Tuesday caught Sushi in a bad mood. She plunged through the gallery door, dragging the stormy weather in with her. There were a surprising number of people inside, browsing artwork and drinking complimentary hot beverages. She sighed. The worst thing about making a living selling art was selling art.
She poured herself a foamy mug of cocoa and added a splash of black coffee and lots of cream, then ventured out onto the floor, clutching the warm mug for support.
"Haro, Sushi!"
She spun around to see Yoshi's face disappearing behind a disgustingly enthusiastic smile. The little man had no sense of decency, smiling like that on a day like this.
"Hi, Yoshi. Have you, um—" She fought an instant-long battle that had grown much too familiar over the past few days. "—seen Ari?"
Well, she told herself acidly. At least you made it 48 seconds before you had to ask.
"No," beamed Yoshi. "But you should talk Mistah Bero."
He pointed at a man in an expensive charcoal overcoat who was examining one of her paintings. It was Paul Bellows, art critic for a major paper in the Twin Cities. A dull sense of dread stole over her.
"Right. Just let me know if—Never mind."
She gulped a scalding swallow of cocoa and forced herself to look as undreary as she could manage while she approached Mr. Bellows.
"Excuse me." She put out a hand. "Are you Paul Bellows?"
He turned and eyed her with tired, pouchy eyes, scanning her face as if appraising the value of a bust.
"Yes." His voice was sardonic and surprisingly deep. "Who are you?"
"Sushi Vasquez. I painted these."
"I see." He gave no sign of either interest or dislike. Sushi let her hand drop to her side and tried not to swallow.
"I'd love to hear any suggestions you have on how to improve my work," she offered.
He nodded, and Sushi had a sudden sense of his immense brainpower coming to bear on her, all weight and attention and inscrutable assessment. She could not help but think of Ari, but where Ari was a fine laser, Bellows was a wrecking ball. He eyed her for another moment, then nodded again and turned briskly toward the wall.
"Put those four in the garbage," he began, slashing the air with a thick finger, then pointed at the blind clockmaker. "Tone balance is off. Too much shadow. You lose the whole point of it. And for God's sake, what is the blind man doing in the dark? Symbolically flat, totally melodramatic. Give me something I can sink my teeth into."
He moved on to the duel of the griffin and the bear.
"Study bears before you start painting them. And the background is flat. Round it out a little. It's not a theater set. Now here—" He turned to her favorite, the painting of giant butterflies carrying off stampeding rhinos. Sushi's breath caught.
"Excuse me, sir," came a voice from behind them.
"Yes?" drawled Bellows, turning his head but not his body. Sushi spun on the spot to see—
"Otto?"
Otto held her off with an upraised finger, then extended a hand to Mr. Bellows.
"I don't believe we've met."
"No," agreed Bellows, ignoring the hand.
"Splendiferous day to take in some art, don't you think?" bubbled Otto. Bellows frowned at him.
"Exactly," continued Otto, unperturbed. He put an arm around Mr. Bellows' shoulder and turned him toward Sushi's paintings. "I happen to be particularly fond of this set. Griffins, you know. Prince of beasts, and beast of princes. Look at that majestic, glossy coat. Look at that raw and primal vitality. It speaks to me of a better age, sir, before the explorers of the British Empire hunted them to extinction. Not that they understood the value of natural diversity back then. Still, it makes you think."
Sudden sunlight broke over Sushi's mood. She basked in Otto's boldly nonsensical observations, in the perturbed confusion that had replaced Bellows' mask of tired critique.
"Well," concluded Otto. "Always pleasant to discuss art with a sensitive-minded stranger such as yourself. But I should move on. One must mingle, you know, at times like this. Sushi," he turned to her with a little bow and walked away, humming softly.