78 THENEWYORKER,NOVEMBER29, 2021
dancing planet, and I was the one who
couldn’t get there.”
Jack stared at him. “What the fuck
are you talking about?”
“What?”
“I asked you why you didn’t go back
to school.”
“Oh, yeah. Shit ...” Valente laughed.
“I guess that’s when I knew I’d never
go back. I was covered in dust.”
Jack shook his head. “Dust?”
Valente nodded. “Picasso said art
washes the dust of the everyday from
the soul. You get it?”
A splitting pressure had arisen in Jack’s
head, and the day’s brightness was mak-
ing him nauseous. “Dude, you got to get
off this Picasso and van Gogh thing.”
“What do you mean?”
“No one’s ever going to take you se-
riously, going on about Picasso and van
Gogh, and wildflowers and shit,” Jack
said. “I’m not telling you anything you
don’t know. Find some obscure artist to
talk about. Better yet, shut up. Don’t say
anything. Christ!” he burst out. “You have
to show people you can play the game.”
“What game?”
Jack massaged his forehead with his
hand. “Don’t be obtuse.”
“But they’re the best,” Valente said
quietly.
“And you know”—Jack continued
without really hearing him—“it’s not
like because some artist was poor or
misunderstood, and you’re poor and
misunderstood, things are going to
work out for you. Millions of people
fail. Millions for every Picasso. It’s
not like failing means you’re the next
van Gogh.”
“I don’t think that,” Valente said.
“Good. Baby steps toward sanity.
But don’t think the people who suc-
ceed don’t play the game. They all
do. Picasso did. They dance the
goddam dance. Purity of spirit’s just
some shit they talk about once they’ve
made it to make the rest of us believe—”
Jack shut up. Valente looked so dirty
and bedraggled, leaves and twigs feath-
ered in his hair and something fierce
and sad in his look. Jack could only say,
more softly, “Look, kemo sabe. Tell me,
where does it go from here?”
Valente didn’t respond. Thathaunted, confused kid they’d once
called Picasso, as if in affection, with
no affection, with laughter, with
doubt, said nothing. He walked off.
After maybe ten paces he stopped, as
if about to turn, but then continued
on to his car.
Jack watched him go.
The ignition sounded, and from the
open window of his Toyota Valente
shouted, “You’re covered in dust!”
“So what?” Jack said
“You covered me in your dust,”
Valente yelled at him, putting the car
in gear and lurching forward.
“I didn’t do it,” Jack shouted back.
“It was those fucking rugby girls!”
But Valente was already speeding
down the drive and most likely didn’t
hear him.“
W
e’ve got a hollow,” Jack said.
He was talking to Sophie on
the phone.
“Am I supposed to know what that
means?”
“Between the walls. There’s an empty
space.”
She spoke with a certain circum-
spection. “Isn’t that ... normal?”
“Not like this. It’s a big hollow. Not
as big as a room, maybe, but close.”
A longer pause accreted on the line.
“Jack, what’s this about?”
“It’s your house, too,” he said. “I
thought you’d like to know there’s an
unexplained cavity in the wall.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Besides the unexplained cavity in
the wall? Yeah, everything’s awesome.”
“You sound...I don’t know.” She
sounded tired herself. “Is everything re-
ally all right?”
Jack soothed his hot cheeks and brow
against the cool wood of the doorframe.
“Do you remember that concert we
went to over the holidays, Soph? Some-
where uptown, off Park maybe. There
were these trucks moving in the street.
You could hear them through the walls
while the music played.”
She didn’t respond for so long Jack
thought the line had gone dead. “I re-
member the concert,” she said finally.
“I don’t remember the trucks.”
“There were trucks.”
“All right, there were trucks.”
“And the sound of the music... ” H e
no longer knew what he meant to say.