“And how will you live when you get there?”
“The same as here, I guess. David’s famous, so there’s always someone glad to help out. Tito says he’s got friends in Quito who’d put us up as long as we wanted.”
Ben looked at the desolation around him. “In a house like this? In the middle of all this filth?”
“David doesn’t mind.”
“I’m not talking about David! If he wants to let Klebenau drag him through all the slums in South America, he’s welcome to it. But there’s no reason for you to be dragged along, is there?”
She shook her head at this. “Are you married?”
“No, but I don’t see what that has to do with it.”
“Oh, everything. If you’re not married, you can’t understand how it is with David and me. We’re not happy when we’re apart from each other.”
“I have friends who travel on business. Their wives do very nicely at home waiting for them.”
“I don’t think anyone’s much of a wife that way. I want to be able to make love to David any time we feel like it, and I want to take care of him every way. That’s why I married him. And it worked out fine, because he wants the same thing.”
“But if he really loved you, wouldn’t he want to see you taken care of better than this?”
“He does love me,” Nora said patiently. “That’s why he wants me to be with him all the time.”
Ben gave up. Obviously they were talking at cross purposes, and the trouble lay in the meaning of the word love. There was love and there was love, and neither he nor this woman could quite comprehend the other’s definition of it. It was the kind of thing that could lead to a useless argument and hurt feelings afterward, and he saw no sense in that. So he dropped the matter, told her she ought to clear out her company and get some sleep, promised he would see her at the magistrate’s court at ten, and went off with the conviction that no one ever really wants good advice but will always settle for cash.
The Calle Contenta was dark and silent now: the peddlers, wrapped in blankets, slept beside their carts and stands. When he hailed a wandering cab at the Plaza República, Ben realized that he had given away all his ready cash and would, in his turn, have to rely on the charity of the night doorman at the hotel.
6
It had become a custom of the faithful Blas to appear at his ward’s breakfast table in the hotel dining room each morning to share coffee and a cigarette. This morning his appearance was a gloomy one. He had already received a telephone call from Mr. Victor and had been subjected to an inquisition about his role in the scandalous events at The Sun and Moon. Thank God, he could take his oath he had been nowhere near the scene, but Mr. Victor knew that Mr. Smith had been right in the middle of it. That was most unfortunate.
“How could he know?” Ben said. “I didn’t see my name anywhere in the newspaper stories.”
“As for that,” said Blas, “both Gil Alden-Aragone and Cris Santa Cruz are good friends of Mr. Jerome. They would think such an affair humorous and tell him about it at once. Undoubtedly, he then told his father about it in the same spirit, so the cat was out of the bag. That is the expression, is it not? He must have described matters most elaborately. Mr. Victor knew you were last seen escorting the wife of the painter from the café, and he was not happy about it.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t see how it’s any of his concern.”
“But it is. You are his guest, and these people have a bad reputation. You cannot blame him for wishing to protect you from their influence.”
“I assure you they’re quite harmless. Even if they weren’t, I don’t need your employer to protect me from them. And I wish he’d stop thinking of me as a guest and start thinking of me as someone to do business with. If I were sitting across a table with him talking business, I’d have less time to play around with low characters in the cafés.”
“Please,” said Blas. He looked thoroughly miserable. “Please, you must understand. Mr. Victor is much concerned with the feelings of his mother, and she is a most moral lady. Also, she has means of learning all the gossip of Santo Stefano. Under such conditions it is dangerous for you to associate with people of bad reputation. That is why I advise you against it.”
“Thanks for the advice, but I’ll have to postpone action on it. I promised Mrs. Chapin I’d be at the hearing in court this morning.”
“The hearing in court?” Blas looked at him as if he had gone mad. “Impossible! That is absolutely impossible. Someone would be sure to observe your presence there. It would be the height of folly to risk that. I urge you as a friend to make other plans. Let us visit the cathedral this morning. It is the best place to be at such a time.”
