A Paradise for Fools

by Nicholas Kilmer

  It was weird. And painful, sure. Having your city burn to the ground around you would be painful. Ask the folks in Hiroshima or Dresden. And we know that the person purposely setting the blaze is doing something to cause pain. But the confusing thing was, Bosch loved all of it. His working hands were filled with blessing. Not forgiveness. Forgiveness carries with it the stink of implied oppression. Blessing.

  What was it that was tempting Anthony?

  Others among the many painters in the Christian tradition made the story simple. Show St. Anthony as an old geezer whose religious vows have included poverty and chastity. Therefore, if he’s to be tempted, let the temptations be the obvious: dancing girls to divert his chastity, and offers of personal wealth. Anthony’s usual antidote to these attractions was normally to fondle a human skull, the idea being that the hermit, his mind on death, must disregard the pulsing erection that was a significant witness to his nature, a rubicund reminder of his identity as a mortal human being.

  Not for Hieronymus Bosch this easy formula straight from the catechism. No, Bosch tempts Anthony with a persimmon and a dead skate, or (there’s Anthony again in the right panel) a light picnic lunch for one laid out on a table supported by tiny naked people, one of whom is inverted. If Anthony does succumb to these temptations, what will the symptoms be? How will we know? How will even Anthony know? What was he being tempted to do, or think, or be? Was the whole phantasmagoria intended to seduce the saint into the illusion that perhaps a human being is no more than that? That we are not immortal after all? That what we have and make of our surroundings, and our neighbors, is all we’ll ever get of paradise?

  Take Anthony out of the Egyptian desert and place him instead in the mall on the outskirts of Nashua. Park his car in front of Tina’s Moonlight Lounge and figure out, if Hieronymus elected to take it from there, what might we see in the new painting?

  “It baffles me,” Fred said to himself. “There’s enough trouble everywhere in most all of his pictures, people doing things they shouldn’t do. Those fellows crucifying Christ, the women laughing at his predicament—these acts are wrong, obviously. We’d all agree, even the painter. But doesn’t he love these people while he paints them? Then you rear back and appraise the Christian story line he’s elaborating, everyone knows that without the crucifixion you don’t get the salvation of the world. Working backwards, if Eve and Adam hadn’t made a wrong turn and found their way outside of paradise, we’d never have earned the presence of the savior among us, walking around, snacking like the rest of us, and making trouble.”

  The phone rang. Arthur stirred. Clayton. Long distance. “I have telephoned several times,” Clay complained.

  Fred said, keeping his voice low, “Not when I was here.” It was as close as Fred would bother to approach the issue again: For God’s sake, let’s put in an answering machine. Clay wouldn’t do it. File and disregard.

  “I have moved on to Venice,” Clay said. “I do not like the Gritti.”

  “Venice must be hot,” Fred said.

  “The place I am staying is called the Pensione Segusa,” Clayton pushed on, and gave its telephone number. “Unless there is something pressing, I propose to stay another week. There is an issue, a potential opportunity—not suitable for discussion on the telephone.”

  “Right,” Fred said. Arthur opened his eyes.

  “Is there mail I should know of?” Clay asked.

  “Nothing that won’t wait,” Fred said. “Robbins wants his check, but he would, and he knows damned well you’re on the fence. You don’t want my opinion of the…”

  “Send it back,” Clay said. “I had forgotten it entirely. Therefore whatever I had felt about the picture, I had confused it with temptation. I recall the temptation, but not what caused it. Send it back. Telephone first with my thanks. Explain that I was summoned overseas. Anything else?”

  “Probably not,” Fred said. “You’ll be there another week?”

  “I changed my flight. I plan, yes, to return from Venice. The sale at Bengtson. Your instinct for these matters has already proven of value. We had spoken of your going to look.”

