The Magyar Venus

CHAPTERTWO

September 5

GIVEN HOW THE EVENING WAS TO END, ITS STRANGE HOW clear some of it is. I recall it not so much as a sequence of events, one flowing into the next, but rather as a series of quite distinct vignettes, each a still photograph that I can study time and time again. And that I have done, feeling perhaps that if I stare at them long enough and carefully enough I will see what I missed, I will understand what was to come.

But perhaps a photograph is not quite the right analogy. A play, I think, might do it, the players frozen for a moment as the curtain rises before they begin to say their lines. I am both actor and spectator. Act one, scene one, then, takes place outside the Cottingham Museum. Perched on a prime piece of real estate at the corner of a busy intersection it reminds one of nothing so much as a big bird. Both the museum and the building it is housed in are, it is clear, monuments to self-indulgence.

The product of an international design competition, won by one of those architects noted for buildings that make a statement but do not necessarily work very well, the building is not large, four stories, on a relatively small lot, but it dominates the corner. Clad in undulating sheet metal with various protrusions that resemble beaks and wings, in a neighborhood heretofore noted for its gracious Edwardian elegance, the Cottingham has set itself apart.

But it is not the building that is important in this scene, it is the figure in the foreground: Woodward Watson looking impatiently at his watch as the wind ruffles his beautiful gray hair and clutches at his cashmere suit and the white silk scarf draped casually, but of course elegantly, around his neck.

"Hello, darling," Morgan says, taking his arm. "Sorry I'm a bit late. You should have gone in without me. I met some old school chums. Is there something you want me to do here tonight? Someone in particular you would like me to meet?"

Woodward draws her aside for a moment, leaving the rest of us to look awkwardly about, not sure whether to wait or go on.

"Of course, darling," she says, and we all move inside. It is clear now we are not to be introduced.

ACT ONE, SCENE two: the atrium of the museum, all glass and marble, and at this moment packed with people. Jackets are whipped away as soon as one enters, and a glass of champagne is immediately to hand.

A receiving line of sorts has been set up. In it are Major Cottingham himself, looking much older than I recall, and his wife of five years, the spectacular Courtney, former actress and party girl, now the partner of an exceptionally wealthy man thirty years her senior. Of Courtney it is often said rather unkindly, quoting Dorothy Parker, that you can take a whore to culture but you can't make her think. It is clear from her every utterance that she left school long before she should, that she knows nothing about the art that is such an important part of her husband's life. Despite all the money her marriage to Major has brought, she still dresses in short skirts, high boots, and low-cut tops, usually in either a fuzzy or a metallic fabric. Tonight she is decked out in way too much jewelry, and a gold sparkly suit. Still, she is a very attractive woman, and one who knows very well the power she has over men.

The Cottinghams are Old Money. Major Cottingham— for the longest time I thought this was his rank when in fact it's his name—has collected art for many years, as did his father before him, and when for some reason he found the need for a significant tax receipt, and was unable to negotiate a big enough one from any of the existing art museums in the country to which he tried to donate his collection, he first built, then opened, his own.

While critics of the museum's architecture are many, few dare to sneer at the collection. Cottingham has a passion for art, and the wherewithal to support it. He also has strong opinions on it, and went through a string of curators in the first few years, most of whom only stayed as long as they could stand Cottingham's bullying. The museum has been set up as a not-for-profit corporation with a board of directors as legally required, and indeed, Woodward Watson, Morgan's philandering husband, is on that board, but there is no question who runs the show. It was an interesting boondoggle, really. Cottingham gets to treat the collection as if it is still his own, has the benefit of the tax receipt, estimated to be in the many millions, and now has a staff of flunkies to do his bidding. According to the rumors, curatorial responsibilities include taking care of Major's dry cleaning, providing several parking spaces day and night, and covering most of his entertainment expenses. Over the few years they've been together, Major and Courtney have held many lavish dinner parties at the museum with some of the finest caterers in the city, or they have until recently. The society pages have not seen much of the Cottinghams of late.

Still all cannot be entirely rosy. The cost of running the museum is considerable, and without regular infusions of cash from Cottingham it would probably have closed. While the collection is first-rate, it hasn't quite captured the public's imagination. It is perhaps not a sufficiently large collection to make it a destination for travelers, and it does not really have a focus. There are all kinds of art, from all time periods, but it just isn't very exciting to any but the most enthusiastic student. A year before the action in this scene begins, in an effort to develop the collection in a way that would have more appeal, Cottingham hired what might very well be the last curator he will ever be able to harass, a man I have yet to meet, but have heard much about, one Karoly Molnar.

