Long May They Rage

“How much did you say that it cost him?” Ava asked as she twirled a strand of her golden hair between the fingertips of her left hand.

“I wouldn’t dare mention it out loud again in public. I don’t even know if it’s true, you know how my brother tends to exaggerate, but I did choke on my morning coffee at the sound of it. I mean, can you imagine? And for his married ex-wife? I don’t know. And I understand it even less now that I’m seeing it firsthand than I did when I read about it in the papers. But who am I to question the greats?” Arthur ran an immaculate hand down the crisp front of his tuxedo and shook his head at the work of art that had sparked conversation up and down the Upper East side.

“You used to always question the greats,” Ava whispered, her eyes batting quickly but never once leaving the piece.

“I used to do a great many things I no longer do,” Arthur replied somberly, turning back a dark glass of bourbon. At this Ava’s breath caught in her throat; her dark eyes flicked to him just for a moment before fluttering back to the gargantuan spans of wall occupied by the art.

It was as tall as three full grown men at least and as wide as one and a half men in a frame that still smelled of polish and glinted in the dimmed lights of the chandeliers. You could see the texture of it even in the dim. The overall piece was a bull, kicking up dirt and snorting through his nostrils in an 19th Century Pastoral landscape. What had sparked conversation was that it wasn’t painted with oils or acrylics or charcoal, but that it was fashioned from the hairs of the bull that had inspired it. Plucked individually from his dead hide to be stuck into deep clay spread over the canvas. The landscape itself was a traditional oil, but the bull was made almost entirely of its original form.

A large gaggle of lesser youth tittered above the octave respectable for the occasion and their phones flashed at the canvas as they giggled and turned around to take selfies of themselves dripping in diamonds in front of the thing. Ava rolled her eyes and smiled politely as she took one of the many chilled glasses of champagne being carted around the room. “The Bull of Rage,” she sighed at it and sipped. “Unsigned. Why do you think they would do such a thing? Put so much effort into it and then not bother to sign it?”

“Not everyone wants to be goggled at for their craft,” Arthur responded, and Ava blushed, her mouth twisted in thought.

“No, I suppose you’re right. You always are.” She sighed again and craned her neck back to take in the full of it. “I think that whoever did it would look at us now and laugh, don’t you? At the absurdity of us flocking around to look at such great works over our shoulders only to flick them onto the internet or dating profiles to make us seem more interesting, more cultured.” She turned to them in the corner of the room and shook her head.

“They’re more bovine than this portrait is, for sure,” Arthur murmured and tossed his glass around before turning it back. Ava smiled and went to say something more when the both of them were grabbed at the neck and a great fragrant wave Tom Ford washed over them.

“What do you think of it? Impressive, isn’t it? I think Pops scoured every ruin, every nook and cranny in Spain for it. Leave it to Mother to prop it up here where we have to pay a damn admission fee to see the thing.” Nikolai scrunched up his nose as he took his turn to rear back and gawk at it. “I don’t think dear old stepdad was too thrilled that he gifted it to her, but she would have been a fool to deny it. My god, if she sells it, she’ll never have to work a day in her life again.”

“Nikolai, none of you ever needed to work again before your father found a mud bull in the middle of Spain. Please…” Arthur scoffed and bucked him off his shoulder.

“Ava, have you pissed in his bourbon? The face is especially long this evening, Artie.” Nikolai ran a tanned hand along Arthur’s jawline, and he took a measured breath. “Oh, oh, I see. I’ve interrupted something. Yes, well, do us all a favor and you two make up. I can’t stand one more conversation about the two of you while I try to enjoy a mimosa, you know? Very cruel of you to disrupt the balance. Fix it. Look at the balls on that thing…Artie, take a page from the great bull.” He clapped Arthur on the shoulder and turned on his velvet loafers and trotted off through the embellished crowd. Arthur licked his teeth beneath his lips and his ice blue eyes pierced the bull unblinkingly.

“Arthur, please don’t think that you have to—”

“I made a mistake, Ava…” Arthur cut across her. “I’m not accustomed to the feeling, so I have to trust my gut when it occurs. I’ve made a mistake and I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know if I can. How do…How do I go back on my word now that I’ve tethered myself to her?” He pinched the bridge of his nose and looked down to where the great sphere of ice had watered his drink. Nikolai had noticed and before he could say anything more there was a tap on his shoulder.

“Mister Amato made mention that you were more water than bourbon. Allow me?” The steward held out a fresh bourbon and Arthur sighed his gratitude as they traded off.

“Ava, I don’t—”

“I don’t know why you did it,” she now cut across him. “Arthur, we were predestined. It—we couldn’t have been more perfectly matched, but we have what every other couple in this room primarily lacks and that’s truly loving one another.” She crossed her arms over her torso and looked through the familiar faces around them.

“She was my first love, Ava, I couldn’t let her continue down that path.”

“Then help her! Save her! Lock her up in a rehab and nurse her back to health, but dear god, why on earth would you throw all of this away for her? You can save her and not marry her, Arthur.”

“There will never be a way to make you understand. I don’t want it to end this way. I want you, but…”

“But what? Be like my parents, constantly ducking in and out of the shadows? Carried around on whispers—both their own and everyone else’s who hasn’t missed a beat about what’s going on? Count me out on that one.” Tears glinted in her eyes and she turned back to the painting. “I won’t survive this,” she whispered.

“You don’t have to survive it alone. Ava, darling, I’m right here with you.” He reached out for her and she recoiled.

“You’re right, Arthur, you used to practice a great many things. Chivalry and compassion were among them. I suppose these are among the things you no longer participate in.” He meant to say something more to her but she turned on her heels and strode from him, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand. Arthur sighed hard and turned his glass back greatly.

“Seems that it isn’t only the bulls that are full of rage around here, this evening,” Nikolai said, once more coming up to stand alongside Arthur with a fresh martini in his hands. “You aren’t thinking rationally, my friend, and I’m coming over before the rest of them descend on you for bringing the poor thing to tears. Forget the crackhead bestie, Arthur, and go make amends with your fiancé. That one will take you all the way.” He gave Arthur a soft pat on the arm while Arthur’s eyes bore into the painting with perfectly masked aggression. The band playing softly in the exhibit slowly began to play “I Only Have Eyes For You,” and Arthur began to tremble so furiously that his ice rattled the sides of his glass.

“Oh dear, well I didn’t cue it, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Nikolai said, a great grin spread across his face as he buried his face into his martini.

“Fuck off, Nikolai,” Arthur hissed as great tears ran down his face.

“Maybe the bulls around here are full of rage after all,” Nikolai said softly and the two of them stared on in looming silence as the swell of music washed over them. They turned in almost perfect synchronization up to the painting and Nikolai raised his martini glass high above his head. “Long may they rage.”