cwilleford.theburntorangeheresy-第16章

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lieved　it　as　you　were　prepared　to　do。　The　chance　debris　of　an　artist's　life　does　not　explain　the　man；　nor　does　it　explain　the　artist's　work。　The　true　artist's　vision　es　from　here。〃　He　tapped　his　forehead。
　　Debierue's　face　was　expressionless　now；　and　I　was　unable　to　tell　whether　he　was　serious；　teasing　me；　or　getting　hostile。　He　turned　to　Berenice　and　smiled。　He　took　her　right　hand　in　both　of　his　and　spoke　in　English。
　　〃If　a　man　had　a　wife　and　children；　perhaps　a　short　biography　to　leave　his　family；　a　record　for　them　to　remember　him。　。　。　but　old　Debierue　has　no　wife；　children；　no　relatives　now　living；　to　want　such　a　book。　The　true　artist；　my　dear；　is　too　responsible　to　marry　and　have　a　family。〃
　　〃Too　responsible　to　fall　in　love？〃　Berenice　asked　softly。
　　〃No。　Love　he　must　have。〃
　　I　cleared　my　throat。　〃The　entire　world　is　the　artist's　family；　M。　Debierue。　There　are　thousands　of　art　lovers　all　over　the　world　who　would　like　to　read　your　biography。　Those　who　write　to　you；　I　know；　and　those　who…〃
　　He　patted　my　arm。　〃Let　us　be　the　friends。　It　is　not　friendly　to　talk　about　nothing　with　such　seriousness　on　your　face。　It　is　getting　late；　and　you　will　both　stay　to　dinner　with　me；　please。〃
　　〃Thank　you　very　much。　We　would　like　very　much　to　stay。〃　He　had　changed　the　subject　abruptly；　but　the　longer　I　stayed　the　better　my　chances　became　to　gain　information　about　the　old　man。　Or　did　they？
　　〃Good！〃　He　rubbed　his　dry　hands　together　and　they　made　a　rasping　sound。　〃First　I　will　turn　on　my　electric　oven　to　four…two…five　degrees。　I　do　not　have　the　printed　menu；　but　you　may　decide。　There　is　the　television　turkey　dinner。　Very　good。　There　is　the　television　Salisbury　steak。　Also　very　good。　Or　maybe；　M。　Figueras；　you　would　most　like　the　television　patio　dinner？　Enchilada；　tamale；　Spanish　rice；　and　refried　beans。〃
　　〃No；〃　I　said。　〃I　guess　I'll　have　the　turkey。〃
　　〃I'd　rather　have　the　Salisbury　steak；〃　Berenice　said。　〃And　let　me　help　you…〃
　　〃No。　Debierue　will　also　have　the　turkey！〃　He　smiled　happily；　and　turned　toward　the　stove。　Relenting；　he　changed　direction；　went　to　the　sideboard　and　got　out　a　box　of　Piknik　yellow　plastic　forks　and　spoons。　There　was　a　four…mat　set　of　sticky　rubber　yellow　place　mats　in　the　drawer。　He　handed　the　mats　and　the　box　of　plastic　utensils　to　Berenice　and　asked　her　to　set　the　card　table　on　the　porch。
　　So　far；　I　thought　bitterly；　as　I　glumly　watched　this　bustling　domestic　activity；　except　for　a　few　gossipy　ments　on　a　low　curiosity　level；　I　had　picked　up　damned　little　information　of　any　real　interest　from　the　old　artist。　If　anything；　he　had　learned　more　about　me　than　I　had　about　him。　He　had　refused　to　let　me　see　his　work；　and　just　as　he　had　started　to　open　up　he　had　slammed　the　lid　on　what　might　have　been　an　entire　trunkful　of　fascinating　material。　He　was　a　bewildering　old　man；　all　right；　and　I　couldn't　decide　whether　he　was　somewhat　senile　（no；　not　that）；　putting　me　down；　with　some　mysterious　purpose　in　mind；　or　what。。。
　　Working　away；　stripping　the　cardboard　outer　covers　from　the　aluminum　TV　dinners　he　had　taken　from　the　freezer　partment　of　the　purple　Kentone　refrigerator；　Debierue　sang　a　repetitious　French　song　in　a　cracked　falsetto。
　　No　matter　how　he　downgraded　himself；　false　modesty　or　not；　he　was　the　world's　outstanding　Nihilistic　Surrealist。　That　was　the　reason　I　wasn't　getting　anywhere　with　him。　I　was　trying　to　talk　to　him　as　if　he　were　a　normal　person。　Any　artist　who　has　isolated　himself　from　the　world　for　threefourths　of　his　life　either　has　to　be　a　Surrealist　or　crazy。　But　Debierue　was　as　sane　as　any　other　artist　I　had　ever　met。　Even　the　fact　that　he　denied　being　a　Surrealist　emphasized　the　fact　that　he　was　one。　What　else　could　he　be？　This　was　the　rationale　of　the　purposeful　irrationality　of　Surrealism。　The　key。　But　the　key　to　what？
