Anyhow, in walked this little man. He sat down beside me and of course we started talking, what with me being lonely and hating myself at the moment, and as it turned out we were both in the same racket, like art.
“My name is Wilfred Block,” said he, pulling his poncho around him and leaning over his coffee and sort of inhaling it.
“Hi,” I mumbled, hunching over my cola. Some character this! “I’m teaching, you know, my boy — up at the center. Do you know the center, lad?”
Well, did I know the center? Hell, yes. So we engaged in conversation and suddenly I felt greatness all around me, and my scuzzy beard embarrassed me because his was so good and old.
Pretty soon I was flipping out of my depression because this ancient guy could teach me about paint and like that, and so right there I enrolled in his painting class. Finally we were really buddy-buddy, like I was his son, and somehow the subject got around to a recent art theft in Southern California.
“Lad,” whispered Mr. Block as he sipped his coffee and pulled his shoulders up even higher, “one of the most magnificent paintings in the world was stolen. Did you know that, lad? Hey? Surely you’ve seen reproductions of Calagria’s work? No? What is this world coming to, tell me that, pray.”
I just sort of smiled and nodded and waited, knowing I’d get some information laid on me.
“My boy, the Venice Street Scene. The Venice Street Scene. Or, in this case you might call it the Venice Canal Scene...”
I thought to myself, Kelly John Kelly, this is a scene in itself, but I just kept my little mouth shut and waited.
“One of the most magnificent paintings on this planet, lad. Yes, stolen — by, if I remember correctly, Lawrence Weber Weeves. Fine artist, pity. At least all evidence points in his direction. I’ve seen the painting myself. Exquisite! You know, Calagria,” and here he started whispering, his eyes darting around, “was intelligent enough to use seasoned back-braced wood for his paintings. Each was covered with five coats of gesso, which if you don’t know, boy, is a blindingly white sort of chalk mixture.” Then his voice dropped even lower, almost like he was telling me some sort of crazy secret. “And with the patience of the Venetian craftsman that he was, he waited for each coat to become thoroughly dry, then rubbed it down with fine sand to give it a satin finish. IMPECCABLE! NOW, WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THAT?” His voice rose almost to a shout and the waitress looked at us funny. Then he shot his elbow into my ribs and I choked on my drink.
“Great, sir, great,” I squeaked. Man, I couldn’t wait to go to his class, like he was a wise little old elf with a secret. Ageless.
Well, the next week I started in with his painting class. Wizard! With his old beard and mustache and long salt-pepper hair and his poncho with the collar turned up, all you could see were his funny no-color eyes looking all secret and, well, weird. Old Mr. Block really had the knowledge, European training, the bit. Beautiful old guy. Anyhow, I started learning. He put up with the “new” techniques — oil and acrylics. All the time I thought oil was as old as God, but Mr. Block said no, that egg tempera was first, although he knew the rest of the jazz like he knew his beard.
Then, in his lectures, he’d get off on old Calagria and how that cat was the real master and not enough people knew about him and how his paintings hadn’t cracked or faded through the centuries and somehow Mr. Block would suddenly look like one of those Venetian princelings that he kept talking about in the classroom.
Finally, after about three weeks of study with this eerie guy, he drew me aside after class, out under the cypress trees, and said, pretty excitedly, I thought, “Kelly John, my boy, would you like to see—” then his voice dropped to a hiss “—would you like to see a copy I made of that Calagria that was stolen? Hey?” Then he sort of shot his eyes around like somebody might hear him and I thought, so what’s his problem? We were alone. Anyhow I answered, well, yes, sir, I would, and he invited me to his pad that night for a little meat, bread, and wine, as he put it.
Man, I felt like I was in Paris!
Unfortunately, my teaching job in Southern California afforded me less money than I had hoped for. Such a shame. Teachers in this country are pitifully underpaid, even such trained and experienced professors as I. My age was against me, I fear. I am approaching seventy-one, but am quite spry and healthy — I often liken myself to Picasso. I’m also a respected artist; not of the stature of that Spanish gentleman, but I have my fans and a few of my paintings are hung in museums about the country.
That day, that humiliating day when I was impoverished and worried about some of the more foolish students in that small but prestigious college where I had been teaching, I decided to drive my old automobile to a rather poor museum a little south of the small town in which I was teaching. I put on my homburg and carried my walking stick, remnants of a more prosperous time. I also donned my greatcoat, as it was chilly due to an almost impenetrable coastal fog.
In the museum (bad lighting, dust — shameful!) I dashed about, hands clasped behind me, peering at one picture after another. And then I saw it. How had I missed it before? It was hung in a dark corner, but there it was.
THERE WAS THE CALAGRIA! It was no larger than a sheet of typing paper, but as I squinted, the tiny figures came to life — women haggling about the price of fish; orange rinds floating in the canal; dandies swaggering; clothes blowing on lines strung from one building to another; tarts with bleached hair and scandalously low necklines strutting beside the water; gondolas being propelled by muscular gondoliers. The true Venice. The Venice then. I was there, back where I should have been. I was born in the wrong century.
I stood for a few moments. The painting was slightly tilted, which offended me, so, reverently, I touched it, merely to make it straight with its fellow paintings. Then, the noise! Buzzers and bells rang and guards came dashing from every which way and I was grabbed roughly and hustled off to the office of the fusty old curator.
“Thief, eh?”
“No — I insist, no — the picture was a bit out of line — I merely tried to straighten it—”
“And who, sir, are you?” he asked, raising his gray eyebrows.
“I, sir,” I announced as I straightened, “am Lawrence Weber Weeves, artist, teacher, and you have a painting of mine hanging somewhere in this embarrassing establishment. Now,” I said, brushing the sleeves of my capacious coat, “I would like the courtesy of an apology immediately.”
“Oh, my,” mumbled the distraught and harrumphing curator (I forget his name — it wasn’t worth my time and effort to remember it). “Mr. Weeves, please accept our apologies, sir. What can we do to make amends? Would you enjoy a glass of fine claret, which I, ahem, keep on hand for the pleasure of distinguished guests? My, my, I am so dreadfully sorry.”
“I’ll accept, sir, and gladly.”
As I sipped and chatted, my plan was there, as though the muse had whispered into my ear — a truly creative plan indeed.
“Yes, well, to make amends, you say. I would be delighted if you would allow me to peruse your extremely fine museum for two hours, buzzers off, and let me straighten paintings to my heart’s content.”
“Mr. Weeves, it will be a pleasure.”
We shook hands, toasted each other, and for a while I reveled in paintings, straightening one here, dusting one there. Then I bade farewell to the curator, and as an afterthought I said, “Sir, there is a small Bonnard I wish to observe again — I’ll just leave by the back entrance, and thank you, sir.”