cwilleford.theburntorangeheresy-第26章

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year。
　　My　agent　unloaded　some　older；　unsold　articles　I　had　written　months　before…two　of　them　to　art　magazines　which　had　earlier　rejected　them。
　　I　had　always　done　a　certain　amount　of　jury　work；　judging　art　shows　for　〃expenses　only；〃　and　more　often　without　any　pensation　at　all。　I　now　began　to　receive　some　decent　cash　offers　to　judge　and　hang　important　exhibits　at　major　museums。　On　a　jury　show　I　served　on　at　Hartford；　there　was　a　Herb　Westcott　painting　entered　in　the　show。　Westcott　had　changed　his　style　to　Romantic　Realism；　and　his　fine；　almost　delicate　draftsmanship　was　well　suited　to　the　new　style。　The　Hartford　show　had　an　antipollution　theme；　and　Westcott　had　painted　an　enormous　blowup　of　a　1925　postcard　view　of　Niagara　Falls。　The　painting　wasn't　in　the　First　Prize　category；　but　I　was　able　to　persuade　the　other　jury　members　（the　museum　director　and　Maury　Katz；　a　hardedge　painter）　to　tag　Westcott's　painting　with　an　honorable　mention　and　a　thousand…dollar　purchase　prize。　I　had　treated　Westcott　rather　shabbily　in　Palm　Beach；　running　out　on　him　and　his　show　at　Gloria's　Gallery；　and　it　pleased　me　to　give　him　a　leg　up…which　he　well　deserved　in　any　case。
　　Now　included　in　my　books　to　review　were　books　that　the　managing　editor　used　to　reserve　for　himself…beautiful；　expensive；　handsomely　ifiustrated；　coffee…table　art　books…　that　retailed　for　twenty…five；　thirty…five；　and　even　fifty　dollars。　After　being　reviewed；　these　expensive　books　can　be　sold　at　half　of　their　wholesale　price　to　bookdealers。　This　pocketed　cash　is　found　money　I。R。S。　investigators　cannot　discover　easily。
　　I　no　longer　slept　well。　I　didn't　sleep　well　at　all。
　　I　knew　that　Debierue　had　read　my　article；　and　although　I　had　made　an　educated　guess　that　he　would　say　nothing；　I　could　not　be　positive　that　he　would　continue　to　say　nothing。　I　had　dared　to　assume　that　four　important　European　art　critics　had　also　invented　imaginary　paintings　by　Debierue　to　write　about。　But　they　couldn't　denounce　me。　Only　Debierue　could　do　that　and；　thanks　to　the　fire　I　had　set；　he　couldn't　actually　prove　anything。
　　Nevertheless；　late　at　night；　I　often　awoke　from　a　fitful　sleep；　covered　with　perspiration。　Sitting　in　the　dark　on　the　edge　of　my　bed；　trying　to　keep　my　mind　as　blank　as　possible；　I　would　light　one　cigarette　after　another；　afraid　to　go　back　to　sleep。　In　time；　I　would　tell　myself；　all　in　good　time；　my　nightmares　would　run　their　course　and　stop。
　　A　year　later；　almost　to　the　day　that　I　returned　to　New　York；　Debierue　died　in　Florida。　Mr。　Cassidy　wired　me；　inviting　me　to　the　funeral；　but　I　was　tied　up　with　other　work　and　couldn't　get　away　on　such　short　notice。　Bodies；　in　Florida；　must　be　buried　within　twenty…four　hours；　according　to　the　state　law。　I　wrote　the　obituary…a　black…bordered　one…page　tribute…for　the　magazine；　of　course；　inasmuch　as　I　was　the　authority　on　Debierue；　and　had　already　written　the　definitive　piece　on　him　for　the　forthing　International　Encyclopedia　of　Fine　Arts。
