cwilleford.theburntorangeheresy-第20章

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tists。　If　their　problem　is　recognized；　they　can　be　rechanneled　into　other　artistic　activities　that　do　not　call　for　great　manual　dexterity。〃
　　〃Like　what？〃　Debierue　appeared　to　be　genuinely　interested。
　　〃Writing　poetry；　posing　electronic　music。　Or　even　architecture。　The　late　Addison　Mizner；　who　couldn't　draw　a　straight　line　in　the　sand　with　a　pointed　stick；　became　an　important　South　Florida　architect。　His　buildings　in　Palm　Beach…those　that　remain…are　beautifully　designed；　and　his　influence　on　other　Florida　architecture　has　been　considerable；　especially　here　on　the　east　coast。〃
　　I　stopped　before　I　got　wound　up。　Debierue　was　pulling　on　me…on　me！…one　of　the　oldest　tricks　not　in　the　book；　and　here　I　was；　falling　for　it；　just　like　the　rawest　of　cub　reporters。　It　is　a　simple　matter　for　the　person　who　is　wise　with　the　experience　of　being　interviewed　to　learn　the　interests　of　the　interviewer。　Then；　all　he　has　to　do　is　to　keep　feeding　questions　to　the　interviewer　and　the　interviewer　will　end　up　with　an　interview　of　himself！　Naively　happy　with　a　long　and　pleasant　conversation；　the　interviewer　will　leave　the　subject　in　a　blithe　mood；　only　to　learn　later；　when　he　sits　chagrined　at　his　typewriter；　that　he　has　nothing　to　write　about。
　　The　toilet　flushed。　Debierue　waited　politely　for　me　to　continue；　but　I　swirled　the　juice　in　my　glass；　sipped　the　rest　of　it　slowly　until　Berenice　rejoined　us；　and　then　excused　myself　on　the　pretense　that　I　also　had　to　use　the　facility。
　　I　still　carried　my　camera；　of　course；　and　I　quickly　opened　the　door　on　the　left　of　the　hall；　across　from　the　padlocked　door。　I　closed　it　softly　behind　me　and　took　the　room　in　rapidly。　If　one　of　Debierue's　paintings　was　on　the　wall；　I　was　going　to　take　a　picture　of　it。　But　there　was　only　one　painting　on　the　wall；　a　dime…store　print　in　a　cheap　black　frame　of　Trail's　End…the　ancient　Indian　sitting　on　his　wornout　horse。　In　the　1930s　almost　every　lower　middle　class　home　in　America　contained　a　print　of　Trail's　End；　but　I　hadn't　expected　to　find　one　in　Debierue's　bedroom。　Either　Cassidy；　in　his　meanness；　had　hung　it　on　the　wall；　or　it　had　been　left　there　by　the　owner　of　the　house。　But　I　still　couldn't　fathom　how　Debierue　could　tolerate　the　corny　picture；　unless；　perhaps；　he　was　amused　by　the　ironic　idea　behind　the　print。　Of　course；　that　was　probably　the　reason。
　　The　bedroom　was　austere。　A　Hollywood　single　bed；　made　up　with　apple…green　sheets…and　no　bedspread…an　unpainted　pine　highboy；　a　wrought…iron　bedside　table　with　a　slab　of　white　tile　for　a　top；　and　a　red　plastic　Charles　Eames　chair　beside　the　bed　made　up　the　inventory。　There　was　a　ceiling　light；　but　no　lamp。　Debierue　was　a　nihilist　and　stoic　in　his　everyday　life　as　well　as　in　his　art；　but　I　felt　a　wave　of　sympathy　for　the　painter　all　the　same。　It　was　a　shame；　I　felt；　that　this　great　man　had　so　few　creature　forts　in　his　old　age。　There　was　no　need　for　me　to　slide　open　the　closet　door；　or　to　search　the　drawers　of　the　highboy　and　paw　through　his　clothing。
　　I　took　a　nervous　leak　in　the　bathroom；　and　turned　on　the　tap　to　wash　my　hands　in　the　washbowl。　I　opened　the　mirrored　cabinet　to　see　what　kind　of　medicines　he　kept　there。　If　he　had　any　diseases；　or　an　illness　of　some　kind；　the　medicines　he　used　would　furnish　a　valid　clue；　and　that　might　be　worth　writing　about。　Except　for　Elixophyllin…KI　（an　expectorant　that　eases　the　ability　to　breathe　for　persons　with　asthma；　emphysema；　and　bronchitis）　and　three　bars　of　Emulave　（a　kind　of　〃soapless〃　soap；　or　cleansing　bar　for　people　with　very　dry　skin…and　I　had　noted　the　dryness　of　the　painter's　hands　already）；　there　was　nothing　out　of　the　ordinary　in　the　cabinet。　A　pearl…handled　straight　razor；　a　cup　with　shaving　soap　and　brush；　a　bottle　of　blue　green　Scope；　a　half…used　tube　of　Stripe　toothpaste；　a　green　plastic　Dr。　West　toothbrush；　a　100…tablet　bottle　of　Bayer　aspirin；　with　the　cotton　gone；　and　that　was　it。　There　wasn't　even　a　b；　although　Debierue；　with　a　bald　head　as　slick　as　a　peeled　almond；　didn't　need　a　b。　As　bathroom　medicine　chests　in　America　go；　this　was　the　barest　cabinet…outside　of　a　rented　motel　room…I　had　ever　seen。
