The Misfortunes of Others (28 page)

Bernard loved food and he hated having bad dreams
about it. Food was one of his greatest pleasures in life. He shook himself all over in disgust and then lay still, listening to Maya’s calm breathing.

At last, around five-thirty in the morning, when the sky was getting light and the birds were starting to sing, it came to him. He smiled. There was no one to see him, but he smiled anyway. The writer of those letters had made one mistake. It was a natural mistake, one that would not mean anything if Weezy had been a different type of person, but it showed that the person behind those letters did not know Weezy well at all. Bernard thought of her, asleep in Snooky’s bedroom upstairs, and a contented feeling spread throughout his body. He turned over with a happy grunt and fell asleep.

At breakfast, Weezy and Snooky had an animated discussion concerning their plans for Majorca. Bernard listened silently. At last he put down his coffee cup with a loud clatter. “Weezy.”

“Uh-huh?”

“Remember you said once that none of your students ever took much of an interest in your exhibit?”

“Yes? What of it?”

“Well,” said Bernard, “I was wondering something last night. Did you ever tell any of them the name of the gallery where it was going to be held?”

She gazed at him, her mouth open. “No. No, I didn’t. I never said anything about it, other than that I was going to have an exhibit. Nobody … well, nobody asked me.”

“Did the gallery advertise?”

“No,” she said slowly, “it was too early for that. The show wasn’t going to be held for months.”

“Then how did that person know which gallery to call?”

“I … I don’t know,” she stammered. “Word gets around … they could have heard from somebody … they could have called around the different galleries …”

Bernard shook his head. “There must be hundreds of galleries in New York. They’d have to be very lucky to hit the right one. Don’t you think so?”

“I … I guess so … but if someone really wanted to find out, I’m sure they could do it somehow …”

“How?” Bernard asked patiently.

She was silent for a minute. “I don’t know. I’m not sure.”

“Did you tell anybody in your class? How about Elmo?”

“Oh no, Elmo didn’t care. We never talked about it. We just argue about his work, that’s all we do.”

“Yes. You’re not like most people, Weezy, you don’t brag about yourself. You never talked about the exhibit. Snooky reminded me of that yesterday, and it made me think. Now listen to me. Was there
anybody
that you told about the show? Anybody you told the details to?”

Weezy’s eyes widened. She glanced over at Snooky.

“Oh, my God,” she said. “That day in New York. I couldn’t help myself.”

Snooky was nodding. His eyes looked very hard and bright, like a snake’s.

“Harold,” he said. “And Harold’s girlfriend.”

SNOOKY AND WEEZY were quiet most of the way into New York. They held hands and Weezy looked out the window of the train.

“How did she sound when you called her?” Snooky asked at one point.

“Surprised,” Weezy said briefly.

“You’re sure it’s her and not him?”

“Yes.” Weezy looked up at him. “Say what you want about Harold, he’s not the psychotic poison-pen type. Not the shiny gold letters, no, that’s not his style. And he’s perfectly thrilled being a doctor, he doesn’t need to tear me down.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, yes, yes. Harold may be a slimy disgusting toad who left me for somebody else, but he’s not a canvas-slasher. He’d be too afraid that some paint might get on his very expensive Italian shoes.”

“Okay, then. The gallery owner said he hadn’t gotten any other calls about your exhibit?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And the other galleries you called said they hadn’t gotten any inquiries at all?”

She nodded.

“Which galleries were those?”

She rattled off ten names, most of which were unknown to him. “They’re the obvious ones,” she said.

“Okay.” He squeezed her hand. “How’re you doing?”

“Okay.”

They got a cab outside of Grand Central and directed the driver uptown. Gabriela Loeser lived in a fancy co-op on East Seventy-third street, a tall building constructed of shiny dark glass. The doorman buzzed them up and she met them at the door of her apartment.

She was smiling. She wore a red silk dress with a black leather belt. She looked relaxed and perfectly put together, every blonde hair in place. “Weezy, how nice to see you.”

