I joined him on the floor and spoke to a few people myself. Once I got a free moment, however, I made the point to move closer and eavesdrop on Rafiq and the art lovers he was currently entertaining.
Over the conversational buzz of the gallery, I stood behind him as he spoke to a lovely pair of ladies who had been contemplating a big, angry, red piece called Under Luna. The swirling, circular patterns of the red faded darker toward the center, becoming black and then white, creating a sort of vortex that pulled the viewer in like drowning in a current.
“You have to imagine the rage,” Rafiq was saying, his hands animated. He traced the swirl of the red without touching the canvas. “Rage is a circular emotion; it traps you in a constant, helpless whirlpool from which it is difficult to escape… Anger doesn’t do it justice, and sadness isn’t strong enough. Rage motivates, where despair only numbs. That’s the importance of the red here. It demands action.”
My heart ached, listening to the way he spoke about my work. He saw so much in the things I created, and he was so excellent at sharing his passion with others. Immediately the women lit up, agreeing with him, and gushing over the work as they hadn’t before.
Sure, his incredible looks and charm were part of the deal. Rafiq, I had noticed, tended to light up the rooms he entered without knowing it. Maybe the women just wanted to agree with this handsome man and impress him with their knowledge of art.
It didn’t seem to matter what the reason was when they shuffled up to the counter half an hour later. I couldn’t help but be stunned as I rang up their purchase of Under Luna. Rafiq was like a magician, the way he was able to charm anyone into listening to his ideas. Hell, he had talked me into faking a whole life by his side—talking people into buying art seemed like small potatoes after that.
It was the first of seven paintings Rafiq sold that day, helping me break my record. All the anger that had risen in me as a result of his little scheme seemed like a years-old beef by the time we closed up for the night.
Counting up the day’s totals, I smiled up at Rafiq as he passed by the counter, giving the hardwood floor another sweep from all the day’s traffic.
&n
bsp; “That’s two records broken today,” I said. “Most single paintings sold, and most money made in a single day!”
“Wait a second,” said Rafiq with a frown. “Wasn’t my purchase the most you made in a single day?”
“Well, yes, technically, but that one doesn’t count.”
“Doesn’t count?” He put on a dramatic, pouty face and clutched at his chest playfully. “Ouch! Is my money not real enough for you?”
I laughed. “I just meant that your purchase didn’t exactly count as a ‘typical day’s work.’”
He chuckled and nodded. “I suppose you have a point there, my dear.”
The closing tasks went much more swiftly with Rafiq’s help, and Ahmed was waiting for us in the town car by the time we locked up for the night. The car rolled up to the penthouse just as the summer night was slowly creeping up the skyline of the city, turning the remains of the day into sinking yellows, reds and pinks streaked across the sky.
***