‘You’re with Mulholland, Melhuish, right?’ Sereno said amicably.
‘Yes. Yes I am.’
‘Fine firm.’ He nodded. ‘Congratulations.’
‘Good firm,’ Gint agreed. He had a soft voice that didn’t match his face.
‘What’s the name of your gallery?’ Henderson asked, disingenuously.
They looked at each other. ‘Well, Sereno and Gint,’ Sereno said. ‘You mean you haven’t heard of us?’
‘I’m afraid not. I’ve only been in New York a couple of months. Whereabouts is it?’
‘It’s in back of Canal,’ Gint said. ‘Between Eldridge Street and Alien Street.’
‘Is that the lower east side?’
‘You got it.’
‘Ah.’ Henderson suppressed his shout of laughter. He looked at Gage. The man seemed unperturbed by this information. They might as well have said their ‘gallery’ was in Harlem or the East Bronx. But the smiles were all polite, waiting for the conversation to continue.
Cora came down the stairs. To Henderson’s surprise Sereno went to meet her.
‘Cora,’ he said. ‘Good to see you again.’ He kissed her on the cheek. To Henderson this came as a shock, almost an affront. Those fat wet lips on Cora’s small face.
‘You remember Peter?’ Sereno said.
Gint raised a hand. ‘Hi. We met last time.’
‘Are you guys staying with us?’ Cora asked, in familiar tones.
‘No. In Atlanta.’ Sereno offered Cora a cigarette and lit it for her. ‘Monopark 5000. Quite a place.’
Henderson tasted voleburger in his mouth.
‘Isn’t that where you and your colleague are staying tomorrow?’ Cora said. How did she know? Shanda.
‘Hey, that’s wonderful,’ Sereno observed. ‘Let’s all have dinner. Freeborn, Cora, Shanda, you and your colleague.’
‘Alas, I’m fully occupied that night. Very sorry.’
‘Carbon dating,’ Cora said.
‘Dating who?’ Gint said, then laughed. Sereno joined in with enthusiasm.
‘That wit,’ Sereno said. ‘I love his wit.’
‘Could I have a word?’ Gage said softly, touching Henderson’s arm. ‘In my room.’ He trotted off up the stairs. Henderson made his goodbyes to the gallery owners and followed obediently.
Gage stood in his room at the escritoire studying some documents. He waved Henderson to a chair and handed him a piece of paper. It was a list of his paintings with prices beside them.
‘I’ll come right out, Henderson. Sereno and Gint have made me an offer for the paintings.’
Henderson saw that the figures approximated closely to his own, except in one crucial degree: Sereno and Gint were offering $100,000 each for the four Dutch landscapes, the portrait and the allegory.
‘But this is absurd,’ Henderson said in desperation.
‘Have you seen what they’re offering for the landscapes? They must be mad.’
‘It’s up to them. Their estimation of the value.’
‘But nobody would ever pay this amount. It’s preposterous.’
‘One man’s opinion, Henderson.’ He moved away to look at the Dutch paintings. ‘I must confess,’ he kept his back to him, ‘that I feel you have been a little—what shall we say?—hasty in pricing the landscapes. I ask myself…I wonder if your urge to leave us has influenced your evaluation.’
Henderson protested loudly. Gage turned.
‘Look, I want to sell through Mulholland, Melhuish,’ he said benignly. ‘For the sake of my friendship with Eddie Mulholland and, if I may say so, with you. But I can’t afford to make a half-million deficit.’ He came over and patted Henderson’s shoulder. ‘I’d like for you to stay on a few more days. Consider the Dutch paintings some more.’
‘But I’m going to Atlanta tomorrow. Then, um, other business demands—’
‘I’m really sorry to hear that. But I appreciate your time. Thanks for coming down.’
Henderson felt faint. He improvised. ‘Actually, this meeting in Atlanta is with a…an art historian and expert, precisely to do with, ah, some ambiguities in my dating of the Dutch paintings. It may, in fact I’m sure, it’ll cause me to reconsider.’
‘Great. So, have your meeting and return here. Let me know the result.’
‘Yes.’ Henderson shut his eyes.
