Stars and Bars: A Novel

  “The phone,” he said. “It was ringing. Then it stopped.” Strange displacements and shiftings were still going on in his abdominal region. The last thing he required was a conversation with Cora.

  “So I heard. How are you feeling?” She looked oddly malignant in her black dress and black glasses in the darkness of the porch.

  “Not so good. I think I’d better make my excuses.”

  “Daddy wants to show you his paintings.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. Gladly.” He climbed the front steps. The smell of her cigarette smoke mingled with that of the pines and the lingering acidity of his vomit. It was not a pleasant conjunction.

  “Everything has sort of calmed down in there,” she said. “T. J. explained that the pain was an old football injury. It sometimes gets him like that. Out of the blue.”

  “Ah.”

  “Your daughter looked a little skeptical.”

  “Yes. She would.”

  There was a pause.

  “Look,” Henderson began. “I want to apologize about my behavior earlier. It was unforgivable. I don’t know what possessed me. I mean, even if you had been blind … that’s to say, well, really, it’s hardly the sort of thing one should do—especially at my age.” He looked out at the night. “Appalling.”

  “Don’t worry about it. And, remember, I did rather lead you on.”

  The porch light was switched on. It was Gage.

  “Feeling better, Mr. Dores? The Goat can get you that way.”

  “I needed a breath of fresh air.”

  “A breath of fresh air. I like that. Ready to do business?”

  Henderson said good night to Cora and wearily followed Gage back inside and upstairs.

  He felt a new wave of nausea hit him as Gage unlocked his door and switched on the light. Henderson saw a generous sitting room with a bedroom off it, a replica of Cora’s suite across the passage. There was an old leather chesterfield, an antique escritoire and a large glass-fronted, largely empty bookcase against one wall between two windows. The other three walls were covered in paintings and photographs, most of the larger canvasses with brass picture lights over them. On one wall in pride of place was a large amateurish oil of a woman, idealized and prettified, and surrounding this were numerous black-framed photographs.

  “Mrs. Gage,” Henderson was informed. “God rest her soul. Died fifteen years ago.”

  Henderson wandered over. The photographs were an odd mixture. Gage shaking hands with various dignitaries—Henderson recognized two American Presidents, a toupeed crooner and Ernest Hemingway—and a large photo of a café scene that bore the heading PARIS, 1922. There were various studio portraits of the Gage offspring, charting the usual transformation from smiling child through shifty adolescent to banal adult.

  Suppressing a belch, and making a mighty effort to clear his head, he turned to the paintings. If he hadn’t felt so drunk and under the weather he would have been elated, the object of his visit having finally been achieved. In the event, it was as much as he could do to keep them in focus.

  Beeby’s summary had been accurate. On the first wall were four not very remarkable, school of so-and-so, muddy Dutch landscapes of the late seventeenth century, he guessed. There was also, with this group, a portrait of a bearded man and a small allegorical work.

  The other wall was devoted to the twentieth century. Henderson noted the two large Sisley landscapes—a river lined with poplars, an orchard screening red-roofed barns—a Derain—a green barge on a red river—two bold still lifes, a rather run-of-the-mill Braque Cubist interior, a Utrillo street scene under snow and two shimmering, translucent Vuillard interiors.

  “That’s where I was staying,” Gage said, pointing to the Utrillo. “Max painted it for me.”

  Henderson knew he should be computing value and expressing huge enthusiasm but a fair portion of his mind’s attention was still claimed by the structural redevelopment going on in his torso. It sounded like men moving furniture from room to room.

  “A remarkable collection, Mr. Gage. I like them very much.”

  “I bought them all in one year,” Gage said nostalgically, “1922. I had more money than I knew what to do with.” He laid a hand on Henderson’s shoulder. “Tell the truth, I went to Europe for a good time, no intention of buying paintings. But there you are. I met Hem and Scott. They said a man like me ought to collect some art, so I did. Bought direct off of some artists, off their friends, one or two dealers, and shipped them home. I thought about buying some more over the years, but there didn’t seem much point. I had my paintings. I liked them. I didn’t need any more.”

