Quiver (11 page)

The Orange Palm is tiny, with a small foyer that leads into one main gallery space. The foyer is half full of people; everyone has an edgy haircut, or very cool boots, or dull metallic, chunky jewellery. A small chocolate fondue fountain sits in one corner, ringed with strawberries and blood orange slices. There are also two open wine bottles and an assortment of glasses, none that match, some pre-filled with red wine.

I scan the room but I don’t see Maria. I pick up a glass of wine and am just dipping a strawberry under the fountain when a very polite English voice says, “Excuse me, Dani?” I pull the strawberry out of the cascading chocolate and see a tall, dark-haired man in a well-tailored suit. Edward.

“Oh, hi!” I say. I drip chocolate onto my blush open-toed pumps.

“Here you go.” He holds a serviette under the fruit.

“Thanks.” I put my wine and the strawberry on the table and bend down to wipe the chocolate off my shoes. “Nice to see you,” I say, looking up at him. “You’re reviewing this opening?”

“Yes.” He holds out a hand to help me back up. “I’m stopping by the White Cube, too, of course, and I’m meant to go to the Wynick, as well. Maria says your boyfriend has an installation there, yes?”

So Maria did tell him about Henry’s show. “Oh, yes, he does. Are you planning to review it?” Henry was nervous he wouldn’t be mentioned in any reviews at all.

“Quite possibly. There’s a lot of work going up tonight, but Maria was adamant that Henry is quite the new talent.”

Maria’s never seen any of Henry’s work. “Well, it’s generous of her to put in a good word for him,” I say. “So, this installation,” I gesture towards the entrance to the inner part of the gallery, feeling somewhat uncomfortable discussing Maria’s endorsement of Henry’s show, “have you seen it already?”

“Mmm,” he nods, “just been through it. Quite a striking mess. But it’s a bit theatrical for me. Maria is still inside.”

“Must be a real spectacle to hold Maria’s attention.”

“Truly,” says Edward, and leans one hand against the table. He picks up an orange slice, then looks at me. “She was hoping you’d stop by tonight. Go on in—don’t let me hold you up.”

I take my wine, but abandon the strawberry on the table.

The curatorial statement near the entrance reads:

“Honey, Torture.” Performance, film and light installation. Artist Erszébet Báthory, formally Sanne Brill (b. 1967), legally changed her name in 1992 in homage to the Hungarian Countess Erszébet Báthory (1560––1614), who tortured and killed over six hundred of her servant girls. She often bathed in her victims’ blood as part of a beauty ritual designed to preserve her youth. The Countess’s famed “honey torture” involved coating a naked girl in honey and making her stand in the woods for a day. The honey attracted various pests, and the girl would eventually die from excessive insect bites and exposure.

The room is small and dark. There’s a projector near the entrance; a knot of people cluster around it and stare at the image it casts on a screen on the opposite wall. The film shows the back of a young woman. She is standing in a forest of evergreen and deciduous trees. She is naked, coated in a clear, sticky-looking liquid. Her brown hair hangs around her shoulders in clumps. The camera circles around her, zooms in. The girl has welts all over her skin. Flies, bees and beetles are mired in the honey.

Besides the glow of the film, the corners of the room are lit with red spotlights. A trail of white rocks and pale, dry leaves snakes from the projector to the far wall; the trail spirals like a cockled snail and the rocks glow, illuminated by a black light. Most of the people in the room are crowding behind the projector, keeping a distance between themselves and the image on the screen. I bump into random limbs as I weave through the crowd to the front. Someone’s skin feels like a rough stucco wall against my bare forearm; I smell sandalwood cologne, baby powder deodorant, patchouli oil, the scents mixing in the stuffy, warm air. Someone steps on my left toe, the shoe I dripped the chocolate on. The pair is probably ruined.

An arm wraps around my waist and I’m enveloped in gardenia perfume.

“Danica, this way.” The arm releases and a hand rakes down my right arm, grabs my hand. It’s Maria. The stones in her rings are askew and dig into my skin. She pulls me farther into the room until we’re in the middle of the crowd. “Watch,” she says.

