And when I reached 49th, I didn’t know which way to turn. Sweating, I stopped at the intersection and looked round. 49th seemed to stretch to the ends of the world in both directions. Anything was possible; The Root Cellar might be anywhere. I was in some kind of business district—49th was lined with prosperity—and the side-walks were crowded again. But all the people moved as if nothing except fatigue or stubbornness and the heat kept them from running for their lives. I tried several times to stop one of them to ask directions; but it was like trying to change the course of the river. I got glares and muttered curses, but no help.
That was hard to forgive. But forgiveness wasn’t my job. My job was to find some way to help Reese Dona. So I some outright begging. And when begging failed, I simply let the press of the crowds start me moving the same way they were going.
With my luck, this was exactly the wrong direction. But I couldn’t think of any good reason to turn around so I kept walking, studying the buildings for any sign of a brownstone mansion and muttering darkly against all those myths about how God answers prayer.
Ten blocks later, I recanted. I came to a stove that filled the entire block and went up into the sky for at least thirty floors; and in front of it stood my answer. He was a scrawny old man in a dingy gray uniform with red epaulets and red stitching on his cap; boredom or patience glazed his eyes. He was tending an iron pot that hung from a rickety tripod. With the studious intention of a halfwit, he rang a handbell to attract people’s attention.
The stitching on his cap said, “Salvation Army.”
I went right up to him and asked where The Root Cellar was.
He blinked at me as if I were part of the heat and the haze. “Mission’s that way.” He nodded in the direction I was going. “49th and Grand.”
“Thanks,. anyway,” I said. I was glad to be able to give the old man a genuine smile. “That isn’t what I need. I need to find The Root Cellar. It’s an art gallery. Supposed to be somewhere on 49th.”
He went on blinking at me until I started to think maybe he was deaf. Then, abruptly, he seemed to arrive at some kind of recognition. Abandoning his post, he turned and entered the store. Through the glass, I watched him go to his box-like half-a-booth that hung on one wall. He found a large yellow book under the box, opened it, and flipped the pages back and forth for a while.
Nodding at whatever he found, he came back out to me. Down that way,” he said, indicating the direction I’d come from. “About thirty blocks. Number 840.”
Suddenly, my heart lifted. I closed my eyes for a moment to give thanks. Then I looked again at the man who’d rescued me. “If I had any money,” I said, “I’d give it to you.
“If you had any money,” he replied as if he knew who I was, “I wouldn’t take it. Go with God.”
I said, “I will,” and started retracing my way up 49th. I felt a world better. But I also had a growing sense of urgency. The longer I walked, the worse it got. The day was getting away from me—and this day was the only one I had. Reese’s show was tomorrow. Then Mortice Root would’ve fulfilled his part of the bargain. And the price would have to be paid. I was sweating so hard my filthy old coat stuck to my back; but I forced myself to walk as fast as the fleeing crowds.
After a while, the people began to disappear from the sidewalks again, and the traffic thinned. Then the business district came to an end, and I found myself in a slum so ruined and hopeless I had to grit my teeth to keep up my courage. I felt hostile eyes watching me from behind broken windows and gaping entrances. But I was protected, either by daylight or by the way I looked.
Then the neighborhood began to improve. The slum became close-built houses, clinging to dignity. The houses moved apart from each other, giving themselves more room to breathe. Trees appeared in the yards, even in the sidewalk. Lawns pushed the houses back from the street, and each house seemed to be more ornate than the one beside it. I would have thought they were homes, but most of them had discreet signs indicating they were places of business. Several of them were shops that sold antiques. One held a law firm. A stockbroker occupied a place the size of a temple. I decided that this was where people came to do their shopping and business when they were too rich to associate with their fellow human beings.