  “I can see exactly what you mean,” Henderson said, diplomatically. “There’s no point in accumulation for accumulation’s sake.”

  He moved back to the Dutch paintings.

  “I bought those because I was homesick,” Gage said. “They reminded me of around here.”

  Henderson couldn’t spot any similarity between the wet somber landscapes and the countryside near Luxora Beach.

  “And that feller there reminded me of my father. And the other one”—he indicated the allegory—“hell, it’s just a dirty painting.” He caught hold of Henderson’s elbow and whispered in his ear. “Tell you a secret. It gave me a hard-on when I saw it in the gallery. Still does, sixty years later.”

  To avoid having to reply, Henderson peered closer. The painting was small, twenty by fourteen inches approximately. In a rather badly painted allegorical landscape—crags, woods, cataracts, stormy mouse-gray clouds, a distant view of sea and luxuriant islands—was a simple columned temple or shrine. Within this, glimpsed between the widely spaced columns, were two women. One woman was in the traditional sackcloth and ashes of mourning. She knelt, hands clasped, but her head was turned away toward the other. Even though she was in an attitude of prayer her face wore a broad smile. The other woman—dark, slim, younger—was laughing too. She was holding up the skirt of her robe to reveal her pudenda. She had plump creamy thighs, slightly parted. Her vaginal crease was clearly visible and some tiny single-haired brush had been used to touch in a near-transparent smoke of pubic curls. By her feet was a jug. The smiles on the women’s faces were wide—almost crude grins—wide enough to reveal their teeth.

  He looked at the young girl again. To his shame he felt a stirring in his trousers. He turned quickly to the portrait. Some hefty Dutch burgher with a dense beard. There was a slight resemblance to the portrait in the dining room. He remarked on this to Gage. He had to say something.

  “And you say your father died when you were two?”

  “That’s right,” Gage said.

  “My father died before I was born.”

  “I’m sorry,” Gage apologized, as if he were in some way responsible.

  “He was killed in Burma, in the war. The Second World War.”

  “Now, there is a coincidence,” Gage said. “My father died in a war too. In the Philippines.”

  “What war was that?”

  “Our war against the Philippines”—this was news to Henderson—“1899–1902.”

  “What on earth was the United States doing fighting a war against the Philippines?”

  “I don’t rightly know,” Gage said thoughtfully. “We killed three million of them too.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “No, sir. But the gugus got my daddy. When they killed him they cut off his pecker and stuck it in his mouth.”

  “Good God! How appalling!” Henderson touched his mouth and his groin reflexively.

  “Nasty little war, that one,” Gage said. “Seems that’s what the gugus did to their victims.”

  “The ‘gugus’ are the Filipinos?”

  “That’s right. But I don’t think there’s any call for that kind of mutilation.”

  “Lord, no,” said Henderson, unsettled. “Absolutely not.”

  Then, to his astonishment, Gage dropped into a boxer’s crouch and fired a volley of jabs at the air in front of his face. Hende
rson was almost sick on the carpet, so taken aback was he. He reeled away.

  “You a boxer, Mr. Dores?” Gage asked, still darting lefts and rights.

  “No. I … no, I’m not.”

  “That’s a fair fight. Whew.” Gage stopped and patted his chest. “But there’s no such thing as a fair fight outside of a sporting arena, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “It’s a point, I suppose. I don’t really know.”

  “Five’ll get you ten your father didn’t die in a fair fight. Just like mine.”

  “I’ve no idea.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Funnily enough I’ve been trying to discover for the last year how in fact he did die. Been writing to men who served with him, that sort of thing.”

  “No such thing as a fair fight. Remember that.” Gage paced up and down his room. He seemed strangely flushed and excited. “You a sportsman?”

  “Not really. I do a bit of fencing from time to time.”

  “Fencing? You mean …?” He did a hand-twirling flourish and lunged with an imaginary sword.

  “Yes.”

  Gage laughed. “Are you putting me on?”

  “No, no, I assure you. I enjoy it.”

