Picture This

Reading the first three numbers of the telephone number, Latisha guessed the artist was staying in SoHo or at least the Lower East Side.

‘Do you want me to call her, Maxine?’ she asked out loud, now sensing the ghost, a silvery shimmer catching the last of the afternoon sunlight across the carpet to the left of the television. The answer came back, pressing against Latisha’s brain like a footprint in wet clay.

The retired cleaner reached into her purse. She had enough quarters to place a couple of calls from the payphone on the corner of 125th Street. If she hurried, she could get there while it was still daylight.

There was a bitter wind blowing and it felt like a portent to Latisha as she stepped into the phone booth, her quarters ready. Above and around the phone itself was a rainbow of cards advertising all kinds of personal services, from hair braiding to exorcism to prostitution. She’d placed a few of them herself for the Spiritualist Church, her philosophy being there is no place too low nor too high to evangelise. After straightening a couple of the cards she dialled the first number Susie had written in the letter. It immediately switched to an answering se

rvice. Determined not to waste her quarter, she put the phone down and then picked it up again and dialled the second number, that of Susie’s assistant, Alfie.

*

Still in costume, Susie viewed the photographs on her computer screen, selecting a shortlist of 20. The recreation of the erotic painting was extraordinary. The five figures seemed to float against the background of gold-beige, which was exactly the impression she’d been aiming for, and they’d managed to recreate the positioning of the figures – their hands and feet – precisely. The bizarre contrast of the gleaming vintage car bonnet and the seemingly traditional Chinese 18th-century characters clustered around it made the whole image resemble some bizarre sex ritual involving sacrifice or worship. Yet the painted masks and traditional robes and fans – even with the TWA symbol embroidered on them – and the staged position of the figures all unified into a cohesive echo of the original erotic painting.

Susie’s gaze slid down to the hotel slippers Roberto had been wearing in lieu of the traditional black half-slippers the original Chinese man had on. They were a nice ironic touch, a bizarre reference to contemporary culture and luxury that offset the ceremonial nature of the ensemble.

On the other side of the studio Alfie’s mobile phone rang. The assistant turned away from the two men from the car rental company who were busy manoeuvring the Chrysler out towards a service lift, and picked up the phone.

‘Hi, Alfie Lewis here… ’ he chirped into the receiver, while gesturing to the driver behind the wheel of the Chrysler to back up.

‘I want to speak to Susie Thomas.’

Surprised by the deep female voice, which obviously belonged to an older African-American woman, Alfie glanced across at Susie. She was still bent over the computer screen, engrossed in the results of the shoot.

‘I’m phoning to help her.’ Again, the voice was curiously flat, almost sinister, as if the speaker might be deaf, or oblivious to the way she sounded. Thinking the caller might be a stalker or someone even less desirable, Alfie decided not to disturb Susie. After frantically searching his mind as to how the caller might have got his number, he made an educated guess.

‘So I’m guessing you’re calling about the part in the Klimt re-enactment?’

At the other end of the line Latisha stared out at a man watching his dog shit on the pavement. The Klimt re-enactment – what was that? Not wanting to sound uneducated, she decided the best policy would be to agree with the young man.

‘That’s right.’

‘So you’ve had experience working as a model?’

‘Yes, sir, I sat for an artist. She told me I was monumental,’ she answered proudly.

The Chrysler narrowly missed a corner of the wall before backing into the goods elevator. Alfie, one hand still holding his phone to his left ear, pressed a hundred dollars into the hand of the car-hire man just before the doors shut on the gleaming blue car with the driver still at the wheel.

‘Monumental? Sounds perfect. I’m thinking three-fifty, three-sixty pounds, madam?’ he replied as he stared at the lift door. The elevator lights indicated ground floor. The large female figure in the Beethoven Frieze by Gustav Klimt, Susie’s choice for the next re-enactment, needed to be big and black, as well as tall. This was one extra he knew would be difficult to cast given the nature of the shoot, so if she’d found him herself, all the better. He moved quickly across the studio floor and located his notes on a side desk, flicking through to find the image.

‘I’m on the wrong side of three-sixty pounds, and in my bare feet I stand six foot tall,’ the reply, wary and measured, boomed out from the receiver. Alfie listened carefully, having decided there was something hypnotic under the flatness of this woman’s voice that he loved. He stared down at the figure of the semi-naked older woman positioned to the right of Klimt’s painting, with her large belly and pendulous breasts on display, wrapped from the waist down in an ornate gold and blue tube of fabric, with an elaborate gold headdress and gold wrist and arm bracelets. The woman at the end of the phone sounded as if she had gravitas, which was exactly what this character needed.

‘And you’re okay with partial nudity?’ he asked tentatively.

‘Well, I’m not the prettiest of women, but I’m not ashamed to be seen as God intended me to be.’

Perfect, Alfie thought, smiling at her quaint turn of speech. Normally he would never consider casting blind, but this particular character was proving hard to find through traditional avenues, and time was running out.

‘Like I said, I have modelled for artists before,’ Latisha insisted.

‘Good to hear it.’ Alfie was in two minds; he could always recast between costume fittings and shoot if she was totally inappropriate. Finally, he decided to trust his instincts.

At the other end of the line Latisha leaned against the side of the phone kiosk, marvelling at the synchronicity fate presents. She was a strong believer in the idea that nothing happened by accident, and the more she thought about it, the more she saw how getting physically closer to Susie would allow her to really see whether Maxine’s ex-lover had contributed to Maxine’s demise or not. The spirits are wise, let them guide you.

‘Will I get to see Susie Thomas?’

‘Well, she will most certainly be there in the photograph with you.’

‘I promise you, sir, I will not disappoint.’