At first I thought I wasn’t functioning properly. I put my hands over my own eyes and looked at her again. Then I went to the window. The grass was still green, the sky still blue. And across the marshes, across Acabonic Creek, I could see Seymore Harris’ red Jaguar speeding along his private causeway. Colorwise, my eyes were O.K.
“Anything else?” she had asked. Slowly I grasped the significance of her remark. Evidently, all I had to do was to make a suggestion or so, and she would change into my conception of the perfect woman. The trouble was, I’d never done any work with the figure. I’d always painted abstractions (I’d studied with Hans Hofmann). I wasn’t sure I could carry the job through. So I went to the stepladder where Olivia had put some of my books and took down a large volume.
“Have you ever heard of Leonardo da Vinci?” I asked.
“Oh, yes,” she said brightly. “He was one of ours. How did he make out down here?”
“Not at all badly.” I handed her the book. “I’ve always admired his women.”
She leafed through the papers. “They seem,” she said, “they seem to me to be a little old-fashioned. Wouldn’t you like something less passé?” She pointed to a picture of Jacqueline Kennedy that I had tacked up over the sink. “Who’s that over there?” she asked. “Couldn’t I combine a little of that with a little of these?”
“If you like.”
“Then put your hands over your eyes, the way you did a moment ago, and count backward from ten. Very slowly.”
I covered my eyes as she asked and started to count. At eight, I heard the town siren give a wail, there was a fire somewhere. At five, I began to notice a complicated perfume, as if the room were filling up with flowers. And then I heard an automobile horn on the road below. A very expensive horn.
“Now, darling,” she said. “Now…”
She was flawless, absolutely flawless. She was, to be sure, generally Leonardo, though I had the impression that he might have painted her some years after he had died, when things in Italy were more sensuous, more worldly. But her hair was definitely Jacqueline. She had kept her blue eyes.
“Do you approve?” she murmured, smiling and holding out her hands toward me.
She was completely irresistible. I took her in my arms.
“Who,” she asked, “is that utterly fascinating man coming up the path?”
I turned to see.
“It’s Seymore Harris, the dealer,” I answered.
He was striding up the path with all the purpose and vitality that had brought him such success in business. He was very smartly done up, in crushed-raspberry trousers and a well-cut plaid jacket. This was topped off with a handsome beret, the whole costume suggesting that he was a man of two worlds — which indeed he was, for he could move with us and with the others. His strong face was a type that often appeals to women: it was full of charm and animal cunning.
“Look,” I said abruptly. “I’m afraid Mr. Harris has come to discuss a private matter. Would you mind going upstairs?”
“Where’s upstairs?” she asked.
I grabbed the stepladder, shook the books off the steps and set it up under the trap door.
“Come!” I ordered. “Right up here.” And she followed obediently.
Seymore Harris was knocking on the door below. I said to her, “Just make yourself at home on the sofa,” and she sat down. A small cloud of moths arose before her beautiful and bewildered face. I descended the ladder, then slammed the trap door above me.
“Hi, Seymore,” I said.
He was surveying the studio with evident distaste. “God knows how you artists can stand it. This place is in a mess.”
“I’m sorry, Seymour; Olivia’s left me.”
“Hmm,” he muttered. “Hmm,” and sat down on the bed. He lifted his handsome nose and began to sniff appreciatively. “Boy, you must be a fast worker. Fleurs d’Amour. Made by Reynal Frères. The most expensive perfume in the world. Costs eighty-two dollars an ounce.” He gave me a crafty, sympathetic smile. “But don’t think I’m criticizing. I guess everybody knows my weakness. Women!” he snorted. “Women! You know, fella, the only women worth a damn are the ones you meet in dreams.”
“How’s that?”
“No strings attached. No pregnancies, no mothers-in-law, no alimony.”
He glanced at his gold watch. “Listen, I haven’t much time. I have to get to New York before closing. What I came to see you about is this. I’ve just got to find a Jackson Pollock. I’ve got a party that will pay up in the five figures.”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“Look, son,” he said, “don’t act so innocent. You know and I know that a lot of the artists out here liked Pollock very much, and he liked them. One way or another they got pictures out of him, and now they’ve got them hidden, waiting for higher prices. You’ve been living here for years, and you’ve been to all their houses—”
A moth ball shot between his feet, sped across the room, and came to rest with considerable clatter among the pots under the sink.
“What was that?” said Seymore sharply.
“There’s a lobster under the bed,” I explained. “He used to play marbles with the kids.”
“Look here,” said Seymore, “you been taking that Metrecal, or whatever they call it?”
“You mean mescaline?”
“Whatever they call it,” he said, “lay off. It’s ruined a lot of the boys down here. Tell me, how’s your painting coming along?”
“There’s one over there. I did it this morning.”
“Oh, God!” he moaned. “It’s way behind the Zeitgeist. It’s just a copy of what Harry Glottnik was doing last year. Got any others?”
“There are some piled in the corner.”
He began to look over them rapidly.
“Hmm,” he said. “Hmm… Say fella, you’ve got something here. I mean the one with the butterflies on it.”
“They’re not butterflies, they’re moths.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Seymore. “It’s saleable.”
He walked across the room and put his hand on my shoulder. “You know, fella, I kind of like you. And frankly, you’ve got a certain talent. It’s dormant, but it’s there. You’ve seen me sell some of these jerks that haven’t got half what you’ve got.” His face crinkled into a persuasive smile. “How about it, fella? Can’t you and I do a little business?”
“What do you mean?”
“Now don’t play stupid. Just tell me which one of the artists out here has a nice Pollock hidden in the attic. Just tell me, and I’ll take you on, and have you hanging in the Modern by Christmas.”
I picked up O’Hara’s book on Pollock off the floor and put my foot on the first step of the ladder.
“O.K., Seymore,” I said. “It’s a deal.”
She was at the far end of the loft, her elbows on the high sill of the little window. She didn’t move when I dropped the trap door. She was deeply absorbed, staring into the far distance. I don’t think she realized I was there until I got directly behind her.
“Darling!” she cried. “I’ve been thinking of you. You can’t imagine what I’ve seen.”
“What have you seen?”
“I think it has something to do with that nice man downstairs. I really do.” She took my face in her hands and looked at me for quite a long while. “I have a wonderful idea,” she said. “Why don’t you and I go over to the sofa and make love?”
I was so startled by this that I let go of O’Hara’s book. Its pointed cover struck her bare foot. She let out a small cry of pain.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“It’s a book full of Pollocks.”
She took her foot in her hand. “What are Pollocks? Animals of some sort?”
“No, no. Jackson Pollock. A great modern artist. Haven’t you heard of him?”