What I Loved

can't be cut off from what you do—that you yourself are, well, dangerous."
    He laughed. There was contentment, pleasure, and charm in that laugh. I also noticed how small his teeth were—like two rows of baby teeth. "You're right," he said. "I use myself as an object. I recognize that it's not new, but nobody's quite done what I do either."
    "With horror clichés, you mean?"
    "Exactly. Horror is extreme, and extremes are purging. That's why people watch the films or come to see my work."
    I had a strong feeling of repetition. Giles had said this before. He had probably said it a thousand times.
    "But clichés are deadening, aren't they?" I said. "By their very nature they kill meaning."
    He smiled at me, a little indulgently. "I'm not interested in meaning. I have to tell you, I don't think it's very important anymore. People don't care about it, really. Speed is important. And pictures. The quick take for short attention spans. Ads, Hollywood movies, the six o'clock news, yes, even art—it all comes down to shopping. And what is shopping? It's walking around until a desirable something pops up and you buy it. Why do you buy it? Because it catches your eye. If it doesn't, you click to another channel. And why does it catch your eye? Because something about it gives you a little rush. It might be a sparkle or a glow or a bit of gore or a bare ass. It doesn't matter. It's the rush that counts—not the something. It's circular. You want the rush again, so you go looking for it. You plunk down your dollars and buy again."
    "But very few people buy art," I said.
    "True, but sensational art sells magazines and newspapers, and the buzz brings collectors, and collectors bring money, and round and round it goes. Does my honesty shock you?"
    "No. I'm just not sure that people are quite as shallow as you pretend."
    "But you see, I don't think there's anything wrong with shallow." He lit another cigarette. "I'm far more offended by all the pious pretensions people have about how deep they are. It's a Freudian lie, isn't it—that there's this big unconscious blob in everybody."
    "I think notions of human depth probably pre-date Freud," I said. I could hear the dry academic take hold in my voice. Giles was boring me, not because he was stupid but because there was something detached in his tone, a remote and practiced cadence that made me tired. He was looking at me, and I thought I sensed disappointment from him. He had wanted to entertain me. He was used to journalists who rose to the bait, who found him clever. I changed the subject. "I spoke to Teenie Gold yesterday," I said.
    Giles nodded. "I haven't seen her in months. How is Teenie?"
    I decided not to mince words. "She showed me a scar on her stomach—Mark's initials—which she said ..." I stopped and looked at Giles.
    He was listening attentively. "Yes?"
    "She said you cut the letters into her skin while Mark held her down."
    Giles looked more than surprised. "Oh my God," he said. "Poor Teenie." He shook his head sadly and blew smoke upward. "Teenie cuts herself. She has scars all over her arms. She's tried to stop, but she can't. It makes her feel good. She once told me it makes her feel real." He paused, tapped the ash off his cigarette, and said, "We all like to feel real." He crossed his legs, and a naked knee appeared from between the folds of the elaborate robe. I glanced down at his calf and noticed razor stubble. Giles had confirmed my own doubts about Teenie's story, and yet I wondered why she would manufacture such an elaborate tale. Teenie was far from clever. "I'm sure Mark will call me," Giles continued. "Maybe even today. What if I have a talk with him and ask him to get in touch with you and let you know where he is? I think he'll listen to me."
    I stood up. "Thank you," I said. "If you do that, we'd be very grateful."
    Giles stood up too. He smiled at me, but his lips looked strained. "We-e?" he said, turning the word into two chanted syllables.
    His tone unnerved me, but I answered him steadily. "Yes," I said. "He can call either me or Violet." I began to walk in the direction of the door. In the entryway, I was met with myriad reflections again from all sides— my own in blue oxford shirt and khaki pants, Giles's in the brilliant red kimono and the garish colors of the furniture in the vast room behind us, all of it fractured by the mirrored panels. With the unctuous "We?" reverberating in my ears, I grabbed a knob, turned it, and opened the