Alfred Bester
5,271,009
1
Take two parts of Beelzebub, two of Israfel, one of Monte Cristo, one of Cyrano, mix violently, season with mystery and you have Mr. Solon Aquila. He is tall, gaunt, sprightly in manner, bitter in expression, and when he laughs his dark eyes turn into wounds. His occupation is unknown. He is wealthy without visible means of support. He is seen everywhere and understood nowhere. There is something odd about his life.
This is what’s odd about Mr. Aquila, and you can make what you will of it. When he walks he is never forced to wait on a traffic signal. When he desires to ride there is always a vacant taxi on hand. When he bustles into his hotel an elevator always happens to be waiting. When he enters a store, a salesclerk is always free to serve him. There always happens to be a table available for Mr. Aquila in restaurants. There are always last-minute ticket returns when he craves entertainment at sold-out shows.
You can question waiters, hack drivers, elevator girls, salesmen, box-office men. There is no conspiracy. Mr. Aquila does not bribe or blackmail for these petty conveniences. In any case, it would not be possible for him to bribe or blackmail the automatic clock that governs the city traffic signal system. These .things, which make life so convenient for him, simply happen. Mr. Solon Aquila is never disappointed. Presently we shall hear about his first disappointment and see what it led to.
Mr. Aquila has been seen fraternizing in low saloons, in middle saloons, in high saloons. He has been met in bagnios, at coronations, executions, circuses, magistrate's courts and handbook offices. He has been known to buy antique cars, historic jewels, incunabula, pornography, chemicals, porro prisms, polo ponies and full-choke shotguns.
“HimmelHerGottSeiDank! Fm crazy, man, crazy. Eclectic, by God,” he told a flabbergasted department store president. “The Weltmann type, nicht wahr? My ideaclass="underline" Goethe. Tout le monde. God damn.”
He spoke a spectacular tongue of mixed metaphors and meanings. Dozens of languages and dialects came out in machine-gun bursts. Apparently he also lied ad libitum .
“Sacre bleu. Jeez!” he was heard to say once. “Aquila from the Latin. Means aquiline. O tempora O mores. Speech by Cicero. My ancestor.”
And another time: “My idoclass="underline" Kipling. Took my name from him. Aquila, one of his heroes. God damn. Greatest Negro writer since Uncle Tom's Cabin”
On the morning that Mr. Solon Aquila was stunned by his first disappointment, he bustled into the atelier of Lagan & Derelict, dealers in paintings, sculpture and rare objects of art. It was his intention to buy a painting. Mr. James Derelict knew Aquila as a client. He had already purchased a Frederick Remington and a Winslow Homer some time ago when, by another odd coincidence, he had bounced into the Madison Avenue shop one minute after the coveted paintings went up for sale. Mr. Derelict had also seen Mr. Aquila boat a prize striper at Montauk.
“Bon soir, bel esprit, God damn, Jimmy,” Mr. Aquila said. He was on first name terms with everyone. “Here’s a cool day for color, ouil Cool. Slang. I have in me to buy a picture.”
“Good morning, Mr. Aquila,” Derelict answered. He had the seamed face of a cardsharp, but his blue eyes were honest and his smile was disarming. However at this moment his smile seemed strained, as though the volatile appearance of Aquila had unnerved him.
“Fm in the mood for your man, by Jeez,” Aquila said, rapidly opening cases, fingering ivories and tasting the porcelains. “What’s his name, my old? Artist like Bosch. Like Heinrich Kfley. You handle him, .parbleu, exclusive. O si sic omnia, by Zeus!”
“Jeffrey Halsyon?” Derelict asked timidly.
“Oeil de boeuf!” Aquila cried. “What a memory. Chryselephantine. Exactly the artist I want. He is my favorite. A monochrome, preferably. A small Jeffrey Halsyon for Aquila, bitte. Wrap her up.”
“I wouldn’t have believed it,” Derelict muttered.