　　How　could　a　man　live　all　alone　as　he　did…without　a　phone；　a　TV；　a　radio…for　months　on　end　without　going　off　his　rocker？　Even　Schweitzer；　when　he　exiled　himself　to　Africa；　took　an　organ　along；　and　surrounded　himself　with　sick；　freeloading　black　men。　。　。　。
　　From　this　desperate　brooding；　my　pedestrian　mind　came　up　with　one　of　the　best　original　ideas　I　ever　had；　an　idea　so　simple　and　direct　I　almost　lost　it。　The　thought　was　still　formless；　but　I　didn't　let　the　idea　get　away　from　me。　Berenice　put　three　webbed　chairs　up　to　the　table　on　the　porch。　She　reentered　the　living　room；　and　I　clutched　her　wrist。
　　〃I'm　going　to　do　something　strange；〃　I　whispered。　〃But　don't　let　on；　no　matter　what　happens。　Understand？〃
　　She　nodded；　and　her　blue　eyes　widened。
　　Debierue　came　out　of　the　kitchen　and　tapped　my　wristwatch。　〃Sometimes　I　do　not　hear　so　well　the　timer　on　the　oven；　so　you　will　please　watch　the　time　for　us。　And　in　thirty…five　minutes　when　you　say　'Now；　we　will　have　the　dinner　all　ready　to　eat！〃　He　beamed　his　jack…o'…lantern　smile　at　Berenice。　〃So　simple。　The　television　dinner　is　the　better　invention　for　wives　than　the　television　itself。　Is　it　not　so；　my　dear？〃
　　〃Oh；　absolutely；〃　Berenice　said　cheerfully。
　　〃Look；　M。　Debierue；〃　I　said；　taking　my　Polaroid　from　the　bar；　〃I　know　it's　a　lot　to　ask；　at　least　from　your　viewpoint；　but　I've　got　this　Polaroid　here；　and　you　can　see　the　results　for　yourself　in　about　ten　seconds。　While　we　wait　for　dinner；　let　me　take　a　few　shots　of　you；　and　until　we　get　one　that　you　think　is　all　right；　you　can　just　tear　them　up。　Fair　enough？〃
　　〃In　only　ten　seconds？　A　picture？〃
　　〃That's　all。　Maybe　fifteen　seconds　inside　the　house　here；　for　a　little　extra　snap　and　contrast。〃
　　He　frowned　slightly；　and　fingered　his　white　whiskers。　〃My　beard　isn't　trimmed。　。　。〃
　　〃In　a　photo；　it　doesn't　matter。　No　one　can　tell　from　a　black…and…white　picture；〃　I　promised　recklessly。
　　He　hesitated。　His　eyes　were　wary；　but　he　was　wavering。　〃Should　I　put　on　a　necktie？〃
　　〃No；　not　for　an　informal　picture；〃　I　said；　before　he　could　change　his　mind。　Taking　him　by　the　arm；　I　guided　him　to　a　point　in　front　of　the　coffee　table。　I　picked　up　the　Miami　Herald；　flipped　through　it　to　find　the　classified　ad　section；　opened　it　and　thrust　the　paper　into　his　hands。
　　〃There。　Just　spread　the　paper；　and　pretend　to　read　it。　You　can　smile　if　you　feel　like　it；　but　you　don't　have　to。〃
　　A　trifle　self…consciously；　he　followed　my　simple　directions。　After　focusing　the　camera　on　him；　and　setting　it　for　〃dark；〃　I　asked　him　to　lower　his　arms　slightly　to　make　certain　his　face　and　beard　would　be　in　the　picture。　The　flag　of　the　Miami　Herald　and　Classified　could　both　be　read　through　the　viewfinder。　I　moved　forward　and　touched　his　hand。
　　〃Now；〃　I　admonished；　〃please　don't　move　or　look　up　at　me。　I'll　take　the　photo　from　back　there。〃
　　This　was　the　last　moment　to　take　my　premeditated　chance；　and　one　chance　was　all　I　could　expect　to　get。　I　forced　a　loud　cough　to　cover　the　slight　click　of　my　Dunhill；　and　ignited　the　paper　at　the　bottom。　A　moment　later；　six　feet　back；　I　was　squinting　through　the　viewfinder。　The　timing　was　perfect。　The　bounce　flash　bulb　worked；　and　it　was　only　a　split　second　after　I　snapped　the　shutter　when　the　flames　burst　through　the　paper　on　his　side　and　he　dropped　it　with　an　astonished　yelp。　Berenice；　who　had　been　watching　with　bulging　eyes　and　with　her　right　hand　clamped　over　her　mouth；　moved　forward　squealing；　and　began　to　stamp　on　the　burning　paper。　I　helped　her；　and　it　only　took　us　moments　to　crush　out　the　flames　on　the　terrazzo　floor。
