“Do you like his paintings now?” asked Ben.
“Well, I finally understood what he was trying to do, so it made all the difference. I used to think it was all splash and spatter—you know, really accidentalist work—so that if something turned out interesting it was pure luck. There’s a lot of accidentalists around today, playing their luck for all it’s worth. But once I understood the technique David was using, the kind of control he exercised over every line, it was like waking up to the real David Chapin. And that didn’t even happen until after we were married.”
“Are you serious?” said Ben. “I thought it was splash and spatter. That’s what it looks like.”
“Oh God, no. If you ever saw him work you’d know he was putting the paint exactly where he wants to and the way he wants to. People think the brush has to rub the paint into the canvas. It doesn’t. You can throw it on from a distance and have it do exactly what you want it to. And you don’t have brushstrokes adding a false element that way.”
“But accident does play a part, doesn’t it? Some of those splashes aren’t calculated in advance, not from what I’ve heard.”
Nora sat up straight, her legs folded under her. “Look,” she said intently, “this may sound paradoxical, but accident only plays a part when the artist wants it to, so you can’t even call it accidental. The trouble with some artists is that they’re not really inspired very often. They go crazy trying to think of a subject to paint and how to develop it. When David splashes hit-or-miss on a canvas it’s because the splash might take form in his mind and might be developed into something. In the old days it wasn’t a problem, because you got commissions to paint something special, and once you started on the commission you could let yourself go. The churches wanted religious paintings—”
“The bourgeoisie wanted portraits,” said Juliana.
“Yes, and every academician knew exactly what the public was buying, so he’d go paint it. But I’ve seen David go crazy trying to visualize some subject to start on. Max says that’s what’s stopped him from painting altogether. He’s straining so hard to find the one great apocalyptic theme that he’s given himself a block.”
Ben shook his head. “And that’s what I don’t get. Is there really a theme in his paintings or Jackson Pollock’s or any of them? If there is, I must be blind. All I ever feel when I look at that kind of painting is irritation. Or call it a sense of defeat.”
“Oh God,” said Nora, “you make it sound like one of those puzzles where you’re supposed to see how many faces you can find in the picture. It isn’t like that at all.”
“Then what is it like?” It was put with sarcasm, but he felt she had it coming to her. He had argued with exponents of abstract-expressionism before. He had found that they never had coherent answers to the questions that honestly bothered him. Either they fell back on jargon or simply dismissed with contempt this outsider who was not privy to their secret.
Nora Chapin surprised him. She knit her brow over his question and then said, “I guess it’s like looking at the sky and not seeing it. That’s how it is mostly, isn’t it? You look at the color of the sky and the clouds in it, but you don’t really think of the tonal effects of the color or the composition of the clouds. All you know is that you’ve seen something worth looking at. Afterward, you find that the image of the sky is part of you. You can’t even remember it accurately, but the essence of it is part of you. That’s how it is with David’s pictures. I mean the good ones. Some of them are terrible, and he knows it.”
“Yes, but now you’re saying that his paintings are like purely accidental works of nature. When he made that speech at the café he said there was a meaning behind every object in the universe. And one great meaning behind everything to give it unity.”
“I never said the works of nature are accidental. I’m not sure about it one way or the other. But David is sure. He believes that there’s one great creative force in the universe that can be comprehended. I know that the stupid critics are always writing that his work shows the fragmentation of modern society and the dissolution of reason and all that idiocy, but it’s not so. All David wants to show is the product of the creative act, whatever form it takes. He’s trying to parallel in a limited space the creative force behind the whole universe. He really doesn’t give a damn about society.”
“That’s his weakness,” said Juliana. “It used to be Tito’s weakness, too, but he’s changing now. You don’t have to live too long on the Calle Indios to start changing.”
“Well, you know how David is,” said Nora, and unexpectedly Juliana leaned toward her and kissed her fondly on the cheek. “Yes, and I know how you are, too,” she said. “And I love both of you.”
The only one embarrassed by this little scene was Ben. Not only embarrassed but resentful, the more so because he knew he had no right to be.
“I understand that David can change, too,” he said maliciously. “At least, his attitude toward the festival of the rope seems to have undergone a drastic change.”
“That’s my fault,” said Juliana. “All mine.”
“You mean,” Ben said in surprise, “you’re in favor of the festival?”
“Not the way it is now. But the way it was in the old days—yes, I would be in favor of it. That’s why I had David meet Luis de la Horca, so that he could learn about the significance of the rope to the Axoyac people, so that he could learn what it meant and why it was a great ceremony in the past. I had no idea that David was so emotional that he would accept this as one of those revelations he’s always looking for. It was foolish of me. Now he’s antagonized most of the people who were his true friends here.”
“When I told him he might,” Nora said, “he told me you couldn’t antagonize true friends. He can be as stubborn as a mule when he gets an idea into his head.” There was no condemnation in the way she put this, but almost a note of pride.
“How is the festival different today?” Ben asked Juliana. “I was told it was the same ceremony as in Ajaxa’s time.”
