The Benefactor

  CONTENTS

  COVER

  DEDICATION

  THE BENEFACTOR

  PART I

  MEMOIRS

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  PART II

  INSTALLATIONS

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  PART III

  PORTRAITS

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  To the memory of Michael Gifkins: agent, mentor and force of nature

  SOMETIMES the best way to start was to return to the beginning. Henry remembered telling a staff writer that, when the subordinate’s article had spun itself out in a web that no sensible reader would have bothered trying to navigate. If there were answers, they were found in the essence of an idea. Not at its logical point of conclusion.

  Henry had become more convinced lately that his life consisted of many starts, too many to count, though their quantity had trickled down to almost nothing in recent years. The most obvious ones weren’t revealing their own significance.

  Stationed at his desk, with its unobstructed view across the Greenwich Village rooftops to the Midtown Manhattan skyline, Henry forced himself to concentrate on the insistent blinking cursor, the new paragraph.

  The Village was a rougher place in the eighties, he typed, fallen victim to New York’s near-bankruptcy, AIDS and crack, a two-decades-long explosion of distrust and desire. Fashion was the only law. I didn’t live downtown at the time, though that changed quickly—roomed with my old college buddy uptown in Murray Hill. And despite that prestigious location, I have to concede Murray Hill was nobody’s idea of a fashionable neighbourhood. Certainly not as exciting.

  You couldn’t walk through Washington Square Park without encountering the dealers. Well-built men, sunglasses in the dark, with their stash and their Glocks on display. ‘Death of a Neighbourhood’, the black-bordered posters spread around the triumphal arch proclaimed, calling for the park’s redevelopment. Above the piles of trash and chewed-up lawns, the canopy of trees spread lush as ever in unforgiving, swampy heat.

  On the advice of my co-workers, I had taken to hiding rolls of cash across different parts of my jacket when I ventured downtown. There was an etiquette to being held up. You accepted it, handed over the valuables and went on with your day. The faster the better.

  Yes, efficiency ruled. Henry chuckled to himself for a moment, then began reading back over what he’d written. A strong enough opening, with its implications of danger. Still it didn’t capture the mood he was seeking. The true details were both filthier and more exciting—yet he wasn’t sure if they aligned with his intentions, if he could commit them to the immortal page.

  That June was his first month living in New York. He would wander through the Village on his own, after work, searching for scenes from another life. Sometimes he’d come across muggings on the quieter streets, towards the river among warehouses and rusting fire escapes. Beyond the long disused West Side Freight Line, abandoned wharves jutted out into the Hudson. Once teeming with ocean liners and container vessels—Pier 59 was to have welcomed the Titanic—and now a discreet site for gang meetings. Men in doorways held at knifepoint. Burning cars, occasionally.

  In those situations he would march on at a brisk pace, pretending he had some place to be, his head down. But he couldn’t help stopping at the next street corner, turning to take another glimpse at the carnage. Waiting for a gunshot to ring out and get him moving. Horrified and transfixed at once.

  This was a private experience of New York, by design. Years before moving here he’d spent a few summers in the city and the Hamptons with his friends, acquainting himself with the more familiar uptown circles.

  Hoping to make the experience less private (and perhaps to impress), one night Henry decided to lead the gaggle of writers he’d been roped in to manage at Kurt Wilder’s new magazine downtown on the subway. Between Madison Avenue and Astor Place, the scene changed as if they were stepping into another city many miles away: a warren of strange stores full of musty old books and vintage clothes and records, of bars and clubs hidden behind fire exits, of artists holding on strong to their studio spaces. AIDS victims said to be dropping dead in the corridors of an overwhelmed St Vincent’s, their empty apartments snapped up by estate agents, their possessions loaded into garbage bags and thrown on the sidewalk.

