Читать книгу The Galisteo Escarpment - Douglas Atwill - Страница 10

In the rocks above the beach, if there were still alive a few of the provincial Roman gods, the ones who could grant a cloudless day and still waters for a shallow promise and a handful of wildflowers, they made themselves known that week. Each day broke with a golden peach light and progressed unsullied, cloudless and perfect until the sun, pomegranate red, dipped back into night behind the pines and villas on the far promontory. The exquisite torpor of a Mediterranean summer had trapped them entirely.

It was four in the afternoon in the middle of their second week at Cabasson. The days on the beach and evenings at the harbor cafes were too full for them, too touching on perfection to consider even so much as short venture along the coast to other beaches, other harbor villages. The two men became deeply tanned, but Carrie, despite her love of swimming, stayed out of the sun mostly, in the shade of an umbrella next her supine men.

Carrie noticed how deeply tactile Sam was. He made a point in conversation with Carrie by stroking her arm or pulling his knees against her side. She watched as he lay in the sun with arm over Neil’s chest or back. His favorite position was face-down on the towel, his head in an opposite direction from the others with one hand on Neil’s right foot and the other on Carrie’s left foot. If she moved ever so slightly, Sam would grip tighter. Did he think they would disappear from his life if he did not hold on and hold on tightly?

The warm feel of Neil’s hand on her shoulder or the brush of his cheek against her face was what she really wanted, but Neil was not as quick to touch. She thought how amused the Gods must be with the three of them, how omnipresent the Olympians seemed to be here in their home waters. She loved Neil, Neil loved Sam and Sam loved her. It was summer dance only the Old Ones could have arranged, gleeful at the sharp corners of the triangle, corners that could smart when brushed against.

The silence was broken by the sound of a car coming to a stop on the gravel above the bluff. An older woman in a red blouse and white slacks, and large-brimmed straw hat of matching red, got out of the car and started uneasily down the uneven steps. Carrie wondered if the woman would fall off the steps, but she made it, racing down the last steps to the bottom with arms outstretched for balance. She walked directly towards them. Neil and Sam were asleep as she approached.

“May I share your beach umbrella?” she whispered to Carrie.

“Yes, of course.”

The woman sat down gracefully in the umbrella’s shade and took off the large hat. Her hair was a well-tended blonde, once natural but now with salon assistance, pulled back into a sizeable chignon. Not a single golden strand escaped this fashionable stricture. In the red straw bag that matched her hat, she found a cigarette, lit it and inserted it expertly into a tortoise-shell holder.

“I’m Margaret, Neil’s mother.”

Carrie said, “What a surprise. How did you find us?”

“The young girl at the café thought you would be down here, after I gave her a large tip. Also, your friend Nicole provided me with excellent directions out of Gordes. I like her, by the way. A stylish, smart woman.”

“Yes, of course.”

“My son has been avoiding me, so I’ve rather taken matters in hand, come over to France to settle things. A woman needs the mind of a spy, especially a mother.”

“I’d better wake him.”

Neil, hearing their conversation, awoke on his own, turned over slowly and when he saw his mother, jolted upright.

“Margaret, good god.” He stood up, brushed the sand off his chest and leaned down to kiss her on the offered cheek.

“The strength of mother-love has no bounds.” She drew a long puff on her cigarette.

“I’m sorry, Margaret. Events pressed in, and we got too busy to answer your call. I was going to telephone when we got back to Gordes.” But he knew her sudden appearance was not just about his avoidance of returned telephone calls. Something else loomed.

“It couldn’t wait that long, my dear.”

“So, what is it?”

“Now that I’ve found you, I’m going to make you wait until tonight. Nicole told me that you made a joke of my urgency, as if ‘trés important’ had no meaning. Mother doesn’t like being made fun of. I assume that is Sam sleeping over there and you must be Carrie.” Carrie nodded.

Neil asked, “Is it about Dad? Is he okay?”

“No, he’s fine. I’ll buy dinner for the three of you at my hotel tonight, the Eden Roc down the coast. Come at eight.” She got up and walked slowly back up to the car. With a screech of gravel, she was off down the road.

Carrie looked at Neil expectantly. “What do you think has happened?”

