cwilleford.theburntorangeheresy-第2章

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b；　and　it　ends　fuzzily　on　April　15。）　When　Tom　agreed；　finally；　he　refused　to　add　expenses　to　my　salary。　I　had　to　survive　in　Palm　Beach　on　my　monthly　stipend；　and　pay　my　air　fare　down　out　of　my　small　savings　（the　remainder　of　my　savings　bought　me　a　250　car）。　By　subletting　my　rent…controlled　Village　pad　for　almost　twice　as　much　as　I　was　paying　for　it　myself；　I　could　get　by。　Barely。
　　I　worked　twice　as　hard；　writing　much　better　copy　than　I　had　in　New　York；　to　prove　to　Tom　Russell　that　the　Gold　Coast　was　an　incipient　American　art　center　that　had　been　neglected　far　too　long　by　serious　art　journals。　Such　was　not　truly　the　case；　as　yet；　but　there　were　scattered　signs　of　progress。　Most　of　the　native　painters　of　Florida　were　stifi　dabbing　out　impressionistic　palms　and　seascapes；　but　enough　reputable　painters　from　New　York　and　Europe　had　discovered　Florida　for　themselves；　and　the　latter　were　exhibiting　in　galleries　from　Jupiter　Beach　to　Miami。　Enough　painters；　then；　were　exhibiting　during　the　season　to　fifi　my　Notes　column　on　new　shows；　and　at　least　one　major　artist　exhibited　long　enough　for　me　to　honor　him　with　one　of　my　fulllength　treatments。　There　is　money　in　Florida　during　the　season；　and　artists　wifi　show　anywhere　there　is　enough　money　to　purchase　their　work。
　　With　Berenice　around　the　tiny　apartment　all　the　time；　I　couldn't　write。　She　would　pad　about　barefooted；　as　quiet　and　as　stealthy　as　a　140…pound　mouse…until　I　plained。　She　would　then　sit　quietly；　placidly；　not　reading；　not　doing　anything；　except　to　stare　lovingly　at　my　back　as　I　sat　at　my　Hermes。　I　couldn't　stand　it。
　　〃What　are　you　thinking　about；　Berenice？〃
　　〃Nothing。〃
　　〃Yes；　you　are；　you're　thinking　about　me。〃
　　〃No；　I'm　not。　Go　ahead　and　write。　I'm　not　bothering　you。〃
　　But　she　did　bother　me；　and　I　couldn't　write。　I　couldn't　hear　her　breathing；　she　was　so　quiet；　but　I　would　catch　myself　listening　to　see　if　I　could　hear　her。　It　took　some　mental　preparation　（I　am；　basically；　a　kind　sonofabitch）；　but　I　finally；　in　a　nice　way；　asked　Berenice　to　leave。　She　wouldn't　go。　Later　I　asked　her　to　leave　in　a　harsh　and　nasty　way。　She　wouldn't　fight　with　me；　but　she　wouldn't　leave。　On　these　occasions　she　wouldn't　even　talk　back。　She　merely　looked　at　me；　earnestly；　with　her　welkin　eyes　wide　open…the　lenses　sliding　around…tears　torrenting；　suppressing；　or　making　an　effort　to　hold　back；　big；　blubbery；　gasping　sobs…　she　was　destroying　me。　I　would　leave　the　apartment；　forever；　and　e　back　a　few　hours　later　for　a　reconciliation　replay　and　a　wild　hour　in　the　sack。
　　But　I　wasn't　getting　my　work　done。　Work　is　important　to　a　man。　Not　even　a　Helen　of　Troy　can　pete　with　a　Hermes。　No　matter　how　wonderful　she　is；　a　woman　is　only　a　woman；　whereas　2；500　words　is　an　article。　In　desperation　I　issued　Berenice　an　ultimatum。　I　told　her　that　I　was　leaving　for　Miami；　and　that　when　I　came　back　twenty…four　hours　later　I　wanted　her　the　hell　out　of　my　apartment　and　out　of　my　life。
　　And　now　I　was　returning　seventy…two　hours　later；　having　added　two　extra　days　as　insurance。　I　expected　her　to　be　in　the　apartment。　I　wanted　her　to　be　there　and；　paradoxically；　I　wanted　her　to　be　gone　forever。
　　I　parked　in　the　street；　put　the　canvas　top　up　on　the　Chevy…a　seven…year…old　convertible…and　started　across　the　flagged　patio　to　the　stuccoed　outside　staircase。　Halfway　up　the　stairs　I　could　hear　the　phone　ringing　in　my　apartment　on　the　second　floor。　I　stopped　and　waited　while　it　rang　three　more　times。　Berenice　would　be　incapable　of　letting　a　phone　ring　four　times　without　answering　it；　and　I　knew　that　she　was　gone。　Before　I　got　the　door　unlocked　the　ringing　stopped。
