Intaglio: The Snake and the Coins (2 page)

“Wow, Ava… this is just amazing.”

He said it with the same
reverence he did when talking about Che Guevara or Camilo Torres.  Hearing
the compliment, Ava felt a blush rise up her neck.  She bumped his
shoulder, slopping coffee over the edge of her cup and scalding her fingers.

“Thanks, Chim,” she muttered,
embarrassed by the praise.  “It’s nothing, really… just a dream I had last
night.”

Marcus Baldwin  – nicknamed “Chimney”
in high school for his drug use, shortened to “Chim” in the intervening years –
was a painter too.  Ava had known him since ninth grade, when they’d
become inseparable.  He was almost a brother to her, more than a best
friend.  His images were multilayered and meticulously rendered over weeks
and months, full of icons from the revolutionary past.  Ava felt her own
abstract images were trivial in comparison.  She shifted from foot to foot
as Chim stepped closer to the canvas, his eyes following the lines like an art
dealer, measuring value. 

“No really,” Marcus said, voice
awed.  “You’ve gotta show this one.  It’s awesome, Ava… just…
breathtaking.”

After he left, she painted for
hours, losing track of time.  Suzanne, Chim’s latest girlfriend, popped
by, nodding as she watched Ava work.  Eventually she pressed a sandwich
and bottle of water into Ava’s hands, then wandered back to her own studio
space.  There was an art opening at the main gallery downtown later that
night, and though she was still in the middle of painting – the strokes coming
almost faster than she could relay them – Ava decided to break flow to
attend.  She walked back to the pub in the frosty, late-afternoon air,
picking up her rusting truck from the lot and heading back to her apartment.

The painter was a street artist
who had made it big.  He inspired her, the way he could twist the obscene
elements of anger and disenfranchisement into beauty.  She smirked as she
thought of how art world aficionados were fawning over some street punk who’d
spent six months in jail for spray-painting the front facade of the main
courthouse with anti-war propaganda.  Kip Chambers: a millionaire artist
whose grinning face had graced the cover of hundreds of magazines.

Someone, more importantly, who had
made it to the top in the game she wanted to play. 

Ava paused in front of the mirror
in the bathroom as she got ready.  Like her paintings, the image that
greeted her was full of potential but left her frustrated by its lack. 
She glowered.  Her hair hung limply around her shoulders, unruly locks in
her eyes.  She tried to train it into submission with a comb and flat
iron.  Failing, she forced it off her forehead with a short burst of
hairspray, opting for a narrow line of curving black eyeliner on her top lid
and smoky grey shadow. 

Leaning back, she smirked. 
Done this way, her eyes seemed wider and bluer than usual.  A smear of
tinted gloss accentuated lips she had always thought of as obscenely
full.  Makeup complete, she put on a silky black top and dark jeans,
wiggling to loosen the close-cut denim.  Her faded leather jacket topped
it off.  Ava liked the edge of dangerousness to her beauty.  Seeing
the effect, elfin androgyny traded for powerful sexuality, she smiled at
herself in the mirror.

She had every intention of being
noticed tonight.

Cole walked to the gallery with a
crumpled fifty in his pocket.  He had the collar of his black wool coat
turned up against the wind, his nose tucked into his grey scarf.  He could
have taken his motorcycle, but that would have meant leaving his bike downtown
overnight.  Given the poor rep of the city’s inner core after nightfall,
he’d rather not.  Besides, it looked like it might snow.  He'd
decided to take a taxi back, allowing himself to drink if he wanted.  He’d
been out of sorts lately… or not
‘lately’
per se, but ever since
speaking to her. The young woman from his Art Foundations class:  Ava
Brooks.

He wanted to talk to her again.

Cole had noticed her the first
day of class – along with every other male (and several women) in the room –
though she seemed to have discovered he existed only three days ago.  She
had shoulder-length blonde hair and a curvaceous frame wrapped in paint-flecked
jeans and a requisite artist’s leather jacket.  He’d remembered her name –
Ava Brooks – from the very first time he’d heard it called out by
Wilkins. 

