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Chapter 14: Confined

That night, Nikola found herself back in Alan's apartment. Although it looked very different from the way she remembered it, she knew that it was supposed to be Alan's apartment. All of the individual elements were there: the black and white furniture, the still life paintings, the French doors to the balcony; but they all seemed menacing. The angles, proportions, and their relative positions were all distorted and constantly changing. The large rectangular rooms had narrowed and twisted. She could see the entire living room from her position near the dining room table, but she doubted that she could actually walk to the French doors which seemed miles away. She couldn't see Alan anywhere, but she knew that he was watching. She looked around for evidence of his gaze nervously, but couldn't find him or his eyes anywhere - not even a peephole or camera - but that didn't alleviate her fear.

The still life paintings in front of her started moving, their subjects jumping out of the frames. Distorted vases, teapots, and intertwining flowers and vines all floated around her. They started out sparse and indifferent, but the foliage multiplied quickly and forced her to back away for fear of suffocation. She backed out of the apartment, pushed away by the colorful mass. It grew tendrils and seemed to be reaching for her.

She backed into the hallway, only to be grabbed from behind. Large, powerful, masculine hands gripped her arms on either side. She squirmed out of the grip and spun around, surprised to see Alan's head perched on top of the large muscular body attached to the hands that were reaching out for her. She expected someone else, but had no idea who. It didn't matter anyhow, she just had to get away. She turned to the right and ran.

She ran for a long time, through fogs and nameless hallways, her legs alternately ridiculously slow and unbelievably fast, not entirely sure what she was running from, only knowing that it was important to continue to run. She ran as far as she could until she ran out of ground to run on. She stopped at the edge of a deep chasm, which fell sharply into forbidding darkness.

She hesitated at the lip of the chasm. She wanted to jump, but fear stopped her. Her logic screamed that jumping was certain death. She looked behind her, seeking alternatives. Not far away, and approaching fast, was an even more frightening alternative. The bully who was twice her size and forever tormenting her. He ran towards Nikola and would be upon her in seconds. She had no choice. Death would be a relief.

She looked back into the chasm momentarily, then shut her eyes and jumped. The sensation of falling initially caused panic, but then she realized that she was actually floating down: drifting at a leisurely pace. She looked back up and saw Alan standing at the chasm's edge. He was tall, thin and wiry, as she remembered him, not at all like the man who had been chasing her a moment ago. Nikola watched with amazement as his figure got smaller and smaller and finally disappeared. Shortly after that, the entire opening vanished, and she was alone, floating down through the darkness. Her fall ended with a soft thud, as she landed on what felt like a pillow. Her hands were caught behind her. She tried to pull them forward to feel around the dark surroundings, but they wouldn't move. Her wrists were bound together behind her back.

Clothing brushed against her head and she discovered that she was in a closet. She felt something brush against her leg and jumped back. She twisted her arms in every possible position in an attempt to free her hands, but only succeeded in making the binds tighter. She continued to feel the tickling sensation on her legs, and her imagination created a swarm of large, poisonous insects to explain it. She kicked frantically with both legs, twisting her head and torso as far as they would go within the restraints, desperate to get anything and everything off her.

By the time she satisfied herself that she was free of insects, she was out of breath and thoroughly frustrated by her situation. She leaned against the back wall of the closet and started to cry, careful not to make any noise, because then she knew that her punishment would only get worse. It isn't fair, she thought as she sobbed.

She jerked awake, brushing invisible insects off her arms and legs, angry and frightened. It took her a few minutes to recognize that she was no longer in the closet, but rather in bed. She lay there for a while, trying to sort out the dream: the fall, the closet and the bully. It all seemed to make sense at the time, but now it was just a series of disconnected images and half-remembered scenes.

She let the scenes re-play themselves in her mind. She got up and went about her chores for the day and the nightmare stayed with her. She tried to analyze it as she always did. Parts of it had obvious references to the events of the previous day, but what of the rest of it? She didn't think she had seen anything like the bully character before, except, possibly, in other dreams.