  The magazine was new then, but Henry was newer. Determined to assert his status, he’d done his research. Their destination was a raucous jazz club on Christopher Street, one he’d sniffed out during his night-time explorations. Low ceiling, coked-up bands, all knowingly strange and impressionistic. The writers were younger than him, loud and obnoxious yet loaded with liberal arts degrees and lofty ideals, connected to Kurt through one society scene or another—which didn’t stop Kurt from treating them like nobodies. This promised to be an escape, of sorts.

  Though he tried to hide it, Henry felt that rush of energy you sometimes get when everything is new, his eyes wide open, taking in every sight. Advertisements for gay peep shows and numbers for hookers leaped out from the walls. A sheet of yellow notepaper was stuck up near the corner of Waverly Place, a message scrawled across it: Brandon, please call home. Love, Mom.

  Down a set of stairs in the jazz club, Henry ordered a round of bourbons without hesitation, thinking he owed it to his team. Kurt wouldn’t have found this scene worthy of his attention, so he wasn’t with them. He would be hard at work by now, snorting lines in a bathroom stall uptown at Lutèce.

  Wilder had lured Henry down from Boston with promises of relevance, of important work and recognition, of rubbing shoulders with the power crowd over lunch at the Four Seasons and dinner at the Odeon. That hadn’t happened. Look Closer was performing adequately, but Henry was running the day-to-day operations alone while Kurt focused on his own generous definition of client hospitality.

  He’d taken Henry to a few parties, of course. And in fairness he’d received one piece of advice that would stick with him. Kurt had dragged him to an event hosted by David Geffen at some Central Park West penthouse, and as they made their way in, Henry had asked him, somewhat frantically, how he should introduce himself to these people.

  ‘Calder,’ he’d said, somehow both slurring and breathless, manic. ‘From this point you shut up and watch and listen. That will make you the most powerful man in the room.’

  Later that night, on their way to get a cab downtown, Henry had witnessed Kurt get into a fight with somebody’s wife and push her into a pile of garbage bags.

  The writers had been wary of him at first, resenting Kurt’s old friend—an outsider—being brought in over their heads. Understandable. Important to be sensitive to these matters. More important, Henry believed, to dispel any notion that he wasn’t being given the same short shrift as them.

  ‘Nice work today, boys,’ he said, trying to swallow the affection, while also grabbing a couple of them by the shoulders to emphasise it. ‘Brothers in arms. If Wilder isn’t already happy with the work we’re doing, I’ll make damn sure he is when I see him tomorrow.’

  ‘Appreciate that, Henry,’ one of them said. ‘But I can think of a few things that make Wilder happy, and our work will never be on that list.’

  ‘Ha. You’re too cynical. Maybe that’s how it was before. I’ve got your backs, though. If I have
one talent it’s managing that bastard’s expectations. He’s like a child—let him play with his toys and he’ll stay off our case.’

  This seemed to be lost on them. They stared at their good shoes.

  ‘How about this guy?’ Henry continued, ruffling the hair of one of the group’s youngest. ‘Nailing it with that piece about Malevich on the first draft. Now, boys, obviously that’s what I expect from everyone, but let’s at least congratulate Brad on being the first to reach my standards.’

  ‘Sorry we didn’t all go to Harvard,’ one of the others said, ‘and get some ridiculous masters in ancient Chinese poetry or whatever.’

  ‘So next round’s on our resident Harvard poet. Take note, gents: that’s the reward for impressing me.’

  Henry knew he would be paying for most, if not all, of the drinks. He also felt a limited amount of sympathy for Brad—who insisted on Bradley, but nobody listened. The most serious of the bunch and therefore the safest target for the first salvo of gentle ribbing.

  Already uncomfortable with what he was doing, he allowed the writers to laugh and squabble about who was the biggest cheapskate, who had the most valid opinion about Reaganomics, whose story deserved to be on next month’s cover, cutting out the voices so that the saxophonist’s solo could cut through and reach him. Without meaning to, he began tapping along to the drum patter with his big-heeled caramel brogues.