The Hungarian-born Molnar has worked in England, at a small but prestigious institution called the Bramley Museum, and apparently it was something of a coup for Cottingham to have snagged him. Molnar is known for his innovative exhibit design and for having a real sense of what the public wants to see. There has been much speculation about how long the new fellow will last, but a few months after Molnar's arrival, Cottingham surprised everyone by announcing he would step down, and Molnar consequently was offered the position of executive director as well as curator. Tonight, we are told, Molnar will unveil an extraordinary discovery, an artifact that will set the Cottingham firmly on the list of top cultural attractions anywhere in the world. It is called the Magyar Venus, and we are all there, breathless in anticipation, to see it for ourselves.

Morgan and Courtney air-kiss, and then Morgan is off to chat up someone, a bank president by the look of him, on behalf of her husband. Courtney smiles enthusiastically at everyone who speaks to her, but Major is uncharacteristically quiet. Up close he is thinner than I remember, and pale. I see a number of people I know, including Clive and Moira, who wave at me. I can tell from their smiles that they're glad their rather morose friend Lara is making an effort.

I turn at the sound of a voice behind me. "Frank?" I exclaim to the tall, handsome man who has tapped my shoulder. "After all these years. You look terrific."

"Hello, Lara," Frank says. "You, too. You can call me Ferenc, now, by the way. A little in-joke," he adds.

I am perplexed. "She doesn't know yet," Cybil says.

"What don't I know?" I ask, but the others just laugh.

"You'll have to wait a little longer to get in on the joke, I suppose," Frank says. "But not to worry, it will happen soon."

"Anna!" Frank exclaims when he sees her. "My goodness. You're here."

"Hello, Frankie," Anna says. "Yes, I'm here."

"Why that's… that's wonderful!" Frank says. "And so unexpected." I wonder what that means, too.

At that very moment Courtney goes to a microphone near the bottom of the escalator that leads to the second floor. "Ladies and gentlemen," she says. "The official part of this reception, the unveiling, is about to take place. I would ask you to leave your drinks here—I can promise there will be more later—because food and beverages are not allowed in the galleries."

"The suspense is too much," Diana says as we reluctantly set down our champagne, and the curtain comes down on the cast ascending to the second floor.

ACT TWO, SCENE one takes place in the gallery of prehistoric art. A small platform with three chairs and a podium has been set up at one end, and a spotlight shines on a museum case that, as the scene opens, is covered in dark blue silk. The Cottinghams take their seats on the platform, beside a woman in a rather unpleasant dress and overly coifed hair. The action begins as Woodward Watson takes the stage.

"My name is Woodward Watson," he begins. "And I am chair of the board of directors of this museum. It is my pleasure to welcome you here tonight on behalf of Major and Courtney Cottingham. This is a truly historic occasion," he says. "Or perhaps I should say this is a truly prehistoric occasion." There are titters and groans from the audience.

"This is going to be a long evening," Frank, behind me, whispers.

"That was terrible, wasn't it? I couldn't resist," Woodward says, with a self-deprecating smile, and the audience laughs with him. Morgan blows him a kiss. "There are a number of very distinguished people here this evening," he goes on. "The Cottinghams you know, of course. Take a bow, Major and Courtney." They do, to polite applause.

"The Cottinghams have made a real difference to the cultural life of this city, so generously donating their collection and building this very fine museum, and we thank them for it." Another smattering of applause.

"Someone else who is making a real difference to the cultural sector is our next speaker," Woodward says, introducing the woman with the terrible hair, the minister of museums and something or other, and soon she is at the microphone, congratulating herself for promising to give the Cottingham a loan with which to advertise the Magyar Venus internationally. She has an unpleasant voice, the sort that gets harsher the more excited she is, and she is clearly very excited now.

"If I had to wake up to that voice every morning," Frank whispers again, "I would have to kill myself."

"Thank you, Minister," Woodward says. The minister smiles and waves. "The Minister is only one of the extraordinary ladies you will meet tonight, and I know that there is a very special one you all want to be introduced to soon," he says, gesturing toward the shrouded display case. "So without further ado…"

Behind me, Frank says, "How sad. Here I was counting on a lot more ado."

