The Dead Man's Brother (8 page)

Bruno flushed, which simply had the effect of darkening his tan.

"What of it?" he said. "It is true, but what of it? Many—no, most—modern artists do the same. Would you have them return to the same place every day and await identical conditions? The vision is there or they would not have selected the subject. A photo is only for mundane details. It is a valuable tool and its side effects are only incidental."

At this point, his gestures had become violent enough to cause bystanders to draw back. He turned to me then and fired, "Is that why you are not interested in his work?"

"No," I said. "As a matter of fact, I think some of them are very good. It is just that I am not in the market for this sort of thing right now. My budget, you know, is more limited than some and I have to be selective when it comes to speculation. I am certain I could sell the stuff. The question is—how much? I can’t afford to tie up too much capital while waiting for acclaim to catch up with his talent. If I had the opportunity to take some of his pieces on consignment I’d say yes in a minute. But since you already have that end tied up, I’ll just salivate and swallow."

"You see, Walter?" he said, turning. "Ovid knows there will be a demand. His judgment has always been good."

Walt expelled a tiny burst of air from between moist lips, making a little "Phht!" sound.

"Ovid’s aesthetic sense rides backseat to the marketplace," he said in a half-joking tone. "Yes, I’ll admit to Mr. Gladden’s talent, and its limitations."

He sought out a match and relit his cigar.

"How long have you been in town?" I asked him.

"About a week," he told me. "I’d seen everything current in Madrid, and this is really in the nature of a vacation.

"I will mention this exhibit in my next column," he said to Bruno, "and send you copies."

Turning to me, he added, "…and I’ll throw in a plug for you and your discount house, too. I’ve got to run now. That little guy over in the corner—the one with the thick glasses—is a reporter I have some business with. You’ll do well to nail him before you leave, Ov. And about that dinner—maybe we could make it a threesome. You two think about it. I’ll phone you. If not, give my bests to the Cariocas. G’bye."

And he was gone in a cloud of smoke.

"That man," said Bruno, "is a shithead. Of course we shall exclude him."

I nodded and glanced at my watch. Time was working its way toward eleven o’clock, and I debated making another phone call.

Instead, "I’ve been looking for Maria," I said. "She told me she was going to be here tonight."

"Maria," he said benignly. "She is an extra right hand to me. She did more work, part-time, than all of my other employees together, who put in a full week. So I was glad—selfish, but still glad—when she broke up with your old partner, Carl. I think it was good for her, too, by the way. He was a drunken bum, living on her earnings. She came to work here full-time after she threw him out. Now she can meet some nice young man, marry an art teacher perhaps."

At this point, I noticed a small, dark, mustachioed man, hair parted in the middle, who was standing in a doorway across the room, waving ferociously in our direction.

"Someone you know?" I interrupted, nodding that way.

Bruno turned, and the man immediately raised his hand to his ear, as if holding a telephone receiver.

"I am wanted," he sighed. "If it is that ignorant customs officer again I will apply to the Mafia for his removal!" He winked, then, "Yes, Maria was to have been here tonight," he said. "But she telephoned earlier to say that she was not feeling well. I told her to stay in bed. It is a pity. She was looking forward to this opening. She had worked so hard on it. Well…I will call you tomorrow, and we will get together. Till then," and he traced a half-salute.

"Till then," I agreed, and watched him plow his way through the throng.

I headed for the front door then, wondering why she had not answered the telephone.

*

The cab deposited me before her building, and I located her name and apartment number on a mailbox in the hall. Mounting to the third floor, I found her door and knocked. There was a line of light at the door’s lower edge, but no sounds came from within.

I knocked again, then tried the door. It was locked.

It wasn’t much of a lock though, so I fetched the picks from my wallet and opened it.

She was lying in a sprawly position, one leg on the sofa and the other hanging over its edge. Her blue skirt was hitched up above her knees and her head was twisted at an unusual angle. There were red stains on her face, her throat, her blouse.

Quietly, I entered, locking the door behind me.

V.

