Reactive Action

Mark felt as if his skin was on fire. He couldn’t stand still in his small office, his right leg seemed to have a life by itself. Every five minutes he looked at his watch, he had already sent the editorial group his review of the latest Damien Chazelle film, another pretentious and idealistic piece to add to his catalogue of supposed art. He had never had such a long day at work. But he had to calm down, today would be the day. The day that would change everything. He was almost certain that after tonight, he would never again have to set foot in that trashy magazine. Never again would he have to listen to the stifling words of his nasty boss, or force himself to smile seductively at his assistant manager, he could no longer remember how many times he had told her about the existence of his wife, Poppy.

The fresh and icy city air rejuvenated him, today he wouldn’t take an Uber nor he would take the subway, his mind and body would thank him. As he walked, he felt the heavy presence of the letter he was carrying in his briefcase. Two days ago, at about six o’clock in the evening, when he was usually watching the game and having a few beers on his couch, the doorbell rang. He snorted, it seemed as if the world was looking for ways to bother him at the only time of the day when he was alone and didn’t have to listen to his wife’s demands, if she knew he still had his shoes on…

– A delivery for Mark Brown – Announced the stranger behind his door. He wondered who would be so antiquated as to be sending letters in this day and age.

But when he saw the sender’s name, the world stopped. Delicate, old-fashioned handwriting on thick, cream-coloured paper indicated the name Vazek Stránský. Without thinking, he opened the letter as quickly as he could, almost frantically. “Dear Mark Brown, we are pleased to invite you to the artist’s tenth exhibition. ‘Reactive Action’ will take place on the 25^th
of July of this year at 8:00 pm, 1334 York Ave, New York, Upper East Side. We are awaiting confirmation. Sincerely, Vazek”. With trembling hands, he picked up his phone and began to search the internet for information about the exhibition. How was it possible that he hadn’t heard that the great Stránský was going to present a new project? He could still remember the bitter taste he had been left with when he had handed in his review of his last work. He didn’t understand how someone with that big of a reputation could create such an indifferent kind of art. One that you looked at and didn’t evoke any feelings or thoughts. Yet people fell for it again and again. Thus, he found an article in which the artist explained that this would be his last exhibition, he was exhausted from the weariness of creating his art. Mark chuckled, as if his creative process was exhausting… but then his gaze froze on one sentence. The artist was talking about how he had selected 10 critics of choice to be the first to witness the premiere of his new work, and that there would be special guests from different areas of entertainment. And that for the first and last time the auction of the works would be held in the gallery. Which showed the air of exclusivity that this exhibition would have. The young man couldn’t believe it, he had been specifically selected by Vazek to be one of the only ones to experience what would be ‘Reactive Action’. He could already imagine how many magazines would ask him for the exclusive of the experience or future events he would be invited to. His upcoming success would probably allow him and Poppy to buy their own house and start the life of their dreams once and for all.

The water from the thawing snow on the pavement brought him back to his reality, damn cars that didn’t watch where you were walking. Mark picked up his phone and texted his wife: Honey, are you home from Chicago yet? You’re probably asleep, but I want us to do something special tonight after the show. We should celebrate.

It was a quarter past seven in the evening, he had a few seconds left before he had to leave his house to get to the gallery in time. He looked at himself in front of the mirror in his room as he heard the ringtone of the call. The newly purchased pink shirt without a tie gave him the jovial air with which he had intended to present himself, but the navy blue trousers with his belt and brown-soled shoes indicated his more serious side. The waiting ringtone abruptly ended. It seemed strange to him that Poppy still hadn’t replied, he had sent her several messages and nothing, no response. She was probably still absorbed in her latest project. He sent a message to his work partner, Lissie, asking if she was still with her. He put the phone away and closed the door. But he had nothing to worry about, his world of opportunities awaited him, and if necessary, he would party alone.

The echo of his footsteps on the golden parquet floor comforted him and he forced his heart to keep pace with it. He was already there, surrounded by exceptional people from all types of backgrounds, singers, art moguls, actors, shareholders and other artists. But there was almost no evidence of the art, only ten exaggeratedly large canvases covered by a black cloth spread out in a rectangular room, underneath them a small inscription with the name of the work and the price at which it would start at auction. The only one he had been able to read carefully indicated a price starting at one million dollars. He heard a throat clearing and a sepulchral silence filled the room. Turning around he could see how Vazek had climbed onto the small stage in the middle of the room. Mark, taking a sip from his champagne glass, was impressed to have him in front of him. «Dear guests, today it is with infinite sorrow, but with great pride, that I present to you my latest work,» he began in a stern accent. «I want you to understand tonight that each of these pieces is an outcome of your lives. You have not been selected at random and you are as much the creators of this as I am. And to be clear, no action and no word, creates indifference«. His trousers vibrated and he saw that Lissie had replied that she hadn’t seen Poppy since they had arrived in Manhattan. As he looked up, he saw the artist’s dark eyes settle directly on the young man with a sinister smile, and as he lowered his arms as if he were in an orchestra, he continued: «Behold, ‘Reactive Action’«. Each of the waiters who had previously been serving the sparkling wine stood to one side of the giant canvases. After a glance around and in tandem, they pulled back the black cloths with impetus. Revealing something that would definitely change the course of Mark’s life.

The audience’s applause and comments of praise broke the silence. There, displayed in the second frame from the right, was his wife. Enclosed in a small transparent area, wearing make-up like a lady from another age and dressed in such clothes that she might as well have been wearing nothing at all. Her make-up was already destroyed by her tears and the young man could see how desperately she was beating against the glass. But he couldn’t hear her, nothing she was doing. He looked around him and noticed how all the other pieces exhibited something similar, on the left side of his wife there was a man of an exceptional physique, who was firmly kicking the glass. And to his side, a small white-haired lady was kneeling and praying. Each of his fellow workers ran to the corresponding squares, trying to rescue their loved ones, to help them in any way they could.

Mark tried with all his might to tear off the black frame that surrounded the glass, tears blurring his vision. He tried hitting the glass again and again, he shouted for help to the people around him, but no one responded. Everyone was still staring allured at the people locked in the glass cubicles. He looked back at his wife and she was kneeling at his level, her forehead and right hand pressed against the glass, he mimicked her gesture and closed his eyes. Maybe there was a way to save her, but he would never manage to do it. He looked at the caption: no sentiment, $2,000,000.

There was a sharp knock on the wood, and all the spectators turned around again. Stránský stood on the stage, smiling. He opened his arms and announced in a voice that sent a shiver through Mark’s body: The auction shall begin.