Weezy made an odd, noncommittal sound. “I think you know my friend, Arthur Randolph.”

“Yes, we met in the restaurant.” She nodded to him and led the way indoors.

Her apartment looked like a photo essay from
Architectural Digest
. Hardwood floors, Oriental carpets, lace draperies framing the windows, and overstuffed sofas in a floral pattern. A vase of fresh flowers stood on a Mission Oak cabinet in the corner. Everything was beautiful and discreet and very, very rich, thought Snooky. She didn’t buy and furnish this place on her salary from
People
magazine, he thought; whoever she was, she came from money. Lots and lots of money.

Gabriela indicated a place for them on one of the sofas. “Would you like coffee or tea?”

“No, thanks,” said Weezy.

Snooky shook his head.

Gabriela seated herself in an armchair opposite. The chair was covered in a Turkish kilim fabric, and in her red silk dress, with her pale skin and her deep red lipstick, she made quite a striking picture. She leaned forward confidentially.

“I’m sorry about how long the article is taking. There’s
always a certain lag time, of course, but in this case it’s taking me longer than I thought to complete it. I hope you don’t mind, I think it’s going to be wonderful once it’s done.”

Weezy gave her a hard stare. “I didn’t come here about the article.”

“Oh. Well. When you called, I kind of assumed …?”

“I came here because I wanted to find out why you’ve been persecuting me. Why you trashed my studio and wrote me these letters.” Weezy reached into her handbag and took out the four letters, tossing them angrily on the table between them.

Gabriela’s face went white. “Trashed your studio—!” she said, her voice wavering.

“Yes. And these goddamned letters. And the phone calls, and the dead flowers. I want to know why. I can’t imagine why, and I want to know. You have Harold, who’s the only thing we ever shared—otherwise you’re a complete stranger to me. I’d like to know what in the world I’ve ever done to you.”

Gabriela’s face was flushed a deep rose. “Nothing … what … I can’t imagine …!”

“You’re not a very good actress,” said Weezy witheringly. “I’m sure you’re surprised that I found out who it was, but suffice it to say that I know it’s you. Why did you do it?”

Gabriela stared at her for a long moment. Her hands had turned into claws, gripping the sides of her chair. She seemed to come to an inner decision.

“Because I hate you,” she whispered.

Weezy leaned forward, her cat-eyes narrow. “I know you do, you goddamned bitch. I’m asking you why.”

“Because Harold still loves you.”

Weezy expelled her breath in a puff of air. “Harold?” She laughed shakily. “Harold? You really are crazy. Harold hates me. That’s why he moved out, remember?”

“No,” said Gabriela. “You’re wrong. He still loves you.
Everything is Weezy this, Weezy that. Weezy does this better than you, Weezy does that better. Weezy used to like to go on walks, Weezy loved to cook for me, Weezy’s such a great artist, Weezy, Weezy, Weezy!” She stood up abruptly and went over to the window, drawing the lace curtains aside and looking down at the teeming streets below. “It’s too much,” she whispered. “Ever since we ran into you in the restaurant he’s been talking about nothing else. It was bad before, but now …! Weezy is such a great artist, Weezy has such a wonderful talent, Weezy is so sensitive. You should see her paintings, you should see her work, oh well, you couldn’t possibly understand, Gabriela, all you are is a crummy journalist. All you do is work for a yellow rag, your work is nothing, Weezy’s work is everything. She does
art! Art!
” She shot Weezy a furious look. “I’m nothing and you’re everything, yes, that’s how it is, according to Harold.”

“Harold never even liked my work when we were together,” said Weezy.

“That can’t be true.”

“But it is. He never said a word about it then. I always thought he seemed embarrassed by it.”

Gabriela shrugged in disbelief.

“And so all that stuff you said about being a big fan of mine …”

“Oh, I’d never even seen your paintings. I was repeating what Harold kept telling me.”

“And the phone calls?”

