—17—
Garth decided that sitting in a street market with other amateurs and hobbyists would never bring serious attention to his paintings. It was time to make sacrifices for his art, and only a serious investment would kick him up to the next level.
He had sold a few sketches (as did everyone else in the market) when buyers for a new office complex came by in search of inexpensive decorations for a massive number of rooms. Using the money, as well as a generous gift Eduard had given him after surviving Madame Ruxton’s surgery, he paid three day’s rent for a small place at street level—his own personal “gallery”—then he quit his dead-end job as an industrial painter.
All or nothing.
In a spectacular “coming out” for himself, he would display the paintings and sketches he had done, just like a genuine, dedicated artist. It was the only way to broaden his audience. He had to take a chance.
In preparation, Garth spent four days working furiously in the bazaar. He had drunk great pots of the portly vendor’s strongest gourmet coffee just to keep himself awake, to focus his intensity. Some artists watched his verve with a mixture of amazement and jealousy as he produced work after work to fill out his planned exhibition.
Now, inside his makeshift gallery he arranged everything with loving care, from the smallest pieces to the largest rolled film-murals. He posted invitations, sent mailings over COM, and talked to everyone who would listen. They had to come and see.
As the hour for the evening event finally arrived, Garth lit candles, set up light tiles, and burned incense. He put everything into this free exhibition. Even exhausted, Garth remained eager and exuberant about the possibilities. He flung open the door in his rented shop space and waited for the crowds to come.
Garth had promoted his exhibition at Club Masquerade, talking to the cybernetic bartender, Bernard Rovin. But even with elaborate notices for the discriminating patrons of the Club, Garth had no idea what to expect.
Apparently nothing.
Multicolored product advertisements glowed from skyscraper walls. People moved on the streets, some going home after a long workday, others coming out for the night. An endless jeweled necklace of hovercars floated overhead.
Garth glanced at his watch and stood smiling in the entryway. He greeted the passersby. He looked up and down the street, but saw no crowds, no people coming to his show. Not the slightest glimmer of interest. He waited and watched, trying to keep a pleading expression from his face. His art remained on display inside, though no one came to see it.
After an hour, when even Garth’s enthusiasm had begun to flag, a woman came inside, smiling shyly. She had drooping shoulders and sad eyes, but he greeted her warmly. “Welcome! I hope you’ll see something you’ll like.”
“I already do, Garth.” She came forward and hugged him. “It’s me—Teresa. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
“What’s this body?” Surprised, he ran his fingers through her short, mousy-brown hair. “I didn’t recognize you.”
“Oh, it’s just the person I’m wearing today. What does it matter, anyway? We’re all human, right?”
“Now I’m going to have to add another portrait to my ‘Spectrum of Teresa.’”
“Take a good look at my face, because I probably won’t be wearing it for long.” She walked in toward the art on display. “Show me what you’ve done.”
“Is there room for one more?” Garth turned, recognizing Eduard instantly. For once, his friend wasn’t wearing a sickly or damaged body, but remained in his own healthy dark-haired form. He clapped Garth on the back.
“Eduard! It’s good to see you looking like yourself again,” Garth said.
Teresa gave him a warm kiss on the cheek, and Eduard kissed her back on the mouth. He was surprised when she didn’t giggle, but drew away instead. Garth wondered what was wrong, what she was hiding.
Enthusiastic just to have his friends there, Garth took them by the arms and led them into the small shop. “Let me show you around the exhibit. It’s a new concept, I think. I’m calling it a ‘panorama surround’ of my impressions. You’ll be the first ones to see it.” Garth seemed ready to burst with pleasure. “My intention is to capture the real experience of being at the market … the gestalt of the bazaar. You have to see it with all your senses, not just your eyes.”
On the walls his sketches and watercolors hung askew, a disarray to convey the energy and color of the marketplace. He displayed caricatures of different vendors, interesting personalities he saw every day: the portly man selling coffee, the woman fashioning her clay windchimes, the beignet maker with his pans of hot oil and a comical dusting of powdered sugar on his nose.
Various customers were preserved as well: an old couple wearing young bodies, a frowning critic, young children playing by food kiosks, curious businessmen who looked but did not buy.
In the rear of the display, and very understated, he even depicted a news-screen that showed the execution of the anti-COM terrorist, though he had been reluctant and uneasy about including the image. The decrepit old man hooked up to electrodes, unwillingly having his mind uploaded … Garth found the image very powerful and didn’t want it to dominate the show.