  “The word ‘foible’ comes from fencing, am I right?”

  “Yes. The foible is the weak part of the blade.”

  “Foible …” Gage paused. His exertions had tousled his thick white hair. Henderson noticed how it seemed to spring straight up out of his skull for an inch before its weight caused it to fall over. A remarkable head of hair, he thought. Gage was looking at the carpet and tugging at the loose skin beneath his jaw.

  “Know what unites us, Mr. Dores? Every swinging dick, as we used to say in the army?”

  “Well, it depends …”

  “We all want to be happy, and we’re all going to die.”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “You might say those are the only two unchallengeably true facts that apply to every human being on this planet.”

  “Indeed.” Henderson’s eye shifted nervously about the room, glancing at the paintings. “Beauty is truth, truth beauty, etc.… That sort of thing seems a little rarified sometimes in this day and age.”

  “I couldn’t have put it better myself. Tell me something, Mr. Dores.” Gage wandered over to the Vuillards. “We all want to be happy and we’re all going to die. Wouldn’t you think that if everybody knew that, acknowledged that, things would be different?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Yeah …” Gage frowned. There was a pause.

  “I think these are my favorites.” Henderson indicated the Vuillards. “Magnificent.” He was disturbed and unsettled by the little old man. Vaguely shocked too by the news of Gage senior’s hideous mutilation. He wondered if his own researches into his father’s death would turn up something as distressing. Better perplexed ignorance, perhaps, than that sort of knowledge.… He grimaced. Some blend of complicated writhing and uncoiling was going on in the depths of his abdominal cavity. He forced himself to concentrate.

  “With paintings of this quality we would be happy to waive our seller’s commission. Naturally, there will be a full-color catalog and—”

  “Let’s talk about the details tomorrow, Mr. Dores. It’s getting late.” He opened the door; he looked a little troubled. “And I must get back to my guests.”

  Henderson said he thought he would go straight on to bed as he was still feeling the worse for wear. Gage left him at the top of the stairs and he walked slowly along the corridor to his room. As he passed Bryant’s room she came out.

  “Hi,” she said. “How are you feeling?”

  “Where are you off to?”

  “Duane asked if I wanted to listen to some of his records.”

  “Well, try to keep the noise down, OK?”

  “Sure. And listen, Duane said he’s sorry but he’ll try to get your tire back tomorrow.”

  “Good. Look, what, um, happened with Cardew?”

  “Oh, God. He kept sorta trying to twine his legs around mine, so I let him have it in the knee with a fork.”

  “Oh.”

  “Dirty old men. I hate them.”

  “See you tomorrow. Good night.”

  As he undressed, Henderson felt overwhelmed with tiredness. He climbed wearily between the sheets and laid his head with a sigh of relief on his cool pillow. Within seconds it became uncomfortably warm. He turned over. His ears were like hot plates. He lay on his back, breathing steadily, trying to summon up a mood of controlled relaxation. He was still awake an hour later when he heard the Cardews’ car drive away.

  At least and at last he had seen the paintings, he told himself. He farted noisily. What had he eaten? Was it the corn dogs, the hoppin’ john or the turnip greens? Or was it all down to Henry’s Goat? … He’d phone Beeby with the good news tomorrow. He couldn’t see any major problem with Gage; they got on fine and he seemed happy enough to sell. He pondered vaguely on Beckman’s notion of Freeborn’s premature sale. They were so obviously Gage’s personal possessions it seemed inconceivable that his son would have any independent claim on them himself.

  But why was Gage selling? It was a question he rarely asked of his clients—it was none of the auction house’s business. Often, though, some reason was voluntarily given, security concerns, death duties, a move—but seldom, however, the most common: poverty. He strongly suspected this was what applied here. Gage was broke. Clearly he had been rich once, but everything about the household spoke of galloping penury.

  He wondered how he would get through to Beeby the next day. Freeborn had said he was going away so perhaps he could prevail on Shanda without fear. He didn’t fancy having to walk into Luxora Beach every time he wanted to make a phone call.… And when was that cretin Duane going to fix his car? He was paying good money for it precisely to afford him the mobility he now required, and yet it stood uselessly outside on three wheels, gathering dust.