‘I’m in no hurry. My decision can wait a few days.’
Henderson stood up. ‘May I ask how you got to Sereno and Gint.’
‘They’re business associates of Freeborn. Freeborn suggested I get a second bid on the paintings. It makes sense. He called them up and they came on down.’
‘I think I should tell you that I think they know as much about art as I do about medical wadding.’
‘Can I be honest? I don’t really care, Henderson. I’m not giving the paintings to a museum. They are offering me cash now. I don’t have to wait for an auction.’
‘I’d be very suspicious—’
‘I think that’s my business, Henderson. Freeborn has told me that they are new to the art world. They’re starting out. But so what? They’ve got money.’ He punched Henderson lightly on the shoulder. ‘Healthy competition, Henderson. A fair fight. Stay on a few days. Think, relax, enjoy yourself. I’m sure we’ll work everything out.’
Henderson walked slowly down the stairs. This was disaster from a quarter he’d never anticipated. Nightmarish possibilities and problems presented themselves to him. What would Beeby do if they lost the sale? What would Irene say about another cancellation? That was the first priority: he had to phone Irene, put her off for a few days. Then warn Beeby of the new developments.
He walked outside and listened for noises from Freeborn’s trailer. It seemed quiet. Perhaps he had gone off somewhere with Sereno and Gint. He could hear the faint sound of a television. Shanda watching a soap. He knocked. Let it be Shanda, let it be Shanda, he prayed.
Freeborn opened the door. Behind him Henderson saw Sereno, Gint and Shanda watching TV.
‘What the fuck do you want?’
‘Is there any chance…? I’d be most grateful if I could…could I make a phone call?’
‘No.’
The door was slammed shut. Henderson thought he heard him say ‘It was that English asshole,’ followed by loud laughter, but perhaps it was just the television. He suddenly didn’t feel like telephoning anybody. He would just have to take his chances and endeavour to make the best of it.
Chapter Ten
Henderson packed glumly the next morning. His fear and concern over the arrival of Sereno and Gint had grown. What was going on? Could they really buy the Gage collection for three million? Or was it all part of some monumental bluff?…
Another portion of his brain writhed with apprehension at having to tell Irene of the radical truncation of their little holiday together. He was hoping now that his one night with her would be a sufficiently lyrical experience for her to forgive him. He would have to choose his moment with care…
Also, in Atlanta with its functioning telephones, he would call Beeby and tell him of this new development and work out some sort of a counter attack. Perhaps they could guarantee the reserve prices; work up the Dutch pictures’ value somewhat; suggest to Gage that—given enough publicity—the sale price might go even higher on the Sisleys or the Braque? That might work.
As he closed his case he felt thankful that in one area at least—his nether regions—everything was functioning normally at last. The squirrelburger, like some potent catalyst, had shifted the blockage in the small hours of the morning. It had proved to be the most efficient laxative he had ever encountered. He felt altogether fitter, younger—lighter —than he had done since arriving in Luxora Beach. And despite his looming crises he experienced too a repeating tremor of excitement at the prospect of seeing Irene. It seemed like years since he had spent some time in the company of a human being with whom there were reciprocal feelings of affection. Here there was only strangeness, cynicism and malevol
ent dislike.
He walked down the passage to Bryant’s room. He had told her last night that she too was leaving and had given her a choice of destination. She had opted sullenly for New York with no trace of her earlier protests. Perhaps she was, after all, keen to get away as well.
He knocked on her door. No answer. Duane’s room was quiet. Henderson knocked again and pushed the door open. The room was empty. Propped on the pillow was an envelope addressed to him. He tore it open.
Dear Henderson,
I have decided not to go back home. Duane and I are going to be married. Don’t worry. We love each other. I will tell Mom.
I thought it would be best if I wasn’t here when you left. See you tomorrow. Have a nice time in Atlanta.
Bryant
P.S. Duane says he is going to get you a complete new set of tyres.