  That was true. An auction sale in three days, in Cleveland, where a Fantin Latour was marooned, unaccountably, amid reams of dreck. Or what purported to be a Fantin Latour. Clay had stopped talking about the painting so long ago that it seemed to have gone by the boards. If Clay wanted Fred to bid, he’d have to go out today and have a look, then start poking around. He wasn’t prepared. It was the wrong context for such a painting to turn up. The whole business smelled wrong. If they decided to make a play for it, Fred would have to stay in town in order to be in the audience to place the bid and watch the action. The phones, especially, where some houses accommodated phantoms who placed imaginary bids in order to goose up the blood lust in the sale room. Clay had never done business with Bengtson. What they were able to learn about the auction house’s reputation was not reassuring.

  Fred said, “They hold all the cards. As I’ve mentioned, Clay, I’m not inclined to go to Vegas, either, to bet against the house.”

  “Never mind, Fred,” Clayton said. “It makes me too uneasy. We looked at the transparency. We studied the condition report. The painting could be right. At the price they’re suggesting it hardly matters. But the figure they suggest is meant to tempt the unwary. Whatever price is realized at the sale, as you well know, shall be established by the conflict that is engendered amongst the interested parties, and not by the auctioneer’s derisory appraisal. There will be struggle. They’ve advertised the picture everywhere.”

  Chapter Forty-one

  Arthur sat up. Next thing he’d want to use the can. That would lead him toward the racks where paintings were stored. Fred, motioning toward the phone, gave Arthur a signal to be quiet. If Clayton got an inkling of this odd stranger within his sacred precincts, he’d have conniptions.

  Clay said from Venice, “What you could do for me. When I next call. I won’t speak the artist’s name over an open line. Who knows what these Italians…Fred, get me a general sense of recent auction prices for drawings by…a man of considerable importance…start with T and finish with an o.”

  Tintoretto or Tiepolo maybe—but there had to be a dozen more. Fred joined the game. Arthur was listening with interest. “For a consonant four letters in. Might that be a T or a P?”

  “It’s a P,” Clay said, exasperated. “Great heavens! What do you take me for?”

  “Early eighteenth century? Seven letters?” Fred pressed.

  Pause to allow Clayton to count. “If you include the first and last letters,” Clay confirmed.

  So Clayton thought he had a lead on a drawing by Tiepolo. Unless there was another notable seven-letter eighteenth century Italian artist starting with T, ending with O, and with a P in the middle. Working with Clay’s contortions could be exhausting. “I’ll get a read on it,” Fred said. “You want me to check retail prices in the galleries while I’m at it?”

  “Good God, no,” Clay expostulated. “Don’t make waves. The boat may already be filled to the gunwales and could become swamped. Do nothing that draws attention. Tell no one where I am. Should anyone ask, whom you feel deserves an answer, I came to a wedding in Lugano and decided to take the waters elsewhere. You are not sure where.”

  Clay rang off.

  “What is it, code?” Arthur asked.

  “Like that.”

  “He thinks he has a system,” Arthur said. “Tell your friend, you go to Vegas with a system, like playing the numbers anywhere, you defeat yourself. I’ve seen it happen. New Hampshire, the lottery, people I know, they think, something like, my birthday, it’s September 9, and now its 1999, how could I miss, betting nines? All nines. And they do, and once again the universe doesn’t get it. State of New Hampshire doesn’t know it’s the guy’s birthday. You got a men’s room?”

  Fred
led the way through into the little hallway that opened on one side into the generous bath-with-shower and on to the large area in which Clay kept, in temporary storage, the paintings he was not hanging, hadn’t consigned to more secure storage vaults elsewhere, outside the building, and wanted access to, to think about or worry or gloat over.

  Fred stayed outside the door and stuck with Arthur when he re-emerged, steering him back into the office and closing the door again. Arthur appeared to have noticed nothing. He was on a roll. “One guy,” he said, drying his hands on the seat of his pants as he was walking, “came into Kenzo’s. In Nashua, couple years back. A biker. Wanted six-six-six done big on his forehead, red letters outlined in black; also his right hand. Which I didn’t know, but Tippy did, she was working there at Kenzo’s at the time. Her people, they were religious. Is supposed to be the mark of the beast. The people Kenzo gets sometimes, they’re scary. Chains all over the place. Guy smelled like a mattress on fire. And you’re not, there’s pretty much a law everywhere, at least in the straight world, if it’s not a law, at least you don’t do it, put a tattoo on a person’s face. That’s for convicts, makes it look like you’ve killed a person, or people, which this guy anyway, likely, had.

