He had entered that zone, much dreaded by light drinkers, when the mind begins to dull, when fixed things take on a fluxed look, every movement seems either too animated or too languid, never balanced, the air in the nostril seems to suffocate with its heat, memory begins to fall asleep, to forget things you just heard, said or thought, when you fear you are getting drunk, but your pride steps in, denies it, rebukes you for thinking such wimpy thoughts . . .

____________________________

Ike Uzondu swept his hand under the bed until his fingers felt the bottle of Absolut vodka. Bringing it out, he used his shirt to wipe off its film of dust. He twisted off its cover. The smell of it assailed his nostrils, and his stomach heaved slightly. He never liked the smell of vodka. If he could help it, he never drank vodka. When he did, he first killed the smell with a liberal spray of Coca-Cola. Nor did he care for its taste, unless it was mottled in chunks of ice and lemon juice.

Tonight, he was prepared to drink the vodka straight, braving its reek and its strong, burning taste. He was a desperate man.

Besides, after tippling a six-pack of Guinness Stout, his better judgment had become impaired. A certain inebriation impinged faintly on his senses. He had entered that zone, much dreaded by light drinkers, when the mind begins to dull, when fixed things take on a fluxed look, every movement seems either too animated or too languid, never balanced, the air in the nostril seems to suffocate with its heat, memory begins to fall asleep, to forget things you just heard, said or thought, when you fear you are getting drunk, but your pride steps in, denies it, rebukes you for thinking such wimpy thoughts, so you end up drinking more until everything is black and you cannot remember anything, not sadness or happiness.

He poured the drink into a glass, alert not to exceed the halfway mark. He brought the glass to his nostrils, testing out his abhorrence against his desperation. He flinched, surprised by the ease with which repulsion enervated his will. From the refrigerator he fetched three cubes of ice and a can of Ginger Ale. After throwing in the cubes and two dabs of Ginger Ale, he swilled the vodka. It was far from a smooth affair, but neither was it as hard to swallow as he feared. The liquid slipped, scalding and cold, through the abraded circuit of his belly. He felt a sharp pain in his guts, the pangs of famishment, hunger flaring up. He immediately lifted the glass again to his lip. Another jet of liquid coursed down his throat. There was no place for food; his stomach had better settle for being mollified with vodka.

He continued sipping until his tongue became accustomed to the taste. Then he pulled out a bulgy file from atop his bookshelf. He flipped through the contents, articles clipped from different magazines and newspapers, things he saved to read again, or to read for the first time when the time could be found. A few quick flips and he saw the feature he was searching for. It lay close to the top of the heap, neatly folded in four places.

Ike lowered himself into the frayed sofa that smelled faintly of his ex-wife’s hair spray. He twisted the knob of a standing lamp. The bulb blinked, then steadied itself, bathing the room with a bright glare. Setting the glass of vodka on a side table, he unfurled the New Yorker Gazette. In his hand was the front page of the paper’s “Living” section. Below the paper’s logo was its motto: “All the news, fit or not.” Beneath the motto, just as he remembered it, was the headline: “The man who sells gods.” The date was Sunday, October 1, 2000.

He took another sip, then began to read.

Ten years ago, Ryoei Saito, a reclusive Japanese billionaire, stunned the world when he plunked down $82.5 million for Vincent Van Gogh’s Portrait of Dr. Gachet. Two days later, Mr. Saito—who reportedly threatened to burn his collection rather than pass it on to his descendants—paid a princely $78.1 million for Pierre-Auguste Renoir’s Au Moulin de la Galette.

Mr. Saito’s sybaritic ebullience—or materialistic hubris—opened a rare window for many into the strange passions of the moneyed class. For the leagues of hourly-paid, bean-counting, and bill-weary unfortunates who populate the world, such blasé displays of affluence can seem callous, tasteless and even unconscionable.

Yet, among the wealthy themselves, such expensive acquisitions are a quotidian part of the equation of life. Expensive artworks figure into what makes the world of the rich go round.

Now, wealthy collectors of expensive art seem to be yielding the stage to those of their number with an even crazier, more exotic taste: god collection. While most of the rich and famous still cleave to art collection, a growing number of them are exploring quainter territory and indulgences.

“Yes, we’re the world’s oldest god shop,” boasted Mark Gruels, a Harvard Business School graduate. . .

Over the last ten years, galleries have opened in such locations as Seattle, Washington, Napa Valley, California, Palm Beach, Florida, and Atlanta, Georgia to cater to a rising appetite for foreign deities and sacred objects. But the oldest such shop—and the acknowledged dean of them—is “foreign gods, inc.”, a gallery located in a quiet street corner in Greenwich Village, New York.

“Yes, we’re the world’s oldest god shop,” boasted Mark Gruels, a Harvard Business School graduate who took over the running of the gallery after the 1996 death of his father and gallery founder, Stephen Gruels-Soto.

In a recent interview at the gallery’s 19 Vance Street address, Mr. Gruels described himself as “a hands-on, hardnosed, intense, but forward looking business executive with a modern outlook—and a zest for life.” Those who know him rate the self-portrait between perceptive and flawless. Even though “foreign gods, inc.” has five full-time staff, Mr. Gruels puts in long hours at the gallery. His charm and infectious humor are often critical in persuading the city’s wealthy to put down several hundred thousand dollars for a godhead from the Tiv pagans of Africa, or fork over a cool million for a sacred totem from a remote, often unpronounceable south-east Asian tribe.

For all his vigorous work ethic, Mr. Gruels also has solid credentials as a man who parties hard. He is carelessly good-looking, endowed with unblemished coppery skin and a physique that would be the envy of many an athlete. A man of improbable intellectual sophistication, he frequently spices his conversations with quotations from Dante, Shakespeare, Sophocles and Socrates. In addition, he is familiar with trends in postmodernist discourse. For a tough-minded man whose business is to buy and sell gods, his invocation of the arcane ideas of Jacques Derrida and Michel Foucault—the French duo whose tortured syntax and obscurantist thoughts enjoy cult following among academic humanists—as well as the American philosopher, Richard Rorty, can sometimes seem like a deft attempt at self-satire. But when the question is broached, Mr. Gruels reminds you that he graduated at the top of his class both at Brown and Harvard. “And,” he adds with deadpan pithiness, “the god business demands a certain inner steeliness, wits and panache.”

His lissome gifts and worldly brilliance have enabled him to smooch and leverage his way into the city’s A-list party set.