“Everything changes,” said Juliana. “Sooner or later, every ceremony loses its meaning and becomes a spectacle. Today the rope is a spectacle for cruel people. If you don’t have any cruelty in you, stay away from it.”
“I don’t have much choice. I’ve been practically ordered to go by Victor Bambas-Quincy, and I can’t very well risk offending him.”
Juliana said nothing. She sat looking at him, and now he saw her face become the Axoyac mask. “You don’t understand,” he said, wanting to remove that mask, to see again the human expression beneath it; “I’ve got a lot at stake. More than you can imagine.”
He explained what he had at stake, explained in detail about Seaways, about the contract, about the future and what it might hold, wondering, as he did so, why he felt compelled to justify himself before this Indian woman. Why did he owe her apologies and explanations? What would O’Harragh think if he were watching this? Or Bambas-Quincy? What was there about this island that put him on the defensive again and again? Was he in his own way as insecure as David Chapin? Is that what Nora recognized in him at first glance, so that from the moment they met there had been no feeling of strangeness between them? It was a depressing thought, a whole depressing train of thought that underlay his explanation of Seaway’s search for a nonpolitical rock lobster and his part in it.
What Juliana’s immediate reaction to that explanation was he would never know. Footsteps clattered on the landing outside the flat, voices clamored, people crowded into the room and others behind them jammed into the doorway. They were loud with greetings, jubilant with good news. It was a happy entrance, Ben saw; it promptly dispelled the sudden alarm on Nora’s face. As for the news, the scene at the police station had been a circus. The lawyer who had magically stepped forth to help David was a jewel. It was the first time anyone had ever seen that bastard Valdez and his precious Civil Guards put in their place. The appearance before the magistrate in the morning would be a joke.
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br /> This was delivered by a boy—no mistaking the age in his case—who, trying hard to project the proper nadaist image of severe restraint, was wholly unsuccessful at it. With a plump, cherubic face and large fanlike ears framing it gnomelike, he simply did not have the material to work with. He bubbled over with good humor, he gestured dramatically in describing the principals in the case, he was obviously having the time of his young life. Most of the company with him were also nadaistas, a few of them girls who, in high-necked black sweaters, were flagrantly nadaista above the waistline and primly skirted below it. All of them looked so youthful and full of energy that they made Ben feel old and staid as he watched them.
The leader suddenly took notice of him, looked at him hard, and then shifted from English to rapid Spanish, addressing himself to Juliana.
She disdained to answer in Spanish. “Don’t be a fool,” she said contemptuously. “I don’t invite spies here. His name is Ben Smith, and he’s come from New York on business. He’s a friend of Nora.”
There was no mistaking the weight of her authority. The boy bobbed his head apologetically at Ben. “I am sorry,” he said. “I should have known. But in the combat of ideologies today—”
He yelped, but without real anguish, as Nora drew a foot from under her and kicked him smartly in the shin. “I don’t want to hear about your ideologies, Pepe,” she said. “I want to hear about David and Tito.”
“Oh, in that case,” said Pepe cheerfully, “I’ll sit beside you, you beautiful, tall, golden woman, and I will tell you everything,” and Ben, knowing what the careful self-mockery was intended to conceal, thought wryly, Yes, my dog chases cars, too, but he wouldn’t know what to do if he caught one. It was gratifying to see Juliana instantly order this puppy away with a flick of the thumb. At least, she played no favorites.
“You’ll sit on the cot,” she said. “And carefully. If it goes through, poor Max sleeps on the floor tonight. Prima can sit here on the bed with us.” She motioned to the small, pretty girl who had been standing beside Pepe, openly adoring him. “The rest of you go away, for God’s sake. Go in the kitchen and have coffee. It’s impossible to breathe in here.”
While the crowd in the doorway noisily dissolved into the kitchen Prima seated herself on the bed and immediately slipped an arm through Nora’s and rested her head on Nora’s shoulder. Ben observed with interest this refutation of the ancient theory that all women have an innate dislike for members of their own sex, especially attractive ones. From what he had seen so far, women were as polarized to Nora Chapin as men, if not for the same reason.
“There is nothing to worry about,” Prima said comfortingly. “That lawyer gave the guards money so that David and Tito will be in a clean cell by themselves. Tomorrow it will be all over.”
“I think Valdez wishes it had never started,” said Pepe. “You never saw anything like it. Five minutes after we got to the police station it was full of journalists and photographers, and even a deputy from the Radical Party! And of course we were all there, too, so you can picture the confusion. The lawyer was magnificent. He objected to everything the police did. He said that David and Tito were upholding the honor of the republic, and that also when the fight started they were trying to defend poor Luis from attack by brutal subversives. And Luis was there, too, saying yes, yes to everything, so that Valdez didn’t know what color to turn. And we kept cheering them all, but they couldn’t do anything because of the photographers standing there. It was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.”
