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Read chapter two
Read chapter three

by Mike Schwarcz, text and art

Bloody Marys in hand, Miguel, Sarah, and Cece took advantage of the perfect weather the Tuesday after the opening to enjoy lunch outdoors. They caught up on the latest, with guacamole, a bowl of chips, and a stack of menus on the table.

"They threw me, they asked for Michelangelo, and I just blurted out wrong number." Miguel told the girls he thought it was a crank call. "They finally called back and explained. They were calling from Weber Grill Co. and wanted to thank me for the free PR. They were very anxious to provide me with perks, like grills and accessories, in exchange," said Miguel.
"So, Cece, I can have them ship out a brand new top of the line grill to you if you want, July Fourth's coming up," Miguel offered.
"Thanks, but I don't grill. Where I'm from, that's man's work. I'd rather listen to what inspired your fireworks show. It was a great stunt," Cece said.
"The inspiration was burning my gloom, like Zozobra, ya know?" Miguel hesitated. "Maybe I was in a bad mood and wanted to bitch slap the audience, or perhaps, it was an overreaction to a fear of going down in flames. I'm not really sure, but I had to do something, right?"

The girls were silent. "I'm still trying to find my groove here in Santa Fe," Miguel admitted glumly, staring vacantly into the distance. Cece looked puzzled.
Sarah tried to explain. "Miguel had everything he wanted in California."
"I'm glad somebody got everything they wanted," Cece smiled, dragging a chip through the salsa.
"I had, but no longer have." Miguel pondered his words. "Sounds like something Caesar said," he smiled ruefully, throwing out his arms. "I'm rebuilding my empire."
"Empire? I hope you didn't get into the art business for the money," said Cece.
"I don't have much choice, I have limited skills, and I'm not quite ready to be a Walmart greeter," Miguel replied.

"How are things looking over at the Galley, Cece?" Sarah asked, hoping to change the subject away from Miguel's vanished retirement plans.
"Unbelievable, we're getting inquiries from all over the country. Thank God!" Cece held her hands together in prayer. "In fact, we could use some help."
Miguel stepped in before Sarah could volunteer, "I'm happy to help out for a couple of days. Can't hurt. Gotta exploit this new interest before the fire goes out," Miguel half-joked.
"You may have a viral video and press coverage at the moment, but interest these days is measured in days, even hours, not months. It takes more than some funny glasses to hold people's attention. We've had a great start but the time to capitalize on that is now. I have a list of things that need to get done ASAP," Cece said, while reaching for her Bloody Mary.
"So what do you need from me?" Miguel asked.
"I need more paintings, and maybe you could spend a day or two a week helping out at the gallery?"
"Done. What else?" Miguel said, to prove he could be cooperative, while allaying his guilt over torturing Cece prior to the opening.

"I have a client flying in from New York in a week. She caught you on Instagram and visited your website; she's interested in acquiring a few pieces. She wants a private showing the day after Memorial Day, and then she'll take us all to dinner."
"No thanks!" Miguel looked up. "I hate dining with clients. I've blown that more than once. Ask Sarah about Ben Schoenfeld," Miguel moaned.
"Honey, please! You're such a sissy sometimes," Sarah frowned at Miguel.
Wilting under the dual stares of the girls, Miguel retreated.
"So, if this woman flies across the country to spend a large wad of cash, we should encourage that, especially if it means another wad of cash for dinner and drinks? Right?"
"At least I'll get a decent meal out of all this," Sarah sighed.
Cece ignored Sarah. "I'm happy you agree, Miguel, since the client is already booked at The Four Seasons. We have a private dinner for four at Le Pinon on Tuesday, the twenty-eighth. She gets a private tour and face time to chat with the artist before dinner," said Cece.
"Can't wait," Miguel lied.

Leading up to Memorial Day, Miguel was spending every free moment at the gallery. When he wasn't there he was painting. Occasionally, he speculated about the mystery client. According to Cece, her name was Aisha Levine. Miguel wanted to understand why this Aisha woman needed to fly across the country to buy art when she could call the gallery, pay with a card, and have the art shipped. There's more to this than meets the eye, kept popping into his cynical brain
Sarah was singularly focused on the dinner at one of Santa Fe's most exclusive and expensive restaurants. That night, Miguel and Sarah argued back and forth about the necessity of attending. Sarah's argument was: It's a free meal at an exclusive resort. Miguel remained unexcited. But eventually he ran out of excuses, and the girls went shopping for new dresses.

After the weekend, Miguel barely had time for a breath before psyching himself for Tuesday evening's private showing. On the day of the dinner, he did his usual work out and then took a long walk along the River Trail. Back home, he awoke from a brief nap with just enough time to shower and dress.

Miguel knew that he came across as far from charming in many social situations. Socializing was something that Sarah excelled at, and she often tried to coach him on its finer points. He resisted while also realizing that interacting with strangers was expected. Best behavior when meeting a new client and all that. Of course his guard would be up, so he did what worked for him. Right before they left the house, he took a couple of bong hits. Works every time, he smiled. No trepidations now, he couldn't wait to get to the gallery and meet the mysterious Aisha Levine.

