Harmony In Flesh and Black (20 page)

Let Russ be. Forget Dawn's voice on the machine. It's not your problem, Fred. Interesting, but not your problem. File the following observation, though: Buddy Mangan is more than a loud noise. He's dangerous.

*   *   *

Telephone.

It was Molly's voice in Fred's ear. He put the gun down.

He'd picked the gun up when the phone rang. That was instinct working: old habits; nerves.

“Miss you,” said Molly. “You awake?”

“I'm awake.” He looked at his watch. It was eight o'clock. He'd slept again. “I miss you, too. Did you do good Spanish? Let me talk to Sam. I'll try to egg him on.”

“He left already. I told him you wished him well.”

“Let's have lunch. We could go to a place,” Fred said.

“I liked how we did it yesterday,” said Molly. “It makes me feel egregious. I'll bring a snack. See you—what?—around one?”

“Check. Meet me in the Quiet Bar. It's my new hangout.”

“Be in your room,” Molly said, “because that's where I'm going.”

“Fair enough.”

“I want to warn you: Ophelia may call you.”

“How come?”

“She wants your opinion. I couldn't think what to say about why you were at the Charles, since I won't tell her your business.”

“God, no.”

“Say whatever you want. Ophelia has the impression there's a rift between us. I didn't deny it since, with Ophelia, there's no point.”

“If she calls,” Fred said, “I'll try to be decent with her. Is she still with Finn?”

“She said she has to talk with you,” Molly said. “We didn't talk about her sex life.”

“Ghastly thought. I'll see you, Molly.”

“Believe it.”

22

Fred showered and dressed for the day, putting on white shirt and tie. He put the gun under his arm and pulled on the sport coat over it. He went downstairs for a paper and breakfast. The hotel's dining room was filled with the clean and blessed. He sat. Two minutes later, behind the headlines, Ophelia materialized. She was all business in a blue suit and exhibited elaborate surprise at seeing him.

“Fred! What are you doing here? Breakfast at the Charles! La la. Alone? Or are you meeting someone?”

Ophelia was content to trade an hour's scandal for her sister's well-being.

“I'm having breakfast. Alone, as you see. Until now. Molly said you'd call.”

“Oh, you talked to Molly?” Ophelia said, disappointed. “I'll join you, may I?” she said, sitting, her tail end used to being warmly received wherever she presented it. “I want your opinion, Fred.”

“So Molly said. Let me order.”

He asked the waiter to bring pancakes, and coffee as soon as possible. Ophelia ordered coffee also, “as long as I'm here.”

She leaned across the table, her hands clasped, a gleam in her eye. “I decided I must see you this morning. Fred, I need your advice. About an idea.”

She paused, waiting for Fred to bite. He drank coffee and waited, looking at her.

“You are the first person I'm talking with. I haven't even mentioned it to Sir Albert. Al. Al Finn.”

“Do you want something to eat?” Fred asked her.

Ophelia shook her head. “I'm excited about Al's potential. He knows so much, though, it intimidates me. I'm afraid if I talk with him prematurely, he'll laugh. I don't want to go off—pardon my language, Fred—half-cocked.”

Ophelia looked at Fred, waiting.

“Why should he laugh?” Fred asked her.

“He doesn't believe in TV, but I think he's a natural ham, and you know I have an instinct for the medium.” She leaned back, awaiting Fred's approval.

“You want to get Finn on one of those ‘Be Happy with the Body You Have Already' things?” Fred asked. “It would be great to see the old boy in a white leotard, pontificating.”

“No, no. It's a new series I'm developing, trying to bring to the proposal stage. Totally new idea. I produce it and appear as hostess since people want to see me. But my idea is to have Sir Albert as, well, the artistic director.”

Ophelia gleamed.

“Al and I get on so well,” she went on. “We are almost inseparable, except when he's working or—”

“What's the plan?” Fred interrupted.

“
The Great Collectors.
A series about the interesting art collectors. Al knows them all and helps them with their collections. He knows where the bodies are buried.” Ophelia's merry laugh sounded as if she'd spent far too much time already in the company of A. Finn.