As usual, when she needed to resolve a dream, she decided to paint it, and spent the next two days doing so. Another dark painting, this one mostly in browns. It depicted an adult woman with some resemblance to herself, with her hands bound behind her back, sitting on the floor, her knees bent in front of her and her head resting upon her knees. She sat in a closed space that was not much larger than the figure itself. The woman in the painting was folded in upon herself in an almost fetal, defeated gesture. She seemed unaware of the insects crawling all over her arms and legs.

It was Tuesday afternoon when she finished the painting, which she decided to call "Confined." She stood back to examine it and its predecessor, which Nikola had named, "Silhouette." They fit together, for her. They painted a ghastly picture of a tortured existence, but one which Nikola felt related to her somehow, and the concept fascinated her.

Once again, she desperately missed the "Woman in Red" series. She needed them back to complete the picture. She pulled out the photographs she had made of each of the three paintings and stuck them to the wall next to the two new ones. Unfortunately, the prints were relatively small and completely overshadowed by the live paintings. She walked back and forth to compare and consider them all.

She spent most of the afternoon staring at the paintings and photographs, obsessed. She couldn't quite discern if the "Woman in Red" series fit with the other two, but "Silhouette" and "Confined" clearly belonged together. She tried to enter them into her memory, to see what was behind them, to understand why her mind had generated these images. She was frightened, yet fascinated, and couldn't turn away, even for food. She probably would have remained there all night if she hadn't been interrupted by Martha, arriving at her usual time of six-thirty.

The presence of another person was a shock after spending two days in an ever deepening inner exploration. Nikola snapped back to reality so abruptly that she found herself immediately irritable and feeling slightly hung-over, even though she hadn't had any alcohol. Martha's presence especially, was a large and complicated dose of reality, with all its aggravations and complexity. Her boss, the underhanded dealer who sold her paintings without her permission, and a murder suspect, had all just invaded her privacy.

"Nikola, hi! It's been a while since I stopped by last, so I thought it was time. How've you been?" Martha said as she entered with her usual fluttering and kissing gestures. Nikola stared and grunted in response.

"You don't look so well dear," Martha continued, peering into Nikola's face. "You've got bags under your eyes, and you do look rather gaunt. You must force yourself to get enough sleep, dear. You've a very pretty face, it's a shame to see it like this."

Nikola was surprised by Martha's greeting and wondered how bad she must look to warrant such a statement, but before she could formulate an appropriate response, Martha continued with her monologue.

"So, I brought over a bottle of wine, White Zinfandel. I do so love these blush wines that are fashionable now, and I'm so glad that they've become popular, you never used to see them anywhere before. Anyways, I'm always drinking your wine when I'm over here, so I thought it was time that I contributed some. Would you be a dear and pour some for us? You look like you could really use a glass." Martha handed Nikola the bottle, with hardly a pause. Nikola accepted it silently. She found glasses and poured the wine mechanically, only listening sporadically to what Martha was saying.

"It's been a really hard week for me," Martha continued as she paced in front of Nikola. "Sales are still slow, but that's when I have to work the hardest. If people ever actually walked into the gallery to buy, my job would be so easy. People need to be coaxed into buying a painting, and it's such a dreadfully long process. I've been on the phone all week, and I'm just so drained. I can't tell you how trying it is. But I think we have some very good possibilities. Mr. Brown has shown an interest in several pieces and the Barclays have shown a preference for another one. I'm sure one of them will buy something soon. You know, my job isn't easy, I was on the phone constantly today, I'm just glad it's over. You should spend a day in my shoes, then you'd see what this whole painting business is all about."

"Mm." Nikola felt the effects of no food and little sleep melting into a kind of numbness as Martha's voice droned on in her ears. She turned to face Martha and raised her glass automatically, not really comprehending why she was doing so. Part of her mind was still in the dream world where she had spent most of the past two days.