I am the sort of person who overreacts to things. I tend to seek hidden meanings in what people say and do and to erect paranoid constructions upon these. Sometimes I have nightmares where the whole world is a conspiracy, where everything waits for the perfect moment to shatter reality all about me to the sound of cosmic chuckling. I am the sort of person who takes a vitamin pill every day and a tetanus booster once a year. But I have been involved in so many accidents, near-accidents, potential accidents and non-accidental, violent situations that I feel there is some justification for a policy of caution and jumpiness.

I recall one chilly morning when, unshaven, tired-eyed, smelling of beer and tobacco, I emerged from an all-night poker game with my tie loose about my neck and a couple hundred bucks in my pocket. The street seemed to be deserted and the subway station was four blocks away. After walking for a few minutes, I noticed that I was not alone in the world. About 30 feet ahead of me, a man stood in a doorway, drawn well back, looking as disreputable as myself and staring at me. I slowed my pace and kept staring at him. It was too late to run. I reached after my money as he jammed his hand into his hip pocket, hoping that he would be satisfied with a cooperative victim. Instead, he pulled out his wallet as I came up to the doorway and held it toward me with a shaking hand.

"Take it!" he said. "It’s all I got! Don’t shoot me!"

So I do tend to look for the worst and am sometimes embarrassed when it does not materialize. Usually, the worst strikes without warning, which irritates hell out of me when I think of all the times I prepared for it and nothing happened. I wish the Fates were not masochists, to love one who curses them so.

With these things in mind and a twisted sense of humor to cast out shadows, I sighed back at the telltale odor and advanced toward the sofa. Unfortunately, she was breathing.

I passed her and moved beyond the far wing of the sofa. Lying on its side in a puddle on the floor was an empty half-gallon of Chianti. A broken glass kept it company. She had spilled it all over herself, and I suddenly wished for a head cold as I realized I had also moved nearer the results of an unsuccessful dash toward the sink.

Just to be certain, I checked her pulse and it seemed normal. There were no visible signs that she had fallen and hurt herself. She did not awaken during my brief examination, which was just as well. She did make some soft noises as I adjusted her skirt and moved her into a more comfortable-seeming position. Her face was a mess of wine stains and ruined makeup, cut through with dried tear-streaks; her eyelashes stuck together in little, glistening bunches.

I set some water to boiling for coffee. Even if it would not really do her any good, I wanted some. I opened a window to air the place out, hung my coat, rolled up my sleeves and removed the various messes. Afterwards, I sponged her face with a moist washcloth.

At this, her eyelids flickered.

"…Thirsty," she said.

I took her a glass of water and propped her while she drank it.

"…More."

She took two and a half glasses, pressed the washcloth to her eyes and held it there. She sat hunched forward and her breathing deepened.

"Aspirins…" she said. "…Medicine chest."

I fetched them and poured two coffees while she swallowed a couple of tablets. By then she had lowered the cloth and was running fingers through her long, black hair.

"Ouch," she said as I set the cups on the coffee table. "The world is not as young as it used to be."

She gave me a spasmodic smile as she accepted a cigarette and leaned forward. I seated myself and lit one of my own.

Silence followed.

We sat in silence for perhaps ten minutes. Then she rose, smiled faintly, said, "Excuse me" and left the room. After a time, I heard water running.

A fresh cup of coffee. Another cigarette. Night thoughts.

Maria had not been a heavy drinker when I had known her earlier. But then, neither had Carl. People do change, but this still seemed abnormal. Also, I did not feel that a chronically heavy drinker could have gotten such a sterling endorsement from Bruno, he being a notorious slave driver. No, I decided she had hung this one on for a reason, and it had to be a recent one. I hoped that it dealt with my quarry. Whatever, now was the ideal—perhaps the only—time to get it out of her, while she was still reeling from the blow.

After a time, she returned, turbaned in a towel and wearing a white terry cloth robe. Her face looked much better, though I noticed that her hands shook as she refilled her cup. She sat down, found a cigarette and managed a much better smile than earlier.