“The idea is, we film the collections. We go all over the country together. WGBH pays for it. Albert can do a spinoff book without even thinking. You do the shows to sell the books. Sir Albert introduces each show in his beautiful English way, he talks to the collector for ten minutes, then they show the collection. Albert and the collector talk, with my help. It's made in heaven. It's never been done.”

“I'll tell you right now,” Fred said. He occupied himself with his pancakes. “Clay's such a private cuss, you won't get to first base with him.”

“With Clay?” Ophelia looked perplexed. “Oh, you mean your boss. No, no, heavens.” She vouchsafed a peal of laughter. “My plan is to have Sir Albert talk with people of importance, not locals. Some of the persons he advises. A few chosen others.”

She leaned across to where she could almost strip a bite of pancake from Fred's fork. “Some of these collectors have never consented to be interviewed before. Al's reputation, and the growing momentum of the project, will bring them on board. You'll never guess who I'm thinking of to do the kickoff.”

“I never will,” said Fred. “Listen, Ophelia, I've learned to love the body I have. Do you want my last pancake?”

“No. Thanks. I'm serious. I heard Al talking about him last night, very excited, you know how he can be, and it came to me, the whole thing. We'll lead the series—
The Great Collectors
—with Arthur Arthurian.”

“You're joking.”

“I knew that would impress you,” Ophelia said. “From something Albert let drop late last night or early this morning—I lose track of the time, he's so exciting to be with—he's going to write an introduction for the catalog of the Arthurian collection.”

She reached out, took Fred's remaining pancake, lathered it with butter and syrup, and started eating.

“I wondered,” Ophelia said with translucent innocence, “because you know so much about it and I know so much about other things instead, before I start talking the project through seriously with Al, what can you, Fred, personally tell me about the famous Arthur Arthurian?”

Finn had been in town for what, three days? four? and already his network had caught the scent of Arthur Arthurian. He must be going crazy wondering about this collector he'd never heard of.

Fred signaled for more coffee while Ophelia sharpened her attention. Let her wait for a change.

“One only hears rumors. He's not your Onassis type,” Fred told her, “nor your Gulbenkian. From what I hear, Arthurian abhors the light of publicity, the beaten track.”

“Wait a minute,” Ophelia said. “Let me take notes.”

Fred obliged. Ophelia found a notebook in her Hermès handbag, which she'd put beside her on the table so the room could see she had one.

“Don't breathe a word to anyone,” Fred advised, “until you have Arthurian's permission.”

“Of course not,” Ophelia said. “But since you're telling me, it will save the great man's time later.”

Fred had an uncomfortable suspicion that Ophelia was here not as what she seemed but as an ambassador, looking, on Finn's account, for information that he couldn't get himself because it did not exist. If that was the case, Fred would send back smoke. Clay deserved a gesture of revenge.

“The art world is a small world, and Arthurian a very private man,” Fred said.

“I understand. But tell me, for example, where does he live?”

“I hear he has become a recluse.”

“Became a recluse where?” Ophelia said.

“I know nothing I can guarantee,” Fred said.

“Where is he?” she asked. “Where's his collection? Albert knows, but I hate him to think I'm ignorant.”

“I can only tell you what I've heard, and none of it may be true. I only tell you in strictest confidence,” Fred said. “Because what Arthurian owns—the paintings alone, when I tell you—naturally you are familiar with
La Gioconda.
”

“Of course,” Ophelia said. “Just … remind me.”

“The
Mona Lisa.
”

Ophelia nodded and smiled. She loved that. “Yes, by da Vinci. The mystery smile!”

“Its companion piece, her husband, facing toward her—
L'Arcigno
—that belongs to Arthurian.”

“My God. Will he let us film it?”

“You'll have to ask him,” Fred said.

“Where is he to ask him?”

“He travels.”

“Would your boss know?” Ophelia asked.

“He stops in Boston when he can,” Fred said. “I gather he was here last week. He was to leave for Kansas City, by train. He travels only by train.”