Snippets of sound flooded the air, the buzzing chaos of the market, people laughing, arguing, discussing artwork for sale. Garth had surreptitiously recorded one interminable haggle at a nearby stand, and it played now, over and over, never ending. He had also captured the smells of hot pavement, frying meat, paint, even sun-warmed canvas awnings.
Eduard startled him by laughing as he turned around. “Garth, this is amazing. It gives the impression that you’re really there!”
In other alcoves he displayed nostalgic paintings like the one he had done on the basement wall in the monastery, Dickensian scenes peopled with characters from his imagination, a mish-mash of historical settings with anachronistic details he didn’t even realize were wrong. He also displayed the three faces of Teresa he had drawn, showing her in different bodies but with the same inner beauty. Now, seeing her again, he would add another.
“Oh, I love it, Garth,” Teresa said. “I’m so proud of you.”
“I’d be happier if there were some other people to see it.”
Over the course of the next few hours, a few other people trickled in, mostly curiosity seekers, spectators rather than customers. But he was just glad they had come at all. They poked around, talked to each other; a few shook his hand and uttered compliments.
Garth’s energy did not flag. With Teresa and Eduard beside him, he felt as if he could go on for hours. He showed everyone around, spoke with great delight about what he had done, pointing out separate items of interest.
At last, near the closing hour, a gaunt young man came in, the first one who looked as if he had come there specifically to see what Garth had to offer, rather than a bored curiosity-seeker. He offered frequent, brief smiles, so that his lips curved upward with a flickering motion. His hair was blond with brownish highlights, making it look prematurely gray.
The stranger came toward Garth and shook his hand. While other visitors had shown polite interest, this young man pulled him along, eager to see one thing and then the next. “Don’t you remember me, Garth? I’m Pashnak Swan.”
Garth exclaimed and grabbed the man’s hand again, remembering how he had read to Pashnak and Daragon from Charles Dickens back at the monastery. “I’m so glad you could come! How have you been? Did you ever finish reading Copperfield?”
Sitting together in a window alcove in the Falling Leaves, Garth would open his heavy antique tome and read aloud one deliciously detailed chapter after another. Both Pashnak and Daragon sat cross-legged on their own floor cushions, enraptured with the story and with the company. Garth would change his voice to imitate the various characters. Pashnak and Daragon watched him, savoring Dickens’s descriptions, the ironies, the exotic people. But Pashnak had reached his maturity, learned how to hopscotch, and left the Splinters before Garth had finished reading the massive and complex novel.
“No … I never got around to it, Garth. It just never seemed the same.” Pashnak smiled, changing the subject. “I’ve seen your work in the bazaar, and I’m glad you finally had this opportunity to have it displayed for the general public. Quite a step up.”
Garth flushed. “Well, it’s not a real gallery, but still better than a blanket in the marketplace, I think.”
They talked about some of the sketches, charcoal drawings of people in their artists’ stalls, pencil renderings of children flying kites in the parks. Garth’s exuberance grew with every breath. Pashnak seemed to understand, seemed to see what Garth intended.
The nostalgic paintings caught Pashnak’s attention. “These look like something Charles Dickens might have written about.” Garth felt warm inside.
The gaunt young man stopped in front of a detailed study of a smiling young rogue in 19th-Century clothing; he wore an infectious smile, extending his hand in a gesture of trust, while hiding the other, ready to snatch an unwatched apple from a vendor’s cart. The rogue looked vaguely like Eduard.…
Garth had worked for many hours on that simple, unframed item—and Pashnak had spotted it right away among all the other art on display. “The Artful Dodger, of course?” Pashnak’s eyes were wide and pleading. “I’d love to own it … but I was reluctant even to come here. I don’t have much money, you see. The Splinters didn’t really prepare me for a high-paying job.”
Eduard laughed and draped his arm over Teresa’s bowed shoulders. “Don’t we all know that!”
Desperate to make a sale, Garth very much wanted Pashnak to own the Artful Dodger drawing. He quoted a price that even Pashnak knew was far too low, and not quite as much as the gaunt young man could afford. Pashnak paid him a little more, and once the deal was consummated, the two men pumped each others’ hands so hard their lower arms seemed likely to rip off.
Pashnak left the exhibition, cradling the drawing as if it were his most prized possession in the world. It was the only sale he had made all night.
“We can stay to help you clean up, Garth,” Teresa offered, as if reluctant to go back to the Sharetakers’ enclave.
“Sure, why not?” Eduard said. He had plenty of free time between jobs.
