You can imagine my happiness at learning that you are now the exclusive art representative of Thusnelda Baltuch. I can think of no one more deserving of this creditable position. I know there should be no reason for you to want any dealings with myself or Goldie, but I have been tasked by him personally to make whatever arrangements necessary to secure the best representations of Baltuch’s work that you have available. There are no lengths that we will not go to acquire these pieces—no lengths. Goldie appreciates the history between the two of you, and has given me an impressive range from his collection with which to begin negotiations. A combination of selections from this grouping and cash value are also feasible (within reasonable limits). I cordially invite you to come to the gallery at your nearest convenience to discuss terms and selections, but know that Goldie would also be acquiescent to meeting at a more neutral location of your choosing. Please find enclosed some Stanisław Szukalski prints with Goldie’s compliments. With apologies for the sprawling nature of this communication, and with sincerity and affection,
–Serge
To Mr. Mayacou, of Toronto
Dear Customer,
Thank you for your interest in Thusnelda Baltuch’s work. At this time, we are not making her pieces available publicly. We will notify you should this change. Regards,
–T. Gotlieb-Ryder
My Mind Is a Boggle-De-Botch
To T.G.R., of Toronto
Tabitha,
You can imagine Goldie’s displeasure when the Baltuch pages went public without advance knowledge. The pieces he was interested in were no longer available by the time he had frantically approached one of your representatives at the opening reception of the Baltuch show. I would have been in for quite a hiding, I can assure you, had I not successfully moved a handful of Victor Moscoso pieces a few hours beforehand. Goldie was so blinded by rage that night that he hurled a bronze busk of his mother into the painting Marlana made in his likeness. The psychical implications of the act are, sadly, beyond me.
I saw you briefly by the Spitzweg painting—I did not know that you wore glasses. You looked radiant in crushed velvet, and your hair was very fetching in a chignon. Who was the gentleman who never left your side? Perhaps I overstep my bounds…
I have been authorized to offer two pieces as complimentary gifts, provided you and Baltuch agree to meet with Goldie at a location of your choosing: a Jack Cole Betsy and Me strip, which he recalls you admired on several occasions while in his employ, and a Brenda Starr Reporter strip by Ramona Fradon, which Baltuch has made no secret of admiring. I would never forgive myself if my neglectful behaviour in our relationship was somehow at the root of our inability to discuss business.
–S.
To T.G.R., of Toronto
Tabby,
I am now hurriedly clearing the south wall of Goldie’s lake home for the five Baltuch pieces he was able to secure from you at your La Castile meeting. Goldie and Marlana imparted to me in passing that some infelicitous things were mentioned at my expense (Marlana said she would elaborate when Goldie was asleep, but I can no longer tolerate being alone with that badger-legged woman after the sun has gone down. Bad enough she thinks we are married but not churched). I must admit that I find the experience of being brought so low at your hand extremely… stimulating. Your proviso that I must under no circumstances attend the meeting completed the enchantment. My mind is a boggle-de-botch; what must I do to obtain a response from you? After all, your will was my debasement (and can be again). Yours if you want it, a wife in watercolours, as it were,
–Serge
Bespawler’s Hanging Place
To Mr. Mayacou, of Toronto
Bespawler,
Cease all correspondence with me or face the consequences.
–T. Gotlieb-Ryder
To Serge Mayacou, of Toronto
Serge,
I decided to break my silence after all these years because I heard the sad news of Goldie’s passing. The community will undoubtedly be devastated. He was loud and brash, but he never laid a finger on me or treated me as anything less than an equal (except financially speaking of course). I had some fond memories while working for him, and our last meeting in the autumn to broker the Baltuch pieces was pleasant, painless. He spoke fondly of you at the dinner. He said you were like a son to him, and hoped you would take over the gallery after he retired and do your best not to run it into the ground. I suppose time has palliated my feelings of resentment for you to a degree. I appreciated you not writing me further after I insisted we break off communication. The world is a hanging place. Wishing you solace in this time of grieving,
–T. Gotlieb Ryder
To T.G.R., of Toronto
Tabby,
Thank you for your thoughtful message. I confess I had lost all hope of ever communicating with you, in person or otherwise. It was a lovely gesture that cut me to the quick because of the nature of our romantic history. I often think about how our lives might have been different had I availed myself of a more courageous line of action at a critical juncture in our lives. Surely the position I now hold was not incommensurate with whatever potential we may have shared as lovers. I am filled with regret, but I realize the timing of a public disrobing of this nature is not entirely apropos.
The future of the gallery is uncertain. I want to continue on, but Marlana wants to unload the majority of the pieces to interested parties as soon as possible and sell the business; a few museums and private concerns have expressed interest in acquiring significant portions of Goldie’s artwork en masse, sight unseen in some cases. If we entertain a liquidation, I would like to ensure the most deserving parties receive the most relevant pieces, which is to say, I do not want them collecting dust at a gallerist’s warehouse because they are overpriced and deliberately out of reach, waiting for a Dominique de Menil to come nosing around like a truffle hog.
