cwilleford.theburntorangeheresy-第12章

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　　〃Steal　a　picture？　Why　can't　he　buy　one？　He's　rich　enough。〃
　　〃Debierue　doesn't　sell　his　pictures。　I　explained　all　that。　If　Cassidy　gets　a　picture；　even　one　that's　been　stolen；　he'll　be　the　only　collector　in　the　world　to　have　one；　you　see。〃
　　〃What　good　will　it　do　him？　If　it's　a　stolen　picture；　Debierue　can　get　it　back　by　calling　the　police。〃
　　〃Debierue　won't　know　he　has　it；　and　neither　will　anyone　else…until　after　Debierue's　dead；　anyway。　Then　the　picture　will　be　even　more　valuable。〃
　　〃How're　you　going　to　steal　a　picture　without　Debierue　knowing　it　was　you？〃
　　〃I　don't　know　yet。　I'm　playing　things　by　ear　at　the　moment。　It　might　not　be　a　picture。　If　he's　working　with　ceramics；　I　can　slip　a　piece　in　my　pocket　while　you　distract　him。　Maybe　there　are　some　drawings　around。　Mr。　Cassidy　would　be　satisfied　with　a　drawing。　In　fact　he'd　be　delighted。　But　until　I　find　out　what　Debierue　has　been　doing；　I　won't　know　what　to　do　myself。〃
　　〃But　you　want　me　to　help　you？〃
　　〃If　you　want　to；　yes。　He　can't　watch　both　of　us　at　the　same　time；　and　he's　an　old　man。　So　when　a　chance　es；　and　it　will；　I'll　give　you　the　high　sign　and　then　I'll　snatch　something。〃
　　〃It's　awfully　haphazard；　James；　the　way　you　say　it。　Besides；　as　soon　as　we　leave；　he'll　know　that　you're　the　one　who　stole　it…whatever　it　is。〃
　　〃No。〃　I　shook　my　head。　〃He　won't　know。　He'll　suspect　that　I　took　it；　but　he　won't　be　able　to　prove　it。　I'll　deny　everything；　if　charged；　and　besides　it'll　never　get　that　far。　Meanwhile；　Mr。　Cassidy　will　have　the　painting；　chunk　of　sculpture；　drawing；　or　whatever；　hidden　away　where　Jesus　Christ　couldn't　find　it。　See？〃
　　〃Do　you　realize；　James；〃　she　said；　rather　primly；　〃that　if　you　ever　got　caught　stealing　a　painting　from　anybody　that　your　career　would　be　over？〃
　　〃Not　really；　and　not；　certainly；　from　Debierue。　His　work；　as　you　mentioned　before　about　Van　Gogh；　belongs　to　the　world…and　if　I　were　ever　tried　for　something　like　that；　which　I　wouldn't　be…I'd　have　a　defense　fund　from　art　lovers　and　art　magazines　that　would　make　me　look　like　a　White　Panther。　Anyway；　that's　the　plan…in　addition　to　somehow　getting　an　interview；　of　course。〃
　　〃It　isn't　much　of　a　plan。〃
　　〃True。　But　now　that　you　know　what　I　have　to　do；　you　might　get　an　idea　once　we're　on　the　scene。　The　important　thing　is　this：　don't　take　anything　yourself。　I'll　take　it　when　the　time　is　propitious。　I　have　to　get　the　interview　before　anything　else　is　done。〃
　　〃I　understand。〃
　　The　rain　caught　us　before　we　reached　Lake　Worth。
　　There　were　torrents　of　it；　and　I　could　hardly　see　to　drive。　Berenice；　because　of　her　suit；　had　to　roll　up　her　window；　but　it　was　too　hot　for　me　to　roll　up　mine。　My　left　shoulder　and　arm　got　soaked；　but　with　the　humidity　I　would　have　been　just　as　wet　inside　the　car　with　the　window　rolled　up。　The　rain　finally　came　down　so　hard　I　had　to　pull　over　to　the　curb　in　Lake　Worth　to　wait　for　a　letup。
　　Berenice　was　frowning。　〃How　much；〃　she　asked；　〃does　a　baby　whale　weigh　when　it's　first　born？〃
　　〃One　ton。　And　it's　fourteen　feet　long。〃　I　lit　a　cigarette　and　passed　it　to　Berenice。　She　shook　her　head　and　handed　it　back。　I　took　a　long　drag。　〃One　ton；〃　I　said　solemnly；　〃is　two　thousand　pounds。〃
　　〃I　know　how　much　a　ton　is！〃　she　said　angrily。　〃You…　you…you　damned　intellectual；　you！〃
　　I　couldn't　contain　myself。　I　had　to　laugh　and　ruin　my　joke。
　　
　　