"Without further ado," Woodward repeats. "I'm pleased to present our brilliant new executive director, the man we managed to lure away from the Bramley Museum in London, England, no less, ladies and gentlemen, Dr. Karoly Molnar." A handsome man in a dark suit, white shirt, and red tie bounds up the steps onto the stage to considerable applause.

"What?" I say, and the others put their hands over their mouths to stifle their snickers. "What's he doing here?"

"Surprise!" Frank says.

"Thank you, Woodward," the man says. The others, by now, are almost doubled over with laughter.

Karoly Molnar, I think. Charles Miller. Karoly is Charles in Hungarian, I suppose. Miller, Molnar. They sound somewhat similar. That's what Frank had meant when he'd referred to himself by his Hungarian name. I raise my eyebrows at the rest of them.

"She's got it," Cybil whispers. "His real name is Karoly Molnar. Apparently he just made up an English version for himself when he went to university."

"Why didn't I know this?" I said.

"I don't think he's been looking up his old classmates," Diana whispers. "He's created a new persona, and he's sticking with it. Frank knew, for reasons that will soon become apparent, and he told Grace. That's how I got the job here."

The woman standing to one side of us looks on disapprovingly, and we all fall silent. I, however, am feeling quite school-girlish about seeing my old love.

"I'm afraid I am going to make you wait a little longer before I unveil the lady you have all come to see," he says, gesturing to the display shrouded in blue, "the lady of the hour, the Magyar Venus, because I want to tell you something about her.

"Let me begin by saying that some women reveal their charms all at once," he says. "Rather like a harlot," he adds, and the men in the audience laugh. "Others reveal themselves more slowly, and they are all the more alluring for it. This lady belongs to the latter category. Like so many women, she was loathe to reveal her age." The audience laughs again, but I find myself uncomfortable with this analogy, and try to recall if Karoly was something of a male chauvinist when we dated.

"But with a little encouragement from science, her secret has been revealed," he goes on. "She is about twenty-five thousand years old." The audience gasps.

"This places her squarely in a period called the Upper Paleolithic, the most recent stage of what some people call the Old Stone Age. This was a lengthy period which included the last great Ice Age, when, for part of it at least, both Neanderthals and Homo sapiens, our ancestors, coexisted. Earlier theories to the contrary, we are not descended from Neanderthals. We are the creatures that were first able to think creatively, had some concept of the other, I suppose you might call it, whether that might be magic, or a higher power, perhaps even life after death. It is in this context perhaps that our little lady was carved, from mammoth ivory, the inner part of the tusks of the now extinct great mammoth. She was placed deep in a cave, in what may well have been a shrine, near the grave of someone undoubtedly special. We know that because the skeleton was adorned with necklaces and many, many bracelets made up of thousands of shell beads. Only a person of some stature in the community would be buried that way. On her we have found traces of red ochre, which was, we think, a substance both significant and precious to Paleolithic man. We cannot, of course, know exactly what her creator was thinking, but we cannot help but feel she had some magical power. You'll understand what I mean when you see her.

"She is extraordinarily beautiful, and she will now take her position in the group of what have come to be called Venus figures, art mobilier or portable art, that date from very ancient times—the Venus of Willendorf, the Venus of Lespugue, the Venus of Vestonice, extraordinary goddesses all, who were created in Europe during the Upper Paleolithic. These Venus figures were found in a band stretching from Siberia to France. This is not to say there are many of them today. They are exceedingly rare, of course. But there are a precious few, and some believe that they represent a cult, common to ancient people in those areas over a significant period of time, that worshipped goddesses. These Venuses are now all named for the places they were found, Willendorf in Austria, Lespugue in France, Dolni Vestonice in what is now the Czech Republic, for example, and our lovely lady will be no exception. I will return to that in a minute.

"We owe her presence here to two very special people over a century apart. One is a lady you will meet in a few minutes. The other is an intrepid Englishman by the name of C.J. Piper."

I hear a gasp nearby and turn to see Anna looking white as a sheet. Indeed, I think she's going to faint. Cybil grabs her and tries to comfort her, but Anna stands there, staring first at the podium and then in my direction, opening and closing her mouth as if gasping for air.

"I guess she can't stand the crowds," Diana whispers. "Poor thing." I have no idea what she's talking about, but right now my attention is riveted on the man at the podium. I notice only that in a moment or two the crowd parts to let Anna and Cybil through.