“Margaret has a keen sense of the dramatic. It could be anything, even something insignificant, but I have a feeling it’s something significant.”

The calm pattern of their day had been shattered. Much as they hoped to mend it, after a desultory swim they gave in and went to the cottage to get ready for the dinner at Eden Roc.

The hotel was ten miles to the east on a long promontory, a faux Moroccan village of white-washed domes, cottages, palm trees and a staff with curled-toe shoes. Pulling into the long entrance drive, they allowed a turbaned footman to park the car, while they crossed the large lobby to the bar. Neil could hear Margaret’s laugh across the lobby, above the sounds of the jazz group.

She sat on one of the stools at the bar, talking to the barman and a stranger on the stool next to her. She waved to the three and motioned them to take a far table in the otherwise empty lounge. Her conversation with the two men continued for a few minutes, and then she joined them.

“Let’s get all your drink orders,” she said. The barman obliged.

“Margaret, you look fantastic, as usual,” Neil said.

“Thank you, dear. A little pulling up, only.”

“So, I can’t wait. What is so important you’ve come all the way to France?”

“I have a letter here. It’s from your Uncle Lionel. I’ll let you read it and then the two of your must also read it.” She handed Neil a sealed envelope.

“By way of explanation to Carrie and Sam. Lionel is my older brother. He is the owner and headmaster of a School of Art in Santa Fe. Also my favorite family member. There are interesting troubles at the school and I’m here on his behalf.”

Neil opened the envelope and it read:

Dear Nephew:

Circumstances require me to ask an enormous favor, to humble myself deeply and ask that you come immediately to my rescue. The Monmouth clan has always clustered together in time of danger and we must circle now, all Scotland ablaze with kilts akimbo and swords sharpened.

Events have conspired to produce good fortune for Lionel Monmouth School of Art, not, I must add, without results. Two of my former students, a Mr. Brendt Basse-Noir and a Miss Martha Noggidge, were interviewed this January by The New York Times, featuring their meteoric rise in the New York world of art. Each now earns a handsome sum annually from their endeavors. They were good, but not excellent students of my school.

You are ahead of me here, I know. They gave the Monmouth School and me, personally, credit for their spectacular rise, giving my small enterprise the dazzling light of notoriety. Instead of the usual half a dozen applications for new students this spring, I have received over fifty for the fall term. Alas, most of the applicants seem qualified, having completed their undergraduate time with honors.

With some expansions and revisions, I might be able to accommodate forty new students for the term starting this September. We are refurbishing the old studios here, finding accommodation in the town for most of them. You’ll remember Miss Louisa Marriner, my aide-de-camp, who is rallying everybody together for this onslaught.

This is where you and Sam come into the scenario. With both of you holding Masters of Arts Cum Laude from the Royal Academy, you are well qualified by any measure to teach art in an American school. I implore both of you to come to Santa Fe for a year, at salaries of $32,000 and teach at the Monmouth School. It would vastly aid your beleagured uncle and you would be young stars in my firmament. We will discuss details after you have indicated your assent to Margaret, who has graciously agreed to hand deliver this and record your reponse. .

I well know that both of you consider Santa Fe a stale backwater in the world of Art, justly forgotten in the currents that really matter, and that you have your hearts set on New York. One year set aside before that quest would pull your Monmouth family out of its dilemma and it could strengthen your hand in the onslaught of Gotham. I implore you both.

Respond immediately, love

Lionel.

Neil said on finishing the letter, “Margaret, this isn’t fair.”

“Let Sam and Carrie read it and we’ll talk.”

Carrie read it first and then Sam. Margaret ordered more drinks for everybody and then they were set to talk about it.

“I’ll say again, Margaret, this just isn’t fair. You know I’ve had my heart set on going to New York and so has Sam.”

“It would help Lionel enormously and it would make your mother happy.”

Neil continued, “And that bit about the Monmouth clan in their kilts clustered together in time of Low-land danger has the sound of you, not Lionel.”

“Guilty, I must say. I thought it might insert a tone of gravitas to the letter if we had to send it in the mail. But it is a subject not without merit. Your family does need help and it’s only fair, considering what the family has done for you over the years, that you return it in kind.”