“Ah! Ah-ha? This is not 100 proof guaranteed Ming,” Mr. Aquila exclaimed, brandishing an exquisite vase. “Caveat emptor, by damn. Well, Jimmy? I snap my fingers. No Halsyons in stock, old faithful?”
“It’s extremely odd, Mr. Aquila.” Derelict seemed to struggle with himself. “Your coming in like this. A Halsyon monochrome arrived not five minutes ago.”
“You see? Tempo ist Richtung. Well?”
“I’d rather not show it to you. For personal reasons, Mr. Aquila.”
“HimmelHerrGott ! Pourquoi? She’s bespoke?”
“N-no, sir. Not for my personal reasons. For your personal reasons.”
“Oh? God damn. Explain myself to me.”
“Anyway it isn’t for sale, Mr. Aquila. It can’t be sold.”
“For why not? Speak, old fish & chips.”
“I can’t say, Mr. Aquila.”
“Zut alors! Must I judo your arm, Jimmy? You can’t show. You can’t sell. Me, internally, I have pressurized myself for a Jeffrey Halsyon. My favorite. God damn. Show me the Halsyon or sic transit gloria mundi. You hear me, Jimmy?”
Derelict hesitated, then shrugged. “Very well, Mr. Aquila. I’ll show you.”
Derelict led Aquila past cases of china and silver, past lacquer and bronzes and suits of shimmering armor to the gallery in the rear of the shop where dozens of paintings hung on the gray velour walls, glowing under warm spotlights. He opened a drawer in a Goddard breakfront and took out a Manila envelope. On the envelope was printed barylon institute. From the envelope Derelict withdrew a dollar bill and handed it to Mr. Aquila.
“Jeffrey Halsyon ’s latest,” he said.
With a fine pen and carbon ink, a cunning hand had drawn another portrait over the face of George Washington on the dollar bill. It was a hateful, diabolic face set in a hellish background. It was a face to strike terror, in. a scene to inspire loathing. The face was a portrait of Mr. Aquila.
“God damn,” Mr. Aquila said.
“You see, sir? I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”
“Now I must own him, big boy.” Mr. Aquila appeared to be fascinated by the portrait. “Is she accident or for purpose? Does Halsyon know myself? Ergo sum.”
“Not to my knowledge, Mr. Aquila. But in any event I can’t sell the drawing. It’s evidence of a felony . . . mutilating United States currency. It must be destroyed.”
“Never!” Mr. Aquila returned the drawing as though he feared the dealer would instantly set fire to it. “Never, Jimmy. Nevermore quoth the raven. God damn. Why does he draw on money, Halsyon? My picture, pfui. Criminal libels but n’importe. But pictures on money? Wasteful. Joci causa."
“He’s insane, Mr. Aquila."
“No! Yes? Insane?" Aquila was shocked.
“Quite insane, sir. It’s very sad. They’ve had to put him away. He spends his time drawing these pictures on money.’’
“God damn, mon ami. Who gives him money?’’
“I do, Mr. Aquila; and his friends. Whenever we visit him he begs for money for his drawings."
“Le jour viendra, by Jeez! Why you don’t give him paper for drawings, eh, my ancient of days?"
Derelict smiled sadly. “We tried that, sir. When we gave Jeff paper, he drew pictures of money."
“HimmelHerrGott! My favorite artist. In the looney bin. Eh bien. How in the holy hell am I to buy paintings from same if such be the case?"
“You won’t, Mr. Aqbila. I’m afraid no one will ever buy a Halsyon again. He’s quite hopeless."
“Why does he jump his tracks, Jimmy?"
“They say its a withdrawal, Mr. Aquila. His success did it to him/’
“Ah? Q.E.D. me, big boy. Translate."
“Well, sir, he’s still a young man; in his thirties and very immature. When he became so very successful, he wasn’t ready for it. He wasn’t prepared for the responsibilities of his fife and his career. That’s what the doctors told me. So he turned his back on everything and withdrew into childhood."