Miguel and Sarah arrived at the gallery fifteen minutes early, toting a bottle of Blanc de Noir as a welcoming icebreaker. Cece was in the office alone, with the lights down low to deter the ever present tourists. Miguel used the big brass door knocker to get her attention.
Cece opened the door and quickly ushered them inside. "Her planes landed, she's on her way,"
"Turn the lights up; the place looks like a morgue." Miguel circled the gallery, inspecting and nodding approval at what he saw. Then, the clacking of heels on pavers alerted him that she had arrived.

He pushed the door open and faced a stylish, casually dressed woman of about fifty. When she entered, Miguel was taken aback by how fresh and polished she was, even after her cross-country flight. Nearly as tall as he was, she carried herself with assurance. Her straight, dark hair fell to just beyond her shoulders. She wore slacks, a loose blouse, and a light linen jacket.
She turned to him. "I'm Aisha Levine. It's a pleasure to meet you." Her subtle British accent was a pleasing compliment to her appearance.
"The pleasure is all mine, I'm Angelo, Miguel Angelo. This is my wife, Sarah, and this is Cece, whom I believe you've already spoken to. Welcome to Santa Fe, would you like some champagne?" Miguel raised the bottle while holding up a flute.
"Yes, please, I'm parched. It's nice to meet you in person, Cece. Hello Sarah, a pleasure to meet you." Aisha took her champagne and slowly looked around the gallery.
Miguel poured for Sarah, then Cece, and finally, for himself. "Welcome to Glería de Arte Santa Fe," he said as they clinked and sipped. Aisha looked around the gallery, complimented the girls on their outfits, and quizzed them about Santa Fe's art scene before coming around to the art and the artist.

"Tell me about what made you become an artist, Miguel," Aisha began.
"The age old story, my mother was an artist. As a child, I was dragged around to her friend's studios and gallery openings. Then my parents opened a fine art gallery in a small college town in the 1960s. So I grew up in a house full of good, original art. Rubbed off on me, I guess. What drove me to actually pick up a brush was the challenge. I had a curiosity to find out if I could learn the skill. I don't believe artistic talent is God given, it's a skill set. And I wanted to master that. Paint like some of my parents' friends."
They paused at the Zen Garden, where Miguel had had the foresight to hang a half-burnt painting as a testament to the scene of his big event.
"And the fireworks happened right here?" Aisha looked at Miguel.
"This very spot, want to take a selfie with me and the painting? It's a great memento." Now Miguel was pitching.
"Sure," Aisha answered while smoothing her hair and gesturing for the girls to come over. They all got in the act to immortalize the evening before they finished the bubbly.

"Miguel, I like your work. Being a dull, drab Brit living in New York, the earthy tones of Santa Fe speak a foreign language to me. I find your paintings alien and vibrant, yet somehow serene and calming. In any case, it's obvious you understand light; your compositions are beautiful expressions of an exuberant brush. To my eye, you've succeeded in acquiring the artist's skills," Aisha said as if checking boxes to herself as much as speaking to Miguel.
"Your art-speak ranks with the best of them," Miguel offered a backhanded compliment in return.
"It's an acquired skill, like painting," Aisha countered.
"I appreciate your kind words, you've caught me off guard, insightful comments from a sophisticated client," Miguel said.
Aisha laughed, "Show me your favorites, please." She started towards the wall pieces with Miguel following. The two of them wove a web of conversation that seemed to entwine something deeper than art as he showed her his best works. The girls dared only to move their wrists and lips, barely swallowing in anticipation of a big sale.

For some reason, Aisha found Miguel interesting and had to remind herself to focus on the business at hand.
"I've been so curious to ask; my first reaction when I watched your video was that you look more like an old surfer than a Miguel. You're tall, light-complected, and all, what's the story with that?" Aisha was genuinely curious.
As they continued their slow promenade around the gallery, Miguel explained.
"On my father's side, we are of Spanish Jewish descent, and my mother is Swiss. My given name was Michael Geller, but my dad called me Miguel at home. Geller is Hebrew for blonde, as you may know. I'm a mixed-up mess, I've never fit the conventional perceptions," Miguel laughed.
Aisha found his story eerily parallel to her own. "That sounds so familiar to me. I was in the same boat. My mother and father met in college in England. My mother was Jewish and a Brit; she married an Indian who adopted her maiden name to better fit into British society. I was one person in school and another person at home."
"That's well put, I get it completely, the weird foods your friends have never heard of, right?" Miguel was comfortable now.
"Exactly!" Aisha said.
Miguel was warming up to Aisha; it was rare that he had a common thread with anyone, and yet here she was —a stranger in a strange land, like Miguel, someone he could relate to.
"So, that explains the Miguel part of your name, what about the Angelo part?" was her next question.
"It started as a play on words for Michelangelo. A bad joke, my poor job of imitating Sean Connery's classic line. You know the one; Bond, James Bond. I'm embarrassed to say." Of course, my assistant wouldn't call me anything else but Miguel ANGELO after that. With a heavy accent on the second syllable. It seems to have stuck."
"Just recently I became a US citizen. Out of the blue they ask if I want a new name. I was caught off guard, I blinked and said, "Why not?"
A new identity? Why not indeed?, Aisha wondered.

To be continued

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