Henderson watched his hand shake, the paper crackling in his fingers. He felt a sudden terrible fear at the wrath of Melissa, like some wretched vassal’s of a warlord. He tugged at his lower lip, tested some teeth for looseness. He swallowed. Calm down, he told himself, this is a fantasy, pure fantasy, it can’t happen. She’s a minor; she’s only fourteen. She can’t marry a man old enough to be her father. Who was this invisible Duane? What sort of evil perverted slob was he? And what a fool he had been to allow them so much time in each other’s company. Two teenagers listening to records…He put his hand on his heart. It was beating ferociously. He turned the letter over and wrote: ‘I will talk to you when I get back. On no account tell your mother anything. H.’
This new problem added itself to the others jostling for prominence in his brain, loud hooligans looking for trouble, trying to make life hell. They were penned up at the moment—just—but they could break out at any time, storm the streets.
In a perplexed trance, with a dumb, cretinous look on his face he walked down the stairs and outside. His car stood on four piles of bricks, tyreless. The bonnet was open. He looked in. Nothing obvious seemed to be missing, but his ignorance of the internal combustion engine was total. Solenoids, carburettors, magnetos could have been sequestered for all he knew.
He felt an immense futility descend upon him and he bowed his head impotently under the strain.
‘Hi, there.’ He looked up. It was Shanda. Did she keep watch on him, he wondered, irritated. She was like some omnipresent guardian of the front steps.
‘Hello.’
‘What happened to your car?’
‘Duane.’
‘That boy. I guess he means well, but…’ She left her reservations unspoken. ‘Boy?’ Henderson thought. Why do they refer to a thirty-four year old man as a boy? There was the source of his misconceptions.
‘You wanna use the phone? Freeborn’s away.’
‘No thanks.’ He paused. ‘What’s Duane like?’ he said slowly.
‘Duane? Well…’ Shanda came closer. Henderson thought he smelt alcohol on her breath. ‘Myself, I think he’s a little bit, you know, weird.’
‘Oh God.’ Henderson felt his weakness return, a sort of mild ache in his spine and knees. If a member of the Gage family pronounced someone ‘weird’ then the reality must be truly alarming. But no, he told himself firmly, that problem was shelved until tomorrow; more pressing disasters awaited his attention. He climbed into Beck-man’s pickup.
‘You are coming back, aren’t you?’ Shanda said with a note of alarm.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.’
‘Oh good. Y’all have a good time now, hear?’
From this side of the country, too, Atlanta was visible from many miles off. Like gothic cathedrals in medieval times, a reassuring prominence always on the horizon. The skyscrapers of the downtown district were hazy and indistinct against the soft lucency of the mid-afternoon sky. The more miles he put between himself and Luxora Beach the better he felt. He had even quite enjoyed roaring along the highway in Beckman’s pickup.
When he reached Atlanta he had some problems locating the hotel in the city’s daunting system of one-way streets. He could see it, three or four blocks away, an impressive slab of steel and reflecting glass, but he seemed able only to circle it: no street led directly there—it hovered out of reach, a massive illusion. Eventually he parked the pickup and attempted to make his way there on foot. He saw signs for the ‘Monopark complex’, then ‘Monopark 5000 hotel’. He went through an arch beneath a shopping mall, up a dark ramp of a corridor and’ pushed through swing doors at the far end.
He found himself in a tall brilliant lobby. Thick wands of sunlight shone through vast overhead windows onto a marble floor. There appeared to be numerous entrances. The one through which he had emerged was clearly not the most significant. Various doormen and bellhops stood around in stylized cavalry uniforms: boots, hats, gold epaulettes, even dinky sabres at their belts. At the rear of the lobby was what appeared to be a dense wood of twenty-foot high trees. In front of this forest was a long reception desk. This Henderson approached with due reverence and awe. The experience was, he thought, akin to appearing at Heaven’s gate with the sin—virtue equation still in balance.
‘Dores,’ he said to the tanned cavalryman. ‘D, O, R, E, S. I have a reservation.’
‘Good afternoon, sir,’ he said. ‘Welcome to Monopark 5000.’ He tapped out the name on a computer keyboard. There was a whirring and clicking and the machine fed out a piece of plastic with holes punched in it.
‘What’s this?’ Henderson asked. ‘A credit card?’
‘Your key, sir. Need some help with your case?’ The smile never budged.
