Someday This Pain Will Be Useful to You: A Novel by Peter Cameron Read Free Book Online Page B

name.”
    “But he must have a name. What is he called?”
    “You may refer to him however you like,” I said. “He believes that having a name influences your perception of his work. He believes names are encumbrances.”
    “Ah yes, I see,” she said. She said something in German to the man, who nodded and said, “Ja, ja.”
    “It is good,” the woman said. “It is pure, there is no ego, no filthy pride.”
    “Yes,” I said.
    “Can you send these garbages to Germany?” she asked.
    “Yes,” I said. “We ship our art worldwide.”
    “It is good,” said the woman. She spoke again to the man in German, who once again answered, “Ja, ja.”
    “And the price is?”
    I handed her one of the price lists that sat on the counter, and pointed to the price of each piece; they were all untitled, numbered, and priced at $16,000.
    The woman looked at it and then showed it to her companion, pointing to the price with a highly developed nail lacquered red.
    “They are all available?” she asked.
    I said they were.
    “Not one has been sold?” she asked.
    “There has been much interest,” I said. “We are holding some. But no sales yet. Is there a particular one you are interested in?”
    “The number 5 is very nice, we think.”
    “Ah, yes,” I said, “that’s my favorite.”
    “It is the best, you think?”
    “Yes. I believe it is the artist’s favorite, too.”
    “It is good,” said woman. “Very good. We may return here. You have a card for us?”
    I handed them one of the gallery’s cards. “Would you like to join our mailing list?” I asked, indicating the guest book.
    “Ja,” she said. “Of course. Although probably we are already there.”
    She signed the book, and handed the pen back to me. It was a Waterman fountain pen; my mother thought it was very classy to have such a pen, but of course people were always trying to walk out with it, so it made things very difficult. Whenever anyone signed the book I had to watch them and make sure I got the pen back. I thought the resultant asking for the pen back pretty much countered any classy aspect it provided, but my mother was undeterred.
    Later that afternoon, when I returned to the gallery with John’s snack, my mother was standing at the front desk, going through her bag. My mother spends much of her life going through her bag. She always carries around these huge bags in which she stows everything and can never find anything.
    “My sunglasses have disappeared,” she announced. “As soon as I find them, I’m leaving. Do you want to walk home with me?”
    “It’s only four o’clock,” I said.
    “Yes, and it’s a Friday afternoon in July. Anyone who is even remotely interested in art has already left the borough. Is that for John? Tell him he can leave, too.”
    I brought the frothy and expensive beverage in to John. “She says you can leave,” I said. I could tell by the intent way he was looking at his computer screen he was gent4genting.
    “Great,” he said. “I’ll be right behind you. Just finishing up some work.”
    “Have a good weekend,” I said.
    “You too.”
    My mother had miraculously found her sunglasses and we left the gallery and walked down the hall and waited for the freight elevator, which is the only elevator in the building and is operated by friendly men who relish their ability to dawdle and delay gallery folk.
    Out on the street we turned west and walked the one block to the West Side Highway. We waited for the light to change and then walked over to the Hudson River promenade, which was, at this hour, teeming with Rollerbladers, bicyclists, and joggers: a sort of mobile, healthy happy hour.
    It was nice, though, walking along the river. We passed a cart selling frozen lemonades and my mother bought us each one. “Did you have lunch with your father today?” she asked me.
    “Yes,” I said.
    “Did you tell him about me?”
    “Yes.”
    “I wish you wouldn’t do that, James. He doesn’t need to