　　I　had　expected　an　angry　reaction　from　Debierue；　but　he　was　merely　puzzled。　〃Why；〃　he　asked　mildly；　〃did　you　light　the　paper？　I　don't　understand。〃　He　looked　about　bewilderedly　as　the　charred　bits　of　newsprint；　caught　by　the　slight　breeze　ing　through　the　jalousied　door；　fluttered　over　his　clean　floor。
　　I　grinned　and　held　up　a　forefinger。　〃Wait。　Give　me　ten　seconds；　and　then　you'll　see　the　picture。〃
　　I　was　all　thumbs　with　excitement；　but　I　took　my　time；　being　careful　as　I　jerked　out　the　strip　of　prepared　paper　that　started　the　developing　process　and；　instead　of　guessing；　I　watched　the　sweep…second　hand　on　my　watch；　allowing　exactly　twelve　seconds　for　the　developer　to　work。
　　As　curious　as　a　child；　the　old　artist　was　brushing　my　shoulder　with　his　as　I　opened　the　back　of　the　camera　to　remove　the　print。　When　I　turned　the　photo　face　up　on　the　bar；　his　jarring　burst　of　jubilant　laughter　startled　me。
　　〃Don't　touch　it！〃　I　said　sharply；　sliding　the　print　out　of　the　reach　of　his　clutching　fingers。　〃I've　got　to　coat　it　first。〃　I　straightened　the　print　on　the　edge　of　the　counter　and　then　gave　it　eight　precise　sweeps　with　the　gooey　print　coater。　It　was　the　best　photo；　absolutely　the　finest；　that　I　had　ever　taken。
　　Perfectly　centered；　the　old　man　wore　his　wise；　beautiful；　infectious　smile。　He　appeared　to　be　reading　the　want　ads　in　the　Herald　as　if　he　didn't　have　a　care　in　the　world。　His　face　was　purely　serene；　and　the　deeply　etched　lines　in　his　face　were　sharp；　clear…cut；　and　as　black　as　India　ink。　He　had　been　pletely　unaware　of　the　blazing　newspaper　when　I　snapped　the　picture；　but　no　one　who　saw　the　photo　would　ever　guess　that。　The　entire　lower　half　of　the　paper　blazed　furiously　away。　No　professional　model　could　have　posed　knowingly　with　a　flaming　newspaper　without　a　slight　twinge　of　anxiety　showing　in　his　face。　But　the　old　man；　with　his　skinny　legs　exposed　beneath　the　flames；　with　his　bland　innocent　face　and　the　wonderful　smile　glowing　through　his　downy　white　beard；　appeared　as　relaxed　as　a　man　who　had　spent　a　restful　night　in　a　Turkish　bath。
　　Debierue　watched　me　coat　the　print；　but　he　kept　reaching　for　it　impatiently。　I　guarded　it　with　my　arm　so　it　could　dry。
　　〃Let　me　see；〃　he　said　childishly。
　　〃If　you　touch　it　now；〃　I　explained　patiently；　〃it'll　pick　up　your　fingerprints　and　be　ruined。〃
　　〃Very　well；　M。　Figueras；〃　he　said　good…naturedly。　〃I　want　this　photo。　It's　the　most　formidable　surrèalitê　I've　ever　seen！〃
　　His　exuberance　was　as　great　as　my　own。　〃You'll　have　it；　all　right。〃　I　said　happily。　〃In　fact；　when　I　get　back　to　New　York；　I'll　send　you　fifty　copies　of　the　picture　if　you　want　them；　and　a　copy　to　every　friend　on　your　mailing　list。〃
　　
　　
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　　When　Debierue　granted　his　permission　for　me　to　keep　and　publish　the　photograph；　I　hurried　out　to　the　car　and　got　one　of　our　magazine's　standard　release　forms　out　of　the　glove　partment。　The　mimeographed　form　（large　circulation　magazines　have　them　printed）　is　a　simple　agreement　between　subject　and　magazine　to　make　publication　legal；　to　protect　one　party　from　the　other。　There　is　nothing　underhanded　about　a　signed　photo　release。　Debierue　could　read　English；　of　course；　but　the　involved　legalese　the　form　was　couched　in　forced　me　to　explain　the　damned　thing　at　some　length　before　he　would　sign　it。　Debierue　wasn't　stupid　or　willful。　He　believed　naively　that　his　oral　okay　was　enough。
　　Because　of　this　discussion；　the　dinners　were　ready　before　we　knew　it。　I　forgot　to　look　at　my　watch；　and　it　was　Berenice　who　heard　and　recognized　the　faint　buzzing　in　the　kitchen　as　the　oven　timer；
　　It　was　almost　pleasant　on　the　screened　porch。　A　light　breeze　came　up；　and　although　the　wind　was　hot；　it　was　relatively　fortable　in　the　darkening　twilight　as　we　sat　at　the　candlelit　card　table　to　eat　the　miserable　off…brand　TV　din