Читать книгу The Galisteo Escarpment - Douglas Atwill - Страница 8

Her black convertible stopped next to the two men and they loaded their packs into the back seat. Neil sat up front next to Carrie, and Sam climbed over into the seat behind with the easels. Carrie was taller by an inch than either of the men, slim, dressed in jeans and a blue silk blouse. Her blonde hair showed in wisps around the patterned scarf on her head.

“Before we leave, let me see what you’ve painted,” she said.

Sam held his canvas up first. He had finished the foreground with a virtuoso zig-zag composition of grasses and native shrubs, taking the eye quickly back to highly worked details of the town on the horizon. Neil saw that his bold solution to the foreground had saved the painting from its commonplace beginning. Sam’s ever present competitive spirit soared when he viewed Neil’s work and it pushed him into a skillful solution. Neil was impressed, partly at the canvas itself and partly at the strength of the obsession that it evidenced.

“Now yours, Neil.”

He retrieved his canvas from the top of the easel pack in the back seat. It was wet, so he handled it gingerly. Quite a bit smaller than Sam’s painting, it nonetheless held the strength of design and color that Sam had seen earlier in the day. The town on the horizon was but a silhouette in dusty violet, no details such as windows and shadows whatsoever. It was, in fact, far less realistic than Sam’s rendition. The reverse of Sam’s, it brought the eye strongly forward, away from the horizon to the ably crafted rows of grasses, shadows and native plants. Neil’s palette was more daring, with the strong colors of the Fauves, an orange in the shadows, black in the outlines and a Chinese red in unexpected places.

Sam asked, “Well? Who wins?”

“You two always want me to choose. I love you both and think you’re both brilliant,” Carrie said. She was not about to start a battle between the two men. It amused Sam to bring them to the precipice of choice, but Carrie always avoided falling over it.

She changed the subject with, “Anyway, I have a dazzling plan. It involves all of your paintings and your future in New York this fall.” She started the engine, tightened the knot of her scarf and pulled back onto the road, quickly accelerating in the direction of Apt. Neither of the two men knew what to make of her statement, but without looking at one another, they thought better of asking for clarity at this time. Carrie proceeded on her own clock, and they knew it was futile to slow it down or speed it up.

Sam said, “So we’ll hear about this plan soon?”

“Soon.”

They drove in silence the rest of the way. The breeze was a welcome change from the still, hot afternoon. It had been many weeks since rain or a single cloud of any promise. The fields had dried to ochre yellow and sienna, interspersed with the dusty, gray foliage of the olive groves. Goats and sheep huddled together in the scant shade. The Vaucluse seemed to be waiting for the end of summer, silent and hot, with skies of a deep, chemical blue, no breeze stirring a single branch.

She drove into the village centre and found parking on a side street. They locked their easel-packs and canvases in the trunk and set off for the café.

She said, “I’ve asked Nicole to join us. I know that you don’t particularly like her, but I ask you to be civil. She’s been a good friend to me while the two of you were off on your countryside obsessions. She shopped today for antiques in Perget and will join us when she’s done.”

Nicole Bertralle owned the inn where Carrie had rooms. Nicole inherited the inn when her father died ten years ago and she had refurbished the ten lackluster rooms with antiques she bought in neighboring villages and trips to the Marche aux Puces in Paris. Each year of her proprietorship saw a finer polish on things, an upgrading of quality. She found a talented woman chef for the small restaurant attached to the inn and customers now traveled the hour’s trip from Avignon just for lunch. Summer guests had a half pension from a special menu, dishes not often seen outside Paris. The Auberge de Gordes was getting good notice in the travel guides and Paris reviews. Vacant rooms were scarce this summer, but Nicole rescheduled several early reservations to give Carrie a full summer there.

Neil said, “It’s not that we don’t like her. We hate her.”

Sam joined in with, “When the two of you are talk in French and laugh, with that knowing look our way, why wouldn’t we be touchy?”

She said, “At least be civil for one of our last lunches together. Please?”

It was true that the two men did not care for Nicole, mostly because she seemed to siphon off the attention that Carrie had formerly reserved exclusively for them. They had been happy in the glow of Carrie’s sun and an eclipse by Nicole brought only a coolness and a darkness.

Carrie led them to a small wine bar next to the church and ordered them a pitcher of white wine. She took off her scarf, shook out her hair and poured a glass for each of them as she said, “Now, my brilliant idea about your future. Your joint futures, I should say.”

Sam said, “Good, I hope it involves money, because when we get to New York I will be down to five cents.

“Me, too,” Neil said.

“The idea is inspired, I think. It does involve money. I will take your sixty paintings back to London and organize an exhibit at Hetty’s gallery in Dover Street. You remember her. She owes me big-time for the dozen or so paintings my father bought there. When he stayed at Brown’s, which was often, I took him over to her gallery and guided him through the niceties of buying a painting. He bought several he did not like because of me.”

Sam said, “But why would she want to exhibit our paintings?”

“Your paintings are accomplished, particularly the later ones, and they will sell quickly, I am sure. The sales would give you both a nest egg for New York. Hetty Sloan is a dedicated traditionalist, but also down deep a true English shop-keeper and she likes anything so long as it sells. Then, you won’t need to wait tables in Tribeca or work in gallery back rooms to make ends meet.”

“I don’t think it’s as simple as that, Carrie,” Neil said.

“Of course, it is.”

Sam said, “I wonder about Hetty’s gallery, though. She specializes in nineteenth century work. Big bouquets and bowls of fruit. Thoroughbred horses in front of country houses. Long-toothed women in period dress, colors too strong for their English complexions. I swear on her sign it says right under her name: Paintings of the Deceased British Academicians from the nineteenth century.”

