cwilleford.theburntorangeheresy-第13章

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n　intimate　terms。　It　was　best　to　let　it　go　at　that。
　　The　old　man's　English　was　adequate；　despite　a　heavy　accent；　and　as　we　talked　in　French；　that　beautiful　late　April　afternoon；　he　or　I　occasionally　translated　or　made　some　ment　to　Berenice　in　English。
　　〃I'm　one　of　those　obscure　journalists　who　presume　to　criticize　art；〃　I　said　modestly；　with　a　nervous　smile；　but　he　stopped　me　by　raising　a　hand。
　　〃Non；　no；　no〃…he　shook　his　head…〃not　obscure；　M。　Figueras。　I　know　your　work　well。　The　article　you　wrote　on　the　California　painter　。。。？〃　He　frowned。
　　〃Vint？　Ray　Vint；　you　mean？〃
　　〃Yes；　that's　the　name。　The　little　fly。　That　was　so　droll。〃　He　chuckled　reflectively。　〃Do　not　feel　guilty；　M。　Figueras。〃　He　shrugged。　〃The　true　artist　cannot　hide　forever；　and　if　not　you；　another　would　e。　Now；　e！　e　inside！　I　will　give　you　cold　orange　juice；　fresh　frozen　Minute　Maid。〃
　　I　was　flattered　that　he　knew　my　work　as　well　as　my　name；　or　at　least　one　article…I　checked　myself…written　in　English；　at　that；　and　not　to　my　knowledge　translated　into　French。　But　why　did　he　mention　this　particular　article　on　Vint？　Ray　Vint　was　an　abstract　painter　whose　paintings　sold　sparsely…for　a　dozen　good　reasons　I　won't　go　into　here。　Vint　was　an　excellent　craftsman；　however；　and　could　get　all　the　portrait　work　he　desired…more；　in　fact；　than　he　wanted　to　paint。　He　needed　the　money　he　made　from　portraits　to　be　able　to　work　on　the　abstracts　he　preferred　to　paint。　But　because　he　hated　to　do　portraits；　he　also　hated　the　people　who　sat　for　them　and　provided　him　with　large　sums　for　flattering　likenesses。　He　got　〃revenge〃　on　the　sitters　by　painting　a　fly　on　them。
　　In　medieval　painting；　and　well　into　the　Renaissance；　a　fly　was　painted　on　Jesus　Christ's　crucified　body：　the　fly　on　Jesus'　body　was　a　symbol　of　redemption；　because　a　fly　represented　sin　and　Jesus　was　without　sin。　A　fly　painted　on　the　person　of　a　layman；　however；　signified　sin　without　redemption；　or　translated　into　〃This　person　is　going　to　Hell！〃　Ray　Vint　painted　a　trompe…l'oeil　fly　on　every　portrait。
　　Sometimes　his　patrons　didn't　notice　the　fly　for　several　days；　and　when　they　did　they　were　unaware　of　its　significance。　They　were　usually　delighted　when　they　discovered　it。　The　fly　became　a　conversational　gambit　when　they　showed　the　portrait　to　their　friends：　〃Notice　anything　unusual　there　about　my　portrait？〃
　　Artists；　of　course；　when　they　saw　the　fly；　laughed　inwardly；　but　said　nothing　to　the　patrons　about　the　meaning　of　the　Vintian　trademark。　I　had　hesitated　about　whether　to　mention　Vint's　symbolic　revenge　when　I　wrote　about　him；　not　wanting　to　jeopardize　his　livelihood。　But　I　had　decided；　in　the　end；　to　bring　the　matter　up　because　it　was　a　facet　of　Vint's　personality　that　said　something　implicit　about　the　emotionless　nature　of　his　abstracts。
　　As　I　guided　Berenice　into　the　house　in　Debierue's　wake；　holding　her　left　elbow；　I　became　apprehensive　about　the　old　painter's　offhand　remark　and　dry；　brief　chuckle。　A　chuckle；　unlike　a　sudden　smile　or　a　sincere　burst　of　laughter；　is　difficult　to　interpret。　Whether　a　chuckle　is　friendly　or　unfriendly；　it　merely　serves　as　a　nervous　form　of　punctuation。　But　to　mention　one　particular　incident；　or　paragraph；　out　of　the　thousands　I　had　written；　and　the　〃fly〃　symbol　at　that；　caused　the　knot　of　anxiety　in　the　pit　of　my　stomach　to　throb。　The　fact　that　he　had　read　my　piece　on　Vint　（not　a　hack　job；　because　I　don't　write　hack　pieces；　but　it　certainly　wasn't　one　of　my　best　articles…Vint's　work　simply　hadn't　been　good　enough　for　a　serious　in…depth　treatment）　could　be　a　hindrance　to　me。
