cwilleford.theburntorangeheresy-第18章

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　　〃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　going　well
　　Any　writer　who　is　awed　in　the　presence　of　the　great　or　the　near…great　cannot　function　critically。　I　respected　Debierue　enough　to　be　wary；　however；　knowing　that　he　was　not　an　ingenuous　man；　knowing　that　he　had　survived　as　an　individual　all　of　these　years　by　maintaining　an　aloof；　if　not　an　arrogant；　silence；　and　a　studied　indifference　to　journalists。　Debierue　realized；　I　think；　that　I　was　on　his　side；　and　that　I　would　always　take　an　artist's　viewpoint　before　that　of　the　insensitive　public's。　He　had　read　my　work　and　he　remembered　my　name。　I　could　therefore　give　him　credit　for　knowing　that　I　was　as　unbiased　as　any　art　critic　can　ever　be。　To　see　his　paintings；　which　was　the　major　reason　for　my　odyssey；　I　now　had　to　gain　his　plete　confidence。　I　had　to　guard　against　my　tendency　to　argue。　Nor　should　I　bait　him　merely　to　obtain　a　few　sensational　opinions　about　art　as　〃news。〃
　　〃I　am　curious　about　why　you　immigrated　to　Florida；　M。　Debierue。〃
　　〃I　almost　didn't。　For　my　old　bones；　I　wanted　th