"I wish I could forget about it but it's my job after all. It can be kind of thrilling when things start connecting. Oh, by the way, the check for the Woman in Red series cleared today. Here, I have a check for you." Martha pulled the check out of her purse and handed it to Nikola.

When Nikola glanced down at the check, she took a step back. The amount was a quarter of what she expected it to be. "What happened to the rest of it? This was a twenty thousand dollar sale. This check is only for twenty-five hundred dollars. That's just over ten percent!"

"Well, dear, first there's the gallery's commission, which brings us down to ten thousand, and the rest is the money that you borrowed from us to finance this trip and the exhibition."

"I borrowed the equivalent of five thousand U.S. dollars before I left Germany to settle my things and pay for air fare and all. But even if you want me to pay all that back immediately in one shot, it would still leave five thousand dollars. Why do I see a check for half of that?"

"In addition to the money you borrowed directly, there were all sorts of incidental expenses connected with your trip and the exhibition. The gallery put up a lot of money for all this, but it can't be expected to absorb everything."

"What incidental expenses?" Nikola asked, her voice rising. "The gallery promised to pay for the exhibition, and also all promotion for it."

"Yes, dear, and we did. But there was also the food and drinks served at the opening, the cost of shipping your paintings from Germany to here, and things like that."

"I'm expected to pay for the exhibition food and shipping the paintings? I don't remember agreeing to that. For my exhibitions in Europe I never pay for the food."

"Well, I don't know how they do things over there, dear, but if you look at your contract carefully, you'll see that neither of those two items was on the list of expenses the gallery agreed to pay. You really shouldn't be so angry, dear. It's just the cost of doing business here. All the artists pay that. You should be glad you're not exhibiting in Japan - there, the artists pay for everything."

"I've been in this business for a number of years, and I'm not used to paying for anything concerning my exhibitions. That's what the ridiculously steep fifty-percent commission is for."

"That can't cover everything, dear. It's very expensive to do business in Manhattan, but look at what you have here. It's the art capital of the world."

"Not any more it's not. My exhibitions in Europe are much livelier. And my paintings sell faster..."

"Well you've had years to establish yourself there, haven't you?" Martha's voice was rising to match Nikola's tone. "I'm starting from scratch, and I think I've done a pretty good job of it. You don't realize it, but over there you were a big fish in a small pond. Over here you're in a much bigger pond. I'm sorry if you can't take the stress, honey, but you're in the big leagues now."

When Nikola heard the words, she wondered if Martha could possibly have such a Soho-centric view of things as to be unaware of what was happening in the rest of the world. While New York had been indisputably a prominent art center following the Second World War, the balance had been shifting and dispersing for some time now. Art business was conducted all over the world, and increasingly, over electronic systems that made location irrelevant.

Nikola told Martha about the thriving art scenes in Munich, Cologne, Berlin and throughout Europe. She continued to argue about the unfairness of the food charges, outraged by Martha's audacity, but even as she continued, she knew it was a losing battle. Her contract with the gallery, and therefore the entire legal system, was on Martha's side. "All right, I suppose there's nothing I can do about this now, but I want copies of all the receipts for the twenty-five hundred, and, in the future, I would like to be notified before you purchase or order anything that I'm expected to pay for. I should at least have some say as to how my money gets spent."

"As you wish. I'll have Cynthia send the receipts over to you. But enough about money, I came here to talk about other things as well, and I have some good news. The Barclays are having a party and we're invited. It's next Saturday. It'll be an excellent opportunity for networking. The Coxes will also be there, and God knows how many other wealthy art lovers. I expect you to be there. You can bring a date if you want, but you must attend. I simply won't accept any excuses. It's just too good an opportunity to miss. You know, I was watching you at the opening, and, I must say, you really surprised me with your people skills. I never would have expected it, I mean most artists are just so gauche, they talk too much about completely esoteric things, or else they get hopelessly drunk, but you're different. At first I thought it would be a problem, your being so quiet and all, but you really listen, don't you? People loved you. You sure surprised me. You're the best advertisement for your work. So keep next Saturday night open - I think the party starts at nine - I'll call you next week with the exact time and the address."