“No, Margaret. I remember those summers with Lionel. Santa Fe is a Podunk backwater with mostly third-rate painters posing as important and grand. It will never be on the edge of art.”

She turned to Sam, “What do you think, Sam? Just one year in Santa Fe, which heaven knows is not a backwater dump but an important, international-artist conclave. You could save most of your salary and it would give you a year of living expenses in the bank before you go to New York.”

“It makes sense, Mrs. Bronson, but if Neil doesn’t like it. . . .”

Neil interrupted, “Besides, Carrie is not mentioned in the letter at all. She has a degree, as well, and we were planning to stay together this next year.”

“I am sure Lionel can find a place for Carrie, as well.”

They went into dinner and tried to discuss other things. Margaret steered the conversation to the Cote d’Azur, criminal overdevelopment, but her heart was not in persiflage. She turned to Carrie for her next assault.

“Carrie, my dear, would you take a teaching position at the Monmouth School? Wouldn’t it be a good way to get armed for the art career you all want eventually in New York?”

“Mrs. Bronson, I couldn’t if Neil is against it.”

Margaret said, “Ah, well, Neil. Son. It’s up to you. Surely a short year out of a long life, and the Monmouths gave you the great advantage of longevity as well, would not be too much to ask. Think how fast the last year has passed. You would be in Soho or Tribeca before you know it, doing whatever it is you can’t do in Santa Fe.”

Sam had been quiet until now. “Maybe your mother is right, Neil. When these last five hundred dollars are gone, that’s it. We each have thirty landscape paintings, correction: twenty-eight, as our sole assets. There certainly is a chance that the exhibit in London won’t materialize or if it does, that we don’t sell as many pictures as Carrie anticipates. Waiting on tables in New York is okay, and it’s what I’ve always planned. But why, if we don’t have to? Thirty-two thousand.”

Neil said, “I still say no. Life is too short, despite the alleged Monmouth longevity, to take detours here and there. And people have a way of getting stuck in the sand in Santa Fe, not going on to their potential.”

Sam said, “But we would all be there together. And maybe we could learn something in the teaching of art for a year. It never entered my mind before, but I am sure we would have time to work on our own paintings, a portfolio to show to New York galleries. I think we should say yes.”

Carrie nodded her assent, looking guiltily at Neil. He realized that the tide had turned on him and he certainly did not want to be in New York without Sam and Carrie. He could scarcely go on there alone and let the two of them help his own uncle two thousand miles away.

“Okay, Margaret, I give in.” Neil thought of the dozens of other times he had said the same thing, the dutiful child.

“You always were a good boy, giving into mama’s wishes.”

“Don’t push it, Margaret. I agree, but I have some requests, no, demands, before this can take place. First, we all have houses, nice houses, provided for us so we can, in fact, save our salaries for New York. And there will be separate studios for each of us.”

Margaret said, “I have been given authority to offer whatever it takes. I think that your housing was understood, but I will clarify that with Lionel. The Casa Marriner is a huge compound, you know, with many back buildings and unused parlors.”

“Also, you won’t just ‘find a place’ for Carrie, you will offer her exactly the same position and salary as Sam and me.”

“Done, of course.”

“And I get to teach plein air painting. After this summer at Gordes, it interests me more than I would have thought.”

“Also, done. What will you teach, Carrie?”

“I don’t really know at this time. Something about modernism and O’Keeffe, I suppose. Feminist Art in the twentieth century. The Small Painting and Modernism, how does that sound?”

“And Sam?”

“If they have studio courses, I would like to take on those. Studio Workshop with Professor Bonifacio. “

“I am sure Lionel will be delighted with all of this.”

With that, Margaret went to the front desk to make arrangements for her flight home. She kissed Neil and shook hands with the other two. The dinner and the interview were over, but the others stayed on to finish the wine.

Sam said, “I wonder of the State Department knows about her. She could make a difference in the Middle East.”

“And the two of you dare question the power of women,” Carrie said.

“I learned as a boy to just step aside when Margaret wanted something. It just wasn’t worth the bruises to oppose her. So we are all going to Santa Fe.”