The Burnt Orange Heresy

by Charles Willeford

  I finished the last of my drink and set the glass down a little harder than I had intended. When I looked up, there was a smile on Cassidy’s Irish face. Perhaps he had been baiting me, but I had been through this kind of probing before. It was natural, in America, for people to think that a critic had been paid off when he gave some artist a rave write-up, especially when they didn’t know anything about art. But Cassidy knew better.

  “You know all this, Mr. Cassidy, so don’t give me any undeserved credit for integrity. I like money as much as anyone, and I made more money when I taught art history at CCNY than I do now. I’m ambitious, yes, but for a reputation, not for money. When I have a big enough reputation as a critic, then I’ll make more money, but never a huge amount. That isn’t the game. The trick—and it’s a hard one—is to earn a living as an art critic, or, if you prefer, art expert. If you want me to authenticate a painting for you, I’ll charge you a fee. Gladly. If you want to ask my advice on what to buy next for your collection, I’ll give you suggestions free of charge.” I held up my empty glass. “Except for another drink. Or is the bar closed for me, too?”

  “I’ll get the bottle.” Cassidy left the room and returned almost immediately with an open bottle of Cutty Sark and a plastic bucket of cubes. I poured a double shot over two ice cubes and lit a cigarette. Cassidy picked up a yellow legal pad from his desk, sat down with it, and unscrewed the top from a fountain pen.

  “I don’t have any pictures for you to authenticate, James. And I didn’t intend to ask you for any advice on collecting, but since you made the offer, what do you have in mind?”

  I decided to tell him about my pet project.

  “Entartete Kunst. Degenerate art.”

  “How do you spell that?”

  I told him and he wrote it on the pad.

  “It’s a term that was used by Hitler’s party to condemn modern art. At the time, Hitler was on an ethnic kick, and the official line was folk, or people’s, art. Modern art, with its subjective individualistic viewpoint, was considered political and cultural anarchy, and Hitler ordered it suppressed. Even ruthlessly. Then, as now, no one was quite sure what modern art was, and it became necessary to make up a show of ‘degenerate art’ so that party men throughout Germany would know what in the hell they were supposed to prevent. So, in July 1937, they opened an exhibit of modern art in Munich. It was for adults only, so no children would be corrupted, and the exhibit was called Entartete Kunst. It was supposed to be an example, a warning to artists, and to people who might find such art attractive. After the Munich showing, it traveled all over Germany.”

  I leaned forward. “Listen to the names of the painters represented—Otto Dix, Emil Nolde, Franz Marc, Paul Klee, Kandinsky, Max Beckmann, and many more. I have a copy of the original catalogue in New York, locked away in the bottom drawer of my desk at the office.”

  “Those paintings would be worth a fortune today.”

  “The painters are all a part of art history now—and any of, say, Marc’s paintings are expensive. But suppose you had every painting in this particular show? Every German museum was ‘purified.’ That was the term they used, ‘purified.’ And the painters represented by the show, if the museum happened to have any of their work, were removed. Some were destroyed, some were hidden, and some were smuggled out of the country. But to have the original traveling exhibit, and it would be possible to obtain these pictures . . .”

  Cassidy drew a line through the two words on his pad and shook his head. “No, I could never swing anything like that by myself. I’d have to get a group together to raise the money, and—no, it wouldn’t be worth it to me. Any more ideas?”

  “Sure, but you didn’t ask me here for my ideas on collecting.”

  “That’s right. Basically, James, you and I are honest men, and, in our own ways, we are equally ambitious. One dishonest act doesn’t make a person dishonest, not when it’s the only one he ever performs. That is, a slightly dishonest act. A little thing, really. Suppose, James, that you were given the opportunity to interview”—he hesitated, moistened his lips with his tongue—“Jacques Debierue?”

  “It would merely set me up with the greatest exclusive there is! But Debierue is in France, and he’s only given three interviews in forty years—no, four—and none since his home burned down a year or so ago.”

  “In other words,” he chuckled, “you would be somewhat elated if you could look at his new work and talk to him about it personally?”

  “Elated isn’t the word. Ecstatic isn’t strong enough. Now that Duchamp is dead, Debierue is Mr. Grand Old Man of Modern Art.”

  “Don’t go on, I know. Just listen. Suppose I told you that I could make arrangements for you to see and talk with Debierue?”

  “I wouldn’t believe you.”

  “But if it was true—and I am now telling you that it is true—what would you do for me in return?”

  My throat and mouth were suddenly dry. I tipped the plastic ice bucket and poured some ice water into my empty glass. I sipped it, and it tasted almost warm. “You have something dishonest in mind. Isn’t that what you implied a moment ago?”

  “No. Not dishonest for you, dishonest for me. But even so, Debierue is in debt to me, if I want to look at it that way, and I do. I don’t want money from him, I want one of his paintings.”

  I laughed. “Who doesn’t? No individual, and not a single museum, has a Debierue. If you had one, you’d be the only collector in the world to have one! As far as I know, only four critics have been privileged to see any of his work. A servant or two has seen his paintings, probably, I don’t know—maybe some of his mistresses a few years back, when he was still young enough to have them. But no one else—”

  “I know. And I want one. In return for the interview, I want you to steal a picture for me.”

