cwilleford.theburntorangeheresy-第4章

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


　　〃Thanks；　Eddy。〃
　　Eddy　worked　the　day　shift　at　Hiram's　Hideaway　in　South　Palm　Beach；　but　he　was　a　popular　bartender　and　was　hired　by　many　hostesses　during　the　season　for　parties　at　night。　I　usually　ran　into　him　once　or　twice　a　week　at　various　places。　Everybody；　I　thought；　needs　something　extra　nowadays。　A　regular　job；　and　something　else。　Gloria；　for　example；　wouldn't　have　been　able　to　pay　the　high　seasonal　rent　on　her　gallery　if　she　didn't　occasionally　rent　it　out　in　the　evenings　for　poetry　readings　and　encounter…group　therapy　sessions。　She　detested　these　groups；　too。　The　people　who　needed　to　listen　to　poetry；　or　tortured　themselves　in　encounter…group　sessions　were　all　chain　smokers；　she　claimed；　who　didn't　use　the　ashtrays　she　provided。
　　Eddy　worked　at　a　sheet…covered　card　table。　There　was　scotch；　bourbon；　gin　and　vermouth　for　martinis；　and　a　plastic　container　of　ice　cubes　behind　the　table。　I　moved　back　to　give　someone　else　a　chance；　and　picked　up　a　mimeographed　catalogue　from　the　table　in　the　foyer。　Gloria　was　greeting　newers　at　the　door；　bringing　them　to　the　table　to　sign　her　guest　book；　and　then　to　the　bar。
　　Her　previews　were　not　exclusive　by　any　means。　In　addition　to　her　regular　guest　list　for　previews；　she　gave　invitations　to　Palm　Beach　hotel　P。R。　directors　to　hand　out　to　guests　who　might　be　potential　buyers。　The　square　hotel　guests；　〃honored〃　by　being　given　printed　preview　invitations　to　a　private　show；　and　thrified　by　the　idea　that　they　were　seeing　〃real〃　Palm　Beach　society　at　an　art　show　preview；　occasionally　purchased　a　painting。　And　when　they　did；　the　publicity　director　of　The　hotel　they　came　from　received　a　sports　jacket　or　a　new　pair　of　Daks　from　Gloria。　As　a　consequence；　the　preview　crowd　at　Gloria's　Gallery　was　often　a　weird　group。　There　were　even　a　couple　of　teenaged　girls　from　Palm　Beach　Junior　College　peering　anxiously　at　the　primitives　and　writing　notes　with　balipoints　in　Blue　Horse　notebooks。
　　Herbert　Westcott；　I　learned　from　the　catalogue；　was　twenty…seven　years　old；　a　graduate　of　Western　Reserve　who　had　also　studied　at　the　Art　Students　League　in　New　York。　He　had　exhibited　in　Cleveland；　the　Art　Students　League；　and　Toronto；　Canada。　A　Mr。　Theodore　L。　Canavin　of　Philadelphia　had　collected　some　of　his　work。　This　exhibit；　recent　work　done　in　Haiti　during　the　past　three　months；　was　Westcott's　first　one…man　show。　I　looked　up　from　the　catalogue　and　spotted　the　artist　easily。　He　was　short…about　five；　seven…well　tanned；　with　a　skimpy；　light　brown　beard。　He　wore　a　six…button；　。powder　blue　Palm　Beach　suit；　white　shoes；　and　a　pale　pink　body　shirt　without　a　tie。　He　was　eavesdropping　on　a　middle…aged　couple　examining　his　largest　painting…a　Port…au…Prince　market　scene　that　was　two…thirds　lemon　sky。
　　He　drew　well；　as　Gloria　had　said；　but　he　had　let　his　colors　overlap　by　dripping　to　give　the　effect　of　fortuitous　accident　to　his　positions。　The　drips…a　messy　heritage　from　Jackson　Pollock…were　injudicious。　He　had　talent；　of　course；　but　talent　is　where　a　painter　starts。　His　Haitian　men　and　women　were　in　tints　and　shades　of　chocolate　instead　of　black；　something　I　might　not　have　noticed　if　it　had　not　been　for　the　Haitian　paintings　on　the　opposite　wall；　where　the　figures　were　black　indeed。
　　The　dozen　Haitian　paintings　Gloria　had　rounded　up　were　all　surprisingly　good。　She　even　had　an　early　Marcel；　circa　1900；　so　modestly　different　from　the　contemporary　primitives　with　their　bold　reds　and　yellows；　it　riveted　one's　attention。　The　scene　was　typically　Haitian；　some　thirty　peopie　engaged　in　voodoo　rites；　with　a　bored；　ical　goat　as　a　central　focusing　point；　but　the　picture　was　painted　in　gray；　black；　and　white…no　primary　colors　at　all。　Marcel；　as　I　recalled；　was　an　early　primitive　who　had　painted　his　canvases　with　chicken　feathers　because　he　could　not　afford　brushes。　It　was　priced　at　only　fifteen　hundred　dollars；　and　someone　would　get　a　bargain　if　he　purchased　the　Marcel　。　。　。
　　〃James；〃　Gloria　clutched　my　elbow；　〃I　want　you　to　meet　Herb　Westcott。　Herb；　this　is　Mr。　Figueras。〃