"It is Piper," Karoly goes on, oblivious it seems, to the little drama in the crowd, "who in 1900 set off from his comfortable existence in England to travel and to study in Europe, eventually stopping in Hungary, what was then the Austro-Hungarian empire. It is he who found our lady in the cave in the Biikk Mountains, a fact he duly recorded in both his diaries and in a paper he presented to a learned society in London on his return in 1901. That paper came with illustrative material that clearly places our Venus with a grave in a cave in that region. We cannot know for certain which cave, but we do know the country, and it is the country and its people for which she is named. Henceforth, she will be known as the Magyar Venus. To have her here at this museum is an extraordinary happening. Think about it. This lady lay hidden for about twenty-five thousand years! That she should be here now is a most happy event." The crowd murmurs its approval.

"You can probably tell from my description that I am rather enamored of the Magyar Venus," Karoly says as the crowd settles down. "She will draw visitors to the Cottingham and to this great city from all over the world. But in truth, I am in love with a much, much younger woman. While we owe C. J. Piper for her initial discovery, the Venus would not be here without her. Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great honor to introduce the love of my life, the little lady who donated the Venus to us: Lillian Larrington. Come up please, Lily, and be recognized."

To a roar of approval and huge applause, a tiny lady of about eighty in a pale pink pantsuit, comes up to the stage. She wears a corsage of pink and white carnations, her hair carefully coifed, and she blushes at all the attention, as Molnar kisses her hand.

"Oh dear," she says. "Can you hear me?" The microphone squeals in an unpleasant way. "Is it on?" she asks. Karoly assures her it is. "I just want to say how happy I am to be able to bring the Venus to this museum," she says. "I don't think I deserve all this attention. Karoly is the person who should be thanked. He is very persuasive," she adds, and everyone laughs. "I can't imagine anyone else talking me into this. Anyway, it is my pleasure. I'm glad I could do something. I wish my dear husband could be here tonight. He died a year ago." The audience murmurs. Karoly puts his arm around her shoulders.

"Don't forget the book," Frank calls out from behind. Karoly looks startled, and Courtney rushes to the microphone.

"Lily is right. Karoly is being much too modest," she says. "He has neglected to mention his role in the rediscovery of the Venus. It is the Cottingham's own executive director who found not only the scientific presentation of Piper's findings, but Piper's diaries themselves. He has edited the diaries with a commentary on the Venus and her discovery. The book is just out, and we have it for sale in the shop downstairs. I'm sure he'll sign your copy, won't you, Karoly?"

Karoly looks suitably embarrassed. "I must protest," he says. "Despite the fact that my publisher, Frank Kalman is here," he adds, gesturing in Frank's general direction. "I have to tell you that the book tells the story of Piper's finding of the Venus in his own words. The Traveler and the Cave contains Piper's diaries. My input really is minimal. But I'd be thrilled if you'd all buy a copy because part of the proceeds are going to support the Cottingham." The crowd applauds again.

"Are you a publisher?" I say to Frank.

"Sure," he said. "Kalman and Horst. That's me."

"No kidding!" I said. "Kalman and Horst. I thought… Didn't I read?" I stop myself from saying anything else.

"You thought Kalman and Horst had gone bankrupt?" Frank says. "Or was about to be bought up by one of the giants? It was that close. Fortunately I got some more financing."

"Where's my wife?" Major Cottingham says suddenly from the stage.

"I'm right here, dear," Courtney says.

"Not you," Major says. "My real wife."

The audience shuffles uncomfortably. Morgan catches my eye. "Alzheimer's," she mouths.

Karoly takes things in hand. "And now, Lily," he says, leading her off the platform to the display case, as Major is hustled off the other way. "The moment everyone has been waiting for. Will you do the honors, please."

Lily tugs at the cover, and in a second, the Venus is revealed. "Ladies and gentlemen," Karoly says. "The Magyar Venus!"

She rests in the spotlight, a figure maybe three inches high. It is a head and elongated neck and part of the torso only, large, pendulous breasts carved into the ivory, now darkened with age. Another crescent shape, a horn perhaps, or a crescent moon has been carved into the shoulders at the back. She is, indeed, beautiful. Her face has few features, just the eyes and a line for the nose but no mouth, and her hair looks to be in braids. One side of the torso, such as it is, has been eaten away by time. But there is something so expressive about the carving, something that speaks across millennia. I am as enchanted as everyone else. The crowd files past the case, oohing and ahhing, before going back downstairs for another drink.