There was no doubting the intensity of his concern, and it puzzled Ben. Why, he wondered, should this hireling of Bambas-Quincy be so concerned with his fortunes? Out of friendship? It would be childish to believe that. The friendship was still green at the stem; it was more a matter of enforced acquaintance than anything else. Or could it be that this seeming nonentity, this Blas Miralanda, was really one of those mysterious factors in the deal that O’Harragh had mentioned? Could he have been bought by O’Harragh so that he would be an ally in helping obtain the contract? In that event, why make a secret of it? And why, above all, would anyone think that an alliance with a down-at-the-heels bookkeeper was worth buying?
It was upsetting to be faced by such questions, the more so since Blas remained an unknown quality who obviously had no intention of giving the password if any. In the end, Ben went neither to the courthouse nor the cathedral, but to the Santa Cruz store on the Paseo de James Monroe for the fitting of his tuxedo. He was greeted there by an obsequious manager who cooed at him like a dove, and two elderly tailors who measured and chalked and pinned him with furious enthusiasm. They had been expecting him, the manager said; they could assure him that the suit would be perfection and would be delivered at the hotel within a few hours. As for Mr. Santa Cruz himself, he had left apologies but had gone to court to watch his friend, Mr. Alden-Aragone, try the case which had been so prominent in the newspapers this morning. Did Mr. Smith know Mr. Alden-Aragone? How fortunate he did. There was a young man with a great future. It would not be surprising to find him some day the president of the republic.
Ben writhed under this. He looked at his three-sided image in the tailor’s mirror, despising what he saw there. Even Santa Cruz, certainly as dependent as he was on the good will of Bambas-Quincy and his circle, had not hesitated to attend the hearing and cheer on a friend. But what about Ben Smith? He had let Blas Miralanda, a servile underling, a plump, frightened mouse of a man, infect him with his own fears. In the mirror he saw three images of a tall North American version of Blas Miralanda and hated them all.
He could hardly wait to get out of the store. The cab ride to the courthouse on the far side of the Plaza de Hermanos was a short one. He flung payment for the ride and an exorbitant tip at the driver, raced up the steps of the courthouse and found inside that he was too late. The hearing was over, an attendant told him. It had taken only a few minutes. The judge had dismissed the charges, and that was all. Lucky for the accused it was festival time when no one took such affairs too seriously.
Once again on the steps of the building Ben glumly decided that there was nothing left to do but kill the rest of the day until it was time to attend the Bambas-Quincy dinner. The festival spirit was colorfully evident in the plaza before him and the streets around it, but he wanted no part of that. And he wanted no part of Blas’ company and the sightseeing it promised. What he would do was make himself comfortable in his room, review the papers on the deal once more although he had all but memorized them by now, and catch up on his correspondence. It wasn’t much of a correspondence—the weekly letter to his parents in Kansas, notes to Miss Gordon and Mark Hough at the office, cards, perhaps, to a couple of people in his address book—but it would help pass the time. The one thing he did not want was company.
His resolution lasted only as long as it took him to walk back to the hotel. There, company was waiting for him—Nora and David Chapin, and Max Klebenau—seated in the middle of the lobby and very much the center of covert attention from all sides. They looked completely beat. Chapin, still in the torn shirt of the night before, was haggard and unshaven, Klebenau unshaven and badly rumpled, and Nora hollow-eyed. It was Nora who made the introductions and explained what they were doing there. She had told the others about Ben, and immediately after they had left the courthouse Klebenau had insisted that they meet him. He had something important to discuss with Ben. The sooner they could get to it, the better.
Ben observed the interest around him in the bedraggled trio. So much for Blas’ warning to avoid trouble, he thought, when trouble will come a long way to find you, and he was glad enough it had. The wound of his guilt healed at once, the scar it left itched hardly at all. He felt alert, masterful, capable of solving any problem these refugees from the Calle Indios had brought him. First was the problem of the outer man. The picture of the quarters they shared with Tito and Juliana rose strong in his mind. What was called for here was plenty of hot water and soap, then lunch and some tall, cool drinks. It wasn’t often, he thought, that he got the chance to offer fellow Americans food as sustenance rather than as a social amenity.