　　〃How　do　you　do？〃　I　said。　〃Gloria；　where　did　you　get　the　Marcel？〃
　　〃Later；〃　she　said。　〃Talk　to　Herb。〃　She　turned　away；　with　her　long　freckled　right　arm　outstretched　to　a　tottering　old　man　with　rouged　cheeks。
　　Westcott　fingered　his　skimpy　beard。　〃I'm　sorry　I　didn't　recognize　you　before；　Mr。　Figueras…Gioria　told　me　you　were　ing…but　I　thought　you　wore　a　beard。　。　。　。〃
　　〃It's　the　picture　in　my　column。　I　should　replace　the　photo；　I　suppose；　but　it's　a　good　one　and　I　haven't　got　another　one　yet。　I　had　my　beard　for　about　a　year　before　I　shaved　it。　You　shouldn't　tug　at　your　beard；　Mr。　Westcott　。　。　。〃
　　He　dropped　his　hand　quickly　and　shuffled　his　feet。
　　〃I　worked　it　all　out；　Mr。　Westcott；　and　found　that　a　beard　would　add　about　six　weeks　to　my　life；　that　is；　six　full　weeks　of　shaving　time　saved　in　a　lifetime；　seven　weeks　if　one　uses　an　electric　razor。　But　it　wasn't　worth　it。　Like　you；　I　could　hardly　keep　my　fingers　off　the　damned　thing；　and　my　neck　itched　all　the　time。　The　secret；　they　say；　is　never　to　touch　your　beard。　And　if　you've　already　got　that　habit；　Mr。　Westcott；　your　beard　is　doomed。〃
　　〃I　see；〃　he　said　shyly。　〃Thanks　for　the　advice。〃
　　〃Don't　worry；〃　I　added；　〃you　probably　look　handsomer　without　one。〃
　　〃That's　what　Gloria　said。　Here；〃　he　took　my　empty　Dixie　cup…〃let　me　get　you　a　fresh　drink。　What　are　you　drinking？〃
　　〃Eddy　knows。〃
　　I　turned　back　to　examine　the　Marcel　again。　I　wanted　to　leave。　The　small　high…ceilinged　room；　which　seemed　smaller　now　as　it　began　to　get　crowded；　was　jammed　with　loud…voiced　people；　and　I　did　not　want　to　talk　to　Westcott　about　his　paintings。　That's　why　I　got　off　onto　the　beard　gambit。　They　were　all　derivative；　which　he　knew　without　my　telling　him。　The　entire　show；　including　the　Marcel；　wasn't　worth　more　than　one　column　inch　（I　folded　the　catalogue　and　shoved　it　into　my　hip　pocket）；　unless　I　got　desperate　for　more　filler　to　make　the　column　e　out　to　an　even　two　thousand　words。
　　Gloria　was　standing　by　the　bar；　together　with　a　dozen　other　thirsty　guests。　Poor　Westcott；　who　was　paying　for　the　liquor；　hovered　on　the　outskirts　trying　to　get　Eddy's　attention。　I　took　the　opportunity　to　slip　into　the　foyer　and　then　out　the　door。　I　was　on　Worth　Avenue　in　the　late　twilight；　and　heading　for　home。　If　Mr。　Cassidy　wanted　to　meet　me；　he　could　get　my　telephone　number　from　Gloria　and　call　for　an　appointment。
　　Twilight　doesn't　last　very　long　in　Florida。　By　the　time　I　reached　my　ocherous　predepression　stucco　apartment　house…a　mansion　in　the　twenties；　now　cut　up　into　small　apartments…my　depression　was　so　bad　I　had　a　headache。　I　took　off　my　jacket　and　sat　on　a　concrete　bench　beneath　a　tamarisk　tree　in　the　patio　and　smoked　a　cigarette。　The　ocean　wind　was　warm　and　soft。　A　few　late　birds　twittered　angrily　as　they　tried　to　find　roosting　places　in　the　crowded　tree　above　my　head。　I　was　fified　with　emptiness　up　to　my　eyes；　but　not　to　the　point　of　overflowing。　Old　Mrs。　Weissberg；　who　lived　in　No。　2；　was　limping　down　the　flagstone　path　toward　my　bench。　To　avoid　talking　to　her　I　got　up　abruptly；　climbed　the　stairs；　heated　a　Patio　Mexican　Dinner　for　thirty　minutes　in　the　oven；　ate　half　of　it；　and　went　to　bed。　I　fell　asleep　at　once　and　slept　without　dreams。
　　
　　
　　4
　　
　　Gloria　shook　me　awake　and　switched　on　the　lamp　beside　the　Murphy　bed。　She　had　let　herself　in　with　the　extra　key　I　kept　hidden　in　the　potted　geranium　on　the　porch。　She　had　either　witnessed　Beremce　using　the　key　or　heard　her　mention　that　one　was　there。　I　blinked　at　Gloria　in　the　sudden　light；　trying　to　pull　myself　together。　My　heart　was　still　fluttering；　but　the　burbling　fear　of　being　wakened　in　the　dark　was　gradually　going　away。
　　〃I'm　sorry；　James；〃　Gloria　said　briskly；　〃but　I　knocked　and　you　didn't　answer。　You　really　ought　to　get　a　doorbell；　you　know。〃
　　〃Try　phoning　next　time。　I　almost　always　get　up　to　answer　the　phone；　in　case　it　might　be　something　unimportant。〃　I　didn't　try　to　conceal　the　irritation　in　my　voice。
　　My　cigarettes　were　in　my　trousers；　which　were　hanging　over　the　back　of　the　straight　chair　by　the　coffee　table。　I　slept　nude；　with　just　a　sheet　over　me；　but　because　I　was　angry　as　well　as　in　need　of