　　Ten　days　after　Debierue's　death　I　received　a　long；　bulky　package　at　the　office。　When　I　unwrapped　it　at　my　desk　I　discovered　the　dismantled　baroque　frame　that　had　once　been　Debierue's　famous　No。　One。　This　unexpected　gift　from　beyond　the　grave　made　me　cry；　the　first　time　I　had　wept　in　several　months。　There　was　no　personal　note　or　card　with　the　frame。　Debierue　had　probably　left　word　with　someone　at　the　nursing　home　to　mail　it　to　me　after　he　died。　But　the　fact　that　he　sent　me　the　frame　meant　exoneration。　Not　only　a　plete　exoneration；　it　proved　that　he　had　been　pleased　by　my　critique　of　his　〃American　Harvest〃　period。　From　all　of　his　many　critics；　Debierue　had　singled　me　out　as　his　beneficiary　for　No。　One。
　　The　dismantled　frame　had　no　intrinsic　value；　of　course。　I　probably　could　have　sold　it　somewhere；　or　donated　it　to　the　Museum　of　Modern　Art　for　its　curiosity　value；　but　I　couldn't　do　that　to　the　old　man。　His　gesture　deeply　moved　me。
　　I　walked　down　the　hall　to　throw　the　frame　down　the　incinerator。　As　I　opened　the　metal　door；　I　noticed　a　small　dead　fly　scotch…taped　to　one　of　the　sides　of　the　frame。　The　old　man；　despite　his　age；　had　a　keen　memory。　After　seeing　the　fly；　I　couldn't　throw　the　parts　down　the　chute。　On　my　way　home　from　the　office　I　left　the　bundled　frame　under　my　seat　in　the　subway　instead。
　　I　had　some　correspondence　with　Joseph　Cassidy　concerning　The　Burnt　Orange　Heresy。　He　wanted　me　to　suggest　the　best　place　for　unveiling　it　for　the　public；　New　York　or　Chicago。　I　advised　him　to　wait　and　to　exhibit　the　painting　at　Palm　Beach　instead；　at　the　opening　of　the　next　season；　to　coincide；　as　nearly　as　possible；　with　the　publication　date　of　the　International　Encyclopedia　of　Fine　Arts；　which　would　have　a　full…page　color　plate　of　the　painting　facing　my　definitive　article　on　the　painter　。　。　。
　　
　　
　　。　。　。　I　opened　the　heavy　volume　and　found　my　piece　on　Jacques　Debierue。　The　color　plate　of　The　Burnt　Orange　Heresy　was　a　beautiful　reproduction　of　the　painting。　Reduced　in　size；　color　photographs　often　look　better　than　the　original　oils。　And　this　colored　photo；　on　expensive；　whitecoated　stock；　shone　like　burnished　gold。
　　I　read　my　article　carefully。　There　were　no　errors　in　spelling；　and　no　typographical　errors。　My　name　was　spelled　correctly　at　the　end　of　the　article。　A　short　bibliography　of　the　books　and　major　critical　articles　on　Debierue　followed　my　by…line；　set　in　5　1/2…point　agate　boldface。　There　were　no　typos　in　the　bibliography；　either。
　　Satisfied；　I　began　to　leaf　through　some　of　the　other　volumes　of　the　Encyclopedia；　here　and　there；　to　check　the　writing　and　the　quality　of　the　work。　I　read　pieces　on　some　of　my　favorites…Goya；　El　Greco；　Piranesi；　Michelangelo。
　　My　stomach　became　queasy；　and　I　had　a　peculiar　premonition。　The　articles　I　had　read　were　well　researched　and　well　written；　particularly　the　piece　on　Piranesi；　but　my　stomach　felt　as　if　it　had　been　filled　with　raw　bread　dough　that　was　beginning　to　rise　and　swell　inside　me。　I　opened　my　desk　drawer　and　took　out　my　brass　ruler。　Taking　my　time；　to　make　certain　there　would　be　no　mistakes；　I　measured　the　column　inches　in　the　Encyclopedia　to　see　how　many　inches　had　been　allotted　to　Goya；　El　Greco；　Piranesi；　Michelangelo…and　Debierue。
　　Goya　had　nine　and　one…half　inches。　El　Greco　had　twelve。　Piranesi　had　eight。　Michelangelo　had　fourteen。　But　Debierue　had　sixteen　column　inches！　The　old　man；　insofar　as　space　was　concerned；　had　topped　the　greatest　artists　of　all　time。
