ONE
“Sheikh Rafiq Al-Zayn… Sheikh Rafiq Al-Zayn….”
I repeated the name under my uneven breath, struggling on the step-stool. No matter what I tried, the final painting that needed to be hung for the exhibit just would not sit on the wall straight, and the task was chewing on my last nerve. It had been a long, exhausting day, and the most trying part of it hadn’t even started yet.
Wrestling with the frame, I kept up my mantra until the name started rolling off my tongue. Arabic names had always been a challenge for me, and it took practice, but I certainly wasn’t about to embarrass myself for a client as important as this. The Sheikh had phoned the gallery early in the morning, asking about availability for a last-minute private function he wished to organize for some guests from out of town. What was supposed to be a normal, boring Tuesday had ended up becoming a gauntlet of work as I closed down the gallery to the general public in preparation to host the Sheikh.
Rich clients only set up private viewings such as this if they were really interested in an artist’s work, and they usually left with at least one piece for their private collection. As it was, I couldn’t afford to refuse his offer.
Finally, the last of the hooks caught the frame with a satisfying click. I came down off the step stool and did a final check of the levels until I was satisfied.
The gallery space wasn’t much, but it was my whole world. The first floor of a pre-war building, the art space itself could only hold about fifty people max, but it was enough for me to fill easily enough on an opening night. The hardwood floors and track lighting kept me looking professional, even when my bank account said otherwise, and the old brick building was charming without looking dilapidated. In any other life, there was no way I could afford a space this valuable, but I had managed to rent it, and the studio apartment above it, at a steal, thanks to the landlord being a dear friend of my mother’s sister. Even with the networking hook-ups, though, being an artist wasn’t easy. Every month was like walking across a canyon on a tight rope, hoping I made it to the other side before a huge wind came and blew me into oblivion. So far, I had always made it. So far.
Nights like tonight could go one of two ways: they could shake the tightrope, or they could turn it into a stable and comfortable bridge. I did everything I could to make it the latter, and crossed my fingers that the rest would fall into place. But rich art collectors were nothing if not unpredictable; they lived in a world that few people would ever inhabit or understand, and as far as my experience served, they had no idea what it was like to live in the real world.
As if on cue, from around the dividing wall, the tiny bell of the gallery’s front door chimed, and my heart seized up in panic. I checked the dangling gold watch around my thin wrist; it wasn’t seven yet. Had the Sheikh decided to show up early? I wasn’t even dressed or ready for his party.
“Evangeline?” A familiar voice carried across the empty space and hardwood floors as the door shut the door gently in its antique jamb. “Sorry I’m late.”
Joel Perez, my best friend, came around the corner to find me staring at the painting, a backpack slung over one shoulder of his leather jacket. His jet-black hair was mussed up from the motorcycle helmet he had no doubt left out on his bike, and he gave me a charming smile when our eyes met.
“How are you feeling? Excited?”
Joel was certainly excited himself; the sparkling in his eyes betrayed as much, even from a distance, and I once again felt lucky to have him supporting me on nights like this.
I took a deep breath and sighed. “I think I’ll be more excited when it’s over.”
“Come on, now, that’s not the attitude to have!” said Joel. His Spanish accent gave his words even more sunshine than they already had. He walked over and put his arm around my shoulder, squeezing me into him. “Let’s get some happy in you. What can I help with?”
With a glance around the empty gallery, I said, “The refreshments table needs to be set out still, and I have to get myself ready. I haven’t had time.”
“I can handle the food, no problem. I’m sorry I wasn’t here earlier, Evie, I didn’t mean to make you hang all these by yourself…” he scolded himself.
“It’s okay, honey, I didn’t have to replace all of them. And besides, you were at work!” I waved a hand at him. “How does it look? Do you think it will pop?”
Joel dropped his backpack and wandered slowly around the gallery, spinning in slow circles, trying to get a full view of the exhibit. As my long-time friend, he had seen my paintings a million times, and from every conceivable angle, so he didn’t spend any time on the details. He knew exactly what I was asking of him. The collection had to look perfect for the Sheikh, and not just the paintings—the whole ambiance. Joel was always my second pair of eyes to keep me looking my best.
“It looks very powerful,” he said. “I love how you’ve split up the darks and lights between the divider.”
“It’s not too heavy-handed, is it?”
“Not at all, it’s very subtle. He probably won’t notice it, but his subconscious will. Did he ask for any specific works?” asked Joel.
I shook my head. “He barely asked for anything. He just wanted a private exhibit of my work set up for this evening. It had to be tonight, he said, so I thought it would be simplest to recreate the opening day exhibit with a few obvious substitutions. I still get compliments about it now.”
“Very smart idea. I don’t see Clementine anywhere, though…” Joel said, holding his chin thoughtfully.
I frowned, worried. The piece was a scene with more sexual charge than my works typically had, and at the last second, I had left it in the back room storage. Maybe my instincts had been off.
“No, I didn’t want to offend him. Should I have put it up?”
“Why would you offend him?” asked Joel.
I shrugged and wandered over to stand next to Joel in front of Oceanic, a four-foot-square scene of violent blue-gray waters and the vague hint of monsters and mermaids in the shadowy sea.
“I’ve never met a Sheikh before, so I didn’t want to take any chances. I don’t know what would offend him, I just don’t want to blow this opportunity.”
Rich clients made my life as a painter possible, but their visits weren’t frequent enough for me to have any kind of security. Not that any serious artist would ever expect anything less than a life of struggle, of course. I accepted that, and knew how fort
unate I was to have the support of friends like Joel and to be successful enough to rent the gallery space in the first place. One mistake could cost me months’ worth of income, and my bank account was already starving to death. Things not working out tonight could pose a very big problem.