An Exquisite Sense of What Is Beautiful by J. David Simons Page A

hand in the general direction, his thin wrist poking out like a chicken bone between cuff and glove.
    ‘But you write as well?’
    ‘Alas, I am not a masochist, but a sadist. I prefer to slash and burn the work of others. It is more fun. Much more fun. Now what about you?’
    ‘I’m over there,’ Edward said, with a nod towards his college on the other side of the square. ‘Studying Japanese.’
    ‘So you will join the diplomatic corps then?’ Aldous asked, rather disappointingly.
    ‘I was thinking of international trade.’
    ‘Pity. Literary translation might be more satisfying. I hear there is a lot of good writing coming out of Japan these days. Kawabata. Mishima. All needing good translators. Now, if you will excuse me, I must return to my duties. Lesser writers require attention.’
    Aldous rose, gave a casual salute, then walked off in the direction of his office. His coat and suit hung loose off his thin frame as he skipped along the pathway, hardly seeming to touch the surface with the soles of his feet. Dancing. Not like Gene Kelly. But like Fred Astaire.

    The gallery was in Albemarle Street. Mayfair posh. Large bay window set in an expensive wooden frontage displaying a solitary canvas on an easel. The painting was an abstract. Strong blues, blacks and reds colouring different geometrical shapes. An unsettling yellow eye in the centre. Miro? Edward could see visitors mingling inside. A bell announced his arrival but thankfully no one looked round. The sweat started to creep across his brow and he cursed his haste for not waiting until he had cooled down from his walk. Thick carpet. Waiters with trays. This had to be a private view, not a public exhibition. He was about to leave when he saw Macy pushing towards him.
    ‘You came,’ she said, pointing an empty wine glass at him. Her face was flushed, her skin tinged red where her neck and collarbone broke free from the loose strangle of her baggy sweater. Her jeans and canvas shoes were speckled with paint. Very casual compared to the formal attire of the other guests.
    ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise it was a private party.’
    ‘Don’t be so… so… I don’t know… so British. You’re more than welcome.’
    She grabbed his hand. Cool fingers curled around his own damp flesh. He followed her through the clusters of guests hovering, drinking, clinking and chattering around the large canvasses. Such bright colours. Disconnected. Floating. Just as he was in Macy’s grasp. They arrived at a triptych of paintings at the far corner of the room.
    ‘What do you think?’ she asked.
    He detected a vulnerability in her voice that made him want to say something complimentary. Something positive and intelligent about these thick sworls of colour on canvas, these intricate webs of random design. Layer upon layer. Structureless. Aggressive . Drips and splashes. The texture showing him what had been thrown fast, what had been thrown slow. Reminding him of what? Of nothing. Of drips and splashes. He sought assistance from the index card pinned to one side. “Fugue. Nos 1, 2 and 3. M. Collingwood. 1951.” No help. Yet this was Macy staring back at him from the canvas. Her mood. Her spirit. Aching from her heart, acting from her uncluttered mind. He suddenly felt himself touched by the honesty, the intimacy, the openness, by this glimpse inside of her.
    ‘Well?’ she prodded.
    The emotion scraped at his belly, quickly working itself up his throat, swelling into his eyes.
    ‘I love them,’ he said, knowing he could just as easily have said, ‘I love you.’
    He steeled himself for some scathing response to what she surely must regard as a banal comment. She screwed up her eyes, scrutinised him as if she too were searching for what lay inside of him.
    ‘You know, Eddie. I’m really glad you turned up. I really am. Now, come meet my father.’
    Ensconced within his coterie, Mr Collingwood stood tall and shiny. Shiny grey-black hair, shiny smooth cheeks,