She stood next to her husband, beaming — two little doll-like people, dressed in black. The painter introduced his wife, “Harriet,” and she smiled and curtsied when introduced to Hector. She spoke thickly-accented English.
Hector wondered, Albanian?
She said, “I’m a tremendous fan of yours, Mr. Lassiter. I read all of your novels. Yours, and Holly Martins’ — I just finished his Lone Rider of Sante Fe. It’s amazing how you both keep up that peppy pace. Trés Americain.”
Hector smiled, ignoring Ernest’s snort from the other side of the room, as well as Papa’s under-the-breath muttering of “‘Peppy’...Chee-rist.”
She said, “I was particularly taken with your first, Rhapsody In Black. What a brave way to end a first novel, and —”
Hector winked and held a thick finger up to his own lips. “Careful now — Rachel’s just reading that one, and she hasn’t finished yet.”
The elderly woman smiled and pretended to lock her own lips with her gloved hand, and then to throw away an invisible key. “Mum’s the word,” she said, winking back.
Another shout from outside: “How the hell do I get in there?”
“That must be Quentin — he’s a very fine critic...visiting from Paris,” Pauline said for Rachel’s sake. “He’s been running late, everywhere he goes, for days...running up and down the Keys for a piece he’s writing on island folk artists. I’ll go and let him in. Please excuse me.”
Hector leaned in close to Rachel and said, “Quentin would be Quentin Windly. Critic from the Left Bank...a jack-of-all-trades-style critic. Music, art, writing. He’s tried, and failed, at all of them himself. So he’s a bitter bastard. So now he makes money critiquing the ones who can do what he can’t. Meager money, but he’s doing just fine. He’s a trust-fund baby.”
“You sound bitter,” Rachel said.
“No, Quentin doesn’t stoop to critique the stuff that I write,” Hector said. “And he gives Hem’s stuff a wide berth, too. Probably to avoid alienating Pauline. He also has a reputation as lady’s man, so please, don’t let him steal you away tonight.”
Rachel smiled and stroked Hector’s cheek. “Guess that’ll depend on you, Hector,” she said. “How willing are you to fight for me?”
“To the death.”
She squeezed his hand again and sipped more wine.
Hem had his back to his guests, studying the painting hanging there on the wall — Joan Miró’s The Farm. Ernest had admired the painting during his young and hungrier time in Paris. Though he really couldn’t afford it, he’d nevertheless purchased the painting — with the help of Dos Passos — ostensibly as a birthday present for his first wife, Hadley. Somehow Hem had wrested the painting back from Hadley and gotten it to Key West. Now it hung with paintings by André Masson and Juan Gris’ The Guitar Player.
“You should collect some of Bishop’s work, Ernest,” Mrs. Blair said.
“Sure, swell,” Hem said. “You have anything at hand?”
“I’ll send you a catalogue, when we get back to Montparnasse,” she said. Then she said, “You seem to know art as well, Mr. Lassiter. Do you collect?”
“Not very much,” Hector said. “Not like I wished I could have when I was in Paris many years ago. Hadn’t the money then. Just a couple of pieces by Nick Hart. One tiny Picasso. A Matisse I picked up from the estate of Bertram Stone. And now I’m here, where there is no art worth buying.”
“I’ll send you a catalogue, too,” she said. “My Bishop’s not yet priced himself out of the market.”
“That’s great,” Hem said, his back still to his guests. He said, suddenly, “What do you think of Magritte, BB? I’m thinking particularly of L’âge des merveilles.”
Hector shot Ernest’s broad back a glance. The hair was standing up on the back of Hector’s neck.
“That was about ’25 or ’26, if I’m remembering correctly,” the bald little artist said. “I think it had the most profound influence on Dali. The cutaways in the torso, particularly. And with the machine parts, and cogs, well, I’ve definitely seen much of that imagery in Man Ray’s photography from roughly the same period.”
Rachel said, “So much of the surrealists’ work seems to reflect a kind of hatred toward women. Almost what you would call an ‘Irish hatred’ of women. I mean, all of their bodies cut into pieces or, as you describe them, just cut into — segmented and hollows and compartments carved into their thighs and torsos. And speaking of Man Ray...all those photos of women laying naked and dead...”
