LUCA

Months went by. Between exhibitions, when the walls were naked and the sculpture stands empty, the gallery felt like a chapel, a quiet, contemplative place. Then a new show would go up and instantly the gallery was transformed, bustling with collectors, clambering to be the first to purchase the new works. Luca loved the job, and he was good at it, good with the clients and the artists; he reorganized the office and straightened out the paperwork. He regretted how messy his life had been before, how close he’d come to squandering it.

In the largest of the rooms Martin’s drawings were stacked, sandwiched between sheets of glass designed to be pin-mounted on clear rods an inch, or two, away from the walls. It was Javier’s idea to let the light cast the shadows of the drawings. Luca helped Javier position the first one and admired the result. The drawing looked like it was floating. The way the light hit it the rice paper became translucent, set aglow around the opaque colors.

Javier had an impeccable eye. He knew not only what was innovative but also what would sell, and how to display it to its best advantage. The artists and clients trusted him. Luca admired him. Once a week, when Javier handed him his check, he blessed his good fortune.

In such a short time his life had turned upside down, inside out, and right side up again. He felt a twinge of guilt. His rise was so clearly the direct result of Haze’s downfall. If Haze hadn’t become sick, if Martin hadn’t had the guts to call, if he had refused to come.

But what was the use thinking about it? Standing in the white light of the gallery he felt like a different person, someone with possibilities.

It wasn’t until he idly slipped his hand into the pocket of his pants and felt the edge of the envelope that he remembered. That morning the plain white envelope arrived with a Rialto, California postmark. There was no return address. It had been addressed by hand in a girlish script. He didn’t recognize the handwriting. Inside was a torn rectangle of newsprint, an obituary, ripped out of the LA Times.