Appearances were always important to John Schatz. Now, after losing his wealth, appearances were everything.
He walked into Medea Coffee in NE Minneapolis. Light shone through large windows. The converted red brick warehouse was old, and the coffee shop occupied street-level shop space. The offices above were largely empty, due to Covid.
A middle-aged woman in beads sat reading. She glanced up as Schatz passed. He gave her a friendly look. She returned to her book, rather haughtily.
Another artist, he thought.
Removing his shoulder bag, he sat by a window and tipped his cowboy boots on their heels. He was dressed like the Marlboro Man. A non-smoking Marlboro man, in a jean jacket and tooled belt with a big, silver buckle. Angular, lean, approaching sixty, Schatz looked much younger. To the point where the gray beard and gray hair seemed self-willed, a deliberate attempt at maturity.
The effect was one of affluence and modest self-assurance, and this is what Li-Li saw when she entered the coffee shop.
He waved at the young woman. A plate clattered in the kitchen. Li-Li walked over, hugging herself. She sat, still hugging. “I shouldn’t be here,” she said.
“Does Reba know?”
“Um, no.”
“Then you may do as you please.”
“I suppose.”
“Relax. Let me take your coat.”
Schatz hung her jacket on a peg. He sat again and got to the point. He disliked evasion. “I have a gift for you,” he said, opening his satchel. He produced two postcard-size tickets. “There’s a show at the Art Institute this weekend. Europe: Fashion Between the Wars.”
“This weekend?”
“Big shoulders, fedoras, capes, wide lapels. And that’s just the women. Fascinating era. There will be a bit of wine, an exhibit, a few models. Helene’s of Edina is catering. It’s been sold out for months. But of course, that doesn’t include certain people.” He dropped the tickets on the table.
Li-Li looked at these uncertainly.
“One for you. One for Reba.”
“Reba’s in Chicago.”
“Really!” he said, frowning. “What a shame.” Schatz, of course, knew all along Reba was travelling. “In that case, bring a friend.”
Li-Li seemed to be thinking.
“Or not. It’s up to you. You’ll be absolutely comfortable, in any case. I know everyone on the board. I understand Patti Smith will be there. Mark Cuban. Chance the Rapper. Mila Kunis.” Wealth, power, intellect, connections. There are few women who can resist. And fewer men.
“Well, I suppose.”
“That’s my girl.”
A waitress brought two heavy, short glasses of steaming, cream-colored coffee. “Pingado,” Schatz said. “It’s Portuguese. They serve it in glasses, instead of cups.”
A layer of unfrothed milk lay on top. Li-Li sipped. The milk was almost cool. “Mmm,” she murmured.
“It is good, isn’t it?”
Schatz recognized an opening. Portugal, he told her, is really an overlooked country. A country of the sea, wine, artists. He had been there often. You have to get out of Lisbon, he explained. See the country. EspeciallyCaldas da Rainha, where the best tile is made, the most artistic. As a ceramist she knew all about tile, of course…
“Of course.” she answered. An instructor at her institute had spoken of it for perhaps five minutes.
He continued. “In Caldas, I know a beautiful pensione. It’s on a hill above the ocean. I always rent the same suite, with a view of the beach. In the morning the proprietress brings coffee, tangerine juice, butter, brioches.”
The balcony had ivy, pots with ferns and an iron rail. Li-Li’s eyes shone.
Schatz took her hand. He had no intention of seducing her. He needed friends and cohorts. But there were times he was not entirely in control of himself. You’re an artist, he told her. Portugal is made for you.
Li-Li smiled, dropping her eyes.
“I have a book,” he continued. “Essentials of Portuguese Pottery.” He owned no such book, but would think of something. “It’s back at my studio.”
“You have a studio?”
“A little hide-a-way, nothing much. Very bohemian.”
His room was two blocks away. Convenient for a man whose Mercedes was always in the shop. (Actually, it was owned by an orthodontist in St. Paul.)
He didn’t need Li-Li’s assent. The spell had been cast. She left her glass unfinished, walking with him to the counter in a dream state. But dreams are temporary. One can be shaken awake.
“I’m sorry sir,” the clerk said. “This card doesn’t work.” Schatz inserted his American Express again.
And again. “I’m sorry, sir.”
In the end, Li-Li had to pay. Schatz assured her there was some mix-up. But Li-Li’s father was a hard working shop owner. It might be said she grew up behind a cash register. She had seen it all before, many times.
John Schatz watched her drive away. There would be no Li-Li in his apartment. No art show with a lovely woman on his arm, his friends smiling across the room.
Fortunately, the disappointment would not last long. Schatz was a man of ambition. The man might be embarrassed, temporarily. But the ambition remained.
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com