  A young woman nudged her way past Henry and his colleagues to the bar. She wore a feathered pork-pie hat and herringbone slacks, held high up above her navel with suspenders. Lips painted dark to match the gloss of a French-style leather jacket.

  She stared at him. Something at once open and hopelessly guarded about those eyes—as though she knew how much they could communicate and was wrestling it under control.

  Henry smiled apologetically and shrugged. ‘We’ll be out of your way soon. These yuppies don’t last long if there’s bourbon involved.’

  ‘You think you’re the yuppies? You’d need Hermès ties and a few Submariners on your wrists to pull that one off.’

  She ordered several beers.

  ‘Miller?’ said Henry. ‘Please tell me you’re not subjecting yourself to that as well.’

  ‘Caveman politics. I’m treating my own helpless little yuppies to a night out.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Over there.’

  An even louder and more obnoxious group of men crowded two tables nearby—ties hanging loose and wound around their manicured fingers to flash the hidden Hermès label, shirtsleeves rolled up to show off those same Submariners.

  ‘Martha Beaucanon,’ the young woman said, shaking Henry’s hand with a grip so tight it hurt. ‘Saw you up here and figured I’d make an excuse to say hello. I was curious about what sort of a line you’d use on me. You’re not like the other people here.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Come find me later and I’ll tell you. The yuppies are already pining for me.’

  Six bottles squeezed between her fingers, she left Henry to face his writers, who had been watching in silence.

  ‘What?’ he said. ‘Don’t worry, I told her you were all single and desperate.’

  ‘How the hell did you do that?’ Brad said.

  ‘There’s nothing to it,’ one of the others said. ‘Go over and quote her some of your Tang Dynasty sonnets. She’ll be swooning.’

  ‘The sonnet wasn’t invented until the thirteenth century. And definitely not in China.’

  Henry kept his amusement reserved, still distracted. He’d never been told he was different. It made him feel giddy, queasy—although that might have had more to do with the bourbon on his empty stomach. The way she’d said it seemed neither assuring nor critical. It was as though she’d fired a barb at him that had penetrated his skin, its poison coursing through him, making him itch.

  He watched as she delivered the sweating beers and took a swig from her own bottle. The men loved her, listening intently as she talked—she was clearly rhapsodising over something, but the content wasn’t as important to Henry as the medium. Her face and hands were busy, animated.

  She seemed like some kind of bohemian gypsy, but Henry knew they didn’t really exist in the Village, not now. They’d been replaced by impostors. And she was too genuine for that. She had to be.

  Later in the evening, Henry rallied the nerves that had been keeping him detached from the writers’ banter. Martha was dancing with one of the fellas, whose hands were already roaming far from ten and two, his brow shiny with sweat. The thought that she might see something in this oaf, that her words had been one big tease, was almost too much to bear. He felt naked, unprimed and unworthy.

  As Henry approached he could smell the mixture of cologne and deodorant that must have been clinging to this man since early morning. Martha retained her distance, enjoying herself, though removed by an inch or two more than you could tell he wanted.

  ‘Mind if I have the next one?’ Henry said.

  ‘Get lost, buddy,’ the man said.

  But Martha extricated herself and led Henry to the quiet end of the dance floor, further from where the band was playing.

  ‘Word of advice,’ she said. ‘Don’t ever work on Wall Street. The men there wouldn’t respond well to you.’

  ‘That’s a bold outfit you’re wearing, if you work on Wall Street.’

  ‘I don’t work with them. I was a lawyer…’

  ‘So’s my sister, and let me tell you, she makes a point of not upsetting the natives. No clue how you’re getting away with it.’

  ‘I was a lawyer. Now I’m a fundraiser for the International Rescue Committee. I’m breaking these guys in, so to speak. Softening them up.’

  ‘Oh. Don’t let me interrupt you.’

