veracity of," I said.
I
"Do your worst."
"I met a blind man, a Mr. Watkin, on the way home from Reed's the other night . . .," I began, and then pro-ceeded to tell him the whole thing, including Mrs. Charbuque's fairy tale of snow and solitude.
Salvation
I looked at Shenz and saw that his eyes were closed and he was leaning back in his chair. I thought for a moment that he had succumbed to his cigarette and was now off in some other land where haloed maidens sported with lambs and the armored chestplates of knights pressed the nubile breasts of water nymphs, but then he spoke, one word.
"Salvation," he said in a groggy voice, and leaned for-ward wearily to train his glassy eyes upon me.
"Salvation?" I asked.
"Yes, yours," he said, and smiled.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"You say you are playing this game of hide-and-seek for the money, a perfectly mercenary approach and one befitting a man of your time, but then you go fur-ther and say that this money will allow you to extricate yourself from society, give you the precious space you need to discover your abilities and paint something worthy of your skill and training. The bit about Albert Ryder I'm not quite clear on. The man seems bent on producing mud puddles, but so be it, if he is your inspiration. Nevertheless, this woman's inane pro-position could be a two-edged sword of salvation for you.”
"I wasn't aware that I was in need of salvation, exactly," I said.
"Well, you are. First," he said, "you need to do this to honor the memory of M. Sabott. You know as well as I do how shoddily you treated him near the end of his days. No . . . let's not have any looks of wounded pride. You cut him loose like a dangling thread on a new suit of clothes when he became a burden to your grow-ing reputation. Now is your opportunity to fulfill the promise he saw in you and repay all he did on your behalf."
"Sabott had gone mad," I said in my defense.
"Mad or merely in search of what you yourself are searching for now? Don't forget, I was with you that day at Madison Square when those fine gentlemen were offering you impressive sums of money to execute their portraits. Then who should wander along but old Sabott, ranting at the sky. Do you remember, he worked himself into such a lather that he fell over in the gutter? I did not know you then, but I thought you had been or were his student, and I said, 'Piambo, is that not an acquaintance of
yours?' You denied you knew him, and we walked on and left him there."
"All right, Shenz, all right," I said. "You've made your point."
"I make it not to distress you but to show you that this is a debt that still needs to be settled. Not for
Sabott—it's not going to do him any good—but for you. Your betrayal still weighs heavily upon you."
"And what is the connection between that and Mrs. Charbuque?" I asked.
"The other side of the sword. Piambo, you are the finest painter I know. You are wasting your talent on rendering the features of the banal, trading opportunity for status and wealth."
"The finest?" I said with a short sharp chuckle.
"This is not a joke," said Shenz. "You have seen my work. What do you think of the brush strokes?"
"Varied and effective," I said.
Page 23
"Yes, all well and good, but the other night, after you left Reed's, I took a moment to step up close to the portrait of his wife and study your brushwork. Do you know what I saw?"
"What?" I asked.
"Nothing. I saw nothing. Now there are ways to disguise brushwork, but these methods, you know yourself, are as evident as if the direction of the application were obvious. After staring for some time, I
realized that each time you touched the canvas, the effect was like a small explosion of color. I've seen you paint, and you approach the work with great energy, great vitality. It comes from inside you, in here,"
he said, and brought his clenched fist slowly to his chest. "All this truth put in the service of lying about what you see and feel." I said
I
"Do your worst."
"I met a blind man, a Mr. Watkin, on the way home from Reed's the other night . . .," I began, and then pro-ceeded to tell him the whole thing, including Mrs. Charbuque's fairy tale of snow and solitude.
Salvation
I looked at Shenz and saw that his eyes were closed and he was leaning back in his chair. I thought for a moment that he had succumbed to his cigarette and was now off in some other land where haloed maidens sported with lambs and the armored chestplates of knights pressed the nubile breasts of water nymphs, but then he spoke, one word.
"Salvation," he said in a groggy voice, and leaned for-ward wearily to train his glassy eyes upon me.
"Salvation?" I asked.
"Yes, yours," he said, and smiled.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"You say you are playing this game of hide-and-seek for the money, a perfectly mercenary approach and one befitting a man of your time, but then you go fur-ther and say that this money will allow you to extricate yourself from society, give you the precious space you need to discover your abilities and paint something worthy of your skill and training. The bit about Albert Ryder I'm not quite clear on. The man seems bent on producing mud puddles, but so be it, if he is your inspiration. Nevertheless, this woman's inane pro-position could be a two-edged sword of salvation for you.”
"I wasn't aware that I was in need of salvation, exactly," I said.
"Well, you are. First," he said, "you need to do this to honor the memory of M. Sabott. You know as well as I do how shoddily you treated him near the end of his days. No . . . let's not have any looks of wounded pride. You cut him loose like a dangling thread on a new suit of clothes when he became a burden to your grow-ing reputation. Now is your opportunity to fulfill the promise he saw in you and repay all he did on your behalf."
"Sabott had gone mad," I said in my defense.
"Mad or merely in search of what you yourself are searching for now? Don't forget, I was with you that day at Madison Square when those fine gentlemen were offering you impressive sums of money to execute their portraits. Then who should wander along but old Sabott, ranting at the sky. Do you remember, he worked himself into such a lather that he fell over in the gutter? I did not know you then, but I thought you had been or were his student, and I said, 'Piambo, is that not an acquaintance of
yours?' You denied you knew him, and we walked on and left him there."
"All right, Shenz, all right," I said. "You've made your point."
"I make it not to distress you but to show you that this is a debt that still needs to be settled. Not for
Sabott—it's not going to do him any good—but for you. Your betrayal still weighs heavily upon you."
"And what is the connection between that and Mrs. Charbuque?" I asked.
"The other side of the sword. Piambo, you are the finest painter I know. You are wasting your talent on rendering the features of the banal, trading opportunity for status and wealth."
"The finest?" I said with a short sharp chuckle.
"This is not a joke," said Shenz. "You have seen my work. What do you think of the brush strokes?"
"Varied and effective," I said.
Page 23
"Yes, all well and good, but the other night, after you left Reed's, I took a moment to step up close to the portrait of his wife and study your brushwork. Do you know what I saw?"
"What?" I asked.
"Nothing. I saw nothing. Now there are ways to disguise brushwork, but these methods, you know yourself, are as evident as if the direction of the application were obvious. After staring for some time, I
realized that each time you touched the canvas, the effect was like a small explosion of color. I've seen you paint, and you approach the work with great energy, great vitality. It comes from inside you, in here,"
he said, and brought his clenched fist slowly to his chest. "All this truth put in the service of lying about what you see and feel." I said
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