And there it was—a brownstone mansion as elaborate as any I’d seen. It was large and square, three stories tall, with a colonnaded entryway and a glass-domed structure that might have been a greenhouse down the length of one side. The mailbox on the front porch was neatly numbered, 840. And when I went up the walk to the porch, I saws brass plaque on the door with words engraved on it. It said:
THE ROOT CELLAR
a private gallery
Mortice Root
At the sight, my chest constricted as if I’d never done this before. But I’d already lost too much time; I didn’t waste any more of it hesitating. I pressed a small button beside the door and listened to chimes ringing faintly inside the house as if Mortice Root had a cathedral in his basement.
For a while, nothing happened. Then the door opened, and I felt a flow of cold air from inside, followed by a man in a guard’s uniform, with a gun holstered on his hip and a badge that said, “Nationwide Security” on his chest. As he looked out at me, what he saw astonished him; not many of Root’s patrons looked like I did. Then his face closed like a shutter. “Are you out of your mind?” he growled. “We don’t give handouts here. Get lost.”
In response, I produced my sweetest smile. “Fortunately, I don’t want a handout. I want to talk to Mortice Root.”
He stared at me. “What in hell makes you think Mr. Root wants to talk to you?”
“Ask him and find out,” I replied. “Tell him I’m here to argue about Reese Dona.”
He would have slammed the door in my face; but a hint of authority came back to me, and he couldn’t do it. For a few moments, he gaped at me as if he were choking. Then he muttered, “Wait here,” and escaped back into the house. As he closed the door, the cool air breathing outward was cut off.
“Well, naturally,” I murmured to the sodden heat, trying to keep myself on the bold side of dread. “The people who come here to spend their money can’t be expected just stand around and sweat.”
The sound of voices came dimly through the door. But I hadn’t heard the guard walk away, and I didn’t hear anybody coming toward me. So I still wasn’t quite ready when the door swung open again and Mortice Root stood in front of me with a cold breeze washing unnaturally pest his shoulders.
We recognized each other right away; and he grinned like a wolf. But I couldn’t match him. I was staggered. I hadn’t expected him to be so powerful.
He didn’t look powerful. He looked as rich as Solomon—smooth, substantial, glib—as if he could buy and sell the people who came here to give him their money. From the tips of his gleaming shoes past the expanse of his distinctively styled suit to the clean confidence of his shaven jowls, he was everything I wasn’t. But those things only gave him worldly significance; they didn’t make him powerful. His true strength was hidden behind the bland unction of his demeanor. It showed only in his grin, in the slight, avid bulging of his eyes, In the wisps of hair that stood out like hints of energy on either side of his bald crown.
His gaze made me feel grimy and rather pathetic.
He studied me for a moment. Then, with perfectly cruel kindness, he said, “Come in, come in. You must be sweltering out there. It’s much nicer in here.”
He was that sure of himself.
But I was willing to accept permission, even from him. Before he could reconsider, I stepped past him into the hallway.
As I looked around, cold came swirling up my back, turning my sweat chill. At the end of this short, deeply carpeted hall, Root’s mansion opened into an immense foyer nearly as high as the building itself. Two mezzanines joined by broad stairways of carved wood circled the walls; daylight shone downward from a skylight in the center of the ceiling. A glance showed me that paintings were
displayed around the mezzanines, while the foyer itself held sculptures and carvings decorously set on white pedestals. I couldn’t see anything that looked like Reese Dona’s work.
At my elbow, Root said, “I believe you came to argue with me?” He was as smooth as oil.
I felt foolish and awkward beside him, but I faced him as squarely as I could. “Maybe ‘contend’ would be a better word.”
“As you say.” He chuckled in a way that somehow suggested both good humor and malice. “I look forward to it.” Then he touched my arm, gestured me toward one side of the foyer. “But let me show you what he’s doing these days. Perhaps you’ll change your mind.”
For no good reason, I said, “You know better than that.” But I went with him.
A long, wide passage took us to the glass-domed structure I’d taken to be a greenhouse. Maybe it was originally built for that; but Root had converted it, and I had to admit it made an effective gallery—well-lit, spacious, and comfortable. In spite of all that glass, the air stayed cool, almost chill.