　　No　one　knew；　because　Debierue　had　never　mented；　what　the　old　man　had　thought　about　Gait's　article；　with　its　fanciful　〃Chironesque〃　interpretations；　but　writers　with　reputations　much　greater　than　mine　had　been　turned　down　subsequently　when　they　had　asked　the　painter　for　interviews。　After　the　Gait　article；　Debierue　had　every　right　to　distrust　critics。
　　Damn　Galt；　anyway；　I　thought　bitterly。　Then　I　saw　the　gilded　baroque　frame　on　the　wall　and　pointed　to　it。
　　〃That　isn't　the　famous　No。　One；　is　it？〃
　　Debierue　pursed　his　lips；　and　shrugged。　〃It　was；〃　he　answered　lightly；　and　entered　the　kitchen。
　　The　moment　I　examined　the　picture　I　knew　what　he　meant；　of　course。　There　was　no　crack　on　the　wall　behind　the　mount。　The　frame；　without　the　crack；　and　not　hanging　in　its　original　environment；　was　no　longer　the　fabled　No。　One。　My　exultation　was　great　nevertheless。　It　was　something　I　had　never　expected　to　see　in　my　lifetime。　Berenice；　after　a　quick　glance　at　the　empty　frame；　seated　herself　in　a　Sears…Danish　chair　and　asked　me　for　a　cigarette。
　　I　shook　my　head　impatiently。　〃Not　till　we　ask　permission；〃　I　told　her。
　　There　was　a　narrow　bar…counter　built　into　the　wall。　It　separated　the　kitchen　from　the　living　room。　There　was　no　dining　room；　and　the　living　room　was　furnished　Spartanly。　The　chicken　farmer…tenant　who　had　built　the　house　had　probably　intended；　like　many　Floridians；　to　use　the　large　screened　porch　as　a　dining　area。　There　was　a　square；　confirming　pass…through　window　from　the　kitchen　to　the　porch。
　　There　were　no　other　pictures　on　the　walls；　and　the　living　room　was　furnished　cheaply　and　austerely　with　Sears　furniture。　Mr。　Cassidy　had　certainly　spared　expense　in　furnishing　the　house　for　the　famous　visitor。　There　wasn't　a　hi…fi　stereo；　a　radio；　or　television　set；　and　there　were　no　drapes　to　mask　the　severe　horizontal　lines　of　the　Venetian　blinds　covering　the　windows。　Except　for　two　Danish　chairs；　a　Marfak…topped　coffee　table；　a　black　Naugahyde　twoseater　couch；　and　one　floor　lamp…all　grouped　in　a　tight　oblong…the　huge　living　room；　with　its　carpetless　terrazzo　floor；　was　bare。　A　Miami　Herald　and　a　superslick　copy　of　Réalitès　were　on　the　coffee　table。　There　were　two　tall　black　wrought…iron　barstools　at　the　counter。　Debierue　either　had　to　have　his　meals　at　this　bar…counter　or　take　his　food　out　to　the　porch　and　eat　on　a　Samsonite　card　table。
　　Mr。　Cassidy　would　not；　I　knew；　tip　Debierue　off　that　I　was　ing；　but　if　the　old　painter　asked　me　how　I　had　found　him；　what　could　I　say？　He　didn't　appear　surprised　by　my　sudden　appearance。　If　he　asked；　I　would　say　that　my　editor　had　told　me　and　that　he　sent　me　down　on　an　assignment。　These　thoughts　nagged　at　my　mind　as　Debierue　prepared　the　frozen　orange　juice。　He　placed　an　aluminum　pitcher　on　the　table；　opened　the　frozen　can　with　an　electric　can　opener；　and　then　made　three　trips　to　the　sink　to　fifi　the　empty　can　with　tap　water。
　　He　worked　methodically；　with　great　concentration；　adding　each　canful　of　water　to　the　pitcher　like　a　chemist　preparing　an　experiment。　With　a　long…handled　spoon　he　stirred　the　mixture；　smiled；　and　beckoned　for　us　to　e　and　sit　at　the　bar。　Berenice　and　I　climbed　onto　the　stools；　and　he　filled　three　plastic　glasses　to　their　brims。
　　Without　touching　his　glass　he　looked　beyond　me　to　No。　One　on　the　wall。　〃This　is　the　new　world；　M。　Figueras；　and　there　are　no　cracks　in　the　wall　of　the　new　world。　Here　the　concrete；　brick；　and　stucco　walls　are　hurricane…proof。　My　insurance　policy　guarantees　this。〃
　　This　might　be　a　good　opening　or　closing　sentence　for　my　article；　I　thought。　I　leaned　forward；　prepared　to　explore　his　thinking　on　the　〃new　world〃　in　more　detail；　but　he　shook　his　head　as　a　signal　for　me　to　remain　silent。
　　〃I　will　not　suggest　to　you　that　only　M。　Cassidy　could　have　directed　you　here；　M。　Figueras。　It　is　unimportant　now　that　you　are　here；　and　we　are　both　aware　that　M。　Cassidy　is；　like　all　collectors；　a　most　peculiar　man。〃