The little painter scowled. “Dead? Why do you say dead?”
“Their eyes are always closed...they look naked and dead,” Rachel said.
“No, no, dear,” Bishop said. “That’s a convention of surrealism. Their eyes are closed to indicate ‘the dream state.’ They are nude and sleeping. Dreaming really. Although there is one photograph, in particular, which you might be thinking of. Man Ray called it La Prière. It’s a self-portrait where he’s pressing his cheek to the hip of a nude woman. She appears to have a bullet hole just under her left breast.” He turned to Hector and said, “It’s a dark-haired woman, laying on a bed and the photograph, is, of course, black and white. But Man’s colored in a stream of blood with red ink, trailing down the torso and pooling on the mattress by her side. Man is embracing the nude’s body, looking as if he shot and killed the woman in the picture.”
“You also seem to know a bit about art,” Mrs. Blair said to Rachel.
“I spent a couple of years in Paris,” Rachel said. “Studied for a time there. I concluded that I don’t have the talent.” She said it matter-of-factly.
“Maybe you just haven’t unlocked your talent yet,” Bishop said, smiling. “Perhaps you should experiment in my medium — surrealism. It may be the key for you. As André Breton said, in his ‘Manifesto of Surrealism’, ‘There is every reason to believe that surrealism acts on the mind very much as drugs do; like drugs, it creates a certain state of need and can push man to frightful revolts.’” He smiled again. “Perhaps it can push you to realizing the full extent of your own painting talent, Miss Harper. It’s hard to deny the field is dominated by men. We’re well past time for a female surrealist to come to the fore.”
A deep voice, from behind them, “Argh, fucking shoptalk. Thought we’d skip discussion of fucking art for one night.”
Ernest limped over to the tall, blond man standing in the doorway. He said, “Hey, Wind — what are you drinking, my foul-mouthed friend?”
The critic looked at the nearly depleted glass of wine in Hemingway’s hand. “Why waste time with that swill? Cut to the chase — whiskey, neat.”
Ernest slapped the man’s arm with real relish, “Why not ... asshole. Fetch ‘fucking’ Wind here a drink, Hec, won’t you? If I make it, I might be tempted to stir in some cyanide.”
“The simplest surrealist act consists of dashing down into the street, pistol in hand, and firing blindly as fast as you can pull the trigger, into the crowd.”— André Breton
LE CADAVRE EXQUIS
6
Dinner was mussels in peppery cream broth, bouillabaisse de Marseilles and Châteaubriand.
Pauline had cautioned everyone to save room for Key Lime Pie.
Hector and Hem had finished their main courses first. Hem was drinking whiskey and Hector had made himself a mojito. The crime writer sat back in his chair, smoking a cigarette and watching Rachel eat. Pauline was watching her too — Hector was increasingly aware of that. Pauline didn’t seem to regard Rachel as some threat. It was not at all like he’d seen Pauline act around Jane Mason or other younger women who brazenly made clear their interest in — or availability to — Ernest. No, this was something else that Hector couldn’t put his finger on.
Seemingly oblivious to Pauline’s scrutiny, Rachel pushed away her plate and sipped her Tavel wine. She said, “I’ve seen Hector’s cigarette lighter, Papa. He told me of this game, or ‘writing exercise,’ that you two engage in...‘One True Sentence,’
he called it.”
Hem savored his whiskey and said, “That’s right, kid. One of us starts a sentence, and the other finishes it, best he can. Rules are it has to be short and sharp and as close to true as we can come under the gun.” He grinned and said, “Here, Hector, catch this one. ‘The old man died—’”
“‘— illusioned and therefore disappointed,’” Hector replied.
“Not terrible,” Hem said. “Your turn, Lasso.”
Hector thought a moment, then said, “‘The drunken priest, awaiting execution—’”
“‘—wished that one of his fellow prisoners was a whore.’” Ernest grinned and slapped the table. “I should use that somewhere...get under old Max Perkins’ skin with that.” He drank some more whiskey and said, “‘You know how it is Sunday morning on Duval Street,—’”
Hector thought about that and finished with, “‘—the rummy vets propped up out cold against the walls, their pants stained with their own piss.’” Hector made a face. “Christ’s sakes, I’m sorry all, that was a bit much,” he said, “particularly over dinner.”
