The Sixty-Third Night

 

During the week, one of the galleries in the United States that we did business with contacted Nick. They had announced that they wanted to mount an exhibition of my work and were asking for me to be there. My friend was thrilled.

Last Saturday, while we were having dinner, he brought it up again.

“You have to go, you know? Your work sells so well they want to put on an exhibition...”

“...and put me on display, too,” I replied.

“And that’s not a good thing?”

“Leaving this little paradise where I live to go meet a bunch of tiresome, snooty people, full of ohs and ahs? Walking around among them with a stupid smile on my face—if it’s even a real one—with a glass of cheap wine in one hand and a canapé that tastes like paper in the other?”

“You really don’t like people, do you? That’s the point, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“But you met me, and we got along, didn’t we? We trusted each other, and I’m practically living with you now.”

He paused for a moment, then went on.

“Why does everyone at the opening have to throw stones at you?”

I had no answer to that.

“I’m not trying to pull your leg, but what’s an opening going to be, anyway? A few hours, that’s all. Afterward we can go to the Met or the opera.”

He was studying me intently, his eyes shining.

“It’s a trip of a few days, not forever!...”

I couldn’t keep from laughing at the excitement of my big little boy.

“Get a grip. You’re practically drooling.”

We laughed hard at ourselves.

Then I said, “I really hate the idea of putting myself on display. Maybe you’re right and my being there won’t cause any problems, especially if I keep my mouth shut. But you’re right, I’ll admit it—there’s always the Met and La Traviata.”

“When I mentioned the opera, I was just...”

“You’ve never been to an opera?”

“Thank God, no!”

“I don’t believe you! Then let’s make a deal: I’ll go to the opening with you, and you come to the opera with me.”

“I’m already regretting this trip.”

“Then let’s cancel it!”

“No! No way!” he said emphatically.

Then, looking me straight in the eyes, he became serious.

“I really think it’s important that you go. And that you be yourself, with all your politically incorrect ideas. I’ll pay the price and go to this... thing with you.”

Nick changed his tone again. He grew serious and took my hand.

“Seriously: you have to get past this incredibly negative image you have of yourself, my friend. I’ve got a dark past, and anybody has the right to throw stones at me. But you? You made some bad choices. Who hasn’t?”

He squeezed my hand more firmly and continued.

“I met you way too late. So let’s go to this opera thing.”

Dog barked loudly, a happy sound, wagging his tail in delight.