‘No thanks. I can manage.’
‘You are in suite 35 J. Follow this path,’ he gestured at an opening in the forest wall, ‘go through the atrium and take the scenic elevator to the thirty-fifth floor. Enjoy your stay at Monopark 5000.’
‘Right.’ Henderson picked up his bag and looked dubiously at the path, which was signposted To the atrium’. He felt like an explorer leaving base camp. ‘Goodbye,’ he said to the man and set off.
He had imagined that the trees were merely a decorative screen but he was wrong. He found himself in a copse, a grove, a veritable spinney of weeping figs, silver birches and stands of bamboo. A soft greenish light filtered down from above, xylophonic music burbled from hidden speakers. Other paths bifurcated from his. ‘Convention reservation’, he saw, ‘To the Indian village’ and ‘Swimming Creek’. These signs were deliberately ‘olde west’: chunks of varnished wood with the message burnt on with a branding iron. The frontier theme was enhanced by the sudden appearance from behind a tree of a waitress in fringed buckskin waistcoat and miniskirt. Henderson gave a shrug of alarm. There were stripes of warpaint on her cheeks and forehead.
‘Cocktails, sir?’ she asked. ‘At the Indian village.’
‘What? Oh, no. I’m looking for the atrium.’
‘Keep right on to the end of this path.’ She slipped away into the trees.
He followed her instructions and broke out into a towering atrium some twelve or fourteen stories high. Before him stretched a lake, blocking his way, some thirty yards across, dotted with islands furnished with seats and sprouting plants. Over on the left of the far bank was a cluster of wigwams which on closer inspection turned out to be a large restaurant and bar area. On the balconied far wall, a dozen scenic elevators rose up and down, some of them disappearing into holes in the roof like silent glass scarabs.
Henderson let out a spontaneous gasp of surprise. He had heard of this new breed of American hotel: the hotel as wonderland, as secular cathedral, as theme park—but his imagination had been deficient. Plants grew everywhere, fountains splashed, the light was pale, neutral and shadow-free.
A cowboy wandered over and handed him a wooden paddle.
‘Good God, what’s this for?’
‘For the canoe, sir.’
Henderson looked to his right. Sure enough, a dozen canoes were tethered to the concrete bank.
‘Do you mean I’ve
got to paddle myself across to the elevators?’
‘I can do it for you, sir, but a lot of our guests like to make their own way.’
He saw an intrepid couple set off, little shrieks of delight coming from the wife.
‘Oh. Right.’
The cowboy let him down to a canoe, deposited his bag in the bow and helped him in. Henderson settled down.
‘Listen, are you sure these things are stable? Perhaps you’d better—’
The cowboy pushed him off. ‘Enjoy your stay at Monopark 5000, sir.’
Henderson found himself drifting into the middle of the lake. He looked about him. The various islands were linked to the far bank by large round stepping stones. Indian maidens tripped across these carrying drinks from the huge gloomy bar area. Hesitantly, Henderson dipped his paddle in the water and performed a couple of gentle strokes. The canoe, thin aluminium painted to look like birch-bark, skidded easily across the surface and clanged into the side of another canoe traversing the water. This was occupied by a high-ranking military man—a general, judging from the stars that flashed on his shoulders—in a smoky green uniform.
‘Sorry!’ Henderson laughed. ‘Haven’t quite got the hang of this. Ha ha.’
‘Remember to paddle on both sides,’ said the general, with a false grin, and pushed him away—a little more forcibly than need be, Henderson thought, as his canoe turned through 180 degrees and he found himself facing the forest grove again.
He dug his paddle in and the canoe moved off in a smooth arc. He cut across the bows of some more competent guests.
‘Hey, watch out for the rapids!’ one of them called- or at least that’s what Henderson thought he said.
‘What?’ he shouted back over his shoulder, a little alarmed. It seemed to him not inconceivable that in Monopark 5000’s fanatical pursuit of verisimilitude they should have installed genuine wilderness hazards: rapids, submerged rocks, alligators…However, his call went unheeded and, his attention distracted from his course, he soon had another collision, this time with a cocktail island.