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Authors: Richard Russo
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implied a reservation or criticism of some sort, something he’d get around to expressing later, probably over dinner. “You were wise not to commit more than three pieces to that casino.”
“That wasn’t your advice at the time,” Noonan felt compelled to remind him.
“Well, the money was good, wasn’t it. And you needed it rather badly just then.”
“As opposed to now?”
“I’ve often wondered, Robbie, what exactly it is that you
do
with your money.”
Hugh was not alone in this. Noonan, together with his accountant, wondered the same thing quarterly. His father’s military discipline had demanded that a person account for the whereabouts of every bent nickel, which of course went a long way toward explaining the vague pride his son always felt when his own money vanished without a trace.
“You live like a pauper,” Hugh continued with a sweeping gesture, “yet you’re hopelessly in debt.”
“‘Hopelessly’ might be a little strong,” Noonan told him, “connoting as it does a lack of hope, of which I’m never wholly destitute.”
“It
de
notes a lack of hope, actually,” Hugh corrected. “You might as well tell me. Whom do you owe these days, and in what tragic amounts? The girls, I assume. Who else?” “The girls” were Noonan’s ex-wives, who, for reasons best known to themselves, continued to grant him loans. Men generally knew better.
“I’d have to ask around,” he sighed. In truth, his limited understanding of how much he owed pretty much paralleled his vague sense of where his money went. “My only real expense is this place.”
“Don’t get me started,” Hugh said, flummoxed as always by his friend’s militant, self-destructive inertia when it came to finding a new studio.
The Giudecca space had been affordable for most of the decade, but then the Venetian who owned the building, a man with whom Noonan had had an understanding, died and that understanding along with him. His son, having been informed that his renter was a famous painter, immediately quadrupled the rent. A cretin, to be sure, but on the plus side he lived in Milan and seemed not to mind terribly that Noonan was chronically six months in arrears, so long as he paid in cash, income that would never be declared. It was all very Italian. But for the past year Hugh had been trying, with the help of a local realtor, to locate less costly studio space, and Noonan was having none of it. “When I’m finished as a painter,” he said, “I want to be able to throw myself into the lagoon.” Which from the roof of the present studio he could, if he got a good running start. After New York, he now realized, he’d have a better idea of how close he was to finished.
“You
do
know that they’re wetting themselves at Columbia over the possibility of your doing their residency? Did you even look at the material?”
Noonan nodded.
“A nice apartment comes with the gig. Also, I’ve been personally assured you’d have talented students.”
“The worst kind,” Noonan said. “They suck the very life out of you. Unless you tell them to fuck off and leave you alone, and then you feel guilty.”
“When have
you
ever felt guilty?”
“Okay, so it’s a theory, but one I’ve no desire to test.”
“So you’re broke.”
Quite possibly, and perhaps even relevant. Still…“Then there’s the IRS. If
they
discover I’m in residence, the bastards will garnish my wages for back taxes.”
“If they discover you’ve visited, they’ll take your gallery sales, as well,” Hugh pointed out, not unreasonably.
“They’re worried about terrorists now, not painters. Anyway, I think I’ll stick to the original plan.”
In and out in two days. An art day, with the obligatory Brie, overchilled white wine and endless obsequious introductions, until it all became insupportable and Noonan ducked out the back and into the nearest tavern for some serious drinking, then a diagnostic day, a full battery of tests at
“That wasn’t your advice at the time,” Noonan felt compelled to remind him.
“Well, the money was good, wasn’t it. And you needed it rather badly just then.”
“As opposed to now?”
“I’ve often wondered, Robbie, what exactly it is that you
do
with your money.”
Hugh was not alone in this. Noonan, together with his accountant, wondered the same thing quarterly. His father’s military discipline had demanded that a person account for the whereabouts of every bent nickel, which of course went a long way toward explaining the vague pride his son always felt when his own money vanished without a trace.
“You live like a pauper,” Hugh continued with a sweeping gesture, “yet you’re hopelessly in debt.”
“‘Hopelessly’ might be a little strong,” Noonan told him, “connoting as it does a lack of hope, of which I’m never wholly destitute.”
“It
de
notes a lack of hope, actually,” Hugh corrected. “You might as well tell me. Whom do you owe these days, and in what tragic amounts? The girls, I assume. Who else?” “The girls” were Noonan’s ex-wives, who, for reasons best known to themselves, continued to grant him loans. Men generally knew better.
“I’d have to ask around,” he sighed. In truth, his limited understanding of how much he owed pretty much paralleled his vague sense of where his money went. “My only real expense is this place.”
“Don’t get me started,” Hugh said, flummoxed as always by his friend’s militant, self-destructive inertia when it came to finding a new studio.
The Giudecca space had been affordable for most of the decade, but then the Venetian who owned the building, a man with whom Noonan had had an understanding, died and that understanding along with him. His son, having been informed that his renter was a famous painter, immediately quadrupled the rent. A cretin, to be sure, but on the plus side he lived in Milan and seemed not to mind terribly that Noonan was chronically six months in arrears, so long as he paid in cash, income that would never be declared. It was all very Italian. But for the past year Hugh had been trying, with the help of a local realtor, to locate less costly studio space, and Noonan was having none of it. “When I’m finished as a painter,” he said, “I want to be able to throw myself into the lagoon.” Which from the roof of the present studio he could, if he got a good running start. After New York, he now realized, he’d have a better idea of how close he was to finished.
“You
do
know that they’re wetting themselves at Columbia over the possibility of your doing their residency? Did you even look at the material?”
Noonan nodded.
“A nice apartment comes with the gig. Also, I’ve been personally assured you’d have talented students.”
“The worst kind,” Noonan said. “They suck the very life out of you. Unless you tell them to fuck off and leave you alone, and then you feel guilty.”
“When have
you
ever felt guilty?”
“Okay, so it’s a theory, but one I’ve no desire to test.”
“So you’re broke.”
Quite possibly, and perhaps even relevant. Still…“Then there’s the IRS. If
they
discover I’m in residence, the bastards will garnish my wages for back taxes.”
“If they discover you’ve visited, they’ll take your gallery sales, as well,” Hugh pointed out, not unreasonably.
“They’re worried about terrorists now, not painters. Anyway, I think I’ll stick to the original plan.”
In and out in two days. An art day, with the obligatory Brie, overchilled white wine and endless obsequious introductions, until it all became insupportable and Noonan ducked out the back and into the nearest tavern for some serious drinking, then a diagnostic day, a full battery of tests at
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