What I see makes me grip Maria’s hand hard, despite her rough jewels. The camera circles to the woman’s face. It is distorted and full of bites: her eyelids are puffy as marshmallows and her lips look as if she’s had repeated injections of collagen. Strands of honey-slick hair slither down her breasts. The camera zooms out slowly; the flesh by the nipples is bitten and bleeding. Little tributaries of blood branch from the wounds, follow the curve under her breasts and flow down her welt-covered stomach. The carcasses of deer flies and wasps fleck her abdomen. The blood runs into the woman’s pubic hair, which houses a seething mess of yellow jackets. A rat gnaws her left ankle. The figure is so distorted it’s hard to tell if she’s a human model or a mannequin dressed for the project.

“So real, isn’t it, Dani?” whispers Maria.

“That’s a live woman?” I drop her hand and hear loud, steady footsteps approaching from the far end of the room. The crowd murmurs.

“It is her.” Maria hisses directly in my ear, her breath humid on my skin. She tries to grab my hand again. Her long nails cage my wrist.

The artist impersonating Báthory steps out from the dark periphery of the room into the black light. She is wearing a dress similar to the one in the picture I saw at Čachtice: an embroidered corset, tight at the waist, with a long, flowing skirt of lace. The sleeves are gossamer and gather at the wrist into an embroidered cuff. A square collar, trimmed with ivory lace, sits on top of her shoulders. A heavy choker of pearls wraps around her neck, and a silver, filigreed headpiece holds back her platinum hair. Her skin is pale, almost blue-white. Her eyebrows are plucked in a broad, thin arch; her lips are stained dark red and slightly pursed. She’s luminous under the black light, her skin phosphorescent. She walks the spiral path while the film of the tortured woman continues to play.

“Such a likeness,” says Maria. She’s transfixed, her eyes nailed to the artist as she walks in a wide circle in front of the video projection. Maria adjusts her grip on my wrist, presses her nails into my skin one by one. She’s in awe, or jealous, or both.

The artist does look very much like the pictures of Báthory, and the film of the honey torture is startling. My stomach keels over as the camera sweeps the swollen, insect-ridden body, and I want to look away. But I keep watching, notice that the close-ups become more frequent and linger. I can see that the flies aren’t real, the rat is plastic. The woman doesn’t breathe; she isn’t alive. A plastic mannequin. The images become benign. It’s the work of a skilled mimic, a sterile recycling of Báthory’s violence, Báthory’s legend. The artist finishes her parade, steps away from the cockled swirl of white stones and walks slowly to the dark corner and into a back room. The train of her costume gets caught when she closes the door; she tugs at the material and pulls it free, snaps the door shut. What would happen if I put this impersonator in a room with Foster? Would they be impressed with each other, or would she recoil at the extremity of his obsession, he at the superficiality of hers?

Maria stares at the dark corner the “Countess” disappeared into. I can’t believe she’s so enthralled by this performance; I expected she’d think it was trite, that the wax girl was unconvincing. But it has always been hard for me to predict what will attract Maria’s interest. She’s rarely consistent.

“I’ll see you outside,” I say to Maria.

“Oh, you cannot go yet—she will return.”

“I have to go. And I’m out of wine,” I say, and begin to weave through the other spectators in the direction of the door.

“Dani, we’ll get wine later,” she calls after me. “You are not supposed to bring it in here, anyway.”

I pretend I don’t hear her, head out of the room and onto the street.

I arrive at the Wynick just after seven. It’s a bigger gallery, with two separate exhibition spaces on either side of the foyer. Henry’s pacing near the entrance to his installation, beside a table laden with half-carved wheels of brie, slabs of Gouda, crackers and wine.

“Hey.” He gives me a quick kiss. “You’re a little late.”

“Yeah, but guess what? I stopped by the Orange Palm—”

“Why did you stop there?” He plays with his dirty blond hair, fluffs up what he calls his ironic faux comb-over. It’s a bit much, but I don’t say anything. He’s particular about his hair.

“There’s a reviewer from the
Guardian
coming to see your show.”

“What? How do you know?”

“He told me, at the Orange Palm.”

“Who is he? How do you know him?”

“His name is Edward, friend of a friend. She knew about your show and told him, something like that.” I pause for breath. “Kind of a long story. Anyway, he’s coming!”

Henry puts his arm around my waist, pulls me in and kisses the top of my head with a loud smack. “You’re amazing.” He finishes the last of his wine, takes a step back and holds out his arms. “How do I look? Good enough for the
Guardian
?” He sets down his glass and rubs his palms against his tight dark jeans.

