Read Online Bridge of Sighs by Richard Russo - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Richard Russo
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Sloane-Kettering before the very next flight back to Venice with no one the wiser, leaving the victim to await the reviews, sales, blood work and possibly biopsy all by himself. Exhausting even to contemplate. The plane out would be the worst of it, strapped into a seat, while trying in vain to anesthetize himself with free booze in first class—thank you, Hugh, for this, at least—and overcome the rising panic in the aisles, probably crawling out of his skin by the time they touched down. What if this experience was so bad he couldn’t summon the courage necessary to board the return flight?
Feeling the dread rise, Noonan turned, half expecting to hear himself declare that he’d changed his mind and to hell with the show, but Hugh wasn’t there. He’d gone back across the room, where he’d again undraped the painting on the easel. “Why paint something no one will ever buy, that’s what I’d like to know. It’s lunatic. You should stop painting this. I mean it. In fact, I forbid you to continue. Let’s burn it right now, shall we?”
Like all art dealers, Hugh believed himself to be an integral part of the creative process. As if it would be foolish for any painter to embark on new work without first conferring with the man who would later sell it. He didn’t really want Noonan to stop painting it, of course. Though unfinished, it was still the best canvas in the room, and Hugh had to know it. Even as he suggested the painting wasn’t salable, he was busy coming up with a plan to do just that. What he was really after was the story behind it. People who bought art at these prices were hungry for back-story, gossip they could repeat to their friends. Here, Hugh could explain, was one of Robert Noonan’s final canvases, begun when he’d first become aware of the illness that would eventually kill him. Ka-ching!
Talk. Vital to commerce. The end of art.
“Okay, I’ll stop,” Noonan said cheerfully, draping the canvas again.
Hugh didn’t believe this for a second, but of course pretended to, clinking Noonan’s glass with his own to make it official. “I can see why you didn’t want to share this. It’s excellent.”
“I was just wondering if it was corked,” Noonan said, holding the wine up to the light again. After so many years of working with chemicals, his sense of smell and taste had been blunted, though lately, for some reason, both had become annoyingly acute, and the list of foods to which he was suddenly averse had grown very long. Not true, alas, across the sensory spectrum, the intensity of his orgasms, not to mention their frequency, having radically diminished of late, a piss-poor trade-off.
“You’re joking. I wish you had another just like it.” Hugh allowed his gaze to fall directly on Noonan now, something he’d been careful not to do since he arrived. “So. How much weight have you lost?”
“Pounds, I couldn’t tell you. A couple belt notches.” Three to be precise. “Not all bad. I was getting fat.”
Hugh looked serious. “And these night sweats?”
“Night terrors, actually.” Suddenly wide awake at three in the morning, wild with rage and fear at he knew not what. So bad these last few months that he’d become nocturnal, painting by night until exhausted, then wandering the predawn streets and sleeping during the day.
“I have an idea,” Hugh said, as if he’d just discovered a foolproof cure. “Let’s dine at Harry’s.”
“That’s the same idea you have every time you visit,” said Noonan, relieved that the health issue could be tabled at least for the moment. Even though they were old friends, he disliked having such conversations with Hugh, who was by nature and profession a gossip. If his recent weight loss hadn’t been dramatic enough to make him look gaunt, and if Hugh didn’t have a physician’s eye for medical detail, Noonan wouldn’t even have mentioned it. “Dolce is right here on the Giudecca. Same owner, same menu, same food.
Feeling the dread rise, Noonan turned, half expecting to hear himself declare that he’d changed his mind and to hell with the show, but Hugh wasn’t there. He’d gone back across the room, where he’d again undraped the painting on the easel. “Why paint something no one will ever buy, that’s what I’d like to know. It’s lunatic. You should stop painting this. I mean it. In fact, I forbid you to continue. Let’s burn it right now, shall we?”
Like all art dealers, Hugh believed himself to be an integral part of the creative process. As if it would be foolish for any painter to embark on new work without first conferring with the man who would later sell it. He didn’t really want Noonan to stop painting it, of course. Though unfinished, it was still the best canvas in the room, and Hugh had to know it. Even as he suggested the painting wasn’t salable, he was busy coming up with a plan to do just that. What he was really after was the story behind it. People who bought art at these prices were hungry for back-story, gossip they could repeat to their friends. Here, Hugh could explain, was one of Robert Noonan’s final canvases, begun when he’d first become aware of the illness that would eventually kill him. Ka-ching!
Talk. Vital to commerce. The end of art.
“Okay, I’ll stop,” Noonan said cheerfully, draping the canvas again.
Hugh didn’t believe this for a second, but of course pretended to, clinking Noonan’s glass with his own to make it official. “I can see why you didn’t want to share this. It’s excellent.”
“I was just wondering if it was corked,” Noonan said, holding the wine up to the light again. After so many years of working with chemicals, his sense of smell and taste had been blunted, though lately, for some reason, both had become annoyingly acute, and the list of foods to which he was suddenly averse had grown very long. Not true, alas, across the sensory spectrum, the intensity of his orgasms, not to mention their frequency, having radically diminished of late, a piss-poor trade-off.
“You’re joking. I wish you had another just like it.” Hugh allowed his gaze to fall directly on Noonan now, something he’d been careful not to do since he arrived. “So. How much weight have you lost?”
“Pounds, I couldn’t tell you. A couple belt notches.” Three to be precise. “Not all bad. I was getting fat.”
Hugh looked serious. “And these night sweats?”
“Night terrors, actually.” Suddenly wide awake at three in the morning, wild with rage and fear at he knew not what. So bad these last few months that he’d become nocturnal, painting by night until exhausted, then wandering the predawn streets and sleeping during the day.
“I have an idea,” Hugh said, as if he’d just discovered a foolproof cure. “Let’s dine at Harry’s.”
“That’s the same idea you have every time you visit,” said Noonan, relieved that the health issue could be tabled at least for the moment. Even though they were old friends, he disliked having such conversations with Hugh, who was by nature and profession a gossip. If his recent weight loss hadn’t been dramatic enough to make him look gaunt, and if Hugh didn’t have a physician’s eye for medical detail, Noonan wouldn’t even have mentioned it. “Dolce is right here on the Giudecca. Same owner, same menu, same food.
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