Not So Artful Dodging

by Simone Westfall — April 12, 2007

The restaurant is serene and elegant, quietly candlelit, with few customers on such a nasty night. Ben must be a regular because a maitre d' of indeterminate sex (truly, he/she, with his/her slicked back hair and a bland smooth face, could be a hermaphrodite) shows us to a corner table and a waiter immediately brings us tombstone-sized menus and an even bigger wine list. Ben hands the wine list back to him. "I'm not much of a drinker...unless you...."

"I'll have a Manhattan, straight up," I tell the waiter, half-wanting to slam my fist on the table and say, "Make it a double." My goal is to get as blurry as possible as fast as possible so as not to have to deal with the sight of Ben's multiple chins. In the meantime there is small talk to be got through and a menu to be scrutinized.

The small talk is easy enough, because I know something about art and the art market and am very good at drawing people out. Ben tells me he got interested in the subject when he bought a couple of not-very-good prints as a college student. From thereon in, it was a matter of constantly trading up until he had a sizable enough stash to set himself up as a private dealer.

"And what is your specialty?" I ask, taking a big gulp of my drink.

"Ah. I will let you in on that later." He beams, revealing a neat row of yellow teeth.

I turn to the menu and quickly decide to go for broke, selfish little slut that I am, choosing oysters followed by venison. And a 15-dollar glass of pinot noir. Ben orders a Caesar salad. "I'm not all that hungry," he says, half-apologizing.

Between courses we chatter more about the art business and the merest glimmer of personal stuff, such as the fact that Ben has a wife and teenaged daughter who live full-time in Boca. He spends most of the winter down there, but gets to New York frequently on business. "I flew up just to meet you."

Oh my god.

Now, I am not the best-looking babe on the planet, but Ben stares at me throughout the meal as if I were Uma Thurman. Perhaps Mrs. Ben is a mirror complement to him, a jolly little multi-chinned Hummel figurine, and by contrast I am Venus, newly risen from the sea on a bed of expensive oyster shells.

If the man were at least amusing or a great conversationalist with juicy anecdotes about the art biz, I would probably overlook the fatness. As it is, I am pedaling as hard as I can to keep the dialogue going.

I notice that he barely touches his salad, and I am still ravenously hungry. He pushes it in my direction and I dive right in. "I had my stomach stapled a year ago," he reveals. Oh. My own clenches involuntarily in reaction, as I envision an operation involving blood, guts, and doctors wielding Swinglines instead of scalpels.

I want to skip dessert and coffee and get the hell out of there, but I am too well bred to plead a sudden case of PMS (not that I come down with this anymore) and vanish into the stormy night.

"Come up to my apartment and I'll make you a coffee," he says.

"Is it far away? It's such a horrible night...."

"Not at all." He smiles enigmatically.

I wish I could beg off, but I am curious about the art.

As we retrieve my coat and I am about to shrug my way into what suddenly feels like a bargain-basement find (and it is--Filene's Basement, to be precise), I realize that he wasn't wearing an overcoat when I entered the building.

"You won't need to put that on," he says, and takes my arm to leave the restaurant. We cross the gleaming marble lobby to a single elevator that goes straight up to the penthouse, and then he unlocks the door to one of the most spectacular apartments I've seen in a long long time. The foyer is filled with prints of Degas ballerinas (his specialty, obviously); the living room holds more Degas--horse-racing scenes, pastel drawings of laundresses, lithographs from his brothel series. "As you can see," says Ben, "I'm one of the few people who can really ask you up to see my etchings.

But the art has to compete in a big way with the view. There are floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides, offering breathtaking vistas of Manhattan to the north, and the chilly sparkling waters of the Hudson backed up by the twinkling lights of New Jersey to the west. You can even see Lady Liberty, holding her torch aloft in the freezing rain. You can't help but gasp. The furniture is pretty nice too--a lot of things that look to be antiques, but which I can't identify. One beautiful glass dining table Ben tells me is Lalique, but he's not happy with the clear plastic Philippe Starck chairs that are arranged around it.

Yes, the art biz has done very well by this boy.

On a sofa end-table are photographs, including one of Ben with his daughter, in his really fat days, when he must have weighed 300 pounds. It's a terrifying sight, and reminds me of the Walrus in "Jabberwocky."

Ben tells me to feel free to look around the apartment while he makes espresso. And so I do. There are two big bedrooms, also with views of Manhattan north, a spacious study with a big partner's desk, and everywhere more prints, including a few Rembrandt etchings and works by David Hockney. I'm looking at a tiny Rembrandt landscape when Ben enters the master bedroom with two cups. "Oh, wouldn't it be more fun to sit in the living room and look at the view," I say, wanting out of this intimate setting. Fast.

We sit at the Lalique table, sipping espresso and making more small talk. After ten minutes I figure it is safe to look at my watch without appearing rude and announce that I have to leave, an early-morning appointment. When I ask if I can get a cab downstairs, he says, "Oh, I'm sure you'll have no difficulties getting home." Does this mean he has a private car at his disposal? A pumpkin coach drawn by white mice?

But, no, it is merely an ordinary NYC yellow taxi which the doorman hails from beneath the canopy off the lobby. I give Ben a quick peck on the cheek and vanish into the night, thinking that if only I were a different sort of girl I'd overlook this nice man's considerable bulk and dine on oysters every night.

I send a polite email thanking him for dinner. Two days later he writes back, asking if we should get together to discuss the possibilities of a "relationship." I'm a coward. I don't answer.

Simone Westfall is the pen name of a novelist and critic in New York City.

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