cwilleford.theburntorangeheresy-第3部分

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　　〃I　don't　want　to　talk　about　it；　Gloria。〃
　　She　was　laughing　as　I　racked　the　phone。
　　
　　
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　　As　much　as　I　dislike　the　term　〃freeloader；〃　no　other　word　fits　what　I　had　bee　during　my　sojourn　on　the　Gold　Coast。　There　are　several　seasonal　societal　levels　in　Palm　Beach；　and　they　are　all　quite　different　from　the　social　groups；　divided　uneasily　by　the　Waspish　and　Jewish　groupings　found　in　Miami　and　Miami　Beach。　In　Lauderdale；　of　course；　the　monied　class　is　squarely　WASP。
　　I　belonged　to　none　of　the　〃groups；〃　but　I　was　on　the　periphery　of　all　of　them　by　virtue　of　my　calling。　I　met　people　at　art　show　previews；　where　cocktails　are　usually　served；　and　because　I　was　young；　single；　and　had　an　acceptable　profession；　I　was　frequently　invited　to　dinners；　cocktail　parties；　polo　games；　boat　rides；　late　suppers；　and　barbecues。　These　invitations；　which　led　to　introductions　to　other　guests；　usually　produced　additional　dinner　invitations。　And　a　few　of　the　Gold　Coast　artists；　like　Larry　Levine；　for　example；　were　people　I　had　known　in　New　York。
　　After　two　months　in　Florida　I　had　many　acquaintances；　or　connections；　but　no　friends。　I　did　not　return　any　of　the　dinner　invitations；　and　I　had　to　avoid　bars；　night　clubs；　and　restaurants　where　I　might　get　stuck　with　a　check。　The　man　who　never　picks　up　a　check　does　not　acquire　friends。
　　Nevertheless；　I　felt　that　my　various　hosts　and　hostesses　were　repensed　for　my　presence　at　their　homes。　I　put　up　genially　with　bores；　I　was　an　extra　man　at　dinners　where　single；　heterosexual　young　men　were　at　a　premium；　and　when　I　was　in　a　good　mood；　I　could　tell　stories　or　carry　conversation　over　dead　spots。
　　I　had　two　dinner　jackets；　a　red　silk　brocade　and　a　standard　white　linen。　There　were　lipstick　mouthings　on　the　white　jacket；　where　a　tipsy　Berenice　had　bitten　me　on　the　shoulder　while　I　was　driving　back　from　a　party。　I　was　forced；　then；　to　wear　the　red　brocade。
　　As　I　walked　the　six　blocks　from　my　apartment　to　Gloria's　Gallery；　I　speculated　on　Joseph　Cassidy's　invitation　to　supper。　A　social　invitation　wasn't　unusual；　but　she　had　said　that　he　wanted　to　meet　me；　and　I　wondered　why。　Cassidy　was　not　only　famous　as　a　collector；　he　was　famous　as　a　criminal　lawyer。　It　was　the　huge　ine　from　his　practice　in　Chicago　that　had　enabled　him　to　build　his　art　collection。
　　He　had　one　of　the　finest　private　collections　of　contemporary　art　in　America；　and　the　conclusion　I　came　to；　which　seemed　reasonable　at　the　time；　was　that　he　might　want　to　hire　me　to　write　a　catalogue　for　it。　And　if　he　did　not　want　to　see　me　about　that　（to　my　knowledge；　no　catalogue　had　been　published　on　his　collection）；　I　had　a　good　mind　to　suggest　it　to　him。　The　task　would　pay　off　for　me；　as　well　as　for　Cassidy；　in　several　ways。　I　could　make　some　additional　money；　spend　a　few　months　in　Chicago；　do　some　writing　on　midwestern　art　and　artists；　and　my　name　on　the　published　catalogue　would　enhance　my　career。
　　The　more　I　thought　about　the　idea　the　more　enthusiastic　I　became；　but　by　the　time　I　reached　the　gallery　my　enthusiasm　was　tempered　by　the　knowledge　that　I　could　not　broach　the　suggestion　to　him。　If　he　suggested　it；　fine；　but　I　could　not　ask　a　man　for　employment　at　a　social　affair　without　a　loss　of　dignity。
　　And　what　else　did　I　have　to　offer　a　man　in　Cassidy's　position？　My　pride　（call　it　machismo）　in　myself；　which　I　overrated　and　which　I　knew　was　often　phony；　was　innate；　I　supposed…a　part　of　my　heritage　from　my　Puerto　Rican　father。　But　the　pride　was　there；　all　the　same；　and　I　had　passed　up　many　opportunities　to　push　myself　by　considering　first；　inside　my　head；　what　my　father　would　have　done　in　similar　circumstances。
　　By　the　time　I　reached　the　gallery；　I　had　pushed　the　idea　out　of　my　mind。
　　Gloria　forced　her　thin　lips　over　her　buck　teeth；　brushed　my　right　sideburn　with　her　mouth；　and；　capturing　my　right　arm　in　a　painful　armlock；　led　me　to　the　bar。
　　〃Do　you　know　this　man；　Eddy？〃　she　said　to　the　bartender。
　　〃No；〃　Eddy　shook　his　head　solemnly；　〃but　his　drink　is　familiar。〃　He　poured　two　ounces　of　Cutty　Sark　over　two　ice　cubes　and　handed　me　the　Dixie　cup。
　　〃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　t