They worked with Garth to remove the art from the walls, sweeping the floors, rearranging the empty storefront. Garth had to be out immediately, because he couldn’t afford another day’s rent.
As they stood at the door and Garth prepared to lock up, they said awkward goodbyes. “Oh, I’m glad we had a chance to talk, the three of us together,” Teresa said. “A consolation for not having big crowds.”
“That’s one way of looking at it,” Garth said with a wan smile. Teresa and Eduard went off together down the sidewalk, and he remained behind in the hollow remains of his exhibition.
Before he closed the doors, though, two other men appeared, startling him. “Daragon!” Garth’s instinctive uneasiness at seeing the BTL uniform changed to delight. “Oh, look at you, so professional. I’m so glad you could come! You, uh, missed the big crowd.”
Daragon smiled knowingly at him. “There were no crowds, Garth—but I did bring my boss, Bureau Chief Ob. He wanted to see your exhibition.”
He introduced the well-muscled man beside him, who wore a precisely tailored business suit; his chestnut hair was neatly combed, his olive-brown eyes intense with interest. “You won’t remember me, Garth, but I saw your work in the bazaar. I was wearing the body of my trainer, then.”
Garth nodded, shaking the Bureau Chief’s hand. “I remember. But you were wearing a different body then, weren’t you?” He recalled a smaller, dark-haired man with sunken eyes and a bushy mustache.
“Ah, that was my personal trainer’s body.”
Ob looked troubled for a moment, but Garth didn’t notice, saying quickly, “You told me I had the right amount of enthusiasm, but that I needed more practice. You even knew who I was.”
“I was curious about Daragon’s friends.” Ob began to stroll through the artwork on display. “As I said, when I was younger I dreamed of becoming an artist, but I never had the nerve to slog through all the pitfalls. In a way, you’ve got the balls to do what I couldn’t.”
Garth hovered beside the Bureau Chief as he bent close to the three aligned portraits of Teresa’s various faces. “And what is that?”
“You were willing to make sacrifices for your dream, young man. I never had the heart to suffer through the ‘starving artist’ uncertainty.” Ob’s voice sounded somewhat wistful. “I can see a great deal of improvement here, Garth. Hmmm, very interesting. Now you’re making me regret my decision.”
Daragon interrupted him. “Sir, I think you made the right choice. Look at how much you’ve done with the Bureau, all the important work.”
“Not a valid comparison, Daragon,” Ob said. “I’m talking about heart, not logic.”
Garth led them to some of his other works, feeling oddly inadequate. “I’m not exactly starving.…”
“Yet.” The Bureau Chief pursed his lips appreciatively at a crystal-sharp pen-and-ink drawing of the coffee vendor surrounded by rough charcoal blurs of customers. “I’ve had Daragon investigate a bit. I know you quit your job as an industrial painter, and according to COM records as of five minutes ago, you made only one very small sale all night.”
Garth flushed. “I’ll get by, somehow. I get help from my friends.”
Ob placed his hands on Garth’s shoulders in a magnanimous gesture. “I think we can do better than that. In my position, as you might guess, I am in possession of considerable wealth—but my BTL duties give me little chance to enjoy it. That seems … offensively worthless, in a way. I’ve been thinking that perhaps I can do some small amount of cultural good if I make it possible for an artist to do better work.”
Daragon’s face glowed with pleasure. Garth looked from the Bureau Chief to the artworks on display. “Are you going to buy one of my paintings?”
“I am going to offer you a personal grant, young man. Call it a stipend, enough to let you pursue your dreams for a year, if you live frugally.”
“The Splinters taught us how to be frugal, sir,” Daragon said quickly.
Garth didn’t know what to say. The Chief of the BTL wanted to give him money so he could keep working on his art? “You want to be my … patron?” It sounded so old-fashioned.
“I expect you to learn things, expand your horizons, and apply everything to the betterment of your artwork.” His olive-brown eyes twinkled. “In my rather large home, I have plenty of wall-space to hang your best work, should you ever wish to loan it to me.”
Garth felt weak. He wanted to hug Daragon, or Mordecai Ob, but he restrained himself. “This is incredible!”
The Bureau Chief looked smugly pleased with his unexpected generosity. “I just wish someone had done the same for me, back when I was at the fork in my career path.” He looked over at the uniformed young Inspector beside him. “Daragon will be watching you for me, Garth. Don’t disappoint me.”
“Sir, you’ve just given me all the inspiration I could possibly need.”