The Hidden Man - Charles Cumming [95]
‘You aska lot of questions,’ Ben said, and regretted it. That wasn’t the way to win him round. Tamarov let him fall through an embarrassed silence, twisting ice in his glass. Forced into a quick reply, Ben said:
‘I thinka lot of so-called modern art is bullshit. I’m trying to do something more lasting. More authentic.’
‘I see. Yes, the way that painting is presented here concerns me. You have this so-called artist, a man who leaves his clothes in a Tate gallery, and he is made famous for this. But then England has chemists, engineers, you have architects, and nobody knows their names. Why is this please?’
Tamarov looked very much as though he wanted an answer.
‘Well, it’s just laziness on the part of the media, laziness on the part of the public,’ Ben told him.
Raquel was laughing at something Macklin had said and he could feel her leg moving under the table.
‘People respond to modern art in the same way that they respond to sex.’
Tamarov frowned.
‘To sex?’
‘That’s right. To sex. They respond purely on the basis of appearance. There’s nothing deeper going on.
“Does this installation turn me on?” “How does this video make me feel?” Those are the kind of questions they’re asking themselves.’
Tamarov asked for a translation of the word ‘installation’ and Ben did his best to provide one. Then the Russian began nodding slowly, as if deep in thought.
‘Well, this is true,’ he said finally. ‘An appreciation of older paintings, the work of Matisse or Renoir, this is much closer to love. My feelings for them will become deeper, as they would for perhaps a friend.’
Ben couldonly smile awkwardly. It occurred to him that he was in the middle of a lap-dancing club holding a conversation about art and friendship with a money-laundering Russian gangster who could have murdered his father.
‘Your British culture is only about shocking people,’ Tamarov continued. ‘This is what happens when the morons take over. They play to the - what is the expression Sebastian is always using - the lowest common deconimator. Is this correct?’
‘Lowest common denominator, yes,’ Ben said, noting the clear reference to Roth. ‘And they are the lowest common denominator. I mean, what are their obsessions? Celebrities, gossip and fucking.’
When Tamarov smiled, it was strange to see a face so controlled, so basically intimidating, giving way to an amusing idea. It was the reaction, Ben realized, of a man who liked what he saw, a thought that appalled and gratified him in equal measure. He was doing a good job. Then there was a sudden commotion at the table, Macklin breaking off from Raquel and swinging round in his chair. Twice he shouted: ‘Hercule!’ in a voice loud enough to be heard above the music and Ben looked up to see a skinny, well-dressed man approaching the table, drunkand disoriented, with a stunning Indian girl in tow.
‘Sorry, Tom.’ Philippe d’Erlanger had only a faint Belgian accent and he was speaking quickly. ‘I am coming backfrom the toilet and I meet Ayesha and we do a little dance together and I was delayed. Hello, I’m Phil.’
‘Good to meet you.’ And now Ben was shaking the hand of a drunkBelgian who ran eastern European prostitutes out of a restaurant in Covent Garden. It worried him that a part of him found this exciting.
‘You are Mark’s brother, yes? Benjamin?’
‘Benny boy!’ Macklin corrected, a clammy hand going backonto Ben’s shoulder. He could feel the weight of it, the sweat, and wanted to throw vodka in Macklin’s face.
Raquel was laughing as he said, ‘That’s right, I’m Ben. Mark’s younger brother.’ D’Erlanger sat down.
‘So you workat Libra?’ he asked, noting a tiny particle of cocaine at the base of the Belgian’s nose.
‘Used to, in the past,’ he replied. ‘Now I own a restaurant. This is Ayesha, by the way.’
The Indian girl was perched delicately on d’Erlanger’s lap, her fingers playing gently in his hair. She looked at Ben and flirted shamelessly, eye contact that he felt as an energy moving right through his body. Her thighs were slim