　　Berenice　was　gone　and　'the　apartment　was　clean。　It　wasn't　spotless；　of　course；　but　she　had　made　a　noble　effort　to　put　things　in　order。　The　dishes　had　been　washed　and　put　away　and　the　linoleum　floor　had　been　mopped　in　a　halfassed　way。
　　There　was　a　sealed　envelope；　with　〃James〃　scribbled　on　the　outside；　propped　against　my　typewriter　on　the　card　table　by　the　window。
　　
　　Dearest　dearest　James…
　　You　are　a　bastard　but　I　think　you　know　that。　I　still　love
　　you　but　I　will　forget　you…I　hope　I　never　forget　the　good
　　things。　I'm　going　back　to　Duluth…don't　follow　me　there。
　　B。
　　
　　If　she　didn't　want　me　to　follow　her；　why　tell　me　where　she　was　going？
　　There　were　three　crumpled　pieces　of　paper　in　the　wastebasket。　Rough　drafts　for　the　final　note。　I　considered　reading　them；　but　changed　my　mind。　I　would　let　the　final　version　stand。　I　crumpled　the　note　and　the　envelope　and　added　them　to　the　wastebasket。
　　I　felt　a　profound　sense　of　loss；　together　with　an　unreasonable　surge　of　anger。　I　could　still　smell　Berenice　in　the　apartment；　and　knew　that　her　feminine　pound　of　musk；　sweat；　perfume；　pungent　powder；　lavender　soap；　bacon　breath；　Nose…cote；　padded　sachet　coat　hangers；　vinegar；　and　everything　else　nice　about　her　would　linger　on　in　the　apartment　forever。　I　felt　sorry　for　myself　and　sorry　for　Berenice　and；　at　the　same　time；　a　kind　of　bubbling　elation　that　I　was　rid　of　her；　even　though　I　knew　that　I　was　going　to　miss　her　like　crazy　during　the　next　few　terrible　weeks。
　　There　was　plenty　of　time　before　the　preview　at　Gloria's　Gallery。　I　removed　my　sport　shirt；　kicked　off　my　loafers；　and　sat　at　the　card　table；　which　served　as　my　desk；　to　go　over　my　Miami　notes。　My　three　days　in　Dade　County　hadn't　been　wasted。
　　I　had　stayed　with　Larry　Levine；　in　Coconut　Grove。　Larry　was　a　printmaker　I　had　known　in　New　York；　and　his　wife　Paula　was　a　superb　cook。　I　would　reimburse　Larry　with　a　brief　ment　about　his　new　animal　prints　in　my　Notes　columm。
　　I　had　enough　notes　for　a　2；500…word　article　on　a　〃Southern　Gothic〃　environmental　exhibit　I　had　attended　in　North　Miami；　and　an　item　on　Harry　Truman's　glasses　was　a　good　lead…off　piece　for　my　back…of…the…book　columm。　Larry　had　steered　me　to　the　latter。
　　A　mechanic　in　South　Miami；　a　Truman　lover；　had　written　to　Lincoln　Borglum；　who　had　finished　the　monumental　heads　on　Mount　Rushmore　after　his　father's　death；　and　had　asked　the　sculptor　when　he　was　going　to　add　Harry　Truman's　head　to　the　others。　Lincoln　Borgium；　who　apparently　had　a　better　sense　of　humor　than　his　late　father；　Gutzon；　claimed；　in　a　facetious　reply；　that　he　was　unable　to　do　so　because　it　was　too　difficult　to　duplicate　Harry　Truman's　glasses。　The　mechanic；　a　man　named　Jack　Wade；　took　Borgium　at　his　word；　and　made　the　glasses　himself。
　　They　were　enormous　spectacles；　more　than　twenty…five　feet　across；　steel　frames　covered　with　thickly　enameled　ormolu。　The　lenses　were　fashioned　from　twindex　windows；　the　kind　with　a　vacuum　to　separate　the　two　panes　of　glass。
　　〃The　vacuum　inside　will　help　keep　the　lenses　from　fogging　up　on　cold　days；〃　Wade　explained。
　　I　had　taken　three　black…and…white　Polaroid　snapshots　of　Wade　and　the　glasses；　and　one　of　the　photos　was　sharp　enough　to　illustrate　the　item　in　my　column。　The　spectacles　were　a　superior　job　of　craftsmanship；　and　I　had　suggested　to　Mr。　Wade　that　he　might　sell　them　to　an　optician　for　advertising　purposes。　The　suggestion　made　him　angry。
　　〃No；　by　God；〃　he　said　adamantly。　〃These　glasses　were　made　for　Mr。　Truman；　when　his　bust　is　finished　on　Mount　Rushmore！〃
　　The　phone　rang。
　　〃Where　have　you　been？〃　Gloria's　voice　asked　shrilly。　〃I've　been　calling　you　all　afternoon。　Berenice　said　you　left　and　that　you　might　never　e　back。〃
　　〃When　did　you　talk　to　Berenice？〃
　　〃This　morning；　about　ten　thirty。〃
