Every time she bought a new painting she was a little tipsy. It gave her a good feeling, going up to the painter at a gallery opening, pointing at a painting and saying, I want this one. It made her feel important, but, she assured herself, not in the haughty, often nasty manner the real important people had of making others feel small
She had said that line twice in the past six months, the first time when she bought a quite large painting of wild and exotic, mildly threatening flowers; the second, when she bought a medium size painting depicting old-fashioned, canvas lounge chairs on a beach on the Italian Riviera. The chairs had purple and yellow stripes and, unlike the threatening flowers, seemed cheerful, even frivolous, and that's why she went up to the artist and pointed and said her line.
These two new purchases now hung on her walls, the flowers in her bedroom, the chairs in her living room, and every night, before falling asleep, she looked at the flowers, and every morning, while sitting down at her desk, she looked at the chairs. Sometimes, the flowers appeared in her dreams, but never, as yet, the chairs and the beach.
On both gallery visits, she had a glass of wine in hand, the second or third, and, on her brain, the image of a lit cigarette she could not actually have, since the prohibition laws had gone into effect. Her first novel had just been published, she'd come into some money — her uncle, the last surviving member of her family, had died in the spring — and, in some respects, she was on a roll. "When it rains, it pours," she would say to friends, shrugging, as one trying to make light of it all. At home, hiding, she thought of herself as one living with a number, the Amazon.com ranking number, which told her if her book was in the dumps, or, on a good day, sold a few copies. Every night before falling asleep she determined to never look at it again, at the number, and to not get on the digital scale on her bathroom floor, but every morning, a tabula rasa, a kind of virgin all over again, she did, faithfully, check on her weight and on her book. She was weak, and she accepted it as an irredeemable fact at the very moment she stood on the scale, or when typing Amazon's URL. When night came, she was strong again, determined — she may even stop smoking, she may become more generous, more patient, she would stop rushing and worrying, she would have sex with the first man who offered, she would start a new novel, she would.
Living with a number reminded her of one of her most favorite novels, Jiri Weil's Life with a Star. And, of course, it reminded her of her uncle, the one who had died. He, too, had lived with a number, a blue one, tattooed on his arm. A free tattoo, he liked to shout, and German-made, no less! She loved her uncle, her mother's brother, he was irreverent, he was different, he never married; in many ways he was like her, or she was like him, or, more like him than like her parents who had cherished convention and security more than anything, if only for her sake.
It was night again, she was going through her resolutions, but not with the usual ardor. Earlier, she had gone to yet another opening, bought yet another painting, a small self-portrait of the newly deceased artist. Before she bought it, she stood and looked into the small eyes of the artist, now three weeks dead; she looked at him, and he looked straight back at her. Whose life am I living? She asked him, mutely. Around her, the usual set of the up and coming talked with much exuberance; the dead artist was forgotten, even as his portrait hung on the wall, and she felt bad for him, missing his own opening. He seemed vigorous, in his 50's or 60's, it was hard to tell for sure, and she tried to imagine what he felt when he put life into the small dark eyes that stared right back at him as he painted them. It would give her, she thought, a kind of vertigo, but then, she wasn't a painter.
She went up to the gallery owner, a brisk brunette in her 40's or 50's, it was hard to tell for sure, quite tall on her sharp stiletto heels — which could be used, in case of an emergency, as a stabbing tool — and said, "I want that one," pointing at the small self-portrait. Later, feeling a little tipsy and therefore rebellious, she went into a stall in the ladies room, placed the glass of wine on the floor and lit a cigarette. Long inhale. That wonderful buzz in the head. The artist — she ruminated — reminded her of her uncle, and so, the three of them would live together, quietly, away from the noise, away from the crowds. No more gallery openings, she resolved. No more paintings, no more pretense, no more—
"Someone's smoking in here, who's smoking?" The harsh voice of the gallery owner broke into her pleasant reveries.
"It's me, Vera," Vera said in a small voice.
"I don't care who you are." A pause. "Which Vera? Do I know you?" A softening of tone.
"Yes, Vera, I just bought a painting, the self- portrait?" Coyly, a deliberate stab at false humility.
"Oh, yes. Well, you know, smoking is forbidden. Fire regulations, and so on. We have to be careful."
"I know, I'm truly sorry, I'm quitting anyway." She bent over and picked up the wine glass from the floor. She was a bit disoriented still, perhaps shamed, and the glass, somehow, slipped from her fingers — a collection of reddish glistening shards on the black-and-white tile floor, a new kind of artwork, a kind of kaleidoscope only she could admire.
"Are you all right in there?" A shuffle of the stiletto heels.
"Yes, yes, I'll be right out."
She waited a few moments, then came out of the stall, taking small, hesitant steps; thankfully, the gallery owner was gone. She picked up the shards with paper towels and, when the work was done, sneaked out through the back door, as befits a criminal on the run. It was still early, only eight o'clock, and a chattering human river streamed on either side of her. She maintained her balance and a steady step — she was a mess, but only in her head. She had an excuse, of course: her Amazon number had been climbing lately, reaching the 300,000 mark, and she couldn't think of ways to bring it down, of ways to keep her book alive in people's minds.
Ah, well, she thought, it's only a number. Her novel was only a novel, one of many. All these people, rushing past her, didn't live with a number, they lived, joyously, it seemed, on this beautiful fall night; change was in the air, even she could smell it. The artist was dead, her uncle was dead, but she was alive. Soon, the self-portrait would hang on her wall, and she would start a new life. She would stop checking on the number, she wouldn't get on the scale, and maybe, just maybe, she'd quit smoking once and for all.
Tsipi Keller is a novelist and translator. She is the recipient of a National Endowment for the Arts Translation Fellowship, of CAPS and NYFA awards in fiction, and is the author of the novels Jackpot (2004), and Retelling (2006), both published by Spuyten Duyvil. Most recently, her short fiction appeared in StorySouth, Quick Fiction, Elimae, and is forthcoming in Big Bridge, Salt River Review, and Spuyten Duyvil's anthology of 21st century women writers. Check out http://tsipi.blogspot.com. (Photograph by Roberta Allen.)