COACHELLA VALLEY INDEPENDENT // 15
AUGUST 2021
I reached to shake hands. “I’m Dante. Welcome.” “And I’m Clarence Kwon. Friends call me Clark.” “Hi there”—I smiled—“Clark.” “C’mon in,” he said, stepping aside and closing the door after me. He was dressed with the casual sophistication of moneyed L.A.—wispy calfskin loafers, tailored slacks, and a clingy creamcolored cashmere sweater with its arms shoved up to his elbows. Nice pecs. Good guns. By contrast, I looked dorky in dad jeans and a yellow polo shirt embroidered with the Sunny Junket logo. Gesturing to myself, I told Clark, “They make me wear this.” He laughed. “You look great.” And I half believed him as he wagged me along, leading me toward the back of the house. As we entered the main room, the view opened up from a wall of glass. Although I had seen it many times, the elevated vista never failed to stop me cold. Even on that gloomy day, I caught my breath as the city spread out below, peeking through the crowns of distant palms. Sloping down from one side, granite mountains muscled into the scene to wrap around the city. Above, in a vast gray sky, clouds slowly roiled, snagged on the barren shards of the horizon. “Edison,” said Clark, “the guy from the agency is here.” Seated at the center of the huge window, facing out, mere inches from the glass, a man in a wheelchair remained dead still for a moment. Then he grasped both wheels. The rings adorning his hands clanged the chrome rims as he turned the chair to face me. I stepped toward him. “Stop,” he said sharply. “Let me get a look at you.” I waited. He was older than me, well into his 70s, and way too heavy to be healthy. Though stuck in a wheelchair, he was smartly dressed—to the point of flamboyance—with a silk scarf of peacock blue around his neck. I shot him a smile. “Forgive me if I don’t get up,” he said. “If I could, I’d kiss you.” He spoke with a worldly refinement and the trace of a Castilian lisp. I moved to the wheelchair. “But I hardly know you.” He grinned as we shook hands. “You’re quite the cheeky little cabbage, aren’t you?” “I’ve been called many things, Mr. Quesada Reál. But never a cabbage.” He let out a feeble roar of a laugh. “Please, please—it’s Edison.” “And I’m Dante.” “Of course you are.” His tone sounded almost suspicious. Had he seen through my act, the stagey name, the swarthy tan? Clark moved to the far end of the room, near the long dining table, where he fussed with several piles of art prints, all of them protected by plastic sleeves. While arranging them vertically in wood-slatted browsing racks, he called over to me, “Did you bring us something to sign?” “No, actually, that was handled online. I just need to snap a picture of the credit card you’ll use for payment—and a driver’s license to verify the name.” Edison noted, “I don’t drive. You’ll need to handle this, precious.” The younger man stopped his sorting. With an impatient sigh, he pulled his wallet from a pocket, slid out his license and an AmEx, and plopped them on the table. “This what you need?” “You bet.” I went over and took pictures of the cards with my phone. I noticed that Clarence Kwon was 34, which could not
have been half Edison’s age. I assumed they were a couple; even though their rental was one of our most expensive properties, it had only one bedroom. I explained, “For these pedigreed houses, we run the charges every other day.” Clark shrugged. “Whatever.” “Perfectly understandable,” said Edison, wheeling himself in our direction. “You know I’m good for it, precious.” Clark said nothing as he resumed sorting the artwork. Edison continued, “Truth be told, no price would be too high for this.” He flung both arms, a gesture that embraced the whole house. Then he leaned forward, beading me with a milky stare. “Do you know who designed this, Dante?” “Umm, I’ve heard, but …” Edison sat back, twining the plump fingers of both hands. “Alva Kessler designed and built this house for himself shortly before he died in the late fifties. He envisioned it as a pure, modernist vacation ‘cabin’—a sleek exercise in glass and steel. Truly magnificent, yes? In its sheer minimalism, it’s every bit as fresh and avant-garde as it was sixty years ago. And now, for a while, it’s all mine.” Edison paused, turning his head