  I laughed. “And then, after I steal it, all I have to do is smuggle it back here from France. Right?”

  “Wrong. And that’s all I’ll tell you now until I get a commitment from you. Yes or no. In return for the interview, you will steal a picture from Debierue and give it to me. No picture, no interview. Think about it.”

  “Hypothetically?”

  “Not hypothetical. Actual.”

  “I’d do it. I will do it. That is, I’ll steal one if he has any paintings to steal. Everything he had went up in smoke with his house, according to the reports. And if he hasn’t painted anything since, well . . .”

  “He has. I know that he has.”

  “You’ve got a deal. But I don’t have the money for a round-trip air fare to France, not even for a slow freighter.”

  “Let’s shake hands on it.”

  We got to our feet and shook hands solemnly. The palms of my hands were damp, and so were his, but we both gripped as hard as we could. He got the humidor and offered me a cigar. I shook my head and sat down. I started to pour another drink, but decided I didn’t need it. My head was light and close to swimming. My heart was fluttering away as if I had swallowed a half-dozen dexies.

  “Debierue,” Cassidy laughed, a snort rather than an actual laugh, “is here in Florida, thirty-some-odd miles south, via State Road Seven. And that is my so-called dishonest act, my friend. I have just betrayed a client’s confidence. A counselor isn’t supposed to do that, you know. But now that I have, I’ll tell you the rest of it.

  “Arrangements were made for Debierue to come to Florida more than eight months ago, and I was the intermediary here. The emigration was set up by a Paris law firm, who contacted me, and I handled the matter on a no-fee basis, which I was glad to do. I rented the house—a one year lease—hired a black woman to come in and clean it for him once a week, bought his art supplies at Rex Art in Coral Gables, and picked him up at the airport. The whole thing. He’s a poor man, as you know.”

  “And you’re supporting him now?”

  “No, no. The money comes from Les Amis de Debierue. You are—”

  “I send them five bucks a year myself.” I grimac
ed. “It’s tax deductible, if I ever make enough money to list it among my many charities.”

  “Right. That’s it. The Paris Amis, through the law firm, send me small sums more or less regularly, and I see that the old man’s bills are paid—such as they are—and keep him in pocket money. He doesn’t need much. The house is cheap, because of the rotten location. It was built by a man who retired to raise chickens. After six months of trying, and not knowing anything about poultry, he went back to Detroit. He’s been trying to sell the house for two years, and was happy as hell to get a year’s rent in advance.” Cassidy smiled. “I even selected the old man’s phony name for him—Eugene V. Debs. How do you like it?”

  “Beautiful!”

  “Better than beautiful. Debierue never heard of Gene Debs. And that’s about it.”

  “Not quite. How did he get into the States without reporters finding out?”

  “No problem. Paris to Madrid, Madrid to Puerto Rico, through the customs at San Juan, then on to Miami—and he came in on a student visa. J. Debierue. Who’s going to suspect a man in his nineties on a student visa? And Debierue is a common enough name in France. There are about sixty flights a day from the Caribbean coming into Miami International on Sundays. It’s the busiest airport in the world.”

  I nodded. “And the ugliest, too. So he’s been right here in Florida for eight months?”

  “Not exactly. The negotiations started eight months ago, and it took some time to set everything up. The funny thing is, the old man will actually be a student. I mentioned my connections at the University of Chicago—well, starting in September, Debierue will be taking twelve hours of college credit, by correspondence, from Chicago.”

  “What’s his major?”

  “Cost accounting and management. I’ve got a young man working for me who can whip through those correspondence courses with his left hand, and he’ll probably get the old man an A average. On a student visa, you see, you have to carry twelve hours a semester to stay in the country. As long as you’re making good grades with the college, you can stay as long as you like.”

  “I know. But why me? Why don’t you steal a picture from Debierue?”

  “He’d know it was me, that’s why. After I got him settled, he told me he didn’t want me to visit him. For the sake of secrecy. I went down a couple of times anyway and pestered him for a painting. He got good and angry the last time, and his studio is kept padlocked. I want one of his paintings. I don’t care what it is, or whether anyone knows that I have one. I’ll know, and that’s enough. For now. Of course, if you manage to get a successful interview—and that’s your problem—and you write about his new work—he hasn’t got too many years to live—then I can bring my painting out and show it. Can’t I?”

  “I understand. You’ll have pulled off the collector’s coup of this decade—but what happens to me?”

  “You’ll stand still for it, no matter what happens. I’ve checked you out, I told you. You’re ambitious, and you’ll be the first, as well as the only, American critic to have an exclusive interview with the great Jacques Debierue. After you steal one of his pictures, he sure as hell won’t talk to anyone else.”

  “What time is it set up for, and when?”

  “It isn’t. That’s up to you.” He wrote the address on the yellow pad, and sketched in State Road Seven and the branch road leading into it from Boynton Beach. “If you happen to drive past the turnoff, and you might miss Debierue’s road because it’s dirt and you can’t see the house from the highway, you’ll know you missed it when you spot the drive-in movie about a half mile farther on. Turn around and go back.”