Marlana believes discrimination is unwarranted and wants to move to the south of France immediately. She wants us to be married at the moment it is (perceived) decent to do so. I am at cross purposes on that front, as it is compounding my stress over the funeral arrangements, of which I have (surprisingly) been charged with taking by the reins (where is Goldie and Marlana’s daughter?!). I would be happy to return to you free of cost the Baltuch pieces—I understand Thusnelda has expressed regrets about letting those pieces go, and quite frankly, Marlana will not be aware of the minor financial loss. You are free to do with them as you wish; sell them again, keep them, et cetera. Think of it as a token of my everlasting appetency for what we shared, once upon a time.
–Serge
P.S. I further enclose the details of the funeral. You would be most welcome there, along with anyone you wish to bring.
To Serge Mayacou, of Toronto
Serge,
I just wanted to write to let you know that the ceremony was tastefully done and in accordance with every law of propriety. It is exactly the way Goldie would have wanted it, barring of course the spectacle Marlana made of herself. On no less than four occasions I saw her fondling your genitals in full view of Goldie’s family. I can tell you that his mother especially did not care for the flagrant disrespect conferred on the dearly departed. I make no judgements as to who you share a bed with, but I would think that she could keep her hands to herself for a few blasted hours. Her behaviour was frankly indecorous and in shockingly bad taste.
I also want to ask about whose artwork hung above the casket. I have no recollection of the piece from the past, so assume it is a new work, perhaps one you commissioned on Goldie’s behalf? It bore a passage about a “day at the beach” or a “blank ballot” if I am not misremembering. And if I dare skirt the edges of shamelessness myself, can I ask if it is for sale? I know you are in mourning and I would not be surprised at a less than propitious response (if any), but it has been some time since I have been moved to enquire about a piece for my ownership. Apologies in advance for the indiscretion,
–Tabby
&nb
sp; To T.G.R., of Toronto
Tabby,
Apologies unnecessary. Your request was a happy intrusion into the sea of calamitous shit my life has become embroiled in. You are incorrect about the piece being from a new artist, but I cannot disclose at the moment whose hand was responsible. You will have to forgive this inflated need for secrecy, but the artist in question has asked that I not divulge their identity before they have completed the series to which it belongs. The pieces are rendered in a style considered a departure from their established credentials, and he has been wavering on the question of whether these shall ever be exhibited publicly or not. What I can tell you is that the inscription you have referred to is by Molavi, and reads as such:
X Choosing the lesser evil
is choosing evil
Doing nothing is always an option
But what kind of nothing, my friend
A blank ballot
A day at the beach.
I thought it summed up Goldie’s attitude toward political engagement rather well.
I will let the artist know that you have an interest in the work, and that you are also Baltuch’s representative. Who knows? Perhaps I could have a good word with him about your talents for representation. Baltuch’s profile has shot through the roof since she did those book-jacket designs for blewointment if I am not mistaken.
–Serge
High Fantastic, High Drudgery
To Serge Mayacou, of Toronto
Prannie-Mulch,
You may have succeeded in lowering my defences, but you still have many flights up the campanile to run. Do not presume that because I now entertain your personal company that the errors and follies of the past can be erased like a candle snuffed out in a parlour room; neither must you comprehend my small allowances with greasing your gut-stick in my presence for a passport to every home port at my disposal. You have merely entered the barbican, and must consider yourself a stateless person. Your whore’s bath this morning was the beginning of your variegated humiliations, trials and excoriations. I will make Giordano Bruno’s sufferings look like a morning constitutional compared to what you will endure at my hands. You will not be moving to Lourmarin, and you will not be selling off Goldie’s gallery. I will direct your every movement and stratagem with regard to Marlana. Am I understood, Manfat? We will engineer the swift dissolution of whatever fishmongering commerce you were caught up in with Madame Pudge—no need to die on that hill. My list of demands shall be forthcoming. Scorf up the medicine now, little sissified itch-mite. Remember, this isn’t high fantastic after all, this is high drudgery. The Glitz Cunt is dead. Long live the Glitz Cunt.
–T.G.R.
P.S. Press this letter to your nose and relive the fragrance of my putrescence. I had to see a star about a twinkle.
To Serge Mayacou, of Toronto
Gash-Hound,
Hilt and hair time will be further delayed. What follows is a list of my counter-value targets. Stand by for concurrence, leather stretching to follow.
You will surrender all mid- to high-grade art in your possession to me at no later time than a week from receipt of this annexing letter. Supplemental to this requirement are all paper records and inventories pertaining to said collection.
The forfeiture of these assets must occur on the lawn of Quail Pipe Manor, my place of residence, at the stroke of midnight on the night of the next blood moon (next Tuesday), wearing only a smile and after quaffing a vial of quebrachine, which I shall provide in preposterous quantities.
For each article of art surrendered, you shall perform a short ritual of my devising, which I shall elucidate in detail. The ritual, hereinafter referred to as the shush bag, consists in the nibble and dribble of the scads of diamond-shaped bum oodles that are currently plaguing my nethers while you keep the census down. After each vitiation of seed, you will be allowed a short respite for hydration (quebrachine or water only). No gel packs will be provided.