Here I saw Reese’s new work for the first time.
“Impressive, aren’t they,” Root purred. He was mocking me.
But what he was doing to Reese was worse.
There were at least twenty of them, with room for a handful more—attractively set in niches along one wall, proudly positioned on special pediments, cunningly juxtaposed in corners so that they showed each other off. It was clear that any artist would find an opportunity like this hard to resist.
But all the pieces were black.
Reese had completely changed his subject matter. Madonnas and children had been replaced by gargoyles and twisted visions of the damned. Glimpses of nightmare leered from their niches. Pain writhed on display, as if it had become an object of ridicule. In a corner of the room, a ghoul devoured one infant while another strove urgently to scream and failed.
And each of these new images was alive with precisely the kind of vitality his earlier work lacked. He had captured his visceral terrors in the act of pouncing at him.
As sculptures, they were admirable; maybe even more than that. He had achieved some kind of breakthrough here, tapped into sources of energy he’d always been unable or unwilling to touch. All he needed now was balance.
But there was more to these pieces than just skill and energy. There was also blackness.
Root’s clay.
Kristen was right. This clay looked like dark water tinder the light of an evil moon. It looked like marl mixed with blood until the mud congealed. And the more I studied what I saw, the more these grotesque and brutal images gave the impression of growing from the clay itself rather than from the independent mind of the artist. They were not Reese’s fears and dreams refined by art; they’ were horrors he found in the clay when his hands touched it. The real strength, the passion of these pieces, came from the material Root supplied, not from Reese. No wonder he had become so hollow-eyed and ragged. He was struggling desperately to control the consequences of his bargain. Trying to prove to himself be wasn’t doing the wrong thing.
For a moment, I felt a touch of genuine pity for him. But it didn’t last. Maybe deep down in his soul he was afraid of what he was doing and what it meant. But he was still doing it. And he was paying for the chance to do such strong work with his sister’s life.
Softly, my opponent said, “It appears you don’t approve. I’m so sorry. But I’m afraid there’s really nothing you can do about it. The artists of this world are uniquely vulnerable. They wish to create beauty, and the world cares for nothing but money. Even the cattle who will buy these”—he gave the room a dismissive flick of the hand—”trivial pieces hold the artist in contempt.” He turned his wolf-grin toward me again. “Failure makes fertile ground.”
I couldn’t pretend that wasn’t true; so I asked bitterly, “Are you really going to keep your end of the bargain? Are you really going to sell this stuff?”
“Oh, assuredly,” he replied. “At least until the sister dies. Tomorrow. Perhaps the day after.” He chuckled happily. “Then I suspect I’ll find myself too busy with other, more promising artists to spend time on Reese Dona.”
I felt him glance at me, gauging my helplessness. Then he went on unctuously, “Come, now, my friend. Why glare so thunderously? Surely you realize that he has been using her in precisely this manner for years. I’ve merely actualized the true state of their relationship. But perhaps you’re too innocent to grasp how deeply he resents her. It is the nature of beggars to resent those who give them gifts. He resents me.” At that, Root laughed outright. He was not a man who gave gifts to anybody. “I assure you that her present plight is of his own choice and making.”
“No,” I said, more out of stubbornness than conviction. “He just doesn’t understand what’s happening.”
Root shrugged. “Do you think so? No matter. The point, as you must recognize, is that we have nothing to contend for. The issue has already been decided.”
I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t-as glib as he was. And anyway I was afraid he was right.
While I stood there and chewed over all the things I wasn’t able to do, I heard doors opening and closing somewhere in the distance. The heavy carpeting absorbed footsteps; but it wasn’t long before Reese came striding into the greenhouse. He was so tight with eagerness or suppressed fear he looked like he was about to snap. As usual, he didn’t even see me when he first came into the room.
