Drowning Lessons by Peter Selgin Page A

you it was underpowered, but
no,
you had to have it. You and your goddamn
artistic
choices!” It must be the altitude; I can barely breathe.
    â€œThat said, were it not for your being more than a little
pasado de peso
…”
    â€œFuck you, you Spanish ape! If you think I’m too fat, then why didn’t you pick some pretty little girl to chauffeur you around? Why me? I’ll tell you why: because you need someone you candominate, someone who’ll put up with all your Spanish bullcrap, that’s why! Well, I’m not taking it anymore. All my life people have pushed me around, making me kiss their fucking feet! Well, I’m goddamn sick of it!”
    It’s official: I have broken boundaries, infringed, encroached, gone over the line. I have lost my place because I never knew it. Picasso burns me with his Mussolini stare; for a moment I think he might even spit on me, strike me with his draftsman’s fist. But then a Disney twinkle lights those Andalusian eyes, and there’s that tight little mischievous grin, the same grin that swallows his face when he does something naughty with a brush or pen. All this time we’ve been pushing the car uphill. Were I to let go now, it would roll backward, flattening the greatest of all living painters.
    We reach the crest. Breathless, Picasso bows to me.
    â€œVery well, Maestro.” He snatches the chauffeur cap off my head and puts it on his. “What is your wish?”
    That’s when I see the brown car pulled over to the curve. A man in dress slacks and undershirt works a jack under a rear tire. She’s in the backseat. I must act now or forever know my place. This is for you, Father, this breaching of the rules while bowing to them. For once art will serve us.
    I sketch out the rough plan; Picasso, with his brain like a brush full of paint, fills in the details. By what we are about to do my boss is so greatly amused he smothers his titters with his hand. Our collaboration has about it all the wit, charm, and spontaneous simplicity of the best animations. Now I see why I love cartoons: they give us the world minus gravity and suffering, a world of primary hues, unambiguous outlines, unbridled possibilities,without weight, subtext, or sophistication. For all his worldly fame I realize now that Picasso is really a cartoonist at heart, a child with his Crayola box, as naive as he is diabolical, prepared to do his bidding for me, his Walt Disney/Antichrist.
    â€œReady?” I say.
    â€œRescatar la Virgen de los Andes!” he says, with steely enthusiasm.
    Sticking to the plan, I ask the man if he can use some assistance. He seems suspicious and relieved as he hands me the tire iron, wiping his hands on his shirt and saying, as I bend to the task, “I’ve always marveled at the curious conceit that keeps men floating down freeways on bladders of air.” For appearance’ sake I give a few turns to a lug before braining him — not quite hard enough to send his gray matter showering down the mountainside, but no love tap, either. He falls into Picasso’s arms. As the girl looks on with indolent curiosity, we stuff our scoundrel into the Topolino’s passenger seat, but not before relieving Mr. Humbert of his wallet, passport, and other forms of identification. Before sending the blue goat to its final pasture, we grab our luggage — including two dozen tightly rolled canvases — from its trunk. With a series of grunts and our damsel still watching (her sleepy eyes only slightly aroused), we heave the Topolino over the side. When on the sixteenth roll it bursts into flames, Picasso clasps his hands and notes with glee how the colors match perfectly those of the sunset that has meanwhile spread itself, like a knife loaded with Skippy, across the horizon.
    You would think our rescued nymph would show some gratitude to her saviors. You’d be wrong. She chomps her chewing gum, her frown as fixed as