After this game of pebble dashing is concluded, you will undoubtedly need ample time for recovery. You will avail yourself of the amenities of Quail Pipe for no less than twenty-four hours, both to familiarize yourself in your new environs and become acquainted in the barracks with the other Sweetcorn Boys. There will be no quarter on this account. There will be no room for Marlana this night.
When sufficient mindfulness has returned to your faculties, you will convene in the sub-level man-pits for locally televised shew-combat. Report to Claude and Aldegonde for sanitation and oiling. Clinch holds are strongly encouraged.
Your future with me as Head Buggerclaw will depend entirely on this contest of wretches. I will not be undone by your pusillanimity again. Fight for your keepsakes as much as you fight for your Great Winnower. When and only when you have surpassed these requirements will my demands continue.
Assholes in retrograde,
–The Great Winnower
To Serge Mayacou, of Toronto
Gleetbag,
Your inventory is in shambles! I will have you consume more Stramonium and Bynin Amara if you cannot be brought to heel. I know from memory that you had in your possession Martin Van Maële, Ed Valigursky and Paul Lehr originals. I also distinctly recall a Frank Wilson drawing from Supermanship (“The Great Vice Versa”). Obfuscate again and the night physicals shall be accompanied with a very cold Roboleine spoon.
–Tabs qua Tabs
Quail Pipe Drippydick’s All Duff and No Grog
To T.G.R., of Toronto
Gatekeeper of Tabbydom,
Happy tidings on the Marlana question. She has taken my disappearance rather poorly I am told; her crying fits have spilled out into public spaces now. Rumours abound that she cannot continue on without me, and has splendidly made one attempt already at taking her own life involving a piece of chicken wire (I shall spare you the details). The police have been notified concerning my disappearance, and I reckon they shall approach you about an interview for questioning. I feel my resolve failing, which is not to say that I do not believe in the “saturnalias of our conventicle” as you term it, but then again, a rubber truncheon in less capable hands makes for less desirable results.
I don’t want to let you down again. I realize that breaking off communication was what doomed us the first time, so instead I want to make my fears perfectly understandable and ask for assurances (come what may). As irresistible as the attractions of Quail Pipe are, I am beginning to bristle at being under the floorboards for so long (there are only so many Hy Averback films you can watch). Couldn’t I step out to pick up a few things, Dovey? I might have to run an errand in Moss Park for a night or two…
I really think you are taking too much on your shoulders. Claude is a dear, but the polybabble that passes for conversation is so astonishingly poor that I really might quash his quongs one night with a coat hanger—I am sure that you would grant me that much. What a radgepot you have running this madhouse; châteaued out of his mind half the time from jimmyjohns he’s hoisted out the cellar and rolled into his quarters.
In more cheerful news, I received word through protected channels from an old friend. Ingram Freleng, upon hearing of my disappearance after Goldie’s death, began to fear for the worst. Far from presuming that I was absconding from the scene of a crime, his letter of concern went to great lengths to assure me that I had a friend who wanted to repay an old debt. He seems enthusiastic about paying homage to Goldie’s legacy, and has expressed an interest in fencing the majority of the collection to international parties at white-market pricing. We will not be sending more than two pieces per party (and none to France, naturally) to ensure they are not consolidated in one pool, and trackable by the authorities. But perhaps we should make some small allocation for Marlana—she will after all have limited means in Europe, and I do feel she will be hard done by, even if we make arrangements on her behalf.
Eagerly awaiting your return from the west. I have not moused off during your absence, as promised. I hope you will be feeling better in a few days. I a
gree with your sentiment that summer colds are the worst: predictably ill-timed, with a hint of insouciance for good measure. My anxiety unseats my mind. I fear it has made me disastrously unproficient in the goodly art of letter-writing. Adieu for now, your
–Serge
To Serge Mayacou, of Toronto
Drippydick, Lovetick, Stypdick,
You Cooper Union dropouts are all the same. All duff and no grog, ineluctably doomed by a lack of imagination. I left Bella Coola earlier than communicated and should be arriving shortly after this letter reaches you. Do not set foot outside of quail pipe you dermophiliac duck shit unless you want abrogations of your privileges to result. You will receive an Arthur Ranson if you comply.
Your recalcitrance will be our undoing. Claude has already apprised me of your undisciplined self-gratifications. Evirates are my speciality, remember?
Claude has rummaged through your rubbish and found enough evidence to damn an onery house. A night-diddle to buy his silence counts for hardly anything in today’s delicate economy. I run a tight ship, Jagabat. Never forget where you are—sowgelders aplenty.
Marlana is no longer a concern. I went to Bella Coola in part to negate her involvement in our future. Her kitling Prue Enz lives there, remember? We have always been on good terms. Goldie had long suspected that Prue was not produced of his bloodline.
In the Beggarly Style of Imitation Page 10