“But stark and real,” Mrs. Blair said, her old face very serious. “Authentic. I admire that.”
Ernest had this strange expression on his face. “I could maybe use that one...”
Bishop Blair, tittering, spilled a little wine on the lapel of his black jacket. He wiped it off with a burgundy linen napkin. He said, “You writers’ game reminds me of one we used to play in Paris — we artists, I mean. Same concept really, but different métier, obviously.”
Hector, blowing smoke out both nostrils, said, “Elaborate, please.”
The little artist fished the interior breast pocket of his black suit jacket and pulled out a long, thick Cuban cigar. He tore off the cellophane and then cut the end off with his own cigar cutter. Bishop leaned across the dining table and picked up a candelabra and held the flame of the candle under his cigar with one tiny hand while he rolled the cigar, getting it started. He blew a few smoke rings and then said, “Oddly enough, it actually started life as a writing game, not too much unlike your own. A poet was present at one of our gatherings one night, and he wrote a few words down, folded over the sheet so the words couldn’t be seen, then asked someone else present to write a few words down to finish his unseen sentence. The result was something like dark, surrealist poetry. As we were all visual artists, the game soon enough vaulted into the realm of the ‘seen’.” He smiled and winked. “But by way of the unseen.”
Quentin, the critic, lasciviously eyeing Rachel, said, “I know of this game. The Exquisite Corpse, it was called.”
Hector suppressed this little chill. He reached across the table and took Rachel’s hand, brazenly rubbing the back of her left hand with his thumb. Marking territory. He said, “A damned ghastly name.”
Bishop Blair shrugged. “That comes from the writing game which inspired it. The poet who wrote that first, partial sentence had written, ‘The Exquisite Corpse...’ The title stuck.”
Hem was sprawled back in his chair, one hand shoved down his pants behind his belt — up to the second knuckle, or so. He said, “But you said the game evolved.”
“Into a drawing game, yes,” Bishop said, smiling. “One of us would take a long slip of paper, and in the upper portion, we would draw the top portion of a figure, say, the head, shoulders and perhaps the upper torso. Then we would fold the paper to obscure what we had drawn — all but the very lower-most portion so that the next artist could pick up the lines where the previous artist left off. The second artist would then draw everything from about the breasts or pectorals down to the genitals. He, too, would then fold the paper, hiding 98 or 99 percent of what he had drawn. The third artist finished the drawing by sketching in the legs and feet...or whatever else his mind was inspired to supply. Then we would all unfold the slip of paper and see what our ‘blind’ collaboration had resulted in.”
Hem nodded, considering the surrealist painter with his warm, sharp brown eyes. He said, “A woman was murdered across the street. They found her body earlier today — just behind the lighthouse.”
Hector paused, his next cigarette hanging unlit between his lips. Pauline looked mortified. Mrs. Blair raised a gloved hand to her mouth. Rachel looked surprised that Ernest would just toss it out there, naked.
Quentin’s expression Hector couldn’t read...mocking...surly...either was as close as Hector could come to characterizing it.
Bishop Blair scowled. “For money; passion? Why was she murdered, I mean?”
Hem sat up straighter in his chair, relishing the focused attention. “That’s the thing,” he said. “It wasn’t like any of that. Hector saw the body. He said the woman was naked. She was gutted and dressed out like a deer — her internal organs all removed.”
Pauline was furious. She said, “Ernest!”
He held up a big hand. Hem said, “No, it gets stranger. And this audience? Here we have gathered some that might really have some useful thoughts toward a solution.”
“A sex crime,” Bishop Blair said. “Something like, oh, Jack the Ripper?”
“Nothing so...straightforward as that,” Hem said, stroking his thick dark moustache and glancing at Hector. “Hector thinks this was a surrealist killing.”
Slack-jawed expressions, all around...except for Hector and Rachel — those two stared at one another, increasingly stunned by Hem’s brazenness in putting it out there, cold.
Bishop Blair licked his lips. He stroked the rim of his wine glass. “Why? Why surrealist?”
Hem gestured at Hector. “One true sentence, Lasso. Lay it out for Bish.”
