Heads You Win

28

ALEX

Brooklyn

“When you return the Warhol to Lawrence and he gives you back your money, are you still sure you ought to be investing even more in Elena’s?”

“Yes I am, Mother,” said Alex. “But after making such a fool of myself, I’ve decided to go back to school.”

“But you already have a degree.”

“In economics,” said Alex, “which is fine if you want to be a bank manager, but not an entrepreneur. So I’ve signed up for night school. I’ll be doing an MBA at Columbia, so that when I come across another Evelyn, I won’t make the same mistake. Meanwhile, I’m going to get a job at Lombardi’s in Manhattan.”

“But why support the opposition?”

“Because Lawrence told me they make the best pizzas in America, and I intend to find out why.”

September was a busy month for Alex. He enrolled at night school to do his MBA, and despite working during the day at Lombardi’s, he never once missed a lecture. His essays were always handed in on time and he read every book on the set texts list, and many that weren’t. Ironically, Evelyn had managed to achieve what his mother hadn’t.

His learning also progressed during the day, because Paolo, the manager of Lombardi’s, showed him how the restaurant had earned its reputation. With Paolo to advise him, Alex began to make some small changes to Elena’s, and later some larger ones. He would have liked to purchase a rollover oven from Antonelli in Milan, which would have made it possible to produce a dozen fresh pizzas every four minutes, but he couldn’t afford it until he’d returned the picture and Lawrence had handed over the half million. He would miss her. The Warhol, not Evelyn.

* * *

Alex was on his way to night school when he saw her for the first time.

She was standing on the platform at 51st Street wearing a smart blue suit and carrying a leather briefcase. It was her neatly cropped auburn hair and deep brown eyes that captivated him. He tried not to stare at her, and when she glanced in his direction, he quickly looked away.

When the train pulled into the station, he found himself following the vision and sitting in the empty seat beside her even though she was going in the wrong direction. She opened her briefcase, took out a glossy magazine, and began reading. Alex glanced at the cove

r to see a painting by an artist called de Kooning. He could have sworn he’d seen a similar one in Lawrence’s home, but decided I own a Warhol wouldn’t be a good chat-up line.

“Did de Kooning paint the same subject again and again?” he asked, his eyes remaining fixed on the picture.

She looked at Alex, then at the cover of her magazine, before saying, “Yes, he did. This one is from his Woman series.”

Her clipped accent reminded him of Evelyn, although nothing else did. He hesitated before saying, “Could I have seen one in a private collection?”

“It’s possible. Although there are very few in private hands. There are several examples of his work in MoMA, so there’s a chance you might have seen one there.”

“Of course,” said Alex, although he’d never entered the Museum of Modern Art, and only had a vague idea where it was. “You’re right, that’s where I must have seen it.” When the train pulled into the next station, he hoped she wouldn’t get off. She didn’t.

“Who’s your favorite artist?” he ventured as the doors closed.

She didn’t respond immediately. “I’m not sure I have a favorite among the Abstract Expressionists, but I think Motherwell is underrated, and Rothko overrated.”

“I’ve always admired Pollock’s Moon Woman,” said Alex, rather desperately. The painting he’d had to stare at for half an hour while he hid behind a pillar at Lawrence’s birthday party.

“It’s supposed to be one of his best, but I’ve only ever seen a photograph of it. Not many people have been lucky enough to see the Lowell Collection.”

The train pulled into the next station, and once again, she didn’t get off. Lawrence Lowell is a personal friend of mine, so if you’d like to see his collection … he wanted to say, but he was afraid she’d think she was sitting next to a lunatic.

“Do you work in the art world?” he ventured.

“Yes, I’m a very junior assistant in a West Side gallery,” she said, closing her magazine.

“That must be fun.”

“It is.” She put the magazine back in her briefcase, and stood up as the train pulled into the next station.