“I’ve got the rest of the pieces,” he said to Root. “They’re in a truck out back. I think you’ll like—”
Then my presence registered on him. He stopped with a jerk, stared at me as if I’d come back from the dead. “What’re you doing here?’ he demanded. At once, he turned back to Root. “What is he doing here?”
Root’s confidence was a complete insult. “Reese,” he sighed, “I’m afraid that this—gentleman?—believes that I should not show your work tomorrow.”
For a moment, Reese was too astonished to be angry. His mouth actually hung open while he looked at me. But I was furious enough for both of us. With one sentence, Root had made my position impossible. I couldn’t think of a single thing to say now that would change the outcome.
Still, I had to try. While Reese’s surprise built up into outrage, I said as if I weren’t swearing like a madman inside, “There are two sides to everything. You’ve heard his. You really ought to listen to mine.”
He closed his mouth, locked his teeth together. His glare was wild enough to hurt.
‘Mortice Root owes you a little honesty,” I said while I had the chance. “He should have told you long ago that he’s planning to drop you after tomorrow.
But the sheer pettiness of what I was saying made me cringe. And Root simply laughed. I should have known better than to try to fight him on his own level. Now he didn’t need to answer me at all.
In any case, my jibe made no impression on Reese. He gritted, “I don’t care about that,” like a man who couldn’t or wouldn’t understand. “This is what I care about.” He gestured frantically around the room. “This. My work.”
He took a couple of steps toward me, and his voice shook with the effort he made to keep from shouting. “I don’t know who you are—or why you think I’m any of your business. I don’t care about that, either. You’ve heard Kristen’s side. Now you’re going to hear mine.”
In a small way, I was grateful he didn’t accuse me of turning his sister against him.
“She doesn’t like the work I’m doing now. No, worse than that. She doesn’t mind the work. She doesn’t like the clay.” He gave a laugh like an echo of Root’s. But he didn’t have Root’s confidence and power; he only sounded bitter, sarcastic, and afraid. “She tries to tell me she approves of me, but I can read her face like a book.
“Well, let me tell you something.” He poked a trembling finger at my chest. “With my show tomorrow, I’m alive for the first time in ten years. I’m alive here. Art exists to communicate. It isn’t worth manu
re if it doesn’t communicate, and it can’t communicate if somebody doesn’t look at it. It’s that simple. The only time an artist is alive is when somebody looks at his work. And if enough people look, he can live forever.
“I’ve been sterile for ten years because I haven’t had one other soul to look at my work.” He was so wrapped up in what he was saying, I don’t think he even noticed how completely he dismissed his sister. “Now I am alive. If it only lasts for one more day, it’ll still be something nobody can take away from me. If I have to work in black clay to get that, who cares? That’s just something I didn’t know about myself—about how my imagination works. I never had the chance to try black clay before.
“But now—” He couldn’t keep his voice from rising like a cry. “Now I’m alive. Here. If you want to take that away from me, you’re worse than trash. You’re evil.”
Mortice Root was smiling like a saint.
For a moment, I bad to look away. The fear behind the passion in Reese’s eyes was more than I could stand. “I’m sorry,” I murmured. What else could I say? I regretted everything. He needed me desperately, and I kept failing him. And he placed so little value on his sister. With a private groan, I forced myself to face him again.
“I thought it was work that brought artists to life. Not shows. I thought the work was worth doing whether anybody looked at it or not. Why else did you keep at it for ten years?”
But I was still making the same mistake, still trying to reach him through his art. And now I’d definitely said something he couldn’t afford to hear or understand. With a jerky movement like a puppet, he threw up his hands. “I don’t have time for this,” he snapped. “I’ve got five more pieces to set up.” Then, suddenly, he was yelling at me. “And I don’t give one lousy damn what you think!” Somehow, I’d hit a nerve. “I want you to go away. I want you to leave me alone! Get out of here and leave me alone!”