I straighten the lapels of his slate blazer, adjust the ragged black scarf he’s taken to wearing a lot lately. “Yes. Fabulous.” And he does, he looks like the beautiful hipster boys who wear skinny pants and carry guitar cases down Spring Garden Road.

He smiles, scans the crowd over my head. “I’ve got a few people to talk to,” he says. “Go check out the show. And you should go see Andreas’s sculptures, too,” he motions to the exhibition space across from his. “I’ll catch you in a bit?”

I smile and nod, and he begins to wander into the crowd. He turns back, winks and says, “Hey, tiger lily, make sure you sit in the throne!”

Henry had explained
Le Paradis Rouge
to me beforehand, but I wasn’t sure what to expect. I knew it involved the throne, and also some recordings of Henry reading the backs of cereal boxes and the directions on shampoo bottles. “It’s a self-conscious, simultaneous questioning and embodiment of post-ironic reenchantment,” he said.

I walk in. The throne is in the centre of the room, surrounded by a two-foot-wide violet moat. A lime green plank spans the moat on the right-hand side. The walls of the room are lined with tall trees covered in yellow and pink hibiscus blossoms, and there is a hammock suspended between two of the trees near the back of the room. Wreaths of flowers and leaves hang from the wires that stick out from the throne; strings of white and purple blossoms cascade over the thick red arms. The throne looks fleshy and dressed up for a carnival parade. The light is low, and alternating spotlights of orange and pink bleed in and out. On a soundtrack, Henry’s voice plays slow and distorted, “Laaattheerr, Riiinnssse, Reeepeeat,” mixed with birds chirping peacefully, punctuated by an occasional louder cry, like an angry macaw or a mating peacock. I pause near the hammock; the entire garish setting charms, yet alienates me. I feel claustrophobic, like I’m in a parallel Alice in Wonderland world.

Someone taps me on the shoulder.

“Dani, you were so fast, leaving the other show.”

I turn. Maria makes a sweeping gesture towards the whole room. “So, this here, this is your Henry’s show? For this you rushed away?”

Her hair is in a messy twist and studded with sparkly pins. A pink spotlight shines on her, and the rhinestones shimmer.

“Oh,” I say, “you finally tore yourself away from the Báthory artist?”

But Maria doesn’t answer me. She’s looking across the room, where Henry and Edward have just entered. Henry’s gesturing at the throne and smiling, and Edward is nodding, writing down notes and waving his photographer over.

“So that is your Henry,” says Maria. “Tall. Very nice. Looks like he is the star tonight.” She steps past me and strides towards the men.

“Henry,” I hear Edward say, “can I get you by the throne?”

Maria puts her arm around Edward’s waist, and he looks at her and smiles. Her dress is purple satin, spaghetti straps holding up a fitted bodice, skirt flaring out and falling mid-calf. She’s wearing a long necklace of crystal beads, and the heavy rings that pinched my skin earlier.

She holds her hand out to Henry. “I am Danica’s friend, Maria. Surely you have heard of me?”

Henry takes her hand, doesn’t mention I’ve never spoken of her.

“And you ask for people to sit in this throne, yes?” Maria unwraps herself from Edward and crosses the plank. She rests one hand on the arm of the throne and puts the other on her hip. She is completely blocking the photographer’s shot.

“Can you move for a minute, love?” the photographer asks, impatiently shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“But if it is meant to be used, you must have a model in your chair,” she says to the three men and climbs into the seat of the throne. “Edward, what do you think?”

The purple of her dress is lush against the deep red wax. Maria crosses her legs, grips the black wires that emerge from the ends of the arms. Even though she’s being completely inappropriate, I can’t deny that she looks like she belongs up there, a perfect monarch. For a moment, Edward looks annoyed, but then his face softens and he smiles.

“Brilliant. Let’s use it,” says Edward, and the photographer starts snapping. Maria looks at the camera and curls into the seat, like the throne was made especially for her.

Six months after Vienna and Čachtice, I saw Maria again. I was in Toronto; Carl had brought me and another of his grad students to the national Congress for the Humanities and Social Sciences. Carl was staying at the Royal York, but Shannon and I were relegated to a shared room at the Econolodge.

I was at an evening reception, talking to Dr. MacIvor, a prof from Mount Saint Vincent whom Carl often derided for her use of qualitative research. He called her a “storytime” specialist.