“All this mischigosch for a warehouse fire?”
“It’s cheaper to go back and get the stuff than to avoid the fire,” he said. “It all has to do with Timeslip insurance or something.”
The phone rang. “How’s it going?”
“It’s two in the morning, Borogove!” I said, in ingles.
“Please, Teresa, call me Mimsy. Is it finished?”
“I’m working on it,” I lied. “Go to sleep.”
“Who was that?” Shorty asked, in Spanish. “La Gordita?”
“Don’t be cruel,” I said, pulling on my T-shirt and underpants. “You go to sleep, too. I have to get back to work.”
“Okay, but wake me up by four. If I oversleep and get stuck here—”
“If you had overslept we would already know about it, wouldn’t we?” I said, sarcastically. But he was already snoring.
“I can’t put it off for a week!” said Borogove the next day at the gallery. “Everybody who’s anybody in the downtown art scene is going to be here tomorrow night.”
“But—”
“Teresa, I’ve already ordered the wine.”
“But—”
“Teresa, I’ve already ordered the cheese. Plus, remember, whatever we sell beyond the three paintings they’re coming for is gravy. Comprende?”
“En ingles, Borogove,” I said. “But what if I don’t finish this painting in time?”
“Teresa, I insist, you must call me Mimsy. If you weren’t going to finish it, they would have arranged a later pickup date, since they already know what will happen. For God’s sake, girl, quit worrying. Go home and get to work!
You have until tomorrow night.”
“But I don’t even know where to start!”
“Don’t you artists have any imagination? Make something up!”
I had never been blocked before. It’s not like constipation; when you’re constipated you can work sitting down.
I padded and paced like a caged lion, staring at my blank canvas as if I were trying to get up the appetite to eat it.
By eleven-thirty I had started it and painted it out six times. It just didn’t feel right.
Just as the clock was striking midnight, a column of air near the sink began to shimmer and… but you’ve seen Star Trek. Shorty appeared by the sink, one hand behind his back.
“Am I glad to see you!” I said. “I need a clue.”
“A clue?”
“This painting. ‘La Rosa del Futuro.’ Your catalogue from the future has a picture of it. Let me see it.”
“Copy your own painting?” Shorty said. “That would cause a Timeslip for sure.”
“I won’t copy it!” I said. “I just need a clue. I’ll just glance at it.”
“Same thing. Besides, Stretch carries the catalogue. I’m just his helper.”