　　I　closed　the　books；　all　of　them；　and　returned　them　to　the　crate。　I　lit　a　cigarette　and　moved　to　the　window。　The　buttery　sunlight　of　Palm　Beach　scattered　gold　coins　beneath　the　poinciana　tree　outside　my　window。　The　dark　green　grass　in　the　apartment…house　courtyard　was　still　wet　from　the　sprinklers　the　yardman　had　recently　turned　off。　The　pale　blue　sky；　without　any　clouds；　unpolluted　by　industrial　smoke；　was　as　clear　as　expensively　bottled　water。　I　wasn't　fooled　by　the　air…conditioning　of　the　room。　It　was　hotter　than　hell　outside　in　the　sun。
　　But　my　work　was　over。　Debierue　had　triumphed　over　everyone；　and　so　had　I。　There　would　never　be　another　Jacques　Debierue；　not　in　my　lifetime；　and　I　would　never　want　to　meet　another　one　like　him　if　one　ever　did　e　along。　There　was　no　place　else　for　me　to　go　as　an　art　critic。　How　could　I　top　myself？　Not　in　this　world。
　　But　what　about　Berenice　Hollis？　Could　I　pass　the　test？　In　a　cigar　box　in　the　bottom　drawer　of　my　dresser；　together　with　a　picture　of　my　father；　taken　when　he　was　seven　years　old；　and　a　dry；　rough　periwinkle　shell　（a　reminder；　because　I　had　picked　it　up　on　the　beach　as　a　kid；　that　I　was　born　in　Puerto　Rico）；　was　Berenice's　dried　finger；　wrapped　in　a　linen　handkerchief。　I　unrolled　the　handkerchief　and　looked　at　the　shriveled　finger。　The　blood…red　Chen　Yu　nail　varnish　was　dull；　and　some　of　it　had　flaked　off。　I　looked　at　the　finger　for　a　long　time　without　feeling　fear；　pain；　or　remorse。
　　Debierue；　and　his　achievement；　had　been　worth　it；　and　there　was　nothing　else　left　for　me　to　do。　Somebody　else；　another　critic；　could　cover　the　unveiling　of　Cassidy's　only　signed　Debierue　at　the　Everglades　Club。　The　time　had　e　for　me　to　pay　my　dues　for　the　death　of　Berenice　Hollis。
　　I　showered；　shaved；　and　put　on　my　tailor…made　suit；　together　with　a　white　shirt；　a　wide　red…white…and…blue　striped　tie；　black　silk　socks；　and　polished　cordovan　shoes。
　　Taking　my　time；　strolling；　I　walked　through　the　late　afternoon　streets　to　the　Spanish…style　Palm　Beach　police　station。　No　one　else　would　ever　know　the　truth　about　Debierue；　and　no　one；　other　than　myself；　knew　the　truth　about　my　part　in　his　apotheosis。　And　I　would　never　tell；　never；　but　I　had　to　pay　for　Berenice。　The　man　who　achieves　success　in　America　must　pay　for　it。　It's　the　American　way；　and　no　one　knows　this　fact　of　life　any　better　than　I；　a　de…islanded　Puerto　Rican。
　　There　were　a　sergeant　and　two　patrolmen　inside　the　station。　One　patrolman　was　going　on　duty　and　the　other　was　going　off；　but　they　both　looked　so　clean　and　well　groomed　it　would　have　been　impossible　to　tell　them　apart。　All　three　policemen　were　looking　at　a　copy　of　Palm　Beach　Life；　the　slick；　seasonal　magazine　that　covers　Palm　Beach　society。　The　policeman　going　off　duty　had　his　picture　in　it…a　shot　of　a　group　of　women　on　a　garden　tour；　and　he　was　smiling　in　the　background。
　　〃Good　afternoon；　sir；〃　the　sergeant　said　politely；　getting　to　his　feet；　〃may　I　help　you？〃
　　I　nodded。　〃Good　afternoon；　Sergeant；〃　I　replied。　I　unfolded　the　handkerchief　on　the　table；　and　Berenice's　finger　rolled　out。　〃I　want　to　confess　to　a　crime　of　passion。〃







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