it’s the sherry? A large figure, bigger than the rest, floats forward. It assumes the appearance of a tall man wearing an overcoat.
‘Come join us Titus. You should come and join us,’ it says, mocking Penelope.
Titus does not respond immediately. Instead he sips his sherry and stares back at his tormentor. It has no discernible features. Its face is an enigmatic blankness. Yet it masks evil, pure evil. He must maintain his composure though his basic instinct is to fling his glass at this demon and run. Of course, that would be a futile gesture.
‘Are you all come?’ says Titus, at last.
‘Of course Father, we are all come, for you.’
‘Father? Oh, of course. I made you, didn’t I? You are all my creations. All products of my words and deeds.’
‘That is so Father,’ answers the spectre.
‘Then, it is all very clear. I must come with you. We must all go together.’
With that, Titus emboldened by suppressed anger and certain of what he has to do, reaches for a small metal box on the sideboard. There is a red button on top. The charges have been rigged for months but the time has not been right. Until now. Titus does not hesitate. The demons undulate in the dark and their spokesman stands waiting. Titus pushes the button. The explosion is instant, devastating and final. The house and everything in it is reduced to splinters. The demons have been obliterated. Titus has gone to join Penelope. He has atoned for his mistakes.
At least I didn’t say that they all lived happily ever after.
The Auction
The viewing is now over. The crowd of intending buyers, and the merely curious, scurry to obtain the best seats. Many of them are clutching catalogues marked with observations and other notes. There is excitement in the air and the colourful banners put up by the auctioneer’s employees add a slightly festive atmosphere. Most of all, there is anticipation. Everyone has come for the contests. That is the real nature of an auction. There will be winners and losers. Blood will be shed.
This auction is being held a private room at a city hotel. It is a large room with an open annex off to one side where the lots are displayed. The blinds are shut against the glare of the morning sunlight. But the room is well lit by several chandeliers. The large wooden doors are closed. The outside world had been shut out. Now it is a self-contained space, full of emotion, like a bullring.
The paintings and prints are displayed on a series of wire mesh stands. Below them, on a variety of tables and stands is a selection of high quality oriental rugs, china, pottery and ceramics.
The auctioneer takes up his position behind the lectern. We feel that there should have been a trumpet fanfare. He is an impressive figure in a dark suit with a yellow vest and spotted bowtie. An artistic moustache decorates his top lip. His wavy hair is swept straight back. He is clearly a professional. Before speaking he pauses to tap the microphone lightly with his forefinger. Then he frowns. Something is not right. He taps again. Still no joy. There are a few wry smiles when he utters the words,
‘Is this thing working? Is it on?’
On receiving the thumbs up from a nearby assistant, the auctioneer proceeds to welcome the crowd in tones that suggest we are possibly the most important group of people he has ever met. Then he explains the rules. As he does so most of us are only half listening. We have heard it all before, like the pre-flight safety instructions on a plane. Despite the obvious disinterest being shown, the auctioneer persists, his moustache twitching at every point, for emphasis.
As usual, a few people make a late decision to register as bidders. There is a short holdup while they are processed. While this goes on, there is casual banter between neighbours; strangers mostly, but with a common interest in getting something good; as cheaply as they can. However, like seasoned poker players nothing is said that might reveal which lots have been targeted. Everyone understands that it is just part of the game.
We wait until everyone is seated. Once again the auctioneer mounts the lectern and taps the mike. Perhaps, this time, it is for luck. At least he is satisfied.
‘The first lot is a charcoal sketch by John Brack.’
It is a stark, angular nude, devoid of any erotic qualities. The subject herself looks bored.
‘A study for the famous Boucher Nude’, the auctioneer reads, in a tone as flat as the sketch.
‘It is very characteristic of this artist’s style.’
We both think it is very ugly and definitely not to our taste.
‘There is a reserve’, advises the auctioneer. ‘I would like an opening bid of $5,000.’
The room stays quiet. Some eyes dart furtively about. It is not easy trying to project apparent disinterest. The least anxious stare straight ahead. We pretend to be engrossed in our catalogues. It seems that there are no takers for a bored, naked woman? The auctioneer’s expression could be one of genuine dismay. He looks like a relative has died, suddenly. The room holds its collective breath. Then an arm shoots up and an elderly man says, ‘$3,500.’
It was as though some deep and hurtful insult has been directed personally at the auctioneer. The moustache twitches violently. Then he says that the bid is too low. He slowly lifts his head. Is he holding back tears? He says that the work is from a deceased estate and the relatives want to sell. Reluctantly he will accept the bid. The room begins to breathe again.
Another arm is raised. ‘$3,750’
‘Do I hear $4,000?’
The elderly man’s arm goes up again. A ripple of excitement spreads around the room. We have a contest. Both men furiously trade bids up to $6,000. We look at each other with some surprise. There have been half a dozen passes of the cape. ‘The awkward and bored Venus seems to have something about her that inspires passion? Even if neither of us can see it.’
There is another pause as each of the combatants sizes up the other. It is a classic standoff. Who will blink first? The challenger paws the ground. The elderly man allows a slight smile to dance on his lips. He can sense victory. Then his opponent shakes his head. The auctioneer scans the room and begins the ritual,
‘Going once! Going twice!’
The elderly man sits smug and relaxed. He is emotionally exhausted, but before the gavel can fall for the final time there is another bid.
‘$7,000.’
It comes from a younger man sitting in the back row. The effect on the elderly man is devastating. His head drops. He knows that his war chest is exhausted. He cannot outbid the newcomer. The disappointment is plain for all to see. But the room crowd wants to see mercy. It has been a good fight. The auctioneer reads the mood and with the practiced skill of a matador, he withdraws the sword that would have delivered the coup de grace. This bull will live.
‘Going once at $7,000. Are you all done? Going twice at $7,000. No more bids? Sold to the gentleman at the back. Bidder number 29.’
The gavel is brought down crisply on the wooden block. There is only a smattering of polite applause. It is not a popular win. But the elderly man stands up and leaves; he walks slowly and with dignity. Defeat in the bullring is usually final, but sometimes the brave get to fight another day. An auction is no different. Ole!