A Brave Man Seven Storeys Tall (15 page)

Stevie came up from his right side and handed him a red Solo cup. Owen studied it.

—I feel like I'm at a frat party. Does Kurt import these cups from the US?

She gently nudged his hip so he opened toward her. Then she took his hand. Stevie pointed to the band, introducing a soaring falsetto.

The door was open the entire time, and half of Berlin was probably in earshot of the show, but only a few dozen more friends trickled in the door. For the last two songs, a trio of deliverymen in white pants waited in the doorway with bags of food. Hal slid from the lead singer to the men with food and led them upstairs. And then the entire night twisted up the spiral. Owen's head spun at the volume of introductions and short, snarky conversations. Was it the soap smell that brought him back, or was it the strands of her hair tangled in his beard as she leaned in again and asked him closely if he was all right?

But he pulled away and saw Kurt carve up a dozen lines on the top of the Bösendorfer. As soon as Stevie was out of sight, Brigitte bit his earlobe and placed a pill on his tongue. A deep punch in his bad shoulder and a bitter ring through his blood that canceled the sweet, the soap and tuberose, the sacred and sublime. Everything of value stretched and shrapneled, lapping the circular walls in lethal vorticity. In Berlin he was capable of anything. But only capable as a pawn: unsure of his file and clutched in someone's monstrous hand.

When Stevie saw him trail Kurt, she headed for the door. He called down after her, leaning over the ledge, which wasn't designed for someone with his higher center of gravity, and nearly fell four storeys to his death. Brigitte grabbed his waist and steadied him.

—Are you okay? You nearly fell.

Owen looked at her, not comprehending.

—And up the tired tower where every stone remembers the ground . . .

He had spoken this. And the tall woman—it wasn't Brigitte, it was someone new—laughed at him.

—A drunk poet, how original.

—I'm not a poet.

—Fine, a drunk artist? Every artist wants to fall to his death and live to tell the story.

—I'm not an artist.

—Why is your head wet?

Owen realized he was sweating.

Stevie had taken his hand. Now his hands were empty.

—You feel hot.

Owen found the large wooden table set for dinner and lit with dozens of candles in a pewter candelabrum. He slumped in a chair and sat down for his first meal in days. Hal was carving a giant turkey. Kurt had ordered a Norman Rockwell American feast and was pouring tequila.

—All bets are off tonight. Tomorrow Owen and I begin work on a new series for Basel. Those of you who don't know Owen should know that he is a major young artist from California. He played water polo in the Olympics. He doesn't speak any German and has asked that we confine our conversation to English.

—No. I don't. I don't belong here.

Hal barked out from behind his camera as he shot the scene:

—Everyone belongs here. Haight-Ashbury '67, Paris '68, Berlin '04 . . .

—Hal's right. This is the only city left, and we are making a difference. But tomorrow we can talk about work. Speaking of which, does anyone have math or science friends who can help me out? It's just one shot, but it needs a lot of chalk work. Math shit. Equations and shit.

Athene could stand this no more. With winged words she told Owen to close his teeth tight, because he was about to fall. Then the grey-eyed goddess, daughter of Zeus who bears the aegis for all travelers in strange lands, loosed Owen's knees and pulled him down by the ankle so that he collapsed right there at the table.

O
wen awoke to fat fingers cupping his head.

—So this is the famous Owen!

—My lawyer, Altberg.

A ring was gathered around Owen, who was again near the Bösendorfer, this time with a pillow supporting his head and his legs elevated on the tufted, well-crafted bench.

—Are you okay? Hal asked.

—Apparently you had enough of dinner and felt entitled to a postprandial nap right at the table. Kurt called me immediately to make sure you were all right. Are you?

—I'm fine. Is Stevie here?

—She's long gone, I'm afraid. Kurt also asked me to bring over the contract, to save you the trip in your weakened state. Though I must say you look quite fit to me . . . no, no, don't stand. I'll drop down to your level.

And with those words the massive solicitor tentatively found a knee. And once that knee met the floor he couldn't stop the other from following. He braced himself with Owen's leg.

—Thank god I was never a medic!

The group laughed at the round man's topple and began to disperse.

—I need to go outside.

—In this! Have you not been outside today? Look at the weather, my friend. It is madness out there.

Owen now heard the lashes at the window.

—I just. I need some air.

Owen found his feet and stumbled.

—Hal, grab us some coffee. I'm going to walk our friend down for air. If we aren't back in twenty minutes, assume he's stolen my purse and made for Mexico. I don't entirely trust this fellow. He's a gentleman of the shade, and we are minions of his moon.

—Trencherman.

—That's right, Owen. But with a name like Oldcastle, what else would you have me quote,
Lear
? Luckily these people haven't met Falstaff, or they'd peg me as a pale imitation and have me on the treadmill in no time. With a low-fat regime to boot. The only trouble is this group of brigands. How do you play Falstaff to the fallen? Who's corrupting whom? Here, hold this.

Altberg handed Owen a half-open packet. Owen peeled it back to reveal a small quantity of white powder.

—It's not what you think it is. Look closely. Did you ever see crystals that small?

Owen held the wax paper close to his eye to inspect. Altberg jerked open the heavy door. Wind ripped into the tower, blowing the powder in Owen's face. He wiped off the rain and the powder as the wind and storm soaked their shins.

—There's your air, Owen. Hardly air at all. Mostly water, I'd say.

Owen's lot had been cast. The Gods threw him into this profane world and were watching him tumble. Let Altberg steer him back up the spiral ramp.

—Now, do you feel you're compos mentis re these documents? Not to muddle the gin, but the sooner you sign, the sooner I can remove my lawyer hat and show off my balding pate! God, the word is nearly pornographic, isn't it?
Pate
.

