The Mysterious Edge of the Heroic World (13 page)

Amedeo definitely wanted to go to the
molto, molto magnifico
party, but he also didn't want to miss out on anything at Mrs. Zender's—especially the library.

Mrs. Wilcox always saved the most difficult room for last. Usually, that was the dining room, where most families kept their heirloom silver and porcelain, but in Mrs. Zender's house, the library would be, hands down, the
most difficult, and the library was the room they were now ready for. It was the one Amedeo wanted to do most, and it was the one he was going to miss, and his mother had already had his good navy blue suit dry-cleaned, pressed, and the sleeves let down, and she had already made reservations for him to fly as an unaccompanied minor to New York to meet Jake, and then travel with him to Sheboygan.

Amedeo waited until Friday to announce that he would have to miss work.

Mrs. Zender asked to see the invitation, and when Amedeo showed it to her, she commented, “Interesting title. What does it mean? Once Forbidden?”

She examined the invitation closely and read the inside fold several times. Peter had written:
Thirty works of Modern art selected from the original 1937 Degenerate “Art” exhibit in Munich, Germany.
“Do you know which artists' works you'll be seeing?” she asked.

Amedeo pointed to the front of the invitation. “There definitely will be a Picasso. Seeing a real Picasso will probably be a thrill for the kids in Sheboygan, but over the years I've probably seen more of Picasso than his wives and kids ever did.”

Mrs. Zender read the name again. “Once Forbidden.”
She smiled mischievously at Mrs. Wilcox and said, “I savor the forbidden. When Amedeo returns he will explain it all.” She then announced that she too would be taking the weekend off. “I've scheduled a pedicure.”

P
ETER
V
ANDERWAAL LOVED BEING A
host. opening nights were show business after all, and Peter loved show business, especially when he was writer, producer, and director, and had center stage all evening. He moved from one cluster of people to another, dispensing charm and accepting compliments like a film star at an awards show.

He watched a senior citizen point to an unpainted part of a canvas by Henri Matisse and listened to him ask a docent if the artist had run out of paint. The docent replied that no, parts of the canvas had been left bare on purpose to enrich the parts of the canvas that were painted. Peter smiled and mouthed
thank you
to the docent before moving on to a small group standing in front of Picasso's
Harlequin at Rest.

Among them was a ten-year-old. There were not many children at the opening. Amedeo was the only one whose name had been written out on the envelope and
the only one who had a name tag, which he had proudly stuck onto the lapel of the jacket of his good navy blue suit. The ten-year-old, like the others, had been vaguely included when the invitation was addressed to “So-and-So and Family.” Peter had wanted this to be a grown-up event. The children would have their turn. As a matter of fact, they would have many turns. School tours were scheduled for every day of the week for the entire run of the exhibition.

The ten-year-old was standing only inches from Picasso's
Harlequin at Rest,
the painting Peter had chosen for the cover of his catalog. Hands in pockets, the boy rocked on his heels, exposing a strip of pink-buttoned belly flesh. Hardly black-tie appropriate.

Peter watched him rocking back and forth on his heels. Suddenly a giant pink bubble formed and grew on the boy's face.

Bubble gum!

Peter's rage exploded before the bubble did. He grabbed the kid's shoulder and pulled him back, away from the painting.

The bubble burst.

“What are you
doing?
” the kid asked, speaking through the thin rubbery film, which now covered his face from nose to chin.

“What are
you
doing?” Peter demanded in turn.

Mrs. Vanderwaal hurried over. “Is something the matter, dear?” she asked.

“This child was chewing gum.” Peter could barely contain his rage.

Mrs. Vanderwaal said, “I know, dear, it's not good for the teeth.”

The child's mother approached. She took her son by the shoulders and asked, “Are you all right?”

The child began peeling the burst bubble from his face. The boy's mother helped him peel off the last of it. She rolled the pink film between her thumb and forefinger. Peter watched, torn between fascination and disgust.

In that uncomfortable interval, Mrs. Vanderwaal turned to the mother and said, “My son was just so surprised to see a child chewing bubble gum. He had just mentioned to me that he thought that chewing gum among minors had become illegal—like smoking. He said he can't remember seeing a chewing gum commercial on television for years.”

The mother said, “Your son obviously doesn't watch television at the right times.”

Peter started to say something, but his mother interrupted.” Obviously,” she said.

The boy's mother turned to Peter and said, “Nowhere is it posted that people are not to chew gum in here.”

She took her son by the shoulders and led him across the gallery. As soon as they were out of earshot, Peter said, “Nowhere is it posted that you are not to chew gum in here, and nowhere is it posted that you are not to spit either. Whatever happened to the
unposted
laws of civilized behavior?”

Mrs. Vanderwaal placed her arm on Peter's elbow and guided him away from the Picasso. “Peter, dear,” she said, “I think you overreacted.”

Peter took a deep breath. “Really, Mother! Anyone who blows
pink
bubbles in front of a Picasso
Blue
painting should be arrested.”

Peter would later say that he invited his mother, Amedeo, and Jake up to his apartment because any party as
molto, molto
as his deserved a second life. In other words, Peter needed more talk. They were no sooner inside the door than Peter loosened his cummerbund, removed his jacket and tie, and was again ready to take center stage.

Did they like the string quartet?
YES.

And did you notice that the champagne was brut?
YES.

And was served in real glasses. The stems always come off those plastic ones.

YES,
the champagne was wonderful, and
YES
the champagne glasses were elegant.

Yes, yes, and yes.

