Chapter 2

A Lunch Date and a Dinner Date

June 15-16: San Francisco

I sat back in my roof lounge chair, savoring the superb, complex flavors of Carlu Ortoli’s purloined Bordeaux and thinking of Gabrielle as I watched the summer fog roll in. When I had returned to Nice after visiting Petru Ortoli, Gabrielle and I spent several days talking without reaching any understanding. My position was that I wanted to spend half the year in my own home. Hers was that a part time partner might not be what she wanted in her life and she was too busy running her gallery to spend half the year away from it. We talked in circles until we were exasperated and finally decided to take a break.

Looking out toward the downtown skyline, I considered the things that kept me tied to San Francisco. My house, such as it was—the second floor of an industrial building in the Dogpatch neighborhood south of downtown. I owned the building and rented the downstairs to a garment manufacturing business. It was where I made my art—large welded sculptures that sold reasonably well but were not and would never be my main source of income. The network of friends I had built over the years was a diaspora now. No longer able to afford the cost of living in San Francisco, they had moved away to Oakland, Los Angeles, Portland, Austin, Detroit, Berlin. Ashna was one of the only holdouts, able to afford the city because of her job as a senior software engineer and her less official pursuits as my partner. It wasn’t friends who kept me there anymore. It was the city itself—changed almost beyond recognition by the growth of the tech industry, the money, the influx of young, entitled tech workers—but still hanging on to fragments of its old glory. There was still the fog, the bay, the ocean. Patches of the gritty, unrestrained city I had loved from the moment I arrived still remained. I wasn’t ready to leave it behind for a quiet life with Gabrielle in Nice.

A cargo ship chugged down the channel, heading for the port of Oakland. I watched it slide silently by in the gathering dark. It felt good to be home, despite the mixed feelings. It had been a week and my jet-lag had faded. My suitcase, however, was still not unpacked. Some part of me hadn’t settled in. I had a strong need to inhabit my own space but also felt a pull toward the sun drenched, easy life with Gabrielle. The two urges would not be easy to reconcile. I took another sip of Ortoli’s wine and let my heavy eyelids close for just a moment before being jolted back to consciousness by my phone buzzing with an incoming text. It was Valerie of all people. I hadn’t seen her or spoken to her in months.

—Are you in town? Need to see you.—

I stared at the screen for a moment then replied.

—Yes. When?—

—Lunch tomorrow?—

—OK. Where?—

—Neiman Marcus café. 11:30.—

—Fine. See you then.—

—Thx.—

I put down my phone. Text message exchanges with Valerie were always rapid fire and immersive. The Neiman Marcus café was one of her favorite places. It was close to her gallery, quick, and had decent food. There was another, fancier restaurant at Neiman Marcus in the rotunda but she only made a reservation there when she wanted to impress somebody. I wondered what was up. No way to know with Valerie. I would just have to wait and see.

****

The next morning I rose early, drank a quick cup of coffee, and then yanked the tarp off the half-finished piece I had left behind when I went to France—a commission for the lobby of a software company’s headquarters in Palo Alto. It was just a beginning but I was more pleased with it than I thought I would be. The balance was good. I wheeled my welding rig over and got everything set up. As soon as the raw arc of electricity ignited between the rod and the steel, I was sucked in—immersed in the flow state of my work.

I stopped at eleven A.M., cleaned up quickly, and carried my bike downstairs. The ladies who worked in the sewing and cutting rooms below my flat were all on break, standing around outside and drinking hot tea or lemon water from thermoses. I waved to them, hopped on, and started cranking. It wasn’t far but I had only left myself fifteen minutes. Valerie was punctual to a fault.

I pedaled hard down Third Street, weaving in and out of the stream of cars gridlocked near the baseball park. A crowd of tourists crossed the street from SFMOMA toward Yerba Buena. I maneuvered carefully through them and then kicked back into gear, bolting across Market and up toward Union Square. At Neiman Marcus, I locked my bike up to a high tech parking meter that looked like a set piece from the spare parts bin in a jawa sandcrawler and glanced at my phone. Two minutes to spare. Not bad.

I waited outside the café for a minute before catching sight of Valerie walking toward me. Easy to spot in the crowd of tourists and office dwellers on lunch break, she strode toward me, tall and elegant, wearing a white dress that contrasted with her dark skin.

“Justin,” she called, holding out her arms. We embraced and the enchanting trace of her perfume stirred a strong sense memory of the moment months ago when we had broken off an embrace, both staring at the spot above her bed where a painting had until recently hung. “Good to see you,” she said, smiling genuinely, and I struggled for a moment but succeeded in bringing my attention back to the present moment.

“You too,” I replied. “You look great.”

“So do you,” she said, “except for this outfit. What are you wearing? Did you pay for these clothes by the pound? When will you ever learn to dress yourself?”

“I was working. Just left off to come see you. I didn’t have time to get fancy. Sorry.” Valerie was always ribbing me about my clothes. It was a habit from back when we were a couple that apparently had not ended along with our half-hearted romance.

“Well, I hope the new piece is good enough to make up for your destitute appearance. Let’s go in and get some food. I’m famished.”

Valerie ordered a Niçoise salad and I asked for a club sandwich. As soon as the waitress walked away, Valerie turned on her serious face.

“I need you to do me a favor Justin. If you can.”

“What is it?” I asked. “Not like the last favor I hope.”