Owen removed a pen from his pocket and signed the upheld pages at each highlighted tab.

—Well, you aren't going to become a rich man from this collaboration. But you may become famous. I want to draw your attention to the equity portion of the contract, which is very explicit in stating you will derive no immediate financial benefit from this collaboration. Now let's look at what you just signed. Good news first: the contract stipulates that you will absorb none of the costs and assume limited liability for the production of the aforementioned artworks. Now the bad news: you keep nothing. However, what is unsaid is often far greater than what is said, i.e., peripheral gains are yours to keep—provided the residuals are based on your growing prestige and not derived from a material product of said collaboration.

— . . .

—Should we have a drink to celebrate?

— . . .

—You're not the sort inherently against a good time, are you? I know you might feel out of sorts, but you're on vacation. And from what I gather, the girls of Berlin are certainly not ambivalent toward you.

—I need a drink.

—Perfect! I cellar wine here. Kurt told me you met at that wine bar, which suggests that you don't know the first thing.

—I don't know the first thing.

—Very well! A hymn sung to a savage is often more beautiful.

—Than what?

—Than a
concio ad clerum
.

—So I need to leave Berlin?

—Thank heavens! That's the sort of witless question one would expect from a young man who speaks in your register. Gluttony made my bass a tenor, for which I owe thanks to the gods of plenty. I needed the jowls to give my larynx a little how's-your-father. Where was I? Oh yes, should you leave Berlin? Let's put it this way: Kurt is rich and famous enough to afford me. You decide.

—
Pecuniae Obediunt Omnia
.

—They tell me you're a classics fellow. Not a poet—though I can see how someone these days might mistake ancient learning for madness. I studied pure math . . . because I liked the adjective!

—Now you're a lawyer?

—Pure is one thing. Rich is another. Now let's talk frankly: Where will you go when the show is finished? Because Kurt will have you forcibly removed after Basel.

—I know that.

—Tall men always like to pretend they know what's coming ahead, just as fat men feel they know the street and underground, but this is the first you've thought beyond today . . .

—I'm just trying to make it through the night.

—You must be vile to your body when it lets you down. There must be discipline in all things. My personal accounting of maladies: beer for a headache, whisky for knee pains, tobacco for dyspepsia, tequila for malaise, anise for vanity, port for the chills, wine for obesity . . . and general complaints.

Altberg had been turning the screwpull with his entire torso. He popped off the cork with a surety that came as no surprise, given that all he carried in his pockets was cash and a wine key.

—Let me educate you, my young and clueless friend. This is the noble syrah. The vines in a
lieu-dit
, sidewinding back and forth like this. The slopes are steep and the wine is savage. Earth, funk, bacon fat, and a violet soul. The dirtier the syrah the better. It is the only grape you need know.

Altberg felt Owen's forehead.

—My hands could be a shade cold, but you do feel like you've developed a slight fever since you signed that contract and are now in need of this wine's powers. I'm quite sure you are doing the right thing: deep drinks to drown the fever and counsel of a wise man to find the shore.

—You just said you fucked me on the contract.

—Of course! The contract you signed divested you of all intellectual property that derives from your time in Berlin. As far as agreements go, it's Rumpelstiltskinian at best: whatever gold you spin, or even think of spinning, is Kurt's. And if you try to pass it off as your own, you'd be lucky to get off with your firstborn son.

—I assumed as much. But it's worth it.

—But why not spring the trap. That's why I like you. So, sure. I'm neither honest nor noble, but I don't claim to be.

—I'm very, very tired.

—Probably just jet lag.

—I've been here for two months.

—You may as well have a good time. One thing's certain: you're not going to fall asleep with any of those substances circling through your blood! Brigitte is looking at you. So is Saskia. Well, she may be looking at me. Here. Take an Adderall. It's your only hope of getting any clarity.

Owen took a pill from Altberg's swollen palm and gulped it down with a Côte-Rôtie. He looked at Brigitte.

Her image was right, but it was as if she didn't believe in it. She had the right arms, no wider at elbow than at wrist. She had the right chiseled lips. She had industry-prescribed proportions, but was only beautiful in the abstract. Her lack of belief kept her on edge. She took off her jacket, always watching over her shoulder. Her tan was not her tan. And her skin was not her skin.

She caught Owen looking and smiled.

H
e woke on a cold wooden floor. His first thought was that he deserved whatever would come. His first hope was that Stevie wouldn't see him. His second hope was that the gods wouldn't see him and that he could save himself. Hal's flash knocked him out again.

H
e woke shaking under heavy blankets. Kurt said he looked like Joseph Beuys and asked if they could find a coyote or maybe a dachshund. Something yappy.

Owen woke slumped on a wooden spool three feet tall and three feet in diameter. Three pieces of drywall, slathered in plaster and screwed together, were supporting a great deal of his weight. Owen blinked, his eyes gaining focus and his knees shaking to hold him up. When he found his feet, Hal withdrew his hands from under Owen's armpits. Kurt was speaking:

—Stay with us, Owen. This won't take more than a minute. Curl your toes over the spool—did you get that, Hal?

Owen barked drunken nonsense:

—Don't disturb my circle.

Owen shoved an assistant, losing his balance and collapsing with the Sheetrock on the cement floor. He rolled slowly back and forth until he was still. Hal and assistants began to recompose the scene, but were cut short by Kurt's yell:

—Don't touch anything! It's great as is. We'll see when he moves. Now that is actual art! Set that one aside. Call Danielle and tell her the first piece is ready for the show. That Sheetrock will look like the Shroud of Turin or a snow angel or an image of the crucifix when we get it out and install it. Perfect! Tell Danielle to pick it up today. We need the space.