The time she’d wearily answered:
“here
in body if not spirit.”

At first, Cole thought she was
one of the irritating grade-seekers whose interest in art was limited to
regurgitating the “right answers.”  Those students who wanted a cushy job
at an art gallery or promoting the government-sponsored art system.  Not
really artists themselves.  He’d assumed as much because she sat dead-centre
in the classroom while he sat at the back.  But as day after day passed by
and she never took notes, he’d come to realize the reason for this.

Sitting perfectly centred meant
that she was directly beneath the projector’s blinding beam of light. 
The
prof at the front couldn’t see her there without staring directly into
it. 
Even with that position, she couldn’t seem to help herself from
heckling Wilkins. Ava Brooks
liked
pushing people’s buttons and Cole
wanted to know why she’d never gone after
him
yet.  He certainly
argued enough with Wilkins to be a target. 

He’d waited for her after class
the day she’d questioned Wilkins about Donatello’s David.  It had
intrigued him that she had voiced
exactly
his reaction from moments
earlier, especially
given that she was a painter, not a sculptor. 
He’d talked to her in the hallway, noticing her wary eyes.  There’d been a
reckless bravery to her that had astounded him.  She’d joked with him,
grinning up at him with such unabashed joy he’d had to fight the sudden urge to
touch her face.  Instead, he’d done the right thing
– the smart thing
– and introduced himself (though he’d already known
her
name), offering
his hand instead.

When their palms had touched,
he’d felt a hard punch of energy pulse up to his shoulder.  It was the
same feeling he got when his muse was hot and he put chisel to stone, ready to
release the form within.  It was that first snap of connection as he
slammed the mallet down and the chisel reverberated against his hand as if all
that potential was transferring up and out in a moment. 
Released.
   
She had let go first, tucking her hand inside her sleeve before walking away.

“See you around,” she’d called
over her shoulder to him. 

He’d watched until she
disappeared, unable to explain why a handshake had rooted him to the spot.

Cole knew that Ava Brooks didn’t
use her university-assigned studio space like he did, so he had no excuse to go
talk to her when everyone was working on their mid-term pieces for the upcoming
student show.  He’d heard that she shared rooms in a cooperative space
downtown.   So he had waited for the next day's class, his nervous
energy willed into the growing dent he was making in a large block of
sandstone.  He had worked until midnight, his arms aching and heavy by the
time he’d crawled onto his bike, kicking hard to start it for home. 

That night, he had dreamed of
her.  

She had been a few minutes late
to class the next day.  He’d taken a seat near the middle this time, but
for whatever reason – likely Wilkins’ comments about tardiness – she’d sat
several rows behind him.  He’d heard the repetitive tap of her foot
against the back of a chair; annoyance given root in action.  Near the end
of class she’d made a snarling comment about the male physiques of Michelangelo’s
females and Cole had added it to his tally of things he liked about Ava
Brooks. 

Wilkins hadn’t shared Cole’s
opinion.  He’d called her out and made her stay behind.  Cole had
waited at the front entrance to the building, hoping to see her again. 
The cold air had seeped into his limbs until he was numb.  She’d never
come out.

Friday she’d skipped class,
leaving Cole in a black mood.  That night, he’d pounded away at the
sandstone slab until he could no longer feel his hands.  He was surprised
to discover that the male shape he’d been trying to reveal had started to show
the looser, curvier lines of a female.  He was working front to back, the
way he’d once carved into slabs of butter on his grandfather’s table, earning
him a slap to the back of the head.  It was like ice melting… the form
slowly peeling back in layers.

Cole had let his muse lead,
watching as muscled shoulders receded, the wide chest dipped inward revealing
breasts and the waist narrowing so that hips emerged.  He’d worked until
he couldn’t, the nerves of his hands buzzing with the repeated blows of the
mallet, upper arms burning.  Again, exhausted, he’d headed home to shower
and bed.