Gabriela flushed and looked guilty, like a small child. “Oh … I don’t know. I can’t explain, really … it just made me feel better.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well … I was so
curious
about you. There was Harold, babbling on about you all the time, and it made me feel so curious … so one day I picked up the phone and dialed
your number. When you answered, I couldn’t think of anything at all to say, so I didn’t talk. I just waited. It made me feel scared, but sort of … I don’t know … relieved, somehow. That I had finally heard you. After that, I would call every so often, just to kind of … I don’t know …” Speech failed her. She came back and sat down on the sofa, tucking her skirt neatly under her legs.

“Frighten me?”

Gabriela waved a hand helplessly in the air. “I don’t know. Not really. Just to keep in touch. It made me feel better, that’s all. I mean, I knew all about you and you didn’t know anything about me, and this was a way of—of keeping the balance, I guess.”

“I see.”

“But then I called and some man answered—was that you?” she asked Snooky.

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Oh. Well, somebody answered, and I guess you know what happened. He sat on the line as long as I did, and didn’t say anything either, and … well, it kind of freaked me out. After that I figured I better not call anymore. You might have put a tracer on the line or something. I mean, I had been careful not to call too often, because I didn’t want to get caught.”

“Mmmm-hmmm,” said Weezy. “Tell me something. How’d you get my number in the first place? Harold sure as hell didn’t have it.”

“Harold? Oh, no. I couldn’t have asked him anyway. It was that article, you know. The one in the
Times
. It said where you were living, so I called directory assistance and got your number.”

“I see. So then, after you met me in the restaurant …”

“I made up an excuse to see your paintings. I had to see what Harold was talking about. I pretended I was going to do
an article on you. And you bought it. Pitiful. Did you really think I’d do an article on Harold’s ex?” She shook her head. “I had to see what you were doing, that was all, those famous paintings. Your wonderful talent.”

“My brilliant career,” Weezy said bitterly.

“Yes.”

“And the lovely bouquet of flowers?”

Gabriela flushed again. “Oh, well … actually, Harold gave them to me for my birthday. I mean, when they were new. I kept them for weeks. I couldn’t bear to throw them out. He used to tease me about it whenever he saw them here. ‘Why are you keeping that bouquet?’ he used to say. ‘Throw it out, I’ll buy you another if you like it that much.’ You know, that’s how he is. Generous.”

“A prince among men,” said Snooky.

Gabriela looked over at him in a puzzled way, as if she was having trouble placing him. “Yes. Well, anyway … I called you up for that interview, and when Harold heard about it he hated the idea. He told me he didn’t like the two of us getting friendly. I suppose nobody likes their girlfriend and their ex getting together. But I said that if you were so talented, then you should be getting more publicity, and he shut up after that. After a few days he seemed to … I don’t know, to change his mind, I guess. We had dinner one night, and he spent the whole time talking about how wonderful an artist you are, and that’s when I decided to send you the flowers.”

“I see.” Weezy tilted her head to the window and lapsed into a contemplative silence.

Snooky leaned forward. “You used a word processor to address the label.”

“Yes. Yes, I did. I have a printer here.”

“Why didn’t you use it for those letters you sent? It’s a hell of a lot easier than sticking on all those gold letters.”

“Oh,” said Gabriela. “I don’t know. I thought maybe printers could be traced. I didn’t think so, but I wasn’t sure. So I used the gold letters. I thought it would be safer.”

“Okay,” said Snooky. “So you came up for the interview after that. What did you think of her work when you finally saw it?”

Gabriela paused. She lifted one hand and began to chew on a fingernail. “I thought it was good. I thought … I thought it was wonderful. Harold was right. It was everything he had said. I … I couldn’t get over it, it made me want to kill you. It’d be one thing if he was just making it up, but when I saw the paintings—!” She shrugged. “I didn’t know what to do.”

“Apparently you managed to think of something,” Weezy said in a low voice. “You came up and slashed them.”