"Thanks, Ovid," she said, dropping her eyes.

Then she looked around the room, turning her whole head, not just her eyes.

"And you cleaned up, too. I am embarrassed."

Her survey ended at the door.

"Sorry I didn’t hear you knock," she said.

I shrugged.

"I didn’t mean to stand you up tonight," she told me.

"No harm done," I said. "How are you feeling now?"

"Rotten," she said. "Were you worried about me?"

"Yes."

"It was one of those bad days. Everything went wrong. I took a couple drinks to relax, then things got worse and I took a couple more. Then I decided, ‘hell with it!’ and proceeded to drown my sorrows.

"How was the opening?"

"Interesting," I said. "Walter Carlon was there. Bruno told me he missed you."

"I’ll bet he did," she said. "I set the thing up practically singlehandedly!"

"Then you decided not to show up for it."

She looked a trifle wistful.

"I’m sorry about that now," she said. "Bruno is an awfully good person when you really get to know him well. I’ll have to call him in the morning…"

"Does it happen often?"

"What?"

"Everything going wrong."

She gnawed her lip.

"No, today was special," she said.

"In what ways?"

"I’d just as soon forget about it."

"Of course," I said.

The silence came again and I decided to wait it out.

I studied my shoe tops for several minutes before I heard a soft sob. Looking up then, I saw that her eyes were moist.

"It’s difficult, isn’t it?" I said.

"Y-yes."

I offered her my handkerchief, but she shook her head and used her sleeve.

I wanted whatever was causing this, but I did not know how to go after it. There seemed to be no handles. It could be a delayed reaction over Carl. It could be something quite different. I could not tell.

"You are a success now," she finally said.

"That is a very relative term."

"But you are, and I am glad for you."

"Thanks. I guess I chose a poor time to come to town, though. I wanted to find you happy, to take you someplace where there is laughter. I wanted—"

"You sometimes thought of me after you left?" she interrupted.

"Oh yes. Often."

She smiled weakly at this, so I went over and sat down beside her, put an arm about her shoulders. She did not resist. She began to cry again, though, and she leaned against me. I let her go on this way for a long while.

"It could have been so good," she finally said, her cheek against my chest. "…Then everything went wrong. I am born to lose, always."

It reminded me of something long gone by, but I said nothing. There followed a seizure of hiccups, then more tears.

"…It was just about perfect," she said. "Perfect…"

"Until today," I speculated.

"Until today," she agreed. "Now, both of them…Both of them!"

"Sad."

"I don’t know what to do. I really don’t."

"You are still young, pretty, employed."

"Rotting," she said. "Everything has gone rotten. To lose another. We were so close, so close to it."

"Now…" I ventured.

"Now," she said, "I feel an ancient widow all in black. Now it is over."

"Twice," I said, catching the drift with hackle-raising suddenness. "This time Claude Bretagne."

The alcohol had slowed both her reflexes and her thinking. It took several seconds before I felt her stiffen.

"How…? How did you know?" she said softly.

"I know many things," I told her. "I even know about the money. First you lost Carl, now Claude. How did this one happen?"

"I don’t know," she said. "I don’t understand what happened."

"How did you find out about it?"

"What does it matter to you?"

"A great deal," I said. "I’m in trouble, and you can help me by telling me about this."

"Will I get in trouble, too?"

"No."

"All right," she said, pushing away from me and sitting up straight. "All right."

She lit a fresh cigarette, then rose and walked to the window.

She stared out for a time, then began: "Yes, we were lovers, Claude and I. Does that make me seem wicked? To have seduced a priest? Or to have let him have his way with me? It wasn’t that way at all. We met by accident one day, in the gallery. We were showing the works of several South American artists. He came to look and we began talking about them. He knew quite a bit about South America, and I was interested. He seemed very lonely, and I was lonely, too. We began talking of other matters then, and later we had lunch together. He came to the gallery quite often after that, and each time we would go for a walk or a glass of wine. We would do something, together. This simply went on, and on. Until finally we became lovers."