His last thoughts, before weary
sleep pulled him under in bed that night, had been of her.

Tonight, she was in his thoughts
once more.  He was counting on her presence at this opening; willing to
bet that a graffiti artist with a police record and an anti-war message would
lure her out.  With this in mind, Cole dressed warmly and walked downtown.

: : : : : : : : : :

Ava and Marcus wandered through
the vaulted gallery space, drawn to the clashing colours and layered words of
the artwork lining the walls. 
‘The guy is really fucking good!’
she
thought. Chim leaned in, eyebrows raised.

“Yours are better,” he
whispered. 

She grinned and turned to argue,
but her voice disappeared along the way.  The dark-haired sculptor from
her art history class had just wandered in and was chatting with some of the
other students by the door, an easy smile on his lips.  A corner of her
mouth tugged up as she watched him from afar.  Ava had thought of him more
than once since he’d talked to her (though she would have denied it if she’d
been asked). 

‘Cole Thomas.’
 

The name, like an incantation,
was on her lips.  He wore a heavy wool coat tonight, the tips of his ears
bright red from the cold.  She absently wondered if he owned a car.

Chim stepped away from Ava’s side
and she heard him greet someone. 

“My friend Ava here,” he said,
voice pitched to catch her attention, “will be giving you a run for your money
in a couple years.”

Ava spun on her heel, about to
tell Chim to
‘shut up’
, but she stopped when she saw who he was talking
with.  Next to him stood Kip Chambers, tonight’s feted artist, somehow
even taller and more impressive in person.  He had amber eyes, a runner’s
lean frame, and warm, tanned skin that hinted at his First Nations
heritage.  Tonight he wore a suit that was simultaneously too big and too
small, his wrists sticking out past sleeves that were made for a much bulkier
man.  His longish brown hair hung half into his eyes.  It all made
him look more like a skateboarder than a famous artist. 

Ava smiled despite herself. 
Kip looked as out of place as she felt. 

On his arm was a slender woman,
her hennaed hair in a pixie cut.  She wore a black dress and high heels;
her wrists and neck glittered with heavy silver jewellery.   The
woman smiled pleasantly, reaching out a manicured hand to Ava.

“Raya Simpson,” she offered,
shaking her hand firmly.   “Chambers’ agent.”

“Ava Brooks,” she finally
answered, lifting her chin. 
Defiant
.  “My tag’s Booker.”

Next to Simpson, Kip laughed,
stepping forward and interrupting.

“Well I’ll be damned!” he
said.  He clapped one hand on her shoulder while the other pumped her fist
in a hard handshake.  “Then I’m a fan.”

Ava grinned, embarrassed by the
overt praise.  Kip stepped back from her, crossing his arms and giving her
a head to toe once-over, eyes lingering on her curves.  Ava was
very
god-damned glad
she’d chosen the outfit she had.  She caught Chim’s
eyes over Kip’s shoulder.  He nodded smugly, then stepped away, leaving
them to talk.

“So
Booker,”
Raya said
amused.  “That’s an interesting tag.  What’s the story behind it?”

Ava glanced over at Chim’s retreating
back.  He was better at telling this story than she was.

“Uh, well… It’s kind of a silly
story,” Ava started, looking over at Kip who was grinning.  ‘
Fuck
this,’
she thought, feeling bold.  This guy had done jail time for his
artwork.  “I guess it started the first time the police caught me
spray-painting,” Ava said, looking back to Raya.  “I was underage… got
away with a slap on the wrist and some probation, but my friend Marcus there,
started joking about how I was going to get caught.  Kept telling people
‘police
are gonna book her, you watch, it’s just a matter of time’
.  I’d gone
back to it – painting train cars and such – and my friends kept getting
caught.  There were times it was close for me too, but I just seemed be
really good at sensing when to cut my losses and leave.” 

Ava caught Kip’s eyes. 
He
hadn’t been so lucky
.

“Guess I just got… really
good
at not getting caught,” she added sheepishly.