ACT TWO, SCENE two: Back in the lobby. I grab a proffered glass of champagne and look for the others. I can't find Anna, nor Cybil, and the Cottinghams have vanished from their own party. I head for the powder room, and there I hear, in one of the cubicles, the sound of someone sobbing.

"Are you all right?" I call out, and in a second or two Anna replies. "Leave me alone," she says.

"Anna," I say, "please, come out. Talk to me."

"Leave me alone," she says again, this time almost a howl. "Please go away." Reluctantly I do, but set out to find Cybil in hopes she can reason with her friend. I realize I've left my glass of champagne in the bathroom.

ACT TWO, SCENE three: As I walk down the hall toward the party, I pass what is obviously Karoly's office, and turn down a little hallway toward the sound of his voice. As I approach the door, I realize that Morgan is in the office, and she is holding what looks to be a check, half extended toward Molnar. "I suppose you think I am one of those harlots who reveal all their charms at once," she says.

"Morgan, please don't make a scene," Karoly says. "I thank you for your donation. Let's leave it at that."

Morgan turns on her heels and heads for the door. "Bastard," she hisses. I don't want her to see me there, so I quickly pull at a door at the end of the hall, and when it mercifully opens, I go in. I find that I've taken another door into the offices of the executive director. I'm standing in what is probably the reception area, now dark, and I don't know what to do. I have a feeling that despite my efforts, Morgan may know I was there and wonder what I've heard. Should I just go in? I hesitate for a second, and hear footsteps coming down the hall, Morgan returning perhaps. But it isn't.

"Why won't my key work in my office door?" Diana says.

"Because you're fired," Karoly replies.

"What do you mean, fired?" she says.

"Dismissed, sacked, let go," Karoly says. "Fired. Effective immediately."

"I want to know why," she says.

"You know perfectly well why," he says. "A bookkeeper is in a position of trust. You are lucky I haven't called the police. Now get out of here before I change my mind and call them in."

"You have to let me into my office," she says. "I have personal belongings in there."

"You are most welcome to make an appointment to come back to clear out your office," Karoly said. "When our security staff are available to escort you."

"You can't do this to me," she says.

"I not only can, I have," he says. "Get out. If you ever come back, I'll see to it that you're put in jail."

"I will get you for this," she says. "If it's the last thing I do."

"How very dramatic," he said. "If you're still here when I go back to the party three minutes from now, you will be very publicly led out of here in handcuffs."

I hear her footsteps retreat down the hall and Karoly shuffling papers on his desk. I feel a sneeze coming on, and as I put my hand over my nose to stop it, I dislodge something on the desk. The paper shuffling stops. I hold my breath. I can picture Karoly standing there listening intently. I think that if this play I'm in were Hamlet, I'd be skewered through the arras for a rat. As it is, I stand shifting my weight from one foot to the other in acute embarrassment. But nothing happens, and after a minute or two, Karoly turns out the light in his office and I hear his steps receding down the hall. I count to fifty very slowly, then quietly open the door and head out into the crowd.

ACT TWO, SCENE four: I've purchased at great personal expense, seventy-five dollars and change, although I expect it is worth it, the book called The Traveler and the Cave: The Mystery of the Magyar Venus, and I'm standing in line to get my copy signed. It's a very long line—Frank will have to be pleased—and I've lost my glass of champagne, the third one I've taken and haven't finished. But I'm curious to see what Karoly's reaction will be, and I wonder how I'm going to feel about it too. I reach the head of the line, book in hand, and he gives me a dazzling smile. "Hi," I say, handing him the book. "It's great to see you."

He takes it, and opens it to the title page. "Would you like it just signed?" he asks. "Or personalized?"

"Oh, make it to me," I say. There is a pause, and he looks at me expectantly.

"And your name is?" he says at last.

I am stung, although part of me knows this is ridiculous. It is just that for a brief period in my life, Charles Miller was everything to me. How can one forget such a time, even twenty years later? Obviously he has. Even standing there I am aware that had it not been for the fact that Rob and I have just split, I wouldn't really care.

"I've changed my mind," I say. "Just sign it for me, please."

"You look familiar," he says, handing me back the book. "Have we met?"

