it. I didn’t want it here, but she never listens to me.”

  Rage burned through the ten layers of foundation on Julia’s cheeks.

  I shrugged. “But that’s okay. I’m used to it.”

  “Well, in my experience, most older sisters are like that.” He laughed. Julia tried, but I don’t think it could get past her gritted teeth. “Will this particular work be available at your next showing?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “It isn’t for sale.”

  “What Paris means is it’s a very special work that would need a collector who could understand and appreciate its sentimental value.”

  “No, I mean it isn’t for sale.”

  Allen came alive in his seat. “Really. Now why is that?”

  “It’s private.” I sank in my chair.

  “So you would never sell it?”

  “No.”

  “No matter the price?”

  “That’s what ‘not for sale’ means.” I traced the ridges of the fabric on the arm of the chair. “What’s this made of?”

  “Pardon?”

  I tapped the arm. “This. This chair.”

  “I’m not sure. Picking out chairs is the job of the prop director.”

  To Julia, I said, “We should get a few of these. Our furniture never makes this kind of music.”

  Allen laughed, and people behind the cameras joined in.

  I laughed too.

  Julia didn’t.

  Would she kill me now?

  “So, your painting.”

  “What about it?”

  “Would you tell us what you call it and why it’s so special to you?”

  He had a better chance of getting me to cut off my dick.

  “Paris, tell Mr. Rock the name of the painting.” The darkness in Julia’s glare promised terrible things if I didn’t.

  But thanks to the X I’d snorted, I was too full of colored bits to care anymore.

  I stared right into the camera and said, “My Vagina.”

  Allen’s spray-on tan darkened to a shade close to magenta. He exchanged a look with Julia who’d turned into a marble statue.

  I held up a hand. “I know what you’re thinking. How can a man have a vagina? Well, I don’t, which is why I painted one.”

  The stage manager made a rolling motion with her hand. Allen cleared his throat. “I’m sure now everyone can appreciate why you were reluctant to display this—” He cleared his throat again. “—highly provocative piece. I admire your courage to risk scrutiny.”

  “Courage had nothing to do with it.” The colors bubbled up inside me, and I bounced in my seat. “In all honesty, it’s not even original. I simply took an underappreciated piece of human anatomy and presented it in a way it couldn’t be ignored. For example.” I motioned for the redheaded intern standing just beyond the camera, to join us.

  Allen nodded, and she walked out.

  I patted the arm of the chair. “Sit, sweetheart. I won’t bite.”

  She perched her hip on the edge. Her posture so rigid it surprised me when it didn’t split her skin.

  To Allen, I said, “Take this young woman. She is a prime example of someone who is underappreciated. She has a great smile and a warm presence. She’s so beautiful, she glows.”

  Allen raised his chin. “That’s why she’s one of our most promising interns.”

  “That look on your face.” I pointed. “That look right there, is exactly what this is all about.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t…”

  “Of course not. You’re a man. And millions of men just like you will never understand what it means to truly appreciate women.” I indicated the intern with a flip of my hand. “Young and beautiful, doors will open. The world is at her fingertips. But she only gets that chance because she meets society’s standards of beauty. When she reaches your age, you’ll toss her to that five minute segment where they talk about exotic foods and popular vacation spots. But as she is now, beautiful and perfect, she is led to believe she is appreciated, when ultimately it is her vagina men want to possess.”

  Any minute now, Julia was going to catch fire.

  And I couldn’t wait.

  “Let me show you exactly what I mean.” I stood. The intern didn’t resist when I tugged her to her feet. “Here, sweetheart, take off your clothes and spread—”

  Someone yelled for a cut to commercial. Julia had me by the arm and shoved into the hall before Allen could turn in his fat musical chair.

  “What the hell was that?”

  I snorted a laugh. “Careful or you’ll smear your makeup.”

  “Goddamn it. Are you trying to ruin me?”

  “I thought I was the artist? Or maybe it’s just the X. I love this stuff by the way.” I wiggled my fingers in the air. “Everything you touch sings. I was serious about those chairs. We really should get some.”

  Julia dragged me in the direction of the elevator. “Go home. And you better pray I can salvage this disaster.”

  The doors opened, and she stuffed me inside. “Oh,” I said. “You know when you asked me how many lines I did?” The doors started to close. “Just so you know. I snorted the whole fuuuucking bag.”

  Anything Julia said was cut off.

  I slid to the floor and drowned in the gold walls swirling with the recessed lights.

  My painting. My beautiful moment. The boy whose hand I’d held, lips I’d kissed, trust I’d betrayed.

  If only I could remember his name.

  The doors opened to a bustling office, and a man in a suit with a woman in a wheelchair.

  A flash of white moved in my periphery. I scurried to my feet. The corner was empty.

  “Hey,” the man said. “You mind? You’re blocking the door.”

  There was nothing in the elevator except garish walls and equally ugly paisley carpet.

  “Excuse me,” the woman said. “Hey, excuse me.” They both glared.

  I pushed past them and dove into the maze of cubicles. People filled the gaps between work stations. I swam through their black and red words. The roar of voices and the ringing phones filled up my skull with sharp points of yellow.

  It should have been impossible to hear the two little boys laugh.

 
; The wet smell of old dirt breathed across my skin.

  “¿Ha visto a mi hijo?”

  “Shut up.”

  The hall I took had doors on one side and windows on the other.

  “You know. I know you know. Dime. Le ruego.”

  I pressed my palm against my eye. The pounding in my head beat louder.

  “I don’t. I don’t know where he is. Now stop asking me.”

  I hadn’t realized I’d shouted until a ripple of silence moved through the room. People turned to look at me. I dropped my head and picked a random direction.

  At the bottom of a flight of stairs, gray light poured through the foyer of the lobby. I shielded my eyes as I shoved open the doors. An icy wind cut through the columns edging the walkway of the building and slapped my shirt. Invisible leaves crunched under my feet, and a twig snapped. My walk turned into a run.

  I crossed the street on a green light. A car screamed to a halt, and someone yelled. The air seared my lungs, my ribs ached, and my feet throbbed from pounding against the sidewalk. But it took the muscles cramping in my legs to make me stop. Even then, I hobbled like some wounded bird trying to keep from being eaten.

  “This is your fault.” Julia’s voice left a ringing in my ears that grew into a scream.

  “Where is mi hijo?”

  “Tell her you don’t know.”

  “Por favor, I’m begging you.”

  “Keep your mouth shut, Paris, or I’ll break every bone in your pathetic body.”

  “I know you know. Dime dónde está.”

  “I can’t. I’m sorry.” I beat my fist against my temple. “Please, please, stop.” I collapsed against a brick wall.

  “Hey,” a male voice said.

  Silence. Then the hum of cars and bustling people led the way back to the here and now.

  An elderly man leaned on his cane. “Are you okay, son?”

  Was I? I wiped my cheeks. “Yeah.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” I nodded. “Yes. Yes. I’m…” My teeth chattered.

  “You might ought to go inside. You’ll catch your death out here.” He offered me a hand up.

  “I’m okay. I’m fine.” I struggled to my feet. “Thank you.”

  “If you like, I can buy you a cup of coffee. They probably have a phone inside, and you could call someone.”

  “No, really. Thank you. I’m okay.” The fever in my skin banked, leaving my fingers numb. He was right. I did need to get out of the cold. I did need to call someone.