  ‘I’ve done as much as I need to for tonight. The bankers are living downtown these days, got bored with the Central Park scenery—think they’re vanguards or some horseshit. My job is to ease them into the neighbourhood bar scene. They get to feel like locals, I get to propose my sponsorship deal tomorrow when they’re nursing headaches and thinking about what a great time we had.’

  Henry smirked. ‘Interesting job.’

  ‘Perhaps. I won’t be doing it for long.’

  ‘You have other ambitions.’

  ‘Last year I was a legal advisor to USAID, Peace Corps before that. And that was interesting, don’t get me wrong. But the more I started to see of this government, the more I wanted to tell the world: we’re on a collision course with reality and some jerk cut the brakes. Can’t do that when you’re playing by their rules, in their fantasy.’

  ‘I see.’ Henry didn’t, but he liked to imagine a world where he did. ‘So you traded the DC fantasy in for the Wall Street fantasy.’

  ‘And it’s the Wild West. No legislation. I pick pockets for a living. What do you do?’

  ‘Nothing half as empowered. I’m a writer.’ Her eyes widened knowingly. ‘Not that kind of writer. I wish. A hack. An intellectual hack, I guess, if we’re being generous.’

  ‘I may pick pockets, but I’m also generous. That career could take you to some empowering places, if you let it.’

  ‘Yeah, well…I’d sleep better at night if I thought my output at work had some significance, somewhere.’

  ‘You’d like your writing to make a difference in the world?’

  ‘I guess…yes, yes I would. Now you mention it. But I can’t see that happening the way things are going now. I’m stuck editing these pieces about Frankfurt School aesthetic theory and impenetrable reviews of Jenny Holzer shows.’

  ‘No choice is a life sentence. You’ll have a new job within…’ she pierced him with her eagle eyes, ‘…a year, trust me. You’re the type. Too many people settle for security. Your situation won’t change unless you make the first move.’

  ‘Duly noted.’ Henry smirked, feeling more comfortable about what was going on. ‘You’re not from around here.’

  ‘Charleston. Accent’s always the last to go.’ />
  ‘So you’re a real Southern belle.’

  ‘Don’t you dare. This is New York—anyone’s whoever they want to be.’

  ‘And here I was trying to give you a compliment. Hey, I’m kidding.’

  ‘I had a suspicion you might’ve been.’

  ‘Are you enjoying this music?’

  ‘I am. It really hits you over the head in this place. Although your friends don’t seem to be getting so much out of it.’

  They were waving at Henry, shouting instructions to meet them at the Limelight, a less sophisticated sort of club—to put it lightly—housed in a converted church over on 20th.

  ‘Don’t let me keep you,’ Martha said. ‘I can always return to my boys. They get anxious when their matriarch isn’t around.’

  The thought that she might leave now terrified him. As he spoke, his mouth was dry, though he tried to keep it cool. ‘Think I’ll pass on the Limelight. Too much speed floating around—they’ll end up passed out in the restroom at Save the Robots by eight in the morning. And it’s not that kind of a night.’ He pointed to the stage. ‘It’s this kind of night. Am I right in thinking that’s Chico Hamilton on the drums?’

  ‘I’m not sure. There—that’s all the more reason to stick around, give it some more thought.’

  ‘You like uncertainty.’

  Martha removed her pork-pie hat and planted it on Henry’s head, as though he were a bit player in her big performance. ‘You know, it really doesn’t suit you,’ she said. ‘I have no idea why I did that.’

  ‘I think you do. I’m Henry, by the way. Henry Calder. Maybe we should both share our names before we start sharing our clothes.’

  She grinned, though it wasn’t an easy grin. So many signs, none of them legible. Though his instincts wanted to see inside her, to view himself from her angle, the more dominant part liked the game as it stood.

  Martha felt she had most of a handle on this man. By now, he’d moved in as close to her as the Wall Street broker had been, but she was still holding him back, keeping a slight distance. She’d never prided herself on being everything to everyone, shifting her shape and filling up empty spaces like water.