She‘s got these photographs of children in the Sudan that are excruciating. I‘m sure one of your Midtown galleries will jump at them. Will you help me out?"
“I don‘t know what to say, L. You sound crazy."
“No,” I said. “Not at all. I‘m just tired of these fuckin‘ small businesses and my agent and arguing over my fee."
“You don‘t think I have to fight about money?"
“Are you gonna help me, Brad?” I asked my oldest New York acquaintance.
“So you‘re giving up translating just like that?” he asked.
“I‘ve been thinking about it a long time,” I said. “It‘s just that I realized that I have to do it. I saw these pictures and I said to myself, it‘s time to get motivated."
I was sitting on the sofa in my living room. The Sun was streaming in and the wind was blowing over me. The DVD was on again, but the volume was set to mute. Sisypha was meeting with Mel at a cafe in the daytime. While they talked, a tall, very beautiful black woman walked up to the table.
“I‘ll tell you what,” Brad was saying. “If you promise to keep translating for me, I‘ll see what I can do."
“Sure,” I said. “No problem."
“Okay,” Brad said. “I‘ll get Linda to fax over the information on a few galleries that might be interested in that kind of work."
Sisypha knew the black woman. She stood up to kiss her on the lips. The woman shook hands with Mel and sat down.
“Thanks a lot, Brad,” I said as I turned off the DVD player. “I really need this."
“What you need is a headshrinker,” he said.
“Talk to you later,” I said.
Sitting there at the threshold of a new life, I inhaled deeply and felt a pain down the core of my chest; a pain that was physical but also in my heart.
“May I speak to Lucy Carmichael, please?” I asked a woman who‘d answered the phone at Teletronics, one of the dozens of new cell phone providers.
“Whom may I say is calling?"
“Cordell Carmel."
“Hold on."
While waiting, I practiced flexing my right hand. The anti-inflammatory was doing a good j o b on the swelling. I could get my fingers down far enough to make my hand seem somewhat like a bear‘s paw. There was still some pain, but it only served to make me feel hopeful, somehow.
“Hello?"
“Lucy?"
“Mr. Carmel."
“L. Everybody calls me L."
“I didn‘t expect to hear from you for a while,” she said.
I explained that I had spoken to Brad and that he said he was too busy to take on anyone for at least a year. Lucy thanked me in a downcast tone. Then I told her that he suggested I try to represent her work.
“I told him that your work was too important to ignore. He said if I felt that strongly, he‘d introduce me to the right gallery owners, which would give me an edge."
“Really?” she asked.
“Yes. He‘s faxing me today about the gallery owners. Maybe you could come over tomorrow evening and we could go over the approach we‘ll take."
“No kidding?"
“I think your work is very important,” I said, feeling every syllable. It was important; important for me to make a living.
“What time should I come?"
“I have a pretty busy day,” I said. “What about eight?"
“My boyfriend‘s supposed to come down this weekend,” she said, and then paused. “But I‘ll tell him that something‘s come up. This is so great."
I nodded and then said yes.
“See you tomorrow night,” I said. “Bye."
After that I ordered six yellow roses to be delivered to Linda Chou at Brad Mettleman‘s office. On the note I had them say,
Tm sorry if I was rude. Cordell Carmel.
I left my house at three and went to my favorite little Italian bistro on the Avenue of the Americas near Houston. I sat Out side in the hot sun eating fresh mozzarella, eggplant, avocado, and fried calamari. I had hours to kill.
I usually showed up at Joelle‘s house around seven. She liked to work on Friday mornings and straighten up in the afternoon.
I was in no hurry. I realized at some point during the
“I don‘t know what to say, L. You sound crazy."
“No,” I said. “Not at all. I‘m just tired of these fuckin‘ small businesses and my agent and arguing over my fee."
“You don‘t think I have to fight about money?"
“Are you gonna help me, Brad?” I asked my oldest New York acquaintance.
“So you‘re giving up translating just like that?” he asked.
“I‘ve been thinking about it a long time,” I said. “It‘s just that I realized that I have to do it. I saw these pictures and I said to myself, it‘s time to get motivated."
I was sitting on the sofa in my living room. The Sun was streaming in and the wind was blowing over me. The DVD was on again, but the volume was set to mute. Sisypha was meeting with Mel at a cafe in the daytime. While they talked, a tall, very beautiful black woman walked up to the table.
“I‘ll tell you what,” Brad was saying. “If you promise to keep translating for me, I‘ll see what I can do."
“Sure,” I said. “No problem."
“Okay,” Brad said. “I‘ll get Linda to fax over the information on a few galleries that might be interested in that kind of work."
Sisypha knew the black woman. She stood up to kiss her on the lips. The woman shook hands with Mel and sat down.
“Thanks a lot, Brad,” I said as I turned off the DVD player. “I really need this."
“What you need is a headshrinker,” he said.
“Talk to you later,” I said.
Sitting there at the threshold of a new life, I inhaled deeply and felt a pain down the core of my chest; a pain that was physical but also in my heart.
“May I speak to Lucy Carmichael, please?” I asked a woman who‘d answered the phone at Teletronics, one of the dozens of new cell phone providers.
“Whom may I say is calling?"
“Cordell Carmel."
“Hold on."
While waiting, I practiced flexing my right hand. The anti-inflammatory was doing a good j o b on the swelling. I could get my fingers down far enough to make my hand seem somewhat like a bear‘s paw. There was still some pain, but it only served to make me feel hopeful, somehow.
“Hello?"
“Lucy?"
“Mr. Carmel."
“L. Everybody calls me L."
“I didn‘t expect to hear from you for a while,” she said.
I explained that I had spoken to Brad and that he said he was too busy to take on anyone for at least a year. Lucy thanked me in a downcast tone. Then I told her that he suggested I try to represent her work.
“I told him that your work was too important to ignore. He said if I felt that strongly, he‘d introduce me to the right gallery owners, which would give me an edge."
“Really?” she asked.
“Yes. He‘s faxing me today about the gallery owners. Maybe you could come over tomorrow evening and we could go over the approach we‘ll take."
“No kidding?"
“I think your work is very important,” I said, feeling every syllable. It was important; important for me to make a living.
“What time should I come?"
“I have a pretty busy day,” I said. “What about eight?"
“My boyfriend‘s supposed to come down this weekend,” she said, and then paused. “But I‘ll tell him that something‘s come up. This is so great."
I nodded and then said yes.
“See you tomorrow night,” I said. “Bye."
After that I ordered six yellow roses to be delivered to Linda Chou at Brad Mettleman‘s office. On the note I had them say,
Tm sorry if I was rude. Cordell Carmel.
I left my house at three and went to my favorite little Italian bistro on the Avenue of the Americas near Houston. I sat Out side in the hot sun eating fresh mozzarella, eggplant, avocado, and fried calamari. I had hours to kill.
I usually showed up at Joelle‘s house around seven. She liked to work on Friday mornings and straighten up in the afternoon.
I was in no hurry. I realized at some point during the
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