Free The Man in My Basement by Walter Mosley Page B

beach. The next night in an almost-empty movie house. Late late every night Bethany would call me. She just wanted to talk, she’d say. Every conversation would end with her worrying that Ricky was too much in love with her. She liked him and he was sweet, but he wasn’t the kind of man who could ring that bell. Twice she wondered if she could come over in those wee hours, but every time I was strong.
    “I’d like to see you,” I said. “I really would, but Ricky likes you and I can’t see it to break his heart.”
    “What if we broke up?” she asked me one night. “Could I come over then?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “ ’Cause you know it seem like that if you didn’t wanna hurt Ricky you’d let me come over and just not tell ’im. That way nobody gets hurt.”
    I told her that I would think about what she said.
    I didn’t care about Bethany and Ricky right then. The next morning Narciss Gully was due to come over to take the photographs. I had spent the day cleaning again. Actually I just moved whatever mess had collected into the pantry. I didn’t drink for twenty-four hours previous to her arrival, and I took a long bath and shaved.
    When the doorbell rang I wasn’t expecting the twenty-something copper-toned Dominican Adonis of assistants.
    “Hola,” he said to me. “I am Geraldo. Miss Gully sent me to set up for the shoot.”
    I’m tall but Geraldo had me beat. He was six four at least, wearing only cutoff jean shorts and a white T-shirt. His muscles were well defined but not grotesque, except for calves that bulged. His hair came in big golden-brown locks. His face was beautiful.
    “Huh?” I said.
    “Preparation,” he said slowly, taking time over the syllables. He indicated a pile of paraphernalia behind him. Lighting, screens, rugs, and big camera boxes. “See?”
    “Oh. Uh-huh. Yeah. Why don’t you come in here in the living room?”
    Geraldo lifted the great pile of materials into a rippling embrace and carried it in. I showed him where to set up, and he spent a long time with a light meter looking at windows in order to find the exact right position for his rugs and screens. He examined my heirlooms, holding them up to the light and using his meter.
    “Are you taking the pictures?” I asked after a lot of watching.
    The boyish smile and manly shaking of his head must have broken many hearts before. “No,” he said. “Miss Gully takes the pictures. I just set it up.”
    “You work for her?”
    “We are friends. She loves my work, my painting, and so she gives me jobs when she can. I live at the house of Harry Lake in East Hampton. He is my master in oils. A great master. He sent for me from New York after seeing my show at the Rhinoceros Gallery on Avenue A. Do you know it?”
    “Know what?”
    “The Rhinoceros Gallery. It is a very important place. Harry found me there, and he lets me use his garage as a studio and to sleep.”
    “So how do you know Narciss?” I asked.
    “I was walking down the street,” he said, tossing his locks for effect. “Just walking and I see the most beautiful quilts hanging in her window. The designs are like the ones that I paint and I had to see them, touch them…”
    There was a passion building up in Geraldo, and I couldn’t help but wonder what all he was touching up in Narciss Gully’s store.
    “I know,” I said for no reason, “she sells quilts.”
    “Sells?” he sneered. “It’s not a hot-dog stand. This is art. She collects, she shares, she teaches. Sometimes someone might pay for learning something, to live with beauty. But she does not just sell quilts.”
    I’ve never really gotten the knack of talking to artists. You can’t talk to them about how much it pays or about what you think you like. If I think a painting is ugly, somebody just tells me that I don’t understand. If I think a painting is good, they tell me the same thing. It’s like artists see a different place, a higher place, whereas I’m on the level of some