My shared art studio in Southeast London had a large window facing a block of boarded-up storefronts and crumbling prewar brick warehouses. I often paused on the windowsill in the afternoon to absorb some heat from the old radiator beneath it, looking out. There were no trees anywhere, even on the vacant lots. The brown grime covered every surface—of ancient coal dust, or an eternity of exhaust fumes. The very people milling about outside seemed to have absorbed it into their drab clothing, their worn-out shoes.
I was working on a new idea: rudimentary remakes of famous film scenes. So far I had made just one—the scene in Apocalypse Now where the helicopter lands on the beach and blows everyone’s stuff away. I had reconstructed the beach on a large rectangular table using sand and cocktail umbrellas, then simulated the flight of a helicopter by coming down onto the beach with the video camera and a hair dryer blowing from behind it. The effect, with the addition of an audio track of a helicopter in flight, was magnificently absurd, especially as all the umbrellas blew away one by one.
I hadn’t been able to think of any other movie scenes I wanted to re-create. We had an open studio show coming up in early December—only one month away—and were committed to exhibiting at least one installation. All week, while I’d been busy showing my father and Elisa around London, my studio mates had been hard at work on their pieces. My father was so jazzed on Elisa he hadn’t even remembered to suggest a studio visit to see my work. Then my flat was robbed, tying me up for days at the American embassy, where I’d gone to replace my stolen passport. The thief had also taken the Nikon camera and lenses my father had given me in high school, all my personal photos, and some cheap jewelry.
“So you were burgled, were you?” the police officer exclaimed when I’d called to report the break-in. But they never came out to investigate. George Orwell, I figured, had the British attitude down: property itself was theft, which was clearly why I’d been relieved of mine. Case closed.
By my father and Elisa’s last day in London, I was eager for them to board their Concorde if only so I could get my life back. It had been two weeks since I was in the studio. On the very last day, while Elisa had a massage at the hotel, my father and I went to see the Degas exhibit at the National Gallery. Standing before the hundredth painting of ballerinas, I pictured lining them all up on the beach and gunning them down. I knew I could get the soundtrack of a machine gun somewhere, and music box figurines of ballerinas were plentiful. Perhaps my idea needed some evolving. I wouldn’t limit my imagination to scenes from movies. Perhaps anything was fair game.
My father grunted at the painting and wandered off. I trailed behind him. Passing a tall ballerina sculpture, he looked shrunken beside her proud, lithe stance on the pedestal, his shoulders caved forward. He was getting old. I wanted to reach out and hug him through his khaki raincoat. But I didn’t.
The day before, we’d been at Harrods, where my father had bought Elisa a leather backpack costing ￡400. Afterward, while they looked on uncomfortably, I tried on a pair of earrings that cost ￡100. My father seemed torn, with Elisa watching, between pulling out his credit card and letting me buy them myself. It occurred to me, then, that any friendship that might form between Elisa and me would be contrived only for my father’s sake.
As I admired the gold earrings in the mirror, Elisa ruffled the tissue paper in her enormous Harrods shopping bag. The tension was stifling. My father wheezed through his cigar smoke, wondering out loud where we should have lunch. Finally, I pulled out my own credit card and handed it to the sales clerk. My Fulbright extension had just ended, and I could hardly afford the earrings, but I wanted to show my father that I could take care of myself, even as I was beginning to wonder if it was true.
Later, when Elisa was seated at the hotel bar downing yet another drink, my father led me into the lobby and gave me an envelope containing ￡400. “Happy birthday,” he said. “Maybe get yourself a new camera.” It was an apology, and I felt grateful for it, though the money was, I knew, a booby prize.
I spent every penny of the gift on black cabs to and from gallery private views, instead of taking the Tube, a luxury I rarely allowed myself. The money lasted just two weeks, until my thirtieth birthday had passed. I knew I was being reckless with my father’s money, reckless the way he was, and this somehow calmed me.
Elisa and I are engaged,” my father announced over the phone, just one week after their Concorde flight had touched down in New York.
I sat down on my futon sofa and studied the chips in my thrift store coffee table. “That’s great, Dad.”
“And look, you don’t have to worry. We’ll be signing a prenup. Bill Penner’s drawing one up.”
“I’m not worried about that.” I hadn’t even considered it, in fact, but felt reassured just the same, knowing that Bill Penner, the family lawyer, would handle the matter well.
“I hope you’ll come to the wedding, in the spring.”
“Of course,” I said.