“No, this one will not involve you nearly being murdered, international travel, or any illegal breaking and entering. I want you to help me open the new space in Los Angeles.”

“What?”

“My new gallery Justin. It’s almost done. I sent Emilio down to project manage but he’s in over his head. I think he’s heading for a nervous breakdown. He split up with his boyfriend a few weeks ago. He’s taking it hard and his mind’s not on the job. The grand opening is a week from today. He’s never going to get it all done.”

“Why me?” I asked. “I’m not a gallery manager. Why don’t you go down and take over?”

“I can’t right now. I have to be in New York until Friday for some finance meetings. I’m leaving on a red eye tonight. I don’t know anyone else who is,” Valerie held up a finger, “one, capable of pulling this together and,” she added another finger, “two, might be free to go on a moment’s notice. You’re good at organizing things, you’re calm under pressure, and you don’t have a job. Didn’t you manage the student gallery your last year at school?”

“That was a long time ago,” I said, a little exasperated.

Valerie gazed steadily at me. “I’ll forgive you for dumping me and taking up with my old friend Gabrielle,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Also, I managed to get an Olafur Eliasson piece for the opening. I know you want to see that.”

“Fine,” I answered. “But I didn’t dump you. If anything, it was the other way around.”

****

I received an email from Valerie’s personal assistant later in the afternoon with my flight info. I should have said no to her but, truthfully, having something to distract me from thinking about Nice and Gabrielle and trying to figure out how I felt seemed like a good idea. My flight left in the morning.

I spent the rest of the afternoon working in my studio. By early evening I was covered with grit from welding and grinding. I had dinner plans with Ashna so I took Valerie’s advice and changed into some clean clothes after a quick shower.

It was one of those very rare summer days in San Francisco when it stays reasonably warm in the evening with the wind and fog trapped on the west side of the hills that divide the Mission district—where I was meeting Ashna—from the Sunset. I pedaled slowly up Mission Street, enjoying the balmy feel of the air and the low, golden sunlight casting long shadows. Shopkeepers were pulling down their steel shutters and closing up for the night. Revelers were being disgorged from Ubers and Lyfts and drifting into the bars. I passed my favorite building on Mission Street—a stark white mid-century with orange color blocking between the windows that made it look like the Eames storage unit’s big brother. The raised metal lettering above the door said CJN Dentistry. Dr. Nogueiro was my dentist. I had chosen him, years before, because of the building. A block farther on, I bunny hopped the curb and dismounted in front of my destination. Ashna stood out front, looking down at her phone. I called to her and she glanced up, saw me, and smiled.

We hugged and I held the door for her. At the end of a long corridor of shiny polished concrete the host was waiting for us.

“Reservation?” He asked.

“Yes, for Ashna Khatri.”

“Right this way.” He turned, menus in hand, and led us into a massive courtyard enclosed on all sides by tall buildings but open to the sky and adjoined on the right by an indoor dining area with large windows and doors leading out.

“Perfect night for al fresco dining,” I said as the waiter led us to a table near a massive arbor of flowering morning glory. It was early for dinner and we were among the first guests.

“Yes,” Ashna scowled at me over her shoulder. “The weather is simply divine. Lord Mountbatten has invited us to peruse the countryside in his chaise and four but dear Emily is sick with the gripe so I fear we shall not be able to accept his offer to picnic by the mill stream.”

I held up a hand. “Sorry, no more weather talk.” Ashna hated small talk and particularly anything having to do with weather. “Am I allowed to say I like your new haircut?” Her thick, wavy hair, which had been very long last time I saw her, was now completely gone except for a sort of wide, floppy mohawk. It suited her bone structure.

“You’re allowed one minor comment on my appearance as long as it’s positive. Cut the shit though and get down to business. Tell me everything.” Ashna had left for a vacation in Bermuda shortly after we completed the job for Ortoli so this was our first chance to discuss it in person.

“Everything everything?”

“Yes. Every detail.”

“Okay. Well, it started when I met Gabrielle’s father. He had a friend with a missing piece of art.”

By the time I finished telling the story we had eaten our meal and were drinking Colheita port for desert at Ashna’s suggestion. Port was her new passion. We ordered two different vintages so she could compare.

“You should have talked to me first. We’re supposed to be partners. I could have helped plan. I want to help with the planning.” She looked a little peeved.

“I know. Sorry. I just woke up one day and needed to do something right away. I needed to break out. I won’t do it again. Anyway, Ortoli insisted on paying me a sizable amount and it wouldn’t have happened without your help. I have your half of the fee in my backpack.”

“I only did a little hacking.”

“I know but it was invaluable. You got me into Ortoli’s house. I want to ask you about something else though. I need relationship advice.”

“Oh shit, Justin. You not serious are you? Relationship advice from me? When have I ever had a relationship worth emulating?”

“I thought you were getting serious with that paleo blogger guy. Didn’t you just go on vacation with him?”

“Don’t talk to me about that asshole. I kicked him out of the hotel room after one day of listening to him record and re-record and re-record his fucking podcast over and over. We were in Bermuda! I haven’t seen him since.”

“I guess you’re not the right person to ask.”

“You should have stayed with Valerie in my opinion. She has nice abs.” Ashna put her chin in her hand and stared up at the fairy lights strung across the courtyard between us and the rapidly darkening sky. “I think I’ll go back to girls for a while.”