Tremain's exhibit had been the talk of the New York press, but Lorenzo had resisted all invitations to attend until now. The reason he gave was always the same: as a Lower East Side resident the thought of trudging to Williamsburg was too much. It was a rote answer, but had worked until his editor called upon him to cover the event.
So, pass in hand, he hopped the train to Brooklyn and made his way to the implacable studio with it's red litten windows and strangely unsettling industrial facade.
Once inside, he was met by a circle of art critics, fanatics and poseurs that some might call friends. Lorenzo was never quite sure if anybody really liked each other. He grabbed a glass of red wine, bantered a bit about how art was all too safe these days, and so on, how nobody took risks, or how they copied Duchamp and teased out their hair with just enough gel to create the appearance of bedraggled chaos.
What they weren't allowed to do was enter the exhibit until exactly 10pm. That was Tremain, they all said. So they stood in little self-conscious half-circles and drank the free wine -- all reds, no whites -- and they listened to the soundtrack of the evening being played through the heavy wooden doorways that led to the exhibit.
What is that noise? someone asked.
To Lorenzo, it sounded not like music at all. It sounded like screams of pain. Wailing. Torture.