THREE
Sleep came fitfully that night. Joel couldn’t stay much longer after we cleaned up, and he’d been such a champ for me this and many other nights that I didn’t pester him, even though I wanted the company. Instead, my company was an unopened bottle of Cabernet and a long, hot shower. Hours passed, tossing and turning, as I had imaginary conversations in my head with the arrogant asshole from the night before. What little bite I’d given him didn’t feel like enough.
The next day, I was too tired and down to worry about changing out the paintings in the gallery for the general public. The curation I had done for the Sheikh was a bit different than what I typically kept hanging up, but that was a problem for another day, I decided once I came downstairs.
The gallery opened on time at 9am, and as usual, no one was pounding on the doors to get in. At least the warm sunshine spilling across the floor and white walls seemed to be lifting my mood. After running through my opening checklist, I made a pot of burned coffee in the kitchenette in the back room and stood in the hallway, where I had a good view of the gallery floor, while I enjoyed the warmth.
Around noon, some looky-loos wandered in and planted themselves right in front of Constantine, a long horizontal piece brimming with hazy orange and yellow light, and the faint impressionist view of the Hagia Sophia’s iconic minarets. Keeping my distance at first, I let them take in the gallery and the piece before attempting any interaction. Some of these people were like bunny rabbits, and if I moved too fast, they’d be right out the door, and so would my rent money.
Before I could get to them, the gallery’s front door swung open and shut. Turning my head, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
It was the Sheikh, closing the gallery door gently behind him. The expression on his handsome face was nothing like the night before. There was no snooty power, no anger, no darkness. He was pale, his lips dry. He’d shaven cleanly and showered, and instead of a nighttime-style tailored suit, he wore a casual button-up and slacks. But he was clearly in the throes of a hangover. He took off his dark sunglasses and scanned the gallery until his eyes landed on me. His gaze softened so distinctly that I could see it from across the room.
Anger flared behind my eyes as I blinked in disbelief. I never expected he’d have the nerve to show his face around here again; but then, rich assholes obviously do whatever they want, regardless of whose days they ruin.
I looked back to the middle-aged couple near Constantine. They hadn’t noticed me approach and were still talking quietly with each other as they swept over the features of the work with pointed fingers. I changed course and headed for the Sheikh.
He stood waiting for me, and I crossed my arms as I came to a stop in front of him.
“What is it I can do for you now, Sheikh Al-Zayn? You already drank all of my champagne, remember?” I said lowly.
He cleared his throat. “I think I’ve lost the right for such respectful formality. Please, call me Rafiq.”
I didn’t respond.
Something almost wounded crossed his face, and he ran a big hand through his black hair. “Miss Pryce, I’m here to tell you that I’m truly sorry for everything that happened last night. May I ask for a moment to speak with you…” he gazed over to the couple, “in private?”
“You can speak to me right here,” I said. “Your performance last night didn’t earn you any favors from me.”
There was no way he was going to get me alone where he could intimidate me; he wasn’t the first arrogant jerk I’d met in my life.
He didn’t argue with me. “Very well. Let me apologize to you profusely for my behavior last night, and for the behavior of my… friends.” He cleared his throat. “I’m afraid things got a little out of hand at the engagement we had been attending prior, and I didn’t realize at the time that I was in no shape to make our meeting. I should have called and cancelled.”
“You should have stayed sober enough to make your appointments,” I said before I could stop myself. Some voice deep in my mind was warning me that my own behavior was crossing a line, but I was too upset to care. “I didn’t get as far as I am by letting people walk all over me, and you’re not about to be the first.”
Rafiq’s face fell, but he didn’t get angry. He only nodded again. “Fair enough. I respect that,” he said. “My behavior was selfish and indefensible. I hope you can forgive me.”
I fell silent. With a big sigh, I averted my gaze and watched the foot traffic out the window. “Your apology is appreciated,” I said, not without some bitterness. “Forgiveness, well—that might be a while.”
Rafiq didn’t press further. Instead he turned and tucked his hands behind his back as he began a sauntering stroll toward the nearest panting to his left. Actually, paintings, plural—the work was an amalgam of six smaller canvases painted with a single cohesive image. The separate canvases allowed me to create space in certain parts of the picture, but not others, and to change it at will. This was the fourth arrangement I’d tried since painting it years ago, but it was always titled Locusta.
He came to a stop in front of it and tilted his head as he took in the deep greens and royal blues, the way the strokes seemed to simultaneously suggest both snakes and rivers, while little white ruins of the Roman variety peeked out from beneath the darker tones, like cities hidden in the jungle. After watching him for a moment, I came up beside him.
“This is exceptional,” he said in a firm voice.
His compliment surprised me. “Oh?”
“Do you ever re-arrange the canvases?” he asked, shifting his hand around in the air. “Create different shapes?”
A smile rose to the corner of my lips. “In fact, I do. How did you know?”
“No reason,” he replied.
We made our way together around the gallery, and in stark difference from the night before, Rafiq stopped at each and every canvas and gave it a thorough, respectful analysis. He had nothing but glowing praise, and I found myself wondering if he was just trying to sweeten me up after last night. There was no way he didn’t know how charming his sparkling half-smile was when he flashed it at me. Even Joel, as mad as he had been the night prior, had pointed it out as we were cleaning up.
We arrived at Constantine and I realized the looky-loos from before had disappeared, empty-handed. A pang of guilt cut my heart; I probably should have paid them more attention.
Rafiq stopped short, as if stricken, when he turned his eyes to Constantine. Maybe it was the familiar landscape. He wasn’t Turkish, but surely as rich as he was, he’d been to Istanbul himself, and seen the great minarets.
After a few minutes of silence, he spoke. “Your use of color is very bold. I’m so tired of pastels and faded nostalgic tones. I don’t relate to this ache people have to live in the past.” He turned from the painting to look down at me, standing next to him. “Your work doesn’t live in the past, though, does it?” He waved a hand at the painting. “No, this is the color of the present, and the future. You may use old things in your work, but you’ve brought them from the past with you, instead of joining them there.”
Stunned, I had no response. It had been years—if it had ever happened—since someone had spoken in such a way about my work. Sure, plenty of my rich buyers gushed over the pieces they purchased, rattling off the lingo they remembered from their half-century-old Art History degrees as they talked about how envious their friends would be at the way it looked in the library.
But Rafiq’s words were different. The way he spoke about art seemed…genuine.
“I, uh…” I said. “Thank you. That is a real compliment.”
Rafiq’s eyes studied me for a moment, until I grew uncomfortable under the weight of his gaze. As if he could sense it, he smiled and moved on.
The last painting he had to see in the gallery was Oceanic, with all its swarming wet darkness and mythical monsters. Rafiq stood before this one for longer than he did any of the others, even stepping back to take in the fullness of the canvas. He pressed his face up close t
o get a good look at the monsters in the misty darkness, tracing the sea spray with a light fingertip.