Lucian is right to worry. We’re losing money with the market stall, and the audience work is ending soon. Gala can’t be relied on to find legitimate work because her principles are unbending. I’ve been feeling nervous, the kind that, neglected, transforms into something worse. Like desperation. Everyone knows that in New York no one helps you when you have an air of desperation. Like grief, it feels contagious. It starts with a sedate fever, but it moves quickly, depleting you of all logic or common sense. Socially, it can be a real stigma. At the height of this fever, the two questions on my mind are “Where will I sleep tonight?” and “Will I get a meal out of this?” It’s not the most attractive, but I’m the only one looking out for myself. It was time for me to be a little resourceful. I called Lilou about that artist she poses for and got her number. Lilou said it was about time. “You must be ravenous.” The artist’s name is Anabel de la Peña; she’s of Cuban extraction. Anabel told me that in order to model for her, I’d have to meet her first. “Today, if possible.”
New York rain falls in flat sheets. There’s never a dry spot to protect you. The clouds were swollen from being past due. I love the dark, voluptuous shapes the sky makes in the summer. I didn’t have a raincoat or umbrella, so by the time I got to Anabel’s front door, I was soaked. I called her, and instead of buzzing me up, she threw down a set of keys held in a thigh-high stocking. There were only two doors on her floor. I knocked on one, and I could hear her shouting, “Can you come through the other one? I’ll get you from there.” I walked five steps to the door on the right. She stood in the doorway with her arms crossed, dressed in a yellow silk two piece that looked like bespoke pyjamas. “Where’d you get a name like Isa Epley? You don’t look like an Epley.” I was getting a little cold and said, “Nowhere. I gave it to myself.” I find it uncharming to start a conversation with a personal question. She gave me a long, exacting look and said, “You know, your aura is quite distracting. You look like you’re used to standing in the threshold.” I rung out my hair on the welcome mat, “How’d you know?” She gave a short laugh. “Take off your shoes.”
Anabel is the kind of person I am at once fascinated by and scared of. At any point in a conversation, she could turn. If she mishears you, she repeats what you’ve said as though it is a question. If you say, “These flowers are beautiful,” she’ll say, “… Beautiful?” It’s an effortless way to cause discouragement. When Anabel spoke to me, each word was chosen and had purpose. Each word sounded sharp, sophisticated, and was meant to explain or investigate. I wasn’t familiar with this kind of poised dialect. Yes, there are shades of Ivy League, which makes each word sound round and permeable, but also a briskness that comes from Having Seen It All. It made me nervous. My language was always overflowing, my conversation frenetic, and I came to my conclusions only incidentally.
Anabel’s apartment was unexpectedly large. It was as though it expanded as I walked through. The place snaked around the whole floor. It was a railroad apartment. Each room overlapped into the next. The bedroom was next to the dining room, which had its own accompanying bed. I asked her if she lived with anyone, and she said, “No, sometimes I like the variety of which bed I’m going to sleep in. On the dining-room side of the house there’s no street noise, but on the other hand, the bedroom gets more light.” Two beds to go between is really something to aspire to. She didn’t turn on any lights, even though outside the clouds were dark. She lit a couple of candles, making the place smell of roses and bergamot. It was quiet, except for the rain softly hitting the windows. Being inside when it rains makes you forget that anything else could be happening.
We stood in the kitchen while Anabel made a pot of coffee. “So what do you do?” People love to ask that question. They know there’s a right answer but fail to let you know what it is until it’s too late. I said, “There’s a poem that goes, ‘When I’m not painting, I’m writing, and when I’m not writing, I’m suffering,’ so I guess I’m suffering ’cause I don’t make a thing.” And then she said, “Well that’s interesting. Lilou told me you were strictly a good-time girl.” I tried to seem unfazed. I will give Lilou a taste of my exclusive rage the next time I see her. I was getting a little annoyed and told Anabel, “It’s funny how in a place where everything is an Experience, people see such little value in just living.” Anabel poured me a glass of raw milk she said she got delivered by the Amish. “It’s illegal but good for you.” She was pushing me to try it. I took the glass and poured a little into my coffee and left the rest on the counter. Anabel didn’t notice and said, “I disagree. People see much value in living. There are all kinds of people who profit off of other people’s stories. The trick is to make your own myth and sell it. What’s yours?”
We moved to the living room and sprawled on the large sofa. Anabel said the old man who lived here before her had it covered in a plastic sheet. He left it to her, among other things, when he moved into a home. The upholstery was lush from years of being protected. I told her the short form of my life, and a little bit of Gala’s. She cocked her head to one side and said, “Everyone knows sympathetic characters come from single-parent families or no family at all. And you’re a little bit of both. At least you’re sympathetic; that’s charming, Isa. No mother to guide you.” When she said my name, her voice curled into a purr.
Anabel’s father was a famous Cuban artist, Jorge de la Peña. She said he died only a few years ago and that in addition to his talent for the visual arts, he was a gifted philanderer. “Everyone knows, and you know especially, that families run perfectly well without fathers. Fathers are a source of aggravation. They’re either too loving, or not loving enough. And if they’re neither, they’re forgettable. The thing he left me was his name, and of course I was going to use that. My only currency was his name.”