“That’s almost right,” Carrie said. “But your paintings of the South of France will give her a new look, something to attract the old pussies of both genders who stay at Brown’s Hotel. Contemporary landscapes are not that far afield. I know it will work. I am sure she will agree.”

“They are good, aren’t they,” Sam asked, more of a statement than a question.

“Absolutely. Let me call her tonight.”

Neil said, “It’s okay by me. Let’s do it.”

“Splendid. You won’t regret it,” she said.

He continued, “I do have something else to bring up to the two of you, as well. Since we are in fact done with our project and the summer isn’t over yet, why don’t we spend a few weeks somewhere on the coast? Sam can drive us in your car.”

“Our very own water nymph. Always wanting to go to the seashore,” Carrie said.

“It’s true, I confess. No summer seems right without a dip into the sea. The Mediterranean holds a fascination for me, its the very water that Odysseus, Tiberius and Madame Matisse all swam about in, if not together.”

Sam said, “Our ship home from Genoa isn’t until September so I’ll say yes to both propositions. It will have to be a very cheap place as I have only three hundred or so left. Do you think Hetty could send us a small advance?”

Carrie said, “Don’t push it, Sam. I’ll call her tonight.”

Nicole found them in the wine bar. She pulled up an extra chair, and they started to pour her a glass of wine. She put her hand over the glass. “I had a good morning in Perget. My old friend there has been raiding his family chateau again, his mother away in Paris for a month. Four eighteenth century rush seated chairs and a Regénce bureau plat. I’m starved for lunch. Allons.”

She led them next door to the café and expertly secured a table under the awning against the front wall, cool but fully open to street-side. The waiter was instantly there, sensing the no-nonsense power that Nicole exuded in public. She ordered, without consulting the other three, four of the daily special dejeuners for the all of them, raising her eyebrows for tacit approval. If Neil and Sam gave in, it was only on the surface, for a moment’s peaceful retreat.

Nicole was a dark-haired version of Carrie, slim and casually dressed in jeans, a black silk blouse and large straw hat. She was a few years older than Carrie, but her youthful demeanor gave her an air of a school-mate.

Carrie said, “We’ve much to celebrate. Neil and Sam’s sixty paintings are completed. An exhibit in London arranged, well, almost arranged. And we have just come up with a trip to the Riviera for a couple of weeks of sea-water. Will you join us for some swimming and sunning, Nicole?”

“No, no. It’s much too busy now in Gordes. Maybe in October.”

Sam said, “But you won’t have our glorious company in October, Nicole. Handsome American men with stunning bodies frolicking in the waves. It will make you insane with desire.”

“Ah, yes. But imagination must suffice.”

Carrie asked, “Where should we stay, Nicole? August will be crowded I know, and we are definitely on a budget.”

“I may have just the thing. My uncle in his will left me his summer house in Cabasson-sur-Mer. Not the Riviera, closer to Marseilles. It’s very simple fisherman’s house, but on the edge of town. Applewood tables, chairs that lean, dishes that don’t match. The Paris family that always rents it for August has cancelled. Most annoying. Perhaps you would like to rent it? It’s available starting tomorrow.”

“How much for two whole weeks?” Sam said.

“Five thousand francs.”

“Ouch. I was hoping for something around eight hundred francs.”

Nicole’s expression indicated her displeasure. “It is High Season for rents and my uncle did not leave it to me just for me to give it away. It is a big part of my annual income. I am not a charitable association.” Despite her youthful and modern demeanor, underneath Nicole was truly French.

Neil said, “Cool down, I guess we’ll look farther down the coast. Maybe that’s what the Paris family did, too.”

Nicole scowled at him. She said, “You make fun, but rents are what feed me. I have no talents like all of you. I must use what my family gives me.”

Carrie said, “I have an idea. Another dazzler.” She paused to get their attention. “What if Nicole took a painting in trade from each of you for three weeks rent on her uncle’s house? She just yesterday said how she admired the work of yours she had seen and both of you want proper remuneration for your talent.”

She turned to Nicole and said, “There are plans for an exhibit of these paintings in London, at a gallery just across from Brown’s Hotel. I am sure their prices will go up handsomely and easily make up your loss of rent.” Carrie, as well as Nicole, had some merchant genes in her make-up that popped into existence at surprising times. Buying at wholesale was part of the gene pool.

“Her choice of paintings?” Sam asked.

“My choice, of course,” Nicole said, smiling.

“No, my choice,” Carrie said.

Nicole took a drink of water and considered it. Neil thought he could almost hear gears moving around in her head; maybe she was a French cyborg, a mobile adding machine made in a secret factory on the coast. Not looking directly at them, she finally said, “D’accord.”

Sam watched Neil’s face for approval. They all nodded agreement and clinked wine-glasses. The meal proceeded without further mention of rentals or paintings. Carrie paid the bill for all of them and they walked away in the direction of their cars.

Nicole said, “Oh, Neil, I almost forgot. Your mother called from the States this morning at the Auberge. She could not get past the public telephone in the bar at the Metropole, even though she has very good French.”

“She went to school in Switzerland as a girl. Henri at the bar has his strict orders from Madame. No telephone for the room renters. What did my mother want?”

“You must call her immediately. Not life or death, but trés important, she said.”

Neil knew that his mother missed talking to him, sharing family news and hearing about his adventures. She had called several times a week during his years in London, involving him in every family crisis, however small. The barrier of the local phone at the Metropole was thwarting her connection with her favorite offspring. At least, so far.

“Margaret can wait until we get back from the seashore. It’s only tres important, after all, not urgent or earth-shaking,” he said.