Planet Willie Read Online Free PDF Page B

liking me any more as an art lover. “What did you have in mind?”
    “Well let me
see,” I say. “I’m a great admirer of Mister Leonardo da Vinci. You’re probably
familiar with his Mona Lisa. Also designed a helicopter, Leonardo, although I
don’t imagine you sell those. If not Leonardo, then there’s always
Michelangelo, am I right? Also I’m a Madonna freak, principally her early
music, and also anything on canvas of the mother of Jesus Christ. A Botticelli
Madonna I would find particularly satisfactory. Hell, even a school of Botticelli Madonna. Trained them well, didn’t he? So if you’ve got one of those, I
don’t even need to see it. You can go ahead and start wrapping it up.”
    “I’m sorry,
but we don’t have any of those ,” she says, the face going even tighter
if you can believe it, such that I am getting truly fascinated.
    “Then would
you tell Ms. Shore I stopped by,” I say most politely. “Willie Lee’s the name.
Tell her I’ll just see her tonight at the show if I don’t run into her before.”
    Then I walk
right out of there and turn down the street with my suitcase in my hand.
Through the gallery window I can see Havisham still watching me as she picks up
the phone again. Probably calling one of her girlfriends. I’ve just met the
most amazing man.
    A block down I
come to a cafe and decide to stop in for a drink to help me get over Havisham.
The beer tastes good, so I order a little digestif, and as I’m digesting, these
two kids come in looking like Halloween. He’s got on what looks like a soccer
uniform and a goofy Russian military cap. She’s got on a pink beret, a
camouflage tank top, and these shiny pants made of enough material to outfit
with parachutes a medium-sized air force. The kid lets her open the door for
him. You can tell it’s not out of laziness but the result of some philosophy
he’s worked up for himself. Pitiful posture too. They’re both over six feet
tall and may be on a hunger strike.
    The place is
empty, but they go ahead and sit down at the table right next to mine, which
I’d like to attribute to my breathtaking charm if only Twiggy weren’t looking
through me like some department store mannequin. Anatomy class in a tank top,
she is. So emaciated you get ideas. I mean maybe you’re not a tit man after
all. Maybe you’re a clavicle man. I’ve seen crazier, and crazier may be the
kid, who though he can’t be more than three feet from me actually picks up his
hand and waves.
    “How you folks
doing,” I say.
    “Howdy
partner,” he says. “Welcome to New York.” Twiggy ignores us both. She’s picked
up her knife and is carving something into the table in full view of the
waiter. The kid orders beers and proceeds to tell me that he and Twiggy are
Albanian, from Albania. They’ve come to America on a grant from their
far-sighted government. Both artists, apparently. Twiggy also appears to be a
deaf mute.
    I ask him what
kind of art, he tells me he’s a hyper-realist. Twiggy, on the other hand, is into
video installations. “Fascinating field,” I say, though honestly it sounds a
bit like the tambourine. You can be the best tambourine player in the world,
but it’s still a tambourine.
    Then he wants
to tell me about avant-garde and the new revolution. I take it the kid’s not
real used to opportunities for conversation, certainly not with Twiggy, so I’m
happy to oblige. Then he won’t shut up. Meanwhile Twiggy’s cutting away whole
chunks of their table, and I’m starting to feel like a charitable institution.
    “You two show
your work in the galleries down around here?” I ask.
    Kafka, as I’ve
decided to call the kid, laughs out loud, his voice cracking a bit. He’s got a
few chin hairs that won’t make a beard and big innocent eyes that will never look as tough as he might want them to.
    “What galleries?” he says, looking out the cafe windows and pretending to search the street high
and low. “I don’t see any galleries.