It was getting late in the day, and in spare moments during our conversation I discreetly looked at my phone. Gala had been calling me non-stop. I didn’t want to be rude and answer. I imagine people are always changing their opinions around Anabel. They must look to her whenever they state a claim, searching her face for signs of approval or rapport. She becomes their touchstone. I admired that because even when she is quiet, she is wielding. This quality, now that I had witnessed it, was one I knew I wanted to acquire. It made me feel she was important and that I wanted her to take notice of me. It got darker out, and she lit more candles.
“You know what I think you could benefit from, Isa? I’ll tell you a secret. There’s a little chant I never go a day without saying to myself.” I asked her what kind of chant and she said, “Me first, me first, me first.”
She handed me a vaporizer and said, “Hash oil?” I’m not one to refuse gifts, so I relished in a few pulls. She said, “Maybe you need to get away, go on a vacation.” I told her, “Isn’t a vacation when you forget what day it is? That’s one luxury I already have. Though I’ve always wanted to go to Cuba.” Her expression warmed when I mentioned Cuba. She said, “My parents left before I was born and couldn’t return for another twenty years. The first time I went to Cuba was when I was ten. I had come home to a place that should have been a stranger to me, but it’s always in the blood. Haven’t you ever wanted to visit your Origins?”
I told her my parents left the places they were from and never looked back; I sometimes wondered about it. My skin was not made for four seasons, but one—a long, searing summer broken up by monsoons. She folded her hands over mine. “So it’s a tradition then? You’ve left where you’re from too.” I came away from her grasp and played with a loose thread on the edge of my skirt. “I’m not from anywhere.” Anabel took a pull of the hash oil and shook her head. “Don’t be maudlin just because the rain makes it easy. You’re from everywhere. You know that.” She pulled me off the sofa and had me stand so she could take a good look at me. She said, “You don’t really look Latina, maybe French Polynesian. Definitely Mixed.” She held my chin like most people love to do when they take a good look at me. “Some people prefer when their models are not used to being observed. They love the awkwardness. I like you because you refuse to let yourself go, and you hold yourself like you’d like to be captured. I admire it greatly.” She kissed me on the cheek. I laughed. “You must love Lilou. What a professional.” Anabel looked me in the eye. “That is the exact word I would use to describe her. On the tip of my tongue. A Professional Beauty! Are you a mystic or something?” I told her last week someone called me an “aphorist” and that must mean the same thing.
Anabel pulled me towards her closet while the vaporizer dangled in her clutch. “I want to give you something urgently. Something I see you wearing for me in the painting.” She took me to a door near her kitchen that opened to a walk-in closet. The clothes were organized by colour, of which there were only three: white, black, and red. She pulled out a wardrobe bag and unzipped the cover. It was a burgundy velvet dress that draped from the shoulders. Light disappeared into it; velvet has a way of doing that. I lightly touched the dress, and from the heat outside, my hands seemed to warm the fabric—far too hot for summer. “This should be yours. I’ve never worn it, and I always wondered why not. It seemed to be waiting for someone more suited to it.”
We returned to her living room, and I stuffed the dress into my bag. Anabel leaned back into her armchair and pulled deeply on the vaporizer. She motioned to a stack of books on the floor. “I love that you read. It’s so sweet. Do you want to take those books with you? Some are first editions, really lovely.” “All of them?” I asked. Anabel said, “Mm-hmm, I’m trying to cleanse my life of certain influences. I don’t want my work to seem derivative. You know what I mean? Isn’t it crazy that books are published every day. You’d think people would catch on that the whole thing’s old-fashioned.” I nodded uh-huh and excused myself to the bathroom, bringing my phone along. I had missed six calls from Gala. I made sure the bathroom door was tightly shut and called her back. “How long till you can get to Greenpoint? I need you to come with a dolly.” Gala laughed. “What’s a dolly? What the hell? Where do you think I’m gonna find that?” I whispered, “I’m not worried. Just hurry up.” I hung up and washed my hands. That nervous feeling was coming back.
It took about forty minutes for Gala to arrive, and Anabel had been in and out of a light doze in the armchair. I had been quietly loading the stacks of books into cardboard boxes I had found in the recycling. Gala met me at the apartment door instead of waiting for me downstairs. Anabel opened her eyes and smiled. “You must be the child of war.” Gala lit a cigarette in the hall. “You guys must’ve really hit it off. Seems like a lot of information has been exchanged.” Anabel cleared her throat and asked her not to smoke inside. Gala picked up one of the boxes, with a still-lit cigarette in her mouth, and walked downstairs. She called out behind her, “Whatever, lady. Thanks for the books! I hope the Strand gives us a good cut!” Sometimes Gala is totally inappropriate. Taking the last of the boxes, I reassured Anabel that Gala was only kidding. “Obviously, we’re going to read them first.” Once downstairs, I grabbed Gala’s arm. “Sometimes I wish you were catatonic!”