“He was in Boston last week?” Ophelia repeated.

“That is what I heard. It may not be true.”

23

Fred drove into Boston.

He would not assume indefinitely that Clayton's home and office must remain a no-man's land. There had been no sign that any connection had been made between Clay and his snow-balling imaginary friend Arthurian. If the police had put the two together, they'd also know the way to Clayton Reed was through Fred, who was not hard to find.

Fred, ever since he'd picked up the gun, had been watching his back, as a matter of old habit. Nobody seemed to care about him. The day was clear and would be warm again, spring already waning. There was no traffic to fight. Rush hour was over except for executives starting late.

He parked a couple of blocks from Clayton's and walked over, looking for unusual interest in the house and finding none. He went in, picked up the mail, and put it on his desk to take to Clay later.

Fred pulled out the Chase and looked at La Belle Conchita. He hadn't had a chance to enjoy the painting since identifying its author. It was Chase all over. As to La Belle Conchita herself, she looked an energetic kid, amused at her own daring, knowing herself in the hands of a young master, in the company of Goya's
Maja,
Titian's
Danaë
or
Venus
(whatever their names were), Courbet's and Whistler's Jo.

When Chase had finished work and washed his brushes, had Conchita rolled over, hopped up, and said, “Okay, Will, my turn. I want to do you. Drop trousers and recline. Allow me a long gaze at that precious fanny. Or no, face me. We'll see if my brush can catch the indigo accent on the testicles against the crimson of your waving thingy!”?

How had they talked to each other of such things in those days? The painting, as formal in its way as conversation recorded in novels of the day, drew down the curtain of discretion before the slippery moments started.

The painted nude of the period had not much to do with sex and rather more with monuments. It allowed a stripping-away of evanescent fashion, a concentration on what was permanent: a form that a succession of humans continues to fill. It was unlike the pornographic photo torn out of
Penthouse
in that pop pornography, to maintain its narrow focus, must exhibit a contrary fillip of current fashion. The boots, the smile, and the hat in the photograph all emphasize the thesis that the sum of a woman is smaller than her parts.

The telephone rang. Fred left it. He'd let Clayton continue to be unreachable since that was the plan. When it stopped, as long as he was here, he called Clay at the Copley. Was there anything he could do? Feed the cat, take in the milk, water the plants? It wasn't that kind of house. Nothing was alive in it but Clay, when Clay was home; and Fred, and the paintings.

“Thank you. As long as I have Proust, I want for nothing. You might collect the mail, in case of something urgent. I called the Ritz, by the way, and learned that Albert Finn remains in town. Therefore he has his eye on the Heade, either as a Heade—in which case I shall outbid him—or because he knows what we suspect.”

“I'll come over,” Fred said. “We can talk about it. Not only is he in town, but Ophelia says he's talking about writing an introduction to the catalog for the Arthurian collection.”

“There is no Arthurian collection,” Clay protested.

“We'll talk about it,” said Fred. “I'll be right over.”

Normally he would have enjoyed walking to Copley Square, but he'd stick with the car today, not knowing where he would have to go next. This part of Boston looked nice in the spring. Trees were putting on heavy green. Daffodils, tulips, and magnolias were established in the small plots of yard allotted to the old buildings. In a week all bloom would be gone from the magnolias.

“What's this about Finn and the Arthurian collection?” Clay asked as he let Fred in. Fully dressed and groomed, he had a green volume of Proust—in French—closed on his finger, so he would not lose his place. “Is it a joke? I do not feel like joking. I don't relish living away from home. I own a new painting I have barely seen. I don't wish to be Mr. Whistler. Proust I can enjoy equally well in my own flat, except for the distractions. I begin to think of this, Fred, as my period of exile.”

Fred sat in one of the armchairs. Clay kept his room so neat you could barely tell it was being occupied. Suitcases had been emptied into drawers and closets, the cases themselves sent down to the baggage room to be stored until he was ready for them. Nothing was left lying on chairs or tables. The
New York Times,
already read, was folded again.