“Especially the cheering,” said Juliana drily. “So all the good little humanitarians have now been converted. Now all of you can go to the festival with the Young Nationalists and make bets with each other while you watch a man dying at the end of the rope. You’re right. It’s been a beautiful conversion.”
“You don’t understand,” the boy said heatedly. “We didn’t understand either while we were fighting. But when it was over, and we saw how David looked as they led him away—You know how he feels about the truth. Could we deny he was trying to find it for us when he was willing to suffer for it like this?”
“He’s right, Juliana,” Prima ventured timidly. “You yourself have always said that the rope has a meaning of great importance.”
“Long ago,” Juliana said harshly. “But not now. And never again.”
“What meaning was that?” Ben asked.
“The old meaning. The meaning that no one takes to the Victorica any more, except the man who puts his rope on the gallows. It began because the Axoyacs were never a brave people. When the Incas attacked them in Peru they ran away to this island. And when the Spaniards attacked them here they let themselves become slaves. Only Ajaxa said that they must resist, they must fight, they must die at least like men. For that the Spaniards hanged him, and because of what happened on the gallows that day, he became a hero even to them. It was a strange thing for the Axoyacs to see. They thought the Spaniards were gods, and here were these gods themselves treating one of them like a god. So every year at the same time, some of them would go on the gallows and try to enter that company of gods. They had no courage to make up armies and fight with weapons, but they had, perhaps, a greater courage. They would dare give up their lives if they had to, so that they could become gods and not animals slaving in the fields. That’s what it means when they swing there, choking to death! But only Luis knows that, and others like him. Not the fools who sit there watching.”
There was a long silence when she had finished speaking, the room charged with tension. It was Nora who broke the spell by saying, “David thinks there’s more to it than that, Juliana. What you’ve defined is the symbolism of it. He feels there may be a revelatory experience on the gallows that goes beyond symbolism.”
“David’s a mystic, a visionary. He thinks that if he looks far enough beyond reality he can see the face of God. But no one can do that, Nora. And it can be dangerous for him to see the rope as anything more than what it is—a rope to kill you with. I wish he’d stop brooding about the whole thing.”
“At festival time?” said Pepe. “One way or the other, what else does anyone think about at festival time?”
Someone came in then, bringing bottles of cold beer. Others followed, demanding Juliana’s judgment on an argument raging in the kitchen. There was no getting rid of them this time. The dialogue became a party, the party became a victory celebration, and Ben found himself, because of the physical limitations of the room, in the thick of it.
At four in the morning he had had all the noise and beer he could take. He pushed his way out of the room, and despite Juliana’s hard looks he managed to draw Nora along with him. They stood on the landing of the stairway with the racket of the celebration dinning from the door and window behind them, and Ben said, “Well, at least your neighbors aren’t the kind to complain about late parties, are they?”
“They don’t complain much about anything,” Nora said.
“I guess not.” He hesitated, wondering how to tell her what he wanted to. “Look, now that I know about your money problem I’d like to help out.” He had the money ready in his hand, the entire contents of his wallet, and he thrust it at her. “You don’t mind taking it, do you? After all, it’s just a loan. You can pay it back any time.”
She took the banknotes without demur. “You don’t have to apologize for giving me this,” she said, smiling. “I was going to ask you for a loan anyhow.”
“I’m glad of that. I want you to feel I’m someone you can count on any time you need help. But if you don’t mind my saying so—”
“Yes?”
“Well, it’s utterly ridiculous for you to be in this position at all. I mean, where you have to live this way and borrow money to get along. I’m not questioning David’s talent, but I’d hate to say what I think of his common sense. Whatever his reason for coming to Santo Stefano—”
“His only reason was that Max wanted us to come.”
“Klebenau?”
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�That’s right. After all, he’s an art dealer, and art dealers have to do a lot of traveling. We came along because he didn’t want to be away from David while David is going through such a bad time.”
“Are you telling me that Klebenau’s here on business? But this place looks like a cultural desert. Who would he buy from? Who would he sell to? Besides, I have the impression that he doesn’t have a dime in his pockets to do business with, even if he wanted to.”
“I know. But he is here on business.”
“What kind of business?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you.”
“Because you don’t know, or because he doesn’t want you to?”
“Because he doesn’t want me to. All I can tell you is that we’ve been traveling for over two years on this deal he’s interested in, so you can see how big it must be. That’s where all the money went. We drove to Mexico City in the car, and then there’s supposed to be this highway through Guatemala but it was all detours, so the car broke down there, and after that the money just went like water. Panama City, Colón, Buenos Aires, Rio, Lima—” Nora ticked them off on her fingers “—and now here. Max started phoning people in the States for money when we were only in Buenos Aires, so by the time we got here there wasn’t anybody left to phone. The trouble is Max likes the best of everything, and David doesn’t have the least idea what money is. If he has it he spends it, and if he doesn’t have it he never gives it a thought.”
“And with all this,” Ben said incredulously, “Klebenau still hasn’t closed his deal?”
“No, but he might do it here. If not, the next stop’ll probably be Quito.”
The Panama Portrait Page 9