I smiled at the women. “My name is V. I. Warshawski. I’m sad to see you destroy the angel. It was stunning. And amazing that you could create all these images in one day.”
“It’s ephemeral art. Like Goldsworthy, only even more ephemeral than leaves along a lakeshore.” Karen spoke gruffly, but she turned away from me, as if to hide any pleasure in my compliment. “This is Rivka, who did the tedious work of painting the designs on me and now is doing the equally hard part of removing them again. She’s my most reliable aide-de-camp when I’m doing serious work of my own.”
The younger woman flushed, and said, “You have to take them off, even though they’re so beautiful, because it’s hard on the Artist’s skin if she sleeps in the paint.”
“That’s Vesta on the stool.” The Artist didn’t pay any attention to Rivka’s interjection. “She’s a third-degree black belt.”
“Did you bring her to protect you from overeager fans, or from Rodney?” I asked.
“I think she was just trying to impress you,” Vesta said. “I’m not a bodyguard.”
She sat easily on her stool, with a kind of confidence in her bearing that I’d seen in other experienced martial artists—no need to be aggressive in the world. I’d learned to fight the hard way, on the streets of South Chicago, and it made me too pugnacious, too willing to believe the worst in the people I met. Although someone like Rainier Cowles and his friends demanded that one think the worst. I asked the Body Artist if Nadia had ever talked about him.
“I hardly knew her,” she said, her back still turned to me.
Rivka said, “I thought you said she came to you because—”
“Rivka, darling, don’t think so much. It will put wrinkles in your forehead.”
The younger woman’s neck turned pink at the crude put-down. When the Artist realized Vesta and I were both looking at her in disapproval, she turned and kissed Rivka on the mouth.
“I just mean,” the Artist added, “you must have misunderstood something I said.”
“Why did Nadia seek you out?” I asked, as if the interruption hadn’t taken place.
“She didn’t,” the Artist said. “Rivka mis—”
“Girl, enough of the lies,” Vesta said. “Nadia is dead. Allie is dead. Who else is going to die?”
“You knew Allie?” I asked. “Tell me about her.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” the Artist said. “We met at a music festival. She was deep in the closet, and wouldn’t see me back in Chicago because she was afraid someone would tell her parents. She’d only go to remote places, like festivals, to pick up women, and then she’d hop home like a frightened rabbit, back to mass, back to being a good hetero girl. End of story.”
“Not quite. How did you find Nadia?”
“Shoe’s on the other foot. Rivka, I’m freezing. Can you start cleaning and stop looking as if your dog just died?”
Rivka flushed again and resumed her scrubbing, working on the Artist’s vertebrae with the intensity of a sailor sanding a ship’s deck.
“How did Nadia find you?” I asked.
“Don’t know. She never said. Just showed up and started painting her designs. I was surprised—it’s not very often that someone with actual ability paints me. I was even more surprised when she asked me about Allie.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I didn’t remember Allie’s name. That pissed off Nadia, but what was I supposed to do? Keep track of every fucked-up woman who crawled into bed with me? It got her more pissed off to know I hadn’t kept track of Allie. I didn’t know the woman was dead. It was like the whole world was supposed to worship at Alexandra Guaman’s shrine, and, when I didn’t, it made me a cold bitch in Nadia’s eyes.”
In the mirror, I saw tears spilling down Rivka’s face. When she realized I was watching her, she started scouring even harder, which led the Artist to utter a sharp complaint. The Artist turned inside Rivka’s grip, took the sponge from her, and brushed her hair out of her eyes.
“Take a break, Rivulet. It’s been a long, hard day. I’ll work on my front while you get yourself some juice or a glass of wine.”
Rivka rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing paint across her face. She opened a small refrigerator tucked under a ledge and pulled out a bottled smoothie.
Karen spread cream over her breasts and started removing Nadia’s face. “It’s almost like a metaphor for life, isn’t it. One minute you’re here, the next minute you’re not.” Her voice was toneless. It was impossible to tell if she had any strong feelings about Nadia or Rivka, or even herself.
“Did she ever mention Rainier Cowles to you?”
Vesta flipped the brushes she’d been playing with onto the counter and looked at me. “Who is Rainier Cowles?”