toward Clark. “I mean, it’s all ours.” “Right,” said Clark, looking peeved. “Ours, when I’m not at the convention center.” I asked, “The art sale? I know it’s a big deal during Modernism. I went once.” “Once”—Edison sniffed—”is enough.” Clark added, “If you’ve seen one lava lamp, or one Noguchi table, you’ve seen’m all.” Edison explained that his Los Angeles gallery, Quesada Fine Prints—which dealt in original graphic art, no reproductions— had rented exhibit space where they would offer collectors a wide selection of lithographs, engravings, and screen prints from the mid-1900s. The bulk of their inventory had already been delivered to the convention center, with two of their staffers setting up for the show. The most valuable works, however, would remain here at the house, with Clark showing them by appointment or delivering them for consideration by high-end buyers. Listening to these details, I stepped over to one of the racks to take a look and was instantly drawn to a smaller print, less than a foot high. “This is great,” I said, breaking into a smile as I lifted it from the bin. “It would sure be at home in Palm Springs.” Bright and colorful, it was a blotchy depiction of a swimming pool. “That’s a David Hockney,” said Clark. “Limited-edition lithograph, signed artist’s proof, mint condition. At this show, it’s our jewel in the crown.” Edison said, “Sell that one to the right buyer, precious, and you’ll get the other Bentley.” He turned to tell me, “Clark’s been wanting the convertible.” Gingerly, I handed the Hockney to Clark, who said, “Edison is exaggerating.” He glanced at the coded sticker on the back of
the plastic sleeve, adding, “Or maybe not.” “I’m feeling peckish,” said Edison. “Some trifle would help.” Under his breath, Clark told me, “He’s been a bit much lately.” Edison reminded us, “I can hear you.” Clearly seething, Clark turned to the wheelchair. “I’m not your coolie servant.” “But you are.” Edison chuckled. “You can leave, if you want—but you won’t. And I can’t divorce you, can I? Far too costly. Face it, precious: we’re stuck.” Rain began to spit against the expansive window and drip in long tendrils, streaking the glass from top to bottom, rippling the million-dollar view. Hoping to defuse the tension, I asked, “Is there anything I can help you with?” Edison gave me a lecherous look. “Like … what?” “I’d show you through the house, but you’re already settled in. It’s an older place, has a few quirks. The electronics are all new. Most guests have questions.” Edison said, “We’ll figure it out.” Then he blurted, “Pink fluff!” Bewildered, I looked to Clark for guidance. Still sorting prints, he spoke to me over his shoulder. “We brought a few things that need to go in the fridge—including the raspberry trifle. Could you?” “Sure.” The galley kitchen opened into the main room from the street side of the house. While the A/V system was up-to-the-minute, the kitchen had retro appliances with a midcentury vibe. The vintage refrigerator was a hulking old Philco in red porcelain enamel; the doors of the top freezer and the main compartment both featured elaborate chrome-handled latches. Edison wheeled in behind me, watching as I hefted five or six shopping bags from the floor to the countertop. They held a few canned goods and liquor bottles, which I set aside, but they were mostly filled with clear plastic containers brimming with a sludgy concoction that Edison had aptly described as pink fluff. Two bags contained ingredients to make more of it—box after box of fresh raspberries, jars of raspberry jam and Melba sauce, several hefty packages of pound cake. A zippered thermal bag contained at least a dozen rattling cans of aerosol whipped cream. “Now,” Edison barked with a wild look in his eyes, “pink fluff!” I removed the lid from one of the Tupperware tubs. “Smell it,” he commanded. Whoa. The recipe had been lavishly spiked with
Listening to these details,
I stepped over to one of the
racks to take a look and was instantly drawn to a smaller print, less than a foot high.
“This is great,” I said, breaking into a smile as I lifted it from
the bin. “It would sure be at
home in Palm Springs.” Bright
and colorful, it was a blotchy
depiction of a swimming pool.
continued on next page CVIndependent.com