"I don't think so," I say, and turn and walk away.

ACT THREE, SCENE one: Back in the bar at the hotel. Frank, Diana, Grace, and Cybil are with me.

"Where's Anna?" someone asks. Frank, I think.

"I put her in a cab and sent her home," Cybil says. "Poor thing."

"What happened?" Grace says.

"I guess the crowds were too much for her," Cybil says. "She wasn't very coherent. She just kept saying 'I don't believe it, I don't believe it' over and over again. I hope she's okay. Perhaps it was a bad idea to bring her to something so crowded and public so soon after she's gotten out of the house."

"What does that mean, 'so soon after she's gotten out of the house'?" I ask.

"It is such a sad story," Cybil says. "You heard her say her little boy was killed in an accident. It was a terrible thing to happen, and Anna just couldn't handle it. She got that condition where you can't leave the house. What's it called? Something phobia."

"Agoraphobia," Grace says. "That's not the technical term. It means fear of the marketplace, the public place."

"Right," Cybil says. "The thing was, she wouldn't let her other children go out either, not to school or anywhere. Her husband left her, social workers moved in, and the kids were taken away from her. She was in therapy for ages, and it's only recently that she has been able to go out in a crowd like this. But she wanted to come and see everybody. Obviously, it was a bad idea."

"Dreadful thing," Grace says, and we all agree.

"Is Morgan coming?" I ask. I'm wondering how she is faring after that unpleasant little set to with Karoly.

"Don't know," Cybil says. "Off to some swank society 'do' no doubt. I told her we were coming here. She could come if she wanted to. She seemed to be in a rather strange mood, though."

"The next round's on me," Frank says. "A book launch as it were."

"You published Karoly? Do I have that right?" Cybil says.

"You do indeed," Frank replies. "He looked me up when he was ready to have the book published and we were able to reach a deal. I didn't know who this Karoly Molnar person was, but I recognized him the minute I saw him, and he me. I'm sure in the bidding war that ensued, the fact that we went back so many years worked in my favor. It's hard for me to compete with the big guys. I'm thrilled, of course. I think, what with the international media on the Magyar Venus, this one is going to be a best seller. The advance sales are, shall we say, gratifying. The diaries themselves are interesting, and Karoly's commentary is a hoot. Scholarly, of course, but in a really accessible way. Well, you saw him tonight. People were standing in rapt attention while he went on and on about the Upper Paleolithic, for God's sake. You have to admit that's some feat."

"So why didn't you invite him to join us?" Cybil says.

"I did," Frank says. "He told me he had a better offer. Not in so many words, of course. He's still got all that charm."

"Pig," Diana says suddenly. It's the first word I've heard her utter since that unfortunate confrontation overheard in Karoly's office.

"Who?" Frank says.

"Karoly Molnar," she replies.

"Why would you say that?" Frank says.

"Because" is her only reply.

Frank has signaled the waiter. "What was that drink we used to have in college?" Frank asks us. "The one with the strange name."

"B52s," Grace says. "Not a good idea. Lethal, if I remember correctly."

"Don't be such a killjoy, Grace. A round of B52s, on my tab." he says to the waiter.

"Where's the bathroom," I say, realizing that while I had intended to go earlier, I'd forgotten when I'd come across Anna. When I return, the party has spread out. Several people have come over from the Cottingham, some I know, others I don't. Frank gestures toward a lethal-looking concoction on the table.

"Yours," he mouths at me. "Be careful."

"What's in this, anyway?" I say, sipping it.

"Just about everything, " Cybil says. "Chambord, creme de cacao, heaven knows what else. Brings back old memories, doesn't it?"

"Brings a tear to your eye, more like it," Grace says. "It's awful, really. Watch yourselves."

I think she's right. It really is awful, so I only take a sip or two, and order another glass of wine.

"I see he came anyway, " Diana says, gesturing toward a group at the bar which now includes Karoly, Woodward Watson, and Courtney Cottingham. "In more important company."

"Do you think he's screwing her?" Cybil asks, gesturing in the general direction of Courtney.

"Isn't everybody?" Morgan says, sliding into the seat beside me.

"I'm not," Frank says, leaning over Morgan from behind her.

She stretches and plants a big kiss on his cheek. "I adore you, Frankie. I always have." Frank smiles and heads for the bar.

"He fired me," Diana says.

"Yes," I say.