When he proposed that they use his room and bathtub for their convenience and then join him at lunch, Chapin took the proffered key ungraciously and said, “I suppose we do look pretty crummy to all these nice people. What about a shirt? You have one to spare, don’t you?”
“You can help yourself to anything in the dresser. And if you want your things pressed, just call the valet. That is, if you don’t mind waiting.”
“I know the valet,” said Chapin. “I used to live here myself. Give us some time, Max,” he told Klebenau, “then you can come up and take your turn.”
It was Nora who managed to get in a hasty thank you as her husband led her away, and Klebenau watching them enter the elevator, remarked to Ben, “Don’t let his manners throw you. He never had any, and he’s worse than ever now. But he appreciates this, believe me. We’ve all been washing out of a basin too long not to appreciate it.”
“Yes,” said Ben. “I know.”
He led the way to the bar off the dining room, and they seated themselves at a table in the semi-darkness there. Ben ordered a bottle of beer, and Klebenau, observing that it was too early in the day for any sort of alcohol, ordered Vichy water and orange juice. He mixed them half and half and sweetened the drink with spoonfuls of sugar. He drained his glass pleasurably and ordered more of the same.
“I’m a fool to be doing this,” he said, “considering that my father and grandfather were both killed by diabetes. But I’m cursed by an uncontrollable sweet tooth. I can raise my pulse just by looking at a tray of French pastry. A foolish vice. It has no glamour at all.”
“What vices do you think have glamour?”
“Oh, alcohol, dope, concupiscence, the usual things. They have a great fascination for the average dull mind. They smack of unrepressed passion, of sure self-destruction. To a mind like that, someone who courts suicide by eating chocolate is just a bad joke. I hope you don’t take this personally, in case you’re addicted to any of the glamorous vices.”
“As it happens, I’m not. What did you want to talk to me about?”
“Ah,” said Klebenau. He thrust his straw to the bottom of the glass and finished his drink with a noisy gurgle. “Delicious.” He leaned back in his chair and scratched a gleaming pate with a stubby forefinger. “It won’t come as any surprise to you, I’m sure, if I tell you that the most important point on the agenda is money.”
“How much money?”
“Everything is relative. If you were president of Seaways Industries, I would say very little money. If you were that boy cleaning the table there, I would say a fortune. I suspect that the answer lies somewhere in the middle. Let’s call it a moderate amount of money.”
“What would that be in round numbers?”
“About three thousand dollars. That would pay the way until I clear up my business here, and also settle a few bills I owe around town. Of course, it would be a loan. I’ll sign a note for it at any reasonable interest you name.”
During his years with Seaways Ben had managed to accumulate some two thousand dollars in savings. Until this moment it had looked like a respectable sum; suddenly Klebenau reduced it to a pittance. It did not make this fat, smiling little man any more likable.
Ben said, “Just how much is your note worth, Klebenau? What is your business here anyhow?”
“Do you want to buy in?”
“Not for what you’re asking. I don’t have that much money to my name.”
“Your company does. Since you’re on an expense account, you could pay them back as soon as I pay you back.”
“I don’t think they’d like the arrangement. They might not feel the sympathy for the Chapins that I do. And even my sympathy goes just so far. How did you get two people like that to let you talk them into this mess? What did you do, hypnotize them?”
“You compliment me,” said Klebenau amiably. He signaled the waiter over and ordered a cigar. When it was brought he lit it and drew on it voluptuously. “You don’t mind, do you?” he asked. “It’s been a long time since I could afford to indulge myself this way.”
