“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
“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.
“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.
He leaped up. “My name’s Alex.”
“Anna. It was nice to meet you, Alex.”
He stood there like a statue as she got off the train. He waved as she walked down the platform, but she didn’t look back.
“Damn, damn, damn,” he said as the doors closed and she disappeared from sight. He’d have to get off at the next stop, turn around, and go back to 51st Street. It would be the first time he’d missed a lecture.
* * *
“Paolo, I need some advice.”
“If it’s about how to run a pizza joint, there’s not much more I can teach you.”
“No, I have a woman problem. I only met her once, and then I lost her.”
“You’re way ahead of me, kid. Better you start at the beginning.”
“I met her on the subway. Well, met would be an exaggeration, because my attempt to open a conversation with her was pathetic. And just as I got going, she left me standing there. All I can tell you is her first name, and that she’s an assistant in an art gallery on the West Side.”
“OK, let’s start with the station where you first saw her.”
“Fifty-first Street.”
“Expensive shops, lots of galleries. Let’s try and narrow down the field. Do you know which period the gallery specializes in?”
“Abstract Expressionism, I think. At least that’s what it said on the cover of her magazine.”
“There must be at least a dozen galleries that specialize in that period. What else can you tell me about her?”
“She’s beautiful, intelligent…”
“Age?”
“Early twenties.”
“Build?”
“Slim, elegant, classy.”
“Then what makes you think she’d have any interest in you?”
“I agree. But if there was the slightest chance, I—”
“You’re a much better catch than you realize,” said Paolo. “You’re bright, charming, well educated, and I suppose some women might even find you good-looking.”
“So what should I do next?” Alex asked, ignoring the sarcasm.
“First, you have to realize that the art world is a small community, especially at the top end. I suggest you visit the Marlborough on Fifty-seventh Street, and talk to an assistant who’s about the same age. There’s a chance they’ll know each other, or at least have met at some opening.”
“How come you know so much about art?”
“The Italians,” said Paolo, “know about art, food, opera, cars, and women, because we have the best examples of all five.”
“If you say so,” said Alex. “I’ll start first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Not first thing, that would be a waste of time. Art galleries don’t usually open before ten. The sort of clients who can afford to pay half a million dollars for a picture aren’t early risers like you and me. And another thing, if you turn up looking like that, they’ll think you’ve come to collect the trash. You’ll have to dress and sound like a prospective customer if you want them to take you seriously.”
“Where did you learn all this?”
“My father is a doorman at the Plaza, my mother works in Bloomingdale’s, so I was educated at the university of life. And one more thing. If you really want to impress her, perhaps you should…”
* * *
Alex was up, dressed, and bargaining in the vegetable market by four thirty the following morning. Once he’d delivered his purchases to the restaurant, he returned home and had breakfast with his mother.
He didn’t tell her what he had planned for the rest of the morning, and waited for her to leave for work before he took a second shower and selected a dark gray, single-breasted suit, white shirt, and a tie his mother had given him for Christmas. He then carefully took the Warhol down from the wall and wrapped it in some brown paper before placing it in a carrier bag.