  “So Kenzo. He did it. But what Tippy said, Kenzo wanted his usual price.”

  “The Zen thing,” Fred said.

  “That back room back of the back room,” Arthur said, twisting with discomfort as he sat on the couch again.

  “OK,” Fred said. “Listen. I have to let you in on something because I don’t believe Kim did. When you talked to her. Maybe she did. I think you’re involved in something that could be a problem for you. It’s not my business, but here I am, and I’ve seen enough, I guess it’s my business too in a way. At least, because I’ve been spending time with Tippy, and Kim, and you.”

  “It’s this fucking painting still,” Arthur said. He came close to pressing his hands against the sides of his head again.

  “Did Kim mention on the phone, you’d gotten a note from Lexington Orono?” Fred said.

  Arthur shook his head.

  “And you’re right. It is this fucking painting again,” Fred said. “The last place we know it was for sure was under your bed. Forget about who owns it for the moment. There’s no reason I should be involved. Unless you need help.

  “I was outside your place, waiting for you, yesterday evening, afternoon. A guy came up looking for you, who I happen to know, he didn’t let on, is a New York guy, art dealer. Lexington Orono. He’s looking for the same painting. Staying in Cambridge, at the Charles Hotel. What we know is, the painting already wasn’t in your apartment when he came to see you.”

  “Which is the only thing you care about,” Arthur said. “This fucking painting.”

  “Right,” Fred said. “I want to see it.” He pressed on. “Orono had already been in Nashua. He had already met Zagoriski—Mr. Z—and, I think, Kenzo. When I talked to Kenzo, what Kenzo called me, when he threw me out, was ‘Another fucking art dealer.’ Reading between the lines, Lexington was the first one. I’m not an art dealer. Not important. Then I guess—no, obviously—Kenzo called you after he had, knowing Kenzo, told Orono he didn’t know anything about the painting. Which is what he told me.”

  “Which wasn’t true.”

  “The next thing, Lexington Orono went on to Mr. Z, again obviously, because he’d seen him before he saw his picture in the paper, when I showed it to him.”

  “I’m all snarled up,” Arthur said.

  “Why don’t we talk to Lexington Orono?” Fred said. “See if we can get closer to the action.”

  “Because I’m afraid,” Arthur said reasonably.

  Fred reminded him, “I said, ‘We.’ Arthur, I gave Lex Orono the impression that you and I are partners. As far as whatever he cares about, I am going to stick with you. So that’s all right. My thinking is, we talk to Orono, see what’s on his mind, before Kim does, if it’s not too late. I’ll stick with you. You say nothing. I’ll make Lex do the talking. We’ll see where it goes.”

  “Why?” Arthur asked.

  “Because hiding is not a practical long-term solution. First thing we do, you call him. The name he knows you by is Arthur Schrecking. That may mean something in terms of how he knows about you. Don’t let him know I’m with you. Here’s what you say.”

  ***

  Fred listened as Arthur made a reasonable job of following directions. “Mr. Orono’s room…Mr. Orono?…Arthur. You left a note?…Yeah…Yeah…I don’t know…where I am, maybe an hour…bring it with me? Are you kidding?…Yeah…Sure…Then we’ll see…OK, then…OK.”

  Chapter Forty-two

  “Before we go,” Fred said, as they gathered themselves together to step into the world again, “since we’re working together…”

  “Kind of,” Arthur said.

  “There’s a woman, talks like she’s from the South originally, works in Kenzo’s in Nashua, named Stephanie. You know her?”

  Arthur shook his head.

