much, to tell the truth. I thought it was ugly—on purpose! And it was so pornographic! She describes some of it in a general, decorous way. Wine at work.
Strauss tells her Tom Stoppard’s mot about how “Imagination without skill gives us modern art.” Then he goes on to say contemporary art would be considered a ludicrous practical joke if otherwise bright people hadn’t elevated it to a higher plane… upon which a lot of money changes hands.
Another glass of wine and Magdalena tells about what she saw: so-called art advisers leading rich old men around by the nose and telling them, Don’t argue with us about it. Do you want to have up-to-the-minute taste or don’t you? Magdalena is at least sober enough not to mention Fleischmann or his adviser by name.
Strauss says he knows Sergei feels exactly the same way and goes to Art Basel just to enjoy the circus. The new director of the Korolyov Museum of Art has quite conservative taste and a scholarly approach. The Chagalls that Sergei donated are about as far into modern art as he feels comfortable going.
A series of general conversations occur at her and Sergei’s end of the table. They talk about the beating and racist abusing of a black defendant by two white officers on YouTube. “White,” not “Cuban,” because nobody wants to offend the songbird or the other important Cubans at the table, so there is no reason for Magdalena to wonder if Nestor might have been involved.
They talk about the dispute between the mayor and the police chief.
They talk about the ongoing problems in Haiti.
They talk about the real estate market coming back.
Magdalena is not only too shy to join in, she has no idea what they’re talking about. So she knocks back some more wine.
Then they get on the subject of Art Basel. Mr. Strauss tells of rumors of dealers and art advisers colluding to milk hedge fund bigs and others out of tens of millions.
Mr. Strauss says, “My friend Miss Otero can tell you how it works. She was there.”
He turns to her, assuming that she will repeat, for the benefit of all, what she was telling him. Suddenly all these adults at this end of the table have shut up, and they’re all focused on Miss Otero… upon her chest, too, but they’re also dying to know what she has to say—this young thing who looks naked with her clothes on.
Magdalena feels pressure from every side. She knows she should decline, but here’s Sergei, as well as Mr. Strauss and the others, looking straight at her and expecting something… or is she just a stray girl without a brain cell to her name? At the same time, her only real evidence comes from Fleischmann’s experience… and she sure doesn’t want Maurice—and Norman—to find out what she has to say on that subject. They won’t hear her from way down at their end of the table… but suppose they get wind of it after dinner or something? But she can’t just sit here and be a frightened child!… Not in front of Sergei like this!
So she starts off… in an appropriately modest voice… but all eleven people up at this end start leaning forward to hear her… this little dish!… they have been wondering what’s on her mind, if anything, as she stares out from above the breastworks. She raises her voice a bit, and she feels like she’s listening to somebody else talking. But her three glasses of wine have helped, and she begins to speak halfway fluently.
She touches quickly, lightly, upon all the pornography that has been injected into Miami Basel’s bloodstream…
::::::I’ve already said too much! But all these people are staring at me! How can I just stop and turn into a dummy?! More and more of them have stopped talking to each other—so they can listen to me! So how can I all of a sudden… shut up? This is my moment to emerge. To command their respect!::::::
She doesn’t realize just how many people “more and more” amounts to.
—When she gets to the part about a certain collector being led about by his art adviser ::::::I must stop right now! This is a private room, and nobody is making a sound… just me. Maurice is right there at the other end of the table! Norman is right there! But this is my moment! I can’t… sacrifice it:::::: she plunges on, headlong ::::::can’t help myself:::::: she makes the art advisers sound like pimps