Mrs. Vanderwaal said, “You are to be congratulated, dear. The evening was a resounding success.”

“I know it was, Mother, and do you know how I know?”

“I wouldn't presume to know, dear.”

“Well, the average time spent in front of a single work of Modern art is less than forty-five seconds. Doesn't that shock you?”

“Just a little.”

“Of course, those are average times for average viewers, and that crowd this evening was hardly average. Do you know how much time some of those people spent in front of a single work this evening?”

“I wouldn't presume to know, dear.”

“One couple spent so much time in front of the large Braque, I thought they might have taken root. They were mesmerized.”

“I'm very proud of you, dear. Opening night was a resounding success.”

Jake said, “A
molto, molto magnifico
success.”

But they had to agree several more times. Too much praise was almost enough.

About midnight, Mrs. Vanderwaal excused herself and left the room. Everyone assumed that she was going to bed, and Jake took it as a cue to start gathering their things to prepare to leave for their hotel.

But Mrs. Vanderwaal returned to the living room, carrying a big gray metal box in one hand and two small framed photos in the other. She laid the box on the floor at Peter's feet. If she had planted a bomb, Peter could not have been more surprised.

“What is this, Mother?” he asked.

Mrs. Vanderwaal carefully placed the two small frames on top of the box. She aligned the larger of the two with the sides of the box. “They'll fit,” she said, almost to herself.

“Well, dear,” she began, “this is the box I gave you when you were in Epiphany for your father's funeral.”

“I know what it is, Mother. I still have traces of black-and-blue from the crushing it gave my thighs as I ran to the plane.”

“Have you looked in it?”

“A little. I found the tablet, Mother, but, honestly, I haven't had the time to look beyond that. I'll take care of it now.”

“I was hoping you would take the time before the show, but you didn't.”

“So am I being criticized for something else I didn't do—like not posting a No Bubble Gum Allowed sign?”

“Don't be so sensitive, dear. I simply didn't want you to worry when you notice that the box is gone.”

“Where is the box going?”

“I'm taking it with me.”

“Taking it with you? Where?”

“Well, dear, you know it was a dream of your father's and mine to travel the country in a Winnebago, but after he came down with his kidney problems and needed the dialysis three times a week, we couldn't do it. So before he took to the hospital that last time, he made me promise to buy a Winnebago.”

“All right, Mother. When do you plan on doing this?”

“I already have, dear.”

“What about the house?”

“I've sold the house, dear.”

“You're leaving Epiphany?”

“Yes, dear, I am.”

“You're going to travel by yourself.”

“Yes, dear, I am.”

“You surprise me.”

“Well, you know what they say, dear. ‘It's a wise child that knows his own mother.'”

“Mother! That's not it at all It's not what
they
say. It's
Shakespeare. And Shakespeare says, ‘It is a wise father that knows his own child.'”

“Is that it, dear? He should have said it the other way around. ‘It's a wise child that knows his own father.'”

Peter leaned over and tapped the metal box. “When you gave this to me, the word
Winnebago
did not even cross your lips.”

“You had a lot on your mind, dear. Getting ready for this show.”

“Exactly, Mother. And that is the very reason I did not have an opportunity to open that box again.”

“And the show was the very reason I gave you the box.”

“This show, Mother? My Once Forbidden show?”

“Yes, dear.
This
show.”

“But what I saw was only part of a story Dad wrote.”

“Yes, dear, but there's more. I had hoped that you'd look at all these papers before your show. I thought they might be useful to you.”

“Mother, if you are trying to make me feel guilty, it's working.”

“I know, dear.”

Mrs. Vanderwaal picked up the two old black-and-white photos. “I'm taking these with me, too. They weren't in the box. I brought them with me. I don't think
they'll be damaged by the trip. I do intend to drive with the windows open.” Mrs. Vanderwaal handed Jake the first picture. “This is the one I kept on my desk when I worked for the city of Epiphany.” Jake moved over on the sofa to make room for Mrs. Vanderwaal to sit between them. Peter sat on the arm. The photo showed three young people sitting on a tower. Amedeo recognized the tower as one of the three that stood high on a hill in Epiphany and that Jake took care of. In the picture the tower was still unfinished, not much taller than either of the girls. Peter was sitting on top of the tower, one of his hands on the head of each of the girls. All three were mugging for the camera.

Mrs. Vanderwaal pointed to one of the girls and said to Amedeo, “That's your mother.”

“My mother?”

Peter said, “Your mother and I grew up in the same neighborhood in Epiphany.”

Jake laughed. “What was it Mrs. Vanderwaal just said? ‘It's a wise child that knows his own mother.'”

Amedeo said defensively, “I knew that. I definitely knew that Peter knew Mother before you did.”

He returned the framed photo to Mrs. Vanderwaal, and she offered the other picture to them. “This is the
other one I'm taking with me.” The photo was so old that the whites were yellow and the blacks were umber. There were two young men standing on either side of a table. The men looked enough alike to be twins of different ages; they were holding up champagne glasses, as if to toast each other. There were candles on the table and a picture calendar on the wall above the table. Amedeo had seen the photo before. It used to sit on the mantel in the living room of Mrs. Vanderwaal's house in Epiphany.

Mrs. Vanderwaal pointed to the younger man on the right of the picture. “That is Peter's father,” she said, “and the other young man is—
was
—his father's brother, Pieter. Peter is named for him. This was long ago. In Amsterdam.” Mrs. Vanderwaal held the picture to her heart. “It will keep me company while I'm on my trip.”