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　　I　could　have　taken　State　Road　Seven　straight　away　by　picking　it　up　west　of　West　Palm　Beach；　but　because　the　old　two…lane　highway　was　used　primarily　by　truck　traffic　barreling　for　Miami's　back　door；　into　Hialeah；　I　stayed　on　U。S。　1　all　the　way　to　Boynton　Beach　before　searching　for　a　through　road　to　make　the　cutover。　I　got　lost　for　a　few　minutes　and　made　several　aimless　circles　where　new　blacktops　had　been　crushed　down　for　a　subdivision　called　inappropriately　Ocean　Pine　Terraces　（miles　from　the　ocean；　no　pines；　no　terraces）；　but　when　I　finally　reached　the　state　highway；　it　was　freshly　paved；　and　the　truck　traffic　wasn't　nearly　as　bad　as　I　had　expected。
　　The　rain；　mercifully；　had　stopped。
　　My　crude　map　was　clear　enough；　but　I　had　zipped　past　Debierue's　turnoff　to　the　Dixie　Drive…in　Movie　Theater　before　I　realized　it。　The　mixed　dirt…and…gravel　private　road　leading　to　Debierue's　home…and…studio　was　clearly　visible　from　the　highway；　and　on　the　right　of　the　highway　about　three　hundred　yards　before　the　drive…in　entrance；　but　I　had　failed　to　notice　it。　I　made　a　crimped　circle　in　the　deserted　drive…in　entrance　and　this　time；　from　the　other　side　of　the　highway；　it　was　easy　to　spot　the　break。
　　Thick　gama　grass　had　reclaimed　the　deep　wheel　ruts　of　the　road；　and　I　crawled　along　in　first　gear。　The　bumpy；　rarely　used　trail　straight…lined　through　a　stand　of　secondgrowth　slash　pine　for　about　a　half　mile　and　then　made　a　sigmoid　loop　to　circumvent　two　stinking　stagnant　ponds　of　black　swamp　water。　On　the　right　of　the　road；　abandoned　chicken　runs　stretched　into　the　jungly　mass　of　greenery；　and　weeds　had　grown　straight　and　tall　along　the　sagging　chicken…wire　fences。　The　unpainted　wooden　chickenhouses　had　weathered　to　an　unpatterned　dirty　gray；　and　most　of　the　roofs　had　caved　in。　The　narrow　road　petered　out　at　an　open　peeled…pine　gate。　I　eased　into　the　fenced　area；　with　its　untended；　thickly　grassed　yard；　which　resembled　a　huge；　brown　bathmat；　and　pulled　up　in　front　of　the　screened　porch　of　the　house。
　　Paradoxically；　I　was　awed　by　my　first　sight　of　the　old　painter。　I　switched　off　the　engine；　and　as　it　ticked　heatedly　away；　I　sat　and　stared。　I　say　〃paradoxically〃　because　Debierue　in　person　was　anything　but　awe　inspiring。
　　He　resembled　any　one　of　a　thousand；　no　literally　tens　of　thousands；　of　those　tanned　Florida　retirees　one　sees　on　bridges　fishing；　on　golf　courses　tottering；　and　on　the　shuffleboard　courts　of　rest　homes　and　public　parks　shuffling。　He　even　wore　the　uniform。　Green…billed　khaki　baseball　cap；　white　denim　Bermuda　shorts；　low…cut　Zayre　tennis　shoes　in　pale　blue　canvas；　and　the　standard　white　open…necked　〃polo〃　shirt　with　short　sleeves。　The　inevitable　tiny　green　alligator　was　embroidered　over　the　left　pocket　of　the　shirt；　an　emblem　so　mon　in　Florida　that　any　Miami　Beach　edian　could　get　a　laugh　by　saying；　〃They　caught　an　alligator　in　the　Glades　the　other　day；　and　he　was　wearing　a　shirt　with　a　little　man　sewn　over　the　pocket　。　。　。〃
　　But　unlike　those　other　thousands　of　old　men　who　had　retired　to　Florida　in　anticipation　of　a　warm　death；　men　who　had　earned　their　dubious　retirement　by　running　shoe　stores；　managing　light…bulb　plants　in　Amarillo；　manufac　turing　condoms　in　Newark；　hustling　as　harried　sales　managers　in　the　ten　western　states；　Debierue　had　served；　and　was　still　serving；　the　strictest　master　of　them　all…the　selfdiscipline　of　the　artist。
　　Debierue；　apparently　unperturbed　by　the　arrival　of　a　strange；　beat…up　convertible　in　his　yard；　sat　limberly　erect　in　a　green…webbed；　aluminum　patio　chair　beside　the　porch　door；　soaking　up　late　afternoon　sun。　I　was　pleased　to　see　that　he　was　allowing　his　white　beard　to　grow　again　（for　several　years　he　had　been　clean　shaven）；　but　it　was　not　as　long　and　Melvillean　as　it　had　been　in　photos　of　the　old　artist　taken　in　the　twenties。