  “Bleached blonde. Heavily tattooed. The tattoos are incoherent as a collection. Like she won seventy-five different contests where the prize was a free sample. She came by Green Street last evening, I was at your place, waiting for you. Calling herself Angela and wearing a red wig. You didn’t see her?”

  “I didn’t go back to my place. I told you. That’s who Kenzo sent?” Arthur said, looking dumbfounded. “A girl? That’s all?”

  “That girl packs a lot of woman,” Fred said. “Don’t sell her short. We started off, she was under the wrong impression. Before she got straightened out, I had the idea Kenzo’s plan wasn’t to intimidate but to seduce you. Works as well. Better, sometimes. Stephanie was supposed to get you into her pants, as a gift from Kenzo proving everything is OK, then she was going to get you to tattoo a souvenir, she said, on her right butt cheek, that she wanted to select from that painting, so you’d have to show it to her. That was the plan.”

  Arthur shook his head. “It sounds complicated.”

  “But it makes sense if where Kenzo wanted to start was making sure the painting was in your place, or if not, find out where it was. If Kenzo sends someone else, who beats you up or whatever you were afraid of, and I don’t blame you—they still have a way to go if the painting isn’t there, making you tell them where it is.”

  Arthur said, “I want this monkey off my back. You, Kim, Kenzo, the rest of them. We’ll talk to the dealer. No. We’ll go. You’ll talk, OK? Whatever I have to do to get these animals out of the thickets. So I can work. I cannot fucking think, all these spider webs, everyone running around, telling lies. Wigs. Things should be simple.”

  ***

  Fred parked under the hotel. It was pleasantly cool down there, given the monumental, imperialistic shade of cast cement. Arthur, skittish and nervous, looked around him as if he were being haunted. “If there’s anything you’re not telling me,” Fred said, “that it would be helpful for me to know, tell me before we talk to Orono.”

  “You say we are working together,” Arthur replied. It was not much of a reply, but it satisfied Arthur.

  “Make sure you keep your mouth closed,” Fred said. “Silence gives you more power. As long as he thinks I represent you, I’m your heavy. He’ll know you make the decisions, but you can take your time. You don’t commit until you consult with your principals.”

  “My what?”

  “He’ll get the idea, as long as you’re quiet. We introduce you, shake his hand, that’s it. On the way up, and in the lobby, anywhere there might be people, we don’t talk between us. You never know.”

  Orono, in shirt sleeves and open collar, no necktie, let them into a room decorated in such a way you had to think how much nicer it would be in Nantucket, with long gray breakers and seagulls out the window. Orono remained in the doorway blocking entrance to the room, lookin
g from Fred to Arthur and back to Fred.

  Orono glowered. “This is unexpected.”

  “Not if you have a memory,” Fred said. “What I told you, on Arthur’s landing—Arthur, this is Lexington Orono. Lex, Arthur—what I said was, ‘When Arthur gets back, I go in with him and you stay out here. Afterwards, if he wants to see you, which I doubt, I’ll be there too. With him. If you want to tell me your business with him, that’s fine. Your business. Your offer. Up to you. If you want to…’ And then, these are your words now, you answered, ‘Fuck you. You’re telling me who you’re with is Arthur?’

  “So don’t tell me it is unexpected and you are surprised that I am with Arthur.”

  Orono had been using the time Fred made available with his patter to study the situation. He stepped aside, allowing passage for his guests. The covers had been hauled up on the unmade queen-sized bed. On the desk a tray held the remains of a colorful room-service breakfast, yoghurt with granola and berries in a silly parfait presentation, and orange juice. Arthur walked across the room and stood looking out the window onto the warm brick terraces below.

  “I’ll ring down for coffee.” Orono changed his approach in the direction of disarming hospitality.

  Fred took one of the pair of armchairs. Orono was left to choose between the desk chair and the other armchair while Arthur, apparently oblivious, stood in the window, looking out at the hot day.

  “Maybe later,” Fred said. “Fill us in, Lex. Start from the top. As if we know nothing.”