Out of Orange by Cleary Wolters Read Free Book Online Page B

him was made-up bullshit. I told Phillip that Henry had been my trainer and that he wasn’t actually a successful art dealer; that was his cover story. He was sort of an art dealer, though, but he only represented one artist. That little distinction was what made it so effortless when he lied to Customs about the purpose of his trips.
    He would say he had been visiting wherever we’d come from on business. He could tell a Customs agent a whole story about his trip without lying once. His story would be backed up by trinkets and memorabilia from each of the shows or galleries he attended. The point of all of this effort was to get past the first potential obstacle to success. If, for some reason, I was selected by a Customs agent tobe hassled, coming back into the United States, a poorly researched or delivered cover story would be my undoing.
    The restaurant had emptied out a little and I spoke more quietly with Phillip to match the lowering volume of our surroundings. We had opted to dine at the bar, so I had to be careful not to be overheard. In the mirrors that spanned the restaurant’s walls, I saw a waitress I knew was a big gossip come up behind us with our food. I made sure she heard a few positive tidbits as she approached.
    She took our salads and served our dinner plates, then asked if we wanted Parmesan on our pasta. We leaned back so the gossipy waitress could reach our plates and grate the cheese. “Life is treating you well in Chicago?” The waitress beamed her famously fake smile as she delivered the compliment and cheese. I nodded a dismissive affirmation, easily made my joy to see her look equally fake, and leaned back into my conversation with Phillip when she was done grating a mountain of Parmesan.
    When she left, I continued my story while Phillip gobbled up his dinner: shrimp scampi on a bed of linguini. I told him about having to actually go to art exhibits and galleries in Paris, talk to artists, and learn a bunch of shit. I sarcastically added how my high school French came in handy. Then I told him about Africa, how I went on these amazing expeditions in search of art and graffiti. I was copying Henry’s lead and experiencing a life to match my cover story. If I had to tell the lie to Customs, it wasn’t going to be a complete lie.
    Larry dropped off two glasses of wine. Phillip had a cold glass of pinot grigio and I had a ruby-red glass of Chianti Classico. I took a sip and ate a couple of bites of the angel hair. Phillip touched the sleeve of my jacket, examining the fabric, and said, “Nice.” I told him about shopping in Paris, looking for the clothes I would wear on the plane. I described my dress rehearsals for my role, in Brussels and again in Paris. I would get all dressed up and go out to the art shows. I had pretended to be someone I was not, and practicing the role had made it real to me. I had also needed some practice getting used to walking in dress heels. My tomboy gait hadn’t fit the image Henry had been hoping for, and it had taken a little work anda lot of blisters to correct. Phillip knew I was unaccustomed to the heel torture most women had overcome by my age. I don’t think he had ever seen me dressed up according to society’s standards before.
    We finished our meal and Larry asked to take our plates away. When he came back to wipe away our crumbs, we ordered cappuccinos.
    I told Phillip more about Africa, meeting the Nigerian whom my sister was in love with. I described the scary but impressive train of dinner guests at his huge table every night: an Italian general of some sort, the secretary of something-or-other for the Nigerian government, a council member from Cotonou. I told him about the armed compound I’d stayed at in Benin, the days spent at the round pool and the beach at the Sheraton, the voodoo markets, the marabout priests and Sufis who counseled our host. I tried to describe the flocks of happy kids in Ganvié, a village built atop Lake Nokoué. I