　　Physically；　Debierue　was　asthenic。　Long…limbed；　longbodied；　slight；　with　knobby　knees　and　elbows。　Advanced　age　had　caused　his　thin　shoulders　to　droop；　of　course；　and　there　was　a　melony　potbelly　below　his　belt。　His　sunbronzed　skin；　although　it　was　wrinkled；　gave　the　old　man　a　healthy；　almost　robust　appearance。　His　keen　blue　eyes　were　alert　and　unclouded；　and　the　great　blade　of　his　beaky　French　nose　did　not　have　those　exposed；　tiny　red　veins　one　usually　associates　with　aged　retirees　in　Florida。　His　full；　sensuous　lips　formed　a　fat　grape…colored　〃O〃…a　dark；　plump　circle　encircled　by　white　hair。　His　blue　stare；　with　which　he　returned　mine；　was　incurious；　polite；　direct；　and　distant；　but　during　the　long　unfortable　moment　we　sat　in　silent　confrontation；　I　detected　an　air　of　vigilance　in　his　sharp　old　eyes。
　　As　a　critic　I　had　learned　early　in　the　game　how　unwise　it　was　to　give　too　much　weight　or　credence　to　first　impressions；　but　under　his　steady；　unwavering　gaze　I　felt…I　knew…that　I　was　in　the　presence　of　a　giant；　which；　in　turn；　made　me　feel　like　a　violator；　a　criminal。　And　if；　in　that　first　moment；　he　had　pointed　to　the　gate　silently…without　even　saying　〃Get　out！〃…I　would　have　departed　without　uttering　a　word。
　　But　such　was　not　the　case。
　　Berenice；　her　hands　folded　in　her　lap　over　her　chamois　drawstring　handbag；　sat　quietly；　and　there　she　would　sit　until　I　got　out　of　the　car；　walked　around　it；　and　opened　the　door　on　her　side。
　　I　was　uninvited；　an　unexpected　visitor；　and　it　was　up　to　me　to　break　the　frozen　sea　that　divided　us。　Apprehensively；　and　dangling　the　Land　camera　from　its　carrying　strap　on　two　fingers；　I　got　out　of　the　car　and　nodded　politely。
　　〃Good　afternoon；　M。　Debierue；〃　I　said　in　French；　trying　to　keep　my　voice　deep；　like　Jean　Gabin；　〃at　long　last　we　meet！〃
　　Apparently　he　hadn't　heard　any　French　（and　mine　wasn't　so　bad）　for　a　long　time。　Debierue　smiled…and　what　a　wonderful；　warmhearted　smile　he　had！　His　smile　was　so　sweet；　so　sincere；　so　insinuating　that　my　heart　twisted　with　sudden　pain。　It　was　a　smile　to　shatter　the　world。　His　ageruined　mouth；　purple　lips　and　all；　was　beautiful　when　he　smiled。　Several　teeth　were　missing；　both　uppers　and　lowers；　and　those　that　remained　gave　a　jack…o'…lantern　effect　to　his　generous　mouth。　But　the　swift　transformation　from　mournful　resignation　to　rejuvenated；　unrestrained　happiness　changed　his　entire　appearance。　The　grooved　down…pointing　lines　in　his　face　were　twisted　into　swirling；　upswept　arabesques。　He　rose　stiffly　from　his　chair　as　I　approached；　and　shook　a　long　forefinger　at　me　in　mock　reproach。
　　〃Ah；　M。　Figueras！　You　have　shaved　your　beard。　You　must　grow　it　back　quickly！〃
　　His　greeting　me　by　name　that　way　brought　sudden　moisture　to　my　eyes。　He　pumped　my　hand；　the　single　up…anddown　European　handshake。　His　long　spatulate　fingers　were　warm　and　dry。
　　〃You…you　know　me？〃　I　said；　in　unfeigned　astonishment。
　　He　treated　me　to　the　first　in　a　series　of　bona　fide　Gallic　shrugs。　〃You；　or　another…〃　he　said　mysteriously；　〃and　it　is　well　that　it　is　you。　I　am　familiar　with　your　work；　naturally；　M。　Figueras。〃
　　I　gulped　like　a　tongue…tied　teen…ager；　abashed；　not　knowing　what　to　say；　and　then　noticed　that　he　was　looking　past　my　shoulder　toward　Berenice。
　　〃Oh！〃　I　said；　running　around　the　car；　and　helping　Berenice　out　the　door。　〃This　is　my　friend；　M。　Debierue；　Mlle　Hollis'
　　Berenice　glared　at　me　when　I　pronounced　her　name　〃Holee；〃　and　said；　〃Hollis；　Mr。　Debierue；〃　in　English；　〃Berenice　Hollis。　And　it's　a　pleasure　to　meet　you；　sir。'；
　　Debierue　kissed　her　hand；　and　I　thought　（I　was　probably　oversensitive）　he　was　a　little　uneasy；　or　put　off　by　her　presence。　He　didn't　know…and　there　was　no　unawkward　way　for　me　to　enlighten　him…whether　she　was　truly　just　a　friend；　my　mistress；　my　secretary；　or　a　well…heeled　art　patron。　I　decided　to　say　nothing　more。　He　would　be　able　to　tell　for　himself　by　the　way　she　looked　at　me　and　touched　my　arm　from　time　to　time　that　we　were　on　intimate　terms。　It　was　best　to　let　it　go　at　that。
　　The　ol