Page 42 of You Made a Fool of Death with Your Beauty

When Nasir saw her, he stared with a slack jaw for a few moments and that window was enough for everything he wanted to be blatantly clear in his eyes, a loud desire that Feyi wished she hadn’t seen. By the time he caught himself and organized his face, it was too late to forget, but Feyi tried to push it away as they drove to the museum. Nasir was her friend, and that was it. They’d decided.

Still, it was a relief to have to mingle at the opening, to leave him behind in the crowd and walk with Rebecca, chatting to the other artists, many of whom she was secretly fangirling over. Katherine Agyemaa Agard was there, for one, wearing a floating indigo scarf and standing next to one of her paintings from her Blue series. The canvas towered over her, and a small crowd of people were gathered in front of it, staring up in awe. Katherine smiled at Feyi when Rebecca introduced them, and a piece of orange calcite fell out of her sleeve when they shook hands. Feyi fumbled over her words, trying desperately to play it cool, and Rebecca laughed a little when they stepped away.

“Breathe,” she said to Feyi. “Your work is here, too, you know. These are your peers.”

“Don’t even say that.” Feyi laughed. “Charmaine Bee’s here, for God’s sake. I’ve been following her work since she had that show in LA at Craft Contemporary.”

“Everyone starts somewhere,” Rebecca replied. “Don’t sell yourself short.” She raised her champagne flute to Feyi, then disappeared into the crowd.

Feyi took a sip of her cocktail and exhaled, then made her way back to her piece. There was always a nice little pocket of time when no one viewing it realized she was the artist and she could slip into the line of people making their way into the mirrored room like she was just another visitor, seeing it for the first time.

Four hundred and thirteen gold wedding rings hung suspended from the ceiling at varying heights, chiming softly as they rang against each other. Light reflected off them and the mirrors, breaking into pieces against the visitors in the room. It looked and sounded like rain, like wind chimes, like warning bells. It would be enchanting if you didn’t know what it really was. Feyi walked through it slowly. The small room was silent, only three or four people could fit at a time, and everyone was trying not to disturb the rings too much. It was impossible, of course, but Feyi liked their discomfort, their disruption. It was some of the point. What most people tried to do was to stand in one place and look through the rings with their eyes, trying to find the epicenter, the ring that started it all. It was in her artist statement for this piece, but she never gave a map of where she’d hung it, the ring from the accident, splashed with old blood that Feyi was careful to never clean off. She always hung it and a few other rings out of reach, so they wouldn’t brush against anyone’s face or shoulders, and she always knew where it was, no matter how many rings she filled the room with.

Feyi glanced up quickly to check on it, and sure enough, there it was, spinning in a slight breeze, stained with brown. So small, but so heavy, so loud, so present in her heart. Showing work like this felt a little like screaming out loud in a public place, screaming and screaming until someone understood what the fuck had happened to her, until it drove them to silence because there was nothing, nothing any of them could say to make it better. Feyi dropped her gaze, and her eyes slammed unexpectedly into Alim’s, knocking the air out of her lungs.

He was standing on the other side of the mirrored room, his eyes lined with kohl, shocked and wet as rings floated around his head. Feyi couldn’t breathe. His face was raw among the gold, flayed open with feeling, and she knew he’d seen the blood-marked ring, that he knew what it meant that she’d kept it, that she was showing it like this, in a forest of forevers, the one that didn’t happen. As Feyi stared at him, Alim’s hand drifted to his neck, his fingers coal dark against his white tunic. Feyi knew what lay against his throat underneath, that silver ring. It was either his or Marisol’s. She’d never asked which, never said anything about it, really. It was too private, something like that. Unless you were Feyi, and alive, in which case you displayed it to strangers because something inside you had never stopped screaming.

She opened her mouth to say something to Alim, but then Rebecca poked her head into the room.

“Feyi, could I steal you for a minute?” The curator was wearing her official smile, which meant she was about to do another introduction. Feyi cast one last glance at Alim as she left the room, his inky eyes following her out. Rebecca looped an arm through hers, patting Feyi’s hand. “I’d like to introduce you to Pooja Chatterjee, one of the museum’s board of directors. Pooja, this is Feyi Adekola, the artist behind this stunning installation.”

Pooja was a large gorgeous woman with gleaming black hair cut into a severe bob that framed her soft face. She wore a glittering sari, and her handshake was firm, her smile genuine, and her voice had the rushing power of a waterfall. “Ms. Adekola, I must tell you, I adore this piece. It is, in a word, unforgettable. What a memorial, what an ache! It is, I think, a devastation to look upon. How brilliant!”

Rebecca hid a smile as Feyi almost wilted under the force of Pooja’s admiration. “I’ll leave you two to it,” the curator said, slipping away as Feyi shifted into her work face.

Pooja had questions about not just this piece, but the rest of her practice, where her studio was, how long she would be in town.

“I’m not sure yet,” Feyi replied. “Perhaps another week?” Saying it out loud sent a twist through her chest. Another week and she’d have to return to New York, end things with Nasir, never see Alim again. Feyi didn’t dare look behind her to see if he was still standing there, shocked in the gold.

“Ah, you don’t have a return booked?” Pooja was saying. “Perhaps I can interest you in a proposition, then.”

Feyi snapped her attention back to the woman, curious now.

“If you would consider staying long enough for me to commission a work from you,” Pooja continued, “I would be most honored. At my expense, of course, and if it would not be too disruptive to your life in New York.”

Feyi stared at her, stunned, and Pooja let out a chuckle.

“It is a selfish offer on my part, make no mistake. As a collector, I am somewhat … determined. Impatient, as well. I would rather not chance the many interruptions life, New York, and a blossoming career such as yours will most likely bring if I were to wait.”

Feyi was trying to come up with a reply when Pooja looked over her shoulder and broke into a wide smile.

“Alim!” she called, waving in the air. “Alim Blake, out in public, when did hell freeze over? Did I miss the memo?”

Feyi felt the air around her distort as Alim walked up next to her. “Pooja, my dear,” he said, giving her a warm hug and kissing her cheek. “I should have known you’d be here, of course. Where’s Sanjeet?”

“Ah, he’s off with his mother on holiday in Tobago while I am working hard trying to entice the lovely Ms. Adekola here to stay longer on our island so I can commission some work from her. Perhaps you could support my worthy cause? Ms. Adekola, this is Alim Blake, one of the finest chefs this island and the world has to offer.”

Feyi glanced up at Alim’s face, now settled and amused, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

“Ms. Adekola is actually a guest at my home,” he said, “and she is more than welcome to stay as long as she wishes.” He held her gaze for a beat longer than she could stand, and Feyi dropped her eyes quickly, trying not to look as thrown as she felt.

Pooja clapped her hands in delight. “Well, that is just perfect! But if you ever get tired of the isolation up there, please say the word and we shall relocate you to the downtown Hilton in no time!” She slipped Feyi her card and smiled at both of them broadly. “I am off to make my rounds, but I shall see you both later, yes? At the dinner? And perhaps, Ms. Adekola, you might give my proposition some thought by then? It has been a pleasure!” She drifted away, humming to herself, and Feyi was left alone with Alim, who looked over at her with hooded eyes.

“You look … spectacular,” he said, his voice low. He was in all white, a long embroidered tunic and narrow trousers, a touch of red on his bottom lip, the blackness encircling his eyes. Feyi wondered how they looked standing next to each other, deep blood and a long cloud, both adorned, both dark as two different nights.

“You look beautiful,” she replied softly, and Alim’s control slipped for just a second, strong feeling bolting through his face like lightning.

“Thank you.” He cleared his throat and glanced back at her installation. “Your piece—”