“You’re not answering the question,” said Ben. “Chapin’s won himself an international reputation in art. He also strikes me as being more arrogant and bad-tempered than most. Why does he let you run his life for him?”
“Because he has faith in me. Does that sound funny to you? After all, I’ve known David for fifteen years. For the first five years I was his sole means of support. I bought what he painted when no one else would even look at it. No reason they should. He once studied under Orozco in Mexico and it took him a long time to shake the influence. When he discovered his own métier I arranged his first showings, won the critics to his side, found the right buyers for him. In a nutshell, I made his career possible. He also knows that I was the first to appreciate his talent. He is a ferociously independent man, but even the most independent of artists wants at least one other person in the world to appreciate his art.”
“You mean this abstract-expressionist stuff?”
“I wish you wouldn’t call it stuff. It speaks badly of your perception.”
“Maybe my perception is weak,” Ben said coldly. “Anyhow, I’m honest about it. I don’t pretend to see in that kind of painting what you claim to see in it. Not that I’m trying to advertise myself as a philistine. I always defend Chapin and Pollock and others like them when people I detest attack them. But I always wish I didn’t have to defend them, and I never do it with conviction. It’s just that I don’t want to be on the same side as the American Legion or some backwoods politician or any other shouting ignoramus when it comes to a question of art. On the other hand, I hate to have a peevish clique of modern art lovers telling me what to think. The trouble with people like me when it comes to art today is that, either way, the bastards won’t let us live.”
Klebenau nodded. “True. But that applies to every period of art where academicians are backed against the wall and fighting for their lives.”
“I thought they lost that fight long ago. The kind of painting I saw in the Santo Stefano museum here is long dead.”
“Oh, that chamber of horrors. Yes, such painting is long dead except for Corot’s work, and even the Corot in this museum is a fake. It has his modeling, but none of his luminescence. But the academy I mean is not that of nineteenth-century realism. It’s the present academy, the one devoted to nonrepresentational art. It won its battle a generation ago, it has lived out its generation, it is ready to depart. It is an academy of novelty, and the novelty has worn thin. There is nothing sadder than a revolutionary who has won his revolution. His raison d’etre has been the battle against The Establishment. With the victory secure
he must continue to make noises as if he is still battling, so that no one will suspect he is now part of The Establishment himself. What you call a peevish clique of modern art lovers, my friend, is no clique at all. It is the academy sounding its death rattle. Kandinsky was its charter member, David Chapin its last great representative. After him the deluge.”
“Chapin’s painting is deluge enough for me,” said Ben. “What do you see in it that I don’t? Believe me, I’d really like to know.”
“I do believe you, but how does one answer such a question? I suspect we are looking for different things in his paintings. What do you find in them?”
“Total confusion. As a matter of fact, they look inhuman to me.”
“What an outrageous paradox. No product of the human mind can be inhuman. It may be bewildering, infuriating, frightening, but it is always part of humanity. David himself is one of its most complex members, but give him credit for a disciplined mind and a disciplined hand. Do you know how the classicists defined sculpture?”
“No.”
“They said it was the removal of all nonessentials from a piece of raw material until the form hidden beneath was revealed. In his most recent period David came to feel he could work in that method. Look at his paintings in that light and you may see them better.”
“How? In painting you’re applying material to a blank surface. You’re not removing anything.”
“You’re removing the blankness. It’s David’s feeling that this blank surface is only a veil over an already existing design. With each stroke of paint he is removing that veil. He is making visible the design.”
“But only to himself.”
“Is that what you think? Your trouble, Smith, is that you want him to interpret what you see. He is a stubborn man. He insists on interpreting what he sees. I will admit that, unfortunately, he has a host of imitators who cloud the issue. They mimic his technique, smear endless miles of canvas with paint, and claim to be artists. It takes more to be an artist. It takes the kind of talent and integrity that David has. He is also a seeker, a visionary, someone who must find answers to impossible questions. These are the qualities of a great artist.”
The Panama Portrait Page 10