Hector blew smoke. He said, “The woman was gutted, as Ernest has described. Where her organs should have been, the killer inserted cogs...fly wheels...a bicycle chain and discarded machine parts. Even the prop from a small, outboard motor.”
A wineglass spilled. Flustered, Mrs. Blair tut-tutted, excused herself and righted her goblet. She began dabbing at the white linen tablecloth — patting at the stain from her spilled glass of Valdepeñas, now insinuating itself into the crisp cotton like a fast-spreading bloodstain.
“Forget it, please, Harriet,” Pauline said. “It’s nothing.”
Bishop Blair looked stricken. He sat back in his chair, his cigar clutched in one hand, and his napkin in the other. “It’s what you said, Papa — The Age of Marvels.”
Hem winked. “That’s just what Rachel and Hector thought. And I agree.”
Quentin Windly shot Hector a glance. “So, a hack writer who claims to know surrealist art. Wonders never fucking cease. Or did Miss Rachel fill you in on art, ‘Lasso’?”
Hector held his tongue. Anything he might say was going to lead to an inevitable conclusion — Hector likely beating the handsome critic near to death.
“And the police?” The now-paler Bishop Blair sipped some more of his Tavel, as if white wine could supply the false courage of, say, whiskey...perhaps of Pernod in the near term, if one had not sampled absinthe.
The critic said, “Were the organs found?”
Hector bit his lip. Looking at his drink, he said, “Leave it to the likes of you to pose that morbid question ‘Wind’. But, no, they were not. The sheriff’s boys put the body on a set of scales they use to weigh marlin and swordfish. With all the metal, the woman’s corpse came in just under 275 pounds. The body of even a small, comparatively light woman is a lot for even a strong man to transport across any kind of distance or terrain. So the sense is this woman was murdered and...prepared...just where she lay. Where she was found...displayed.”
“Then there may still be clues to the killing around — perhaps the discarded organs are close by.” Quentin was focused on Hector.
Hem rose, beaming. “I’ve got flashlights.”
The little surrealist artist stood, straightening his lapels. “I’ll come of course.” Mrs. Blair held a hand up to her mouth again — like some over-acting silent film star. The little painter grabbed his wife’s gloved hand. He urge
d her hand from his wife’s mouth and patted its back. “I’ll be fine, my dear. I’m in stout company.”
Hector rolled his eyes. He felt like he’d just lurched into one of Dame Estelle Quartermain’s damned locked-room mysteries with all their exaggerated British civility and stilted dialogue. Before he could check himself, Hector said aloud, “Jesus fucking wept.”
Rachel just looked at him, this drunken and disbelieving smile on her pretty face.
Scowling, Pauline said, “For the love of God, go with them, Hec — this is your bloody field. And I hold you responsible for keeping them all from abject embarrassment or accidental drowning.”
“The artist must work with the thought that the spectator can understand things half said, not completely described.”— André Masson
MINOTAURE
7
Hector was loitering in the kitchen with Pauline and Rachel.
“Utterly fruitless,” he said, grimacing. He was balancing on his left leg and massaging his right ankle...wondering how the hell one-legged vets coped with limb loss. Hector had wrenched his ankle when his foot found a sinkhole. Wincing, he said, “It’s just too far in any direction to reach water in order to pitch anything into the ocean. Blocks and blocks to get to Negro Beach, or to South Beach, to the east. To the southwest, you have the military reservation, and nobody’s going to go sneaking through there hauling body parts. To the west? Well, you’re nearly walking the width of the island with a bucketful of guts. Not going to happen.”
Rachel stood in the middle of the kitchen, her arms crossed. “So what do you think happened to the organs?”
“Buried likely...not far from where the body was found,” Hector said, shrugging. “Might want to watch what your cats drag in for the next several days.” He put his foot down and put a little weight on it, frowning through the pain — he refused to baby it. He said, “Unfortunately, the intrepid sleuths Mrs. Hemingway sent me out with didn’t bring shovels. Hell, maybe the killer burned the innards. But that’s all a colorful diversion, anyway — dwelling on process and technique is like racing into a cul-de-sac.”
Toros & Torsos (The Hector Lassiter Series) Page 5