"Fine," Nikola responded, resigned to yet another dreary evening.

"So, what else is on the agenda? Any new paintings to show me? I noticed that a few of those canvasses back there look done, but it's too dark to really see them from here. Don't you think I should see them?"

"I'm not sure if you should at all, but I'll show them to you if you really want to see them."

"Of course I do. Why do you think I come here so often dear? I love to keep up on my artists new work. That's what I got into this business for in the first place."

"Okay, okay. I'll turn on the studio lights." Nikola walked towards the studio side of the apartment slowly. She really didn't know how Martha would react to the new works, but she feared the worst. She doubted that Martha would understand them, and she had no idea how they would rate on Martha's obscure marketability scale, which seemed to be her method for judging art.

As soon as the lights went on and fully illuminated the dark, ominous paintings, Martha's eyes enlarged, becoming almost perfectly round. She remained speechless for several minutes as she stared at the two finished canvasses. She took a few steps towards them, and then moved parallel to them, to view them from different angles. She kept her distance, however, never getting closer than twelve feet. Nikola looked from the paintings to Martha and then back again, awaiting a response.

"Nikola, these paintings are positively gruesome. What in God's name were you thinking when you painted these? Why, they look like they came out of a horror movie. What happened here?"

"Actually, they're based on dreams. I ..."

"Well, dear, then please do not paint from your dreams anymore," Martha interrupted. "I just don't know what to make of these. They really are quite horrible. They make my skin crawl, especially that one with the bugs all over that woman. It really is dreadful, even just the thought. I can't imagine how you could paint them. I mean, what will your clients think if they see these? They expect serious, consistent work from an artist who they invest in. If I were you I would destroy these immediately. I know artists hate to destroy their work, but dear, sometimes it's necessary. Do you have these dreams often? Have you considered seeing someone?"

Nikola listened to Martha's I-know-what's-best-for-you voice with its slightly authoritative tone, and felt hers throat closing as she withheld her reaction to fight back. It was not just the comments, Nikola didn't value Martha's opinion enough to let them bother her that much, but her whole attitude. Nikola was infuriated that Martha thought she could tell her how to paint and what to paint. Nikola felt that this work was among her best yet, certainly her most emotionally charged. Martha even proved that point with her strong reaction to them.

"You wouldn't know good art if it jumped out and grabbed you," Nikola hissed. "How dare you judge my work? You can't see past the price tag. This is the best work I've done to date. I don't care what you think and I don't want to sell them, so shut up for a change."

Martha stared at Nikola, temporarily speechless. Nikola's jaw was set, her fists were clenched and she knew she must look very angry to put Martha at such a disadvantage, even if it was only temporary.

"I could never show these," Martha said once she recovered.

"Good, because I have no intention of selling them. I painted them for myself," Nikola spat back.

"You have to think about the gallery sometimes, too. We didn't sponsor your trip out here so that you could paint pictures that we can't show. You know, we put a lot of money into you."

"If you put so much money into it, why do I feel like I sponsored my exhibition? You don't have to worry, you'll get your pretty pictures. But I'm not a machine, and I have to paint what I'm feeling, and this happens to be what I'm feeling right now. If you want somebody who just spits out the same thing over and over again, you have the wrong person!"

"Of course we don't expect you to do that, but we do need some marketable work. I'm not worried, though, I've been impressed with your work in the past, and I'm sure by the end of the year we'll have quite a selection," Martha said, trying to make amends.

"I'm sure," Nikola replied, too drained to say anything else.

"I'm afraid I should be going, dear. I've got to get home soon. Have a good evening, and think about what I've said," Martha put on a very serious face, before she relaxed again and went into her kissing routine.

"I'm always thinking. Good night." Nikola was glad to see her go and locked the door behind her. In addition to the obvious disagreements, Nikola couldn't help but wonder about Martha's role in other things and how much else she was hiding. Sometimes Nikola almost expected Martha to physically turn into a snake.

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