  “Does he know I’m coming?”

  “No. That’s your problem?”

  “Why did he decide to come to Florida?”

  “Ask him. You’re the writer.”

  “He might slam the door in my face, then?”

  “Who knows. We made a deal, that’s all, and we shook hands on it. I know my business, and you should know yours. Any more questions?”

  “Not for you.”

  “Good.” He got to his feet, an abrupt signal that the discussion was finished. “When are you driving down?”

  “That’s my business.” I grinned, and stuck out my hand.

  We shook hands again, and Cassidy asked kindly if he could telephone for a taxi. Sending me home in a cab at my own expense was his method of “seeing that I got home all right.”

  I declined, and rode down in the elevator. To clear my head, I preferred to walk the few blocks to my apartment. As I walked the quiet streets through the warm soft night, a Palm Beach police car, staying a discreet block behind, trailed me home. I wasn’t suspected of anything. The cops were merely making certain that I would get home all right. Palm Beach is probably, together with Hobe Sound, the best-protected city in the United States.

  Now that I was alone, I was so filled with excitement I could hardly think straight. Dada, first, and Surrealism, second, were my favorite periods in art history. And because of my interest in these movements when I had been in Paris, I knew the Paris art scene of the twenties better, in many respects, than most of the people who had participated in it. And Debierue—Jacques Debierue! Debierue was the key figure, the symbol of the dividing line, if a line could be delineated, in the split between Dada and Surrealism! In my exhilarated state, I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep. I was going to put on a pot of coffee and jot down notes on Debierue from memory in preparation for the interview. Tomorrow, I thought, tomorrow!

  I turned the key in the door and opened it to unexpected light. The soft light streamed in from the bathroom. Silhouetted in the bathroom doorway, wearing a gray-blue shorty nightgown, was my tawny-maned schoolteacher. Her long, swordlike legs trembled at the knees.

  “I—I came back, James,” Berenice said tearfully.

  I nodded, dumbly, and lifted my arms so she could rush into them. After she calms down, I thought, I’ll have her make the coffee. Berenice makes much better coffee than I do . . .

  5

  Debierue is a difficult artist to explain, I explained to Berenice over coffee:

  “No pido nunca a nadie is a good summary of the code Debierue’s lived by all his life. Translated, it means, ‘I never ask nobody for nothing.’”

  “I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you talk in Spanish, James.”

  “And it might be the last. It didn’t take me long to quit speaking Spanish after we moved to New York from San Juan. And as soon as I wised up to how they felt about Puerto Ricans, I got rid of my Spanish accent, too. But the Spanish No pido nunca a nadie sounds better because the reiterated double negatives don’t cancel each other out as they do in English. And that’s the story of Debierue’s life, one double negative action after another until, by not trying to impress anybody, he ended up by impressing everybody.”

  “But why did you give up speaking Spanish?”

  “To prove to myself, I suppose, that a Puerto Rican’s not only as good as anybody else, he’s a damned sight better. Besides, that’s what my father would’ve done.”

  “But your father’s dead, you told me—”

  “That’s right. He died when I was twelve, but technically I never had a father. He and my mother separated before I was a year old, you see. They didn’t get divorced because they were Catholics, although my mother made semi-official arrangements with the church for them to live apart. There was no money problem. He supported us until he died, and then we came up to New York, Mother and I, with the insurance and the money from the sale of our house in San Juan.”

  “But you saw him once in a while, didn’t you?”

  “No. Never. Not after their separation—except in photographs, of course. That’s what made things so tough for me, Berenice. What I’ve had instead is an imaginary father, a father I’ve had to make up myself, and he’s what you might call un hombre duro—a hard man.”

  “What you mean, James, you’ve deliberately made things hard on yourse
lf.”

  “It isn’t that simple. A boy who doesn’t have a father around doesn’t develop a superego, and if you don’t get a superego naturally you’ve got to invent one—”

  “That’s silly. Superego is only a jargon word for ‘conscience,’ and everybody’s got a conscience.”

  “Have it your way, Berenice, although Fromm and Rollo May wouldn’t agree with you.”

  “But you’ve got a conscience.”

  “Right. At least I’ve got one intellectually, if not emotionally, because I was smart enough to create an imaginary father.”

  “Sometimes I don’t understand you, James.”

  “That’s because you’re like the little old lady in Hemingway’s Death in the Afternoon.”

  “I’ve never read it. That’s his book on bullfighting, isn’t it?”

  “No. It’s a book about Hemingway. By talking about bullfighting he tells us about himself. You can learn a lot about bullfighting in Death in the Afternoon, but what you learn about life and death is a matter of Hemingway.”

  “And the little old lady . . . ?”

  “The little old lady in Death in the Afternoon kept asking irrelevant questions. As a consequence, she didn’t learn much about bullfighting or Ernest Hemingway and toward the end of the book Hemingway has to get rid of her.”

  “I’m not a little old lady. I’m a young woman and I can learn. And if I want to understand you better, I should listen to what you have to say about art because it’s a matter of life and death to you.”