"How did you know that?" she says, suspiciously.

Oops, I think. "He didn't even recognize me," I say morosely.

"You're not going to start crying in your cups, are you?" Grace says.

"You said yes when I told you I'd been fired," Diana says. "How did you know?"

I cast about for an answer, but am saved a reply because trouble has arrived in the person of Anna. She walks directly up to where Karoly and the others are standing, and says in a voice loud enough to carry across to where we're sitting, "How could you?"

Karoly looks first at her, and then at the crowd around him and shrugs. "Excuse me?" he says.

"Who are you?" Courtney says.

"Have we met?" Woodward says.

"Now, Anna," Frank says.

"You know," she shouts. "You all know."

Cybil rushes over and tries to pull Anna away. "You got it wrong. You'll see," Anna shouts. The bartender signals one of the waiters, and the two of them start to escort Anna out of the bar. Cybil attempts to go with her, but she is angrily brushed aside. "Are you part of this, too?" she says, and Cybil backs off.

"What was that about?" I say. "Are you part of what?"

"I don't know," Cybil says. "She just isn't well, is she?"

"Maybe we should go and see that she gets home," I say. "I'll come with you, Cybil."

"I don't think she wants me to," Cybil replies. "She seems to think I'm part of whatever this is. I think we should just let her calm down."

"I agree," Frank says, coming over to the table. "Just let her be for tonight, and give her a call tomorrow. Here, I've ordered you all another drink."

"Why don't you give me Anna's address, Cybil," I say. "I am going to have to take a taxi after that B52 anyway, so I'll swing by her place and make sure she's okay. She can't blame me for whatever this thing is. She hasn't seen me in years."

"Your drinks are here," Frank says. "Lara, yours is the white wine?"

"I think you should just leave her be," Diana says. "I don't think she was in the mood to be talked to, or she would have let Cybil go with her."

"Something must have set her off," I say. "What could it be?"

"I expect it's about Karoly being a first-class jerk," Diana says as Frank leaves us to join the group at the bar.

"I agree," Morgan says.

"At least he recognized you," I said. "He didn't even know me."

"You've mentioned that," Diana said.

"What are you doing, sitting there like a bump on a log?" I ask her, at least that's what I try to say, but the words don't seem to be coming out of my mouth exactly right all of a sudden.

"I'm plotting my revenge," she says, gesturing toward a group at the bar.

By now I am feeling really peculiar, a little lightheaded, and wonder if I'm coming down with the flu or something. Frank, who has left us temporarily to go and chat up a cute young man at the bar, comes and sits beside me, and I think how attractive he is. I remind myself he's gay, but I find myself looking at all the guys in the bar rather lasciviously. A couple of them come over and chat me up, and I remind myself I'm unattached and can do whatever I want. I may be dirt to Charles Miller, but I can still attract a man.

But I'm really feeling strange by this time, and even stumble a little. "Whoa," Frank says. "You gotta watch those B52s." I think to myself that I only had a sip or two.

"Do you really only like men?" I say to Frank. He looks startled.

"I'm afraid so," he says.

"I couldn't change your mind, could I?" I say.

"Not likely," he says, "I have my eye on a divine young man at the bar, but if I ever do change my mind on that subject, you'll be the first to know."

"Oh, good," I say.

"I think maybe you've had enough," he says, taking the glass of wine out of my hand and carefully but firmly pushing me down into a chair beside Diana, who has pretty much sat out the party.

"Give that back," I say, rather too loudly. Grace looks askance.

"I don't think so," Frank says. "Gotta go join my author at the bar."

"Here, have mine," Diana says. "I haven't touched it."

"I think it's time we all went home," Grace says. "Some of us do not seem to know when to stop drinking."

"Charlie's going to be really famous," I say, but even to me, my voice sounds funny. "Whether we like it or not. That Venus is going to make him famous, and Frank thinks the book will be a best seller."

"Lovely thought, that," Morgan says. "I'd better go, too. I feel a migraine coming on. I blame it on seeing Karoly."

"You have given me an idea," Diana says to me.

"I have? What did I say?" I am having trouble following the conversation.

"You said that the Venus was going to make his reputation. So you know what?"

"No," I slur. The room is starting to spin.

"I'm going to steal the Magyar Venus right out from under Karoly Molnar's nose. And you," she says, turning back to me, "are going to help me."

And that is the very last thing I remember.