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Heath.
    “Anton is many things to many people,” Amanda said. “The gallery is just one of his divertissements. He is actually quite a naif when it comes to art. However, you may be catching him at a bad time. His wife has recently bolted—she’s in Europe—and, unfortunately for us, it’s mostly her money he’s playing with.”
    If there was something else Amanda meant to tell him about Anton Shawangunk, Heath would never know, for at that moment the man himself entered the room. He was a large, handsome man, younger than Heath had imagined: He couldn’t have been much more than fifty. His complexion, neither red nor brown, reminded Heath of polished maple furniture, and his long hair, wet from the shower, was combed back from his face in a dark, slick mane. He was wearing a celery-colored linen suit over an open-collared shirt. He was barefoot.
    “Hi,” he said. He picked up an oyster and slurped the bivalve from its shell. A bit of seaweed clung to the cleft in his chin.
    “Good afternoon, Anton,” said Amanda. “This is Heath Jackson, the photographer I told you about. He’s come to show us his portfolio.”
    “I’m all eyes,” said Anton.
    “Well, then, let’s not delay,” said Amanda. “Let’s look at your art, Mr. Jackson.”
    Heath unzipped his portfolio and handed it to Amanda. She began to flip through the photographs. “Come look,” she said to Anton, who was pacing around the room.
    “I will when you’re done,” said Anton. “Do you want an oyster?” he asked Heath.
    “Sure,” said Heath. He selected an oyster and ate it a la Anton Shawangunk.
    “Have you exhibited before?” asked Amanda.
    “In New York?” asked Heath.
    “New York or Europe. You’ve shown abroad?”
    “No,” said Heath. “Just in New York.”
    “Where?”
    “At the New Prospect.” The New Prospect Cafe was a restaurant in his neighborhood that had let him hang some of his photographs in the restrooms.
    “I’ve not heard of the New Prospect,” said Amanda.
    “It’s in Brooklyn,” said Heath.
    “Who cares if he’s shown before?” said Anton. “We want to discover talent, not prostitute it.” He was looking out the window, down toward Fifth Avenue and the park. All the trees in the park were surrounded by hazy nimbuses of green or white or pink, and even the hermetically sealed smoked glass could not obscure the fact that spring was rubbing itself against everything in the city, which seemed to be bathed in a post-coital glow.
    “I know,” said Amanda. “That’s why I was asking. I wanted to make sure he wasn’t overexposed. You should look at these, Anton. They’re really very interesting.”
    “I don’t want to look at them,” said Anton. “Not now. I want to go outside. I want to go to Paris. It’s April, for Chrissakes. Let’s all go to Paris.”
    “I can’t go to Paris,” said Amanda. “I have a gallery to run.”
    Anton turned away from the window. “What about you, Mr. Jackson?” he asked. “Can you come to Paris?”
    Heath didn’t know what to say, because he didn’t know what was going on. “What about my photographs?” he finally managed to ask.
    “I’m sure they’re wonderful,” said Anton. “Amanda, tell me, are they wonderful?”
    “I already told you what I think,” said Amanda. “I think they’re very interesting.”
    “Well, that settles it,” said Anton. “Except for what will we call it? What do you want to call it, Mr. Jackson?”
    “What?” asked Heath. “Call what?”
    “Your show,” said Anton.
    Amanda spoke up. “I know what we’ll call it,” she said. “We’ll call it ‘Simultaneous Organisms: The Photographs of Heath Jackson.’ Do you have a middle name?”
    “Edward,” said Heath.
    “So much the better,” said Anton, opening the bottle of champagne.

CHAPTER 5
    L OREN WAS LOOKING AT an ant that was crawling across her desk. It walked as if it knew where it was going.
    Stacey, her assistant, appeared at the door.