　　I　returned　to　the　living　room　in　time　to　hear　Berenice　say；　〃Don't　you　get　lonely；　Mr。　Debierue；　living　way　out　here　all　alone？〃
　　He　smiled；　patted　her　hand；　and　shook　his　head。
　　〃It's　the　nature　of　the　artist　to　be　lonely；〃　I　answered　for　him。　〃But　the　painter　has　his　work　to　do；　which　is　ample　pensation。〃
　　〃I　know；〃　Berenice　said；　〃but　this　place　is　a　million　miles　from　nowhere。　You　ought　to　get　a　car；　Mr。　Debierue。　Then　you　could　drive　over　to　Dania　for　jai…alai　at　night　or　something。〃
　　〃No；　no；〃　he　protested；　still　patting　her　hand；　〃I　am　too　old　now　to　learn　how　to　drive　an　automobile。〃
　　〃You　could　take　some　students；〃　Berenice　said　eagerly。　〃There　would　be　a　lot　of　students　who　would　like　to　work　with　you　in　your　studio！　And　I　bet　they'd　e　with　cars　from　all　over〃…she　turned　to　me…〃wouldn't　they；　James？〃
　　Debierue　laughed；　and　I　joined　him；　although　I　was　laughing　more　at　Berenice's　droll　expression…half　anger　and　half　bewilderment…because　we　were　laughing　at　her。　For　any　other　painter　of　equal　stature；　Picasso；　for　instance；　the　suggestion　of　a　student　working　with　a　master　was　valid　enough。　But　for　Debierue；　who　showed　his　work　to　no　one；　the　idea　was　absurd。　Debierue　had　sidetracked　me　neatly。　It　was　time　to　get　back　to　business。
　　I　put　an　affectionate　arm　around　Berenice's　waist　and　squeezed　her　as　a　signal　to　keep　quiet。　〃You　didn't　answer　my　question　a　while　ago；　M。　Debierue；〃　I　said　soberly。　〃You　have　been　very　nice　to　me…to　us　both…even　though　we've　invaded　your　privacy。　But　I　would　like　to　see　your　present　work…〃
　　He　sighed。　〃I'm　sorry；　M。　Figueras。　You　have　made　your　visit　without　reason。　You　see；〃　he　shrugged；　〃I　have　no　work　to　show　you。〃
　　〃Nothing　at　all？　Not　even　a　drawing？〃
　　The　corners　of　his　mouth　drooped　morosely。　〃Work　I　have；　yes。　But　what　things　I　have　done　in　Florida　are　not　deserving　of　your　attention。〃
　　〃Why　don't　you　let　me　be　the　judge　of　that？〃
　　His　strained　half…smile　was　weary；　but　his　features　stiffened　with　a　mask　of　discernible　dignity。　His　voice　dropped　to　a　husky　whisper。　〃The　artist　alone　is　the　final　judge　of　his　work；　M。　Figueras。〃
　　I　flushed。　〃please　don't　misunderstand　me；〃　I　said　quickly。　〃I　didn't　mean　what　I　said　to　e　out　that　way。　What　I　meant　was　that　I　don't　intend　to　criticize　your　work；　or　judge　it　in　any　way。　I　meant　to　say　that　I　would　prefer　to　be　the　judge　of　whether　I'd　like　to　see　it　or　not。　And　I　would。　It　would　be　an　honor。〃
　　〃No。　I　am　sorry　but　I　must　refuse。　You　are　a　critic　and　you　cannot　help　yourself。　For　you；　to　see　a　picture　is　to　make　a　judgment。　I　do　not　want　your　judgment。　I　paint　for　Debierue。　I　please　myself　and　I　displease　myself。　For　a　young　man　like　you　to　say　to　me；　'Ah；　M。　Debierue；　here　in　this　corner　a　touch　of　terracotta　might　strengthen　the　visual　weight；〃　or　'I　like　the　tactile　texture；　but　I　believe　I　see　a　hole　in　the　overall　position。。。：〃　He　chuckled　drily。　〃I　must　say　No；　M。　Figueras。〃
　　〃You　are　putting　me　down；　sir；〃　I　said。　〃I　know　there　are　critics　such　as　you　describe；　but　I'm　not　one　of　them。〃　My　face　was　flaming；　but　my　voice　was　under　control。
　　〃With　the　art　of　Debierue；　one　man　is　a　crowd。　Me。　Debierue。　Two　people　are　a　noisy　audience。　But　to　have　one　spectator　with　a　pen；　the　critic；　is　to　have　many　thousands　of　spectators。　Surrealism　does　not　need　your　rationale；　M。　Figueras。　And　Debierue　does　not　paint　'bicephalous　centaursY'
　　〃He　won't　let　you　see　his　pictures；　will　he？〃　Berenice　guessed；　looking　at　my　face。
　　I　shook　my　head。
　　〃Maybe；〃　she　turned　and　looked　coyly　at　Debierue；　〃you'll　let　me　see　them　instead；　Mr。　Debierue？〃
　　He　stepped　back　a　few　feet　and　examined　her　figure　admiringly。　〃You　have　a　wide　pelvis；　my　dear；　and　it　will　be　very　easy　for　you　to　have　many　fine；　beautiful　babies。〃
　　〃By　that　he　means　No　for　me　too；　doesn't　he？〃
　　〃What　else？〃　I　shrugged；　and　lit　a　cigarette。
　　As　I　had　suspected；　Debierue　had　disliked　Galt's　criticism。　I　could　have　begged；　but　that　would　have　been　abhorrent　to　me。　If　this　was　the　way　he　felt　there　was　no　point　in　pursuing　the