  Thinking about phoning Beeby reminded him of the call that had come through to Freeborn’s trailer. He felt sure it had been for him, but who? Beeby? Melissa checking on Bryant? Irene? The mild sensual stimulus provided by Gage’s sixteenth-century bit of erotica set up aches of longing for Irene. She should get his letter by tomorrow … He had to get her down here, to patch things up. He couldn’t let one disastrous night ruin everything. He would send her a first-class return ticket to Atlanta, book them both into the plushest hotel they could find and have three or four undisturbed days together after this whole business was over. He ran through half a dozen scenarios of their reunion. Sleep had left him far behind now, he realized. He should get up and read, make notes on the paintings. He compiled a swift catalog in his head, estimating possible prices. The Dutch paintings were curiosities and worth nothing significant. But the Sisleys and the Vuillards were important, and the Braque … He thought suddenly of Gage’s father and his father. They had both died in the East in a war and had never known their sons. A strange coincidence. It made him warm to the little man.… Still gets a hard-on from his dirty painting…

  He found himself thinking again of Gage’s father’s horrible death. Surely nothing so dreadful would have befallen Arnold Dores in Burma. To his surprise he found himself worrying for his father’s safety, as if he were still alive and still involved in his perilous mission. Take care, Dad, he said to himself—and then rebuked himself for his absurd sentiment. It had been an odd moment, though, a kind of eerie time shift. He felt suffused by a low, steady sadness, which gradually gave way to unease. He hoped he wouldn’t hear of anything too awful.…

  chapter seven

  THE next morning Henderson got out of bed and fell over. He sat on the floor for a few seconds and watched his hands shake. A largish prism seemed to be wedged between his spine and his rib cage. The internal triangle. His viscera felt stuffed to capacity with gravel. His eyes throbbed painfully, as if they had been removed from their sockets, bounced up and down on the floor and reinserted. He crawled back between
the sheets.

  Bryant looked in later to inform him she was going to Atlanta with Duane to buy some records. Henderson waved her on her way. At lunchtime Alma-May brought him a pickled-cucumber and chopped-onion sandwich. He crawled out onto the balcony and threw it into the garden.

  In midafternoon he received a visit from Cora.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked. She stood in the center of his room, cigarette burning in one hand. She seemed quite friendly now.

  “Not so good,” he replied. “Very weak. Chronic indigestion. Intermittent nausea. It must be that sipping whiskey.”

  “You got a phone call, Shanda says. A Miss Irene Dubrovnik? You’ve to phone back.”

  “Oh! Oh, right. Good. Thanks very much.”

  She left and Henderson shakily got dressed. His back was aching, as if his spine couldn’t take the strain of keeping his body erect. He went to the lavatory and sat there for five minutes, teeth gritted and eyes watering with the pressure, but nothing shifted.

  He tottered carefully down the stairs and shuffled over to Shanda’s trailer. Out in the park an old black man drove about on a miniature tractor cutting the grass.

  Henderson knocked at the door and Shanda let him in.

  “Can I use the phone?”

  “The phone? Sure.”

  He sat down warily on the glass and wrought-iron seat. He wondered what Shanda did with herself all day. She settled down on a sofa and leafed through a magazine. He punched out Irene’s number. He felt excited but a little inhibited by Shanda’s presence and subdued somewhat by his weakened state.

  “Hello, Irene. It’s Henderson.”

  “Hi. I got your letter.”

  “Look, I’m really sorry about all the—”

  “Forget it. How are you?”

  “Actually, I’ve got the most appalling indigestion. I drank something called Henry’s Goat and ate something called hoppin’ john.”

  “Red-neck food, Henderson. You’ve got to be reared on that stuff. Have you had grits yet?”

  “It feels like it.” Perhaps that caused the stuffed-gravel sensation. He shifted slightly in his seat, turning his back toward Shanda, who was listening with candid curiosity. He felt huge relief and gratitude at this restoration of feeling between him and Irene.