　　This　news　hit　me　hard。　If　I　had　returned　in　twenty…four　hours；　in　forty…eight；　or　sixty…I'd　still　have　Berenice。　My　timing　had　been　perfect；　but　a　pang　was　there。
　　〃I've　been　in　Miami；　working。　But　Berenice　has　left　and　won't　be　back。〃
　　〃Lovers'　quarrel？　Tell　Gloria　all　about　it。〃
　　〃I　don't　want　to　talk　about　it；　Gloria。〃
　　She　laughed。　〃You're　ing　to　the　preview？〃
　　〃I　told　you　I　would。　What's　so　important　about　secondhand　Haitian　art　that　you've　had　to　call　me　all　day？〃
　　〃Westcott's　a　good　painter；　James；　he　really　is；　you　know。　A　first…rate　draughtsman。〃
　　〃Sure。〃
　　〃You　sound　funny。　Are　you　all　right？〃
　　〃I'm　fine。　And　I'll　be　there。〃
　　〃That's　what　I　wanted　to　talk　to　you　about。　Joseph　Cassidy　will　be　there；　and　he's　ing　because　he　wants　to　meet　you。　He　told　me　so。　You　know　who　Mr。　Cassidy　is；　don't　you？〃
　　〃Doesn't　everybody？〃
　　〃No；　not　everybody。　Not　everybody　needs　him！〃　She　laughed。　〃But　he's　invited　us…you　and　me　and　a　few　others…to　supper　at　his　place　after　the　preview。　He　has　a　penthouse　at　the　Royal　Palm　Towers。〃
　　〃I　know　where　he　lives。　Why　does　he　want　to　meet　me？〃
　　〃He　didn't　say。　But　he's　the　biggest　collector　to　ever　visit　my　little　gallery；　and　if　I　could　land　him　as　a　patron　I　wouldn't　need　any　others…〃
　　〃Don't　sell　him　any　primitives；　then；　or　Westcotts。〃
　　〃Why　not？〃
　　〃He　isn't　interested　in　conventional　art。　Don't　try　to　sell　him　anything。　Wait　until　I　talk　to　him；　and　then　I'll　suggest　something　to　you。〃
　　〃I　appreciate　this；　James。〃
　　〃It's　nothing。〃
　　〃Are　you　bringing　Berenice？〃
　　〃I　don't　want　to　talk　about　it；　Gloria。〃
　　She　was　laughing　as　I　racked　the　phone。
　　
　　
　　3
　　
　　As　much　as　I　dislike　the　term　〃freeloader；〃　no　other　word　fits　what　I　had　bee　during　my　sojourn　on　the　Gold　Coast。　There　are　several　seasonal　societal　levels　in　Palm　Beach；　and　they　are　all　quite　different　from　the　social　groups；　divided　uneasily　by　the　Waspish　and　Jewish　groupings　found　in　Miami　and　Miami　Beach。　In　Lauderdale；　of　course；　the　monied　class　is　squarely　WASP。
　　I　belonged　to　none　of　the　〃groups；〃　but　I　was　on　the　periphery　of　all　of　them　by　virtue　of　my　calling。　I　met　people　at　art　show　previews；　where　cocktails　are　usually　served；　and　because　I　was　young；　single；　and　had　an　acceptable　profession；　I　was　frequently　invited　to　dinners；　cocktail　parties；　polo　games；　boat　rides；　late　suppers；　and　barbecues。　These　invitations；　which　led　to　introductions　to　other　guests；　usually　produced　additional　dinner　invitations。　And　a　few　of　the　Gold　Coast　artists；　like　Larry　Levine；　for　example；　were　people　I　had　known　in　New　York。
　　After　two　months　in　Florida　I　had　many　acquaintances；　or　connections；　but　no　friends。　I　did　not　return　any　of　the　dinner　invitations；　and　I　had　to　avoid　bars；　night　clubs；　and　restaurants　where　I　might　get　stuck　with　a　check。　The　man　who　never　picks　up　a　check　does　not　acquire　friends。
　　Nevertheless；　I　felt　that　my　various　hosts　and　hostesses　were　repensed　for　my　presence　at　their　homes。　I　put　up　genially　with　bores；　I　was　an　extra　man　at　dinners　where　single；　heterosexual　young　men　were　at　a　premium；　and　when　I　was　in　a　good　mood；　I　could　tell　stories　or　carry　conversation　over　dead　spots。
　　I　had　two　dinner　jackets；　a　red　silk　brocade　and　a　standard　white　linen。　There　were　lipstick　mouthings　on　the　white　jacket；　where　a　tipsy　Berenice　had　bitten　me　on　the　shoulder　while　I　was　driving　back　from　a　party。　I　was　forced；　then；　to　wear　the　red　brocade。
　　As　I　walked　the　six　blocks　from　my　apartment　to　Gloria's　Gallery；　I　speculated　on　Joseph　Cassidy's　invitation　to　supper。　A　social　invitation　wasn't　unusual；　but　she　had　said　that　he　wanted　to　meet　me；　and　I　wondered　why。　Cassidy　was　not　only　famous　as　a　collector；　he　was　famous　as　a　criminal　lawyer。