　　Grateful　for　the　easy　out；　I　asked　for　permission　to　smoke。　Debierue　took　a　saucer　from　the　cabinet；　set　it　between　us；　and　waited　until　I　lighted　Berenice's　cigarette　and　mine　before　he　continued。　He　refused　a　cigarette　by　waving　his　hand。
　　〃What　can　I　say　to　you；　M。　Figueras；　that　would　dissuade　you　from　writing　about　me　for　your　magazine？〃
　　〃Nothing；　I'm　afraid。　You　make　me　feel　like　a　plete　bastard；　but…〃
　　〃I'm　sorry　for　your　feelings。　But　as　a　favor　to　me；　do　you　have　so　much　zeal　that　you　must　tell　my　address　in　your　magazine？　Much　privacy　is　needed　for　my　work；　as　it　is　for　all　artists。　Every　day　I　must　work　for　at　least　four　hours；　and　to　have　frequent　interruptions…〃
　　〃That's　no　concession　at　all；　sir。　I'll　dateline　my　piece　'Somewhere　in　Florida。'　I　know　how　you　feel；　of　course。　The　Galt　article　was　damned　unfair　to　you；　I　know…〃
　　〃How　do　you　know？〃　Again　the　sad；　sweet　smile。
　　〃I　know　Galt's　attitude　toward　art；　that's　how　I　know。　He's　got　a　one…track　mental　set。　He　invariably　puts　everything　he　sees　into　a　highly　subjective　pattern…whether　it　fits　or　not。
　　〃Is　not　all　art　subjective？〃
　　〃Yes。〃　I　grinned。　〃But　didn't　Braque　say　that　the　subject　was　not　the　object？〃
　　〃Perhaps。　I　don't　know　whether　Braque　said　this　himself；　or　whether　some　clever　young　man…a　man　like　yourself；　M。　Figueras…said　that　he　said　it。〃
　　〃I…I　don't　recall；〃　I　replied　lamely；　〃where　the　quote　originated；　not　at　the　moment；　but　he　is　supposed　to　have　said　it　himself。　And　if　not　。　。　。　well　。　。　。　the　play　on　words　has　a　subtle　validity；　for　。　。　。　the　art　of　our　times。　Don't　you　think　。　。　。　？〃
　　〃The　word　'validity'　cannot　be　used　validly　for　the　art　of　any　time。〃
　　I　hesitated。　He　was　testing　me。　By　going　into　theoretical　entebechy　I　could　have　answered　him　easily；　but　I　didn't　want　to　argue　with　him…I　shrugged　and　smiled。
　　〃By　validity；〃　he　smiled　back；　〃do　you　mean　that　the　eye　contains　the　incipient　action？〃　The　corners　of　his　eyes　wrinkled　with　amusement。
　　〃Not　exactly；　sir。　Cartesian　dualism；　as　an　approach　to　aesthetics；　no　longer　has　intrinsic　value…and　that's　Galt's　fault。　He　has　never　been　abbe　to　transcend　his　early　training。　Not　to　be　summational　is　the　hardest　task　facing　the　contemporary　critic。　To　see　the　present　alone；　blocking　out　the　past　and　future；　calls　for　optic　mediation。〃　My　face　grew　warm　under　the　force　of　his　steady　blue　eyes。　〃I　don't　mean　to　run　Galt　down；　sir；　or　to　give　you　the　impression　that　I'm　a　better　critic　than　he　is。　It's　just　that　I'm　twentyfive　years　younger　than　Galt；　and　I've　looked　at　more　contemporary　art　than　he　has…〃
　　〃Do　not　be　so　nervous；　M。　Figueras。　（？）Debemos　dar　preferencia　al　hablar　del　espanol？〃
　　〃No。　I　think　in　Spanish　when　I　speak　it；　and　I　prefer　to　think　in　English　and　talk　in　French…〃
　　〃What　are　you　talking　about？〃　Berenice　said；　sipping　from　her　glass。
　　〃The　difference　between　Spanish　and　English　and　French；〃　I　said。
　　〃I　hate　Spanish；〃　Berenice　said；　winking　at　me。　〃It's　got　too　many　words　for　bravery；　which　makes　a　person　wonder　sometimes　about　the　true　bravery　of　the　Spanish　character。〃
　　〃And　French；　I　think；〃　Debierue　said　in　English；　〃has　too　many　words　for　love。〃　He　reached　over　and　touched　my　hair。　〃You　have　nice　curly　yellow　hair；　and　she　should　not　tease　you。　e　now；　drink　your　orange　juice。〃
　　The　paternal　touch　of　his　hand　unknotted　my　inner　tenseness；　and　I　realized　that　the　old　artist　was　trying　to　make　things　easier　for　me。　At　any　rate；　my　guilty　feelings　had　been　dissipated　by　his　casual　acceptance　of　both　me　and　my　professionalism。　My　awe　of　the　old　painter　was　also　going　away。　I　was　still　mightily　impressed　by　him；　and　I　felt　that　our　conversation　was　goi