thirty cents for it. So he was walking up and down, heel before toe like a tightrope walker, dawdling, starting to get hungry, using his rolled-up newspaper as the balancing umbrella. Edward Davis was surely making a success of himself, Dacres thought. He was no doubt painting magazine covers and working as an illustrator for an advertising agency, as one did. Davis had a Canadian accent now, Davis was fitting in, he was squeezing every drop out of life, the bastard. Davis was painting murals. There was a limited amount of success in the world and the lower Dacres sank, the higher Davis flew. He was thinking all this, he was thinking about his callused toes, when he saw Darly Burner skip up the steps past him, in a beautiful hurry. She didnât see him. He followed, furiously tucking in his shirt, licking his fingers and smoothing down his eyebrows with them.
She went quickly through the galleries as if late and he had to walk quickly to keep up. And then he had to stop equally suddenly when she stopped, and try to look, from the doorway, at the painting she was looking at, to see what she could see. Otherwise he didnât consider the walls. In fact, heâd come here three days before with Janusz and walked around explaining why, in a Chardin, the blue of a padded-boxlid was green one day and pink the next. Rubens held open-house in his studio, he told Janusz as they looked at a banquet by someone in his workshop; Janusz gaped, open mouthed, at the nymphsâ breasts firmed up by their covering arms. Janusz hadnât known either what OSA meant after the weak-wristed menâs names. Heâd said the high ceilings made him feel anty. But now Dacres had found something to see in these same rooms.
The need was to see her, to continue to look, but it was already becoming the urge to touch her long arms, her sharp cheek, and it was becoming the more difficult need to paint her also, to make the evanescence last. A yellow rose lay in her piled-up hair. He wanted to tell her he was alone, and lost, and suffering; if she turned her face to him, he would tell her, and she would save him. Something inside spat at his gangliness: for Godâs sake, if you want a woman, you go up to her and tell her as much. Theyâre simple creatures after all. Yet he resisted, watching her in profile, taking one step closer, pausing, one step closer, as she moved her lips silentlyâmumbling or composing, he didnât know what. Tongue at her upper lip, thinly. Then she was looking in her purse for something. Was she meeting that bastard Davis? I donât know you at all, he thought, at all.
All I wanted from Evelyn was to look at her forever; thatâs all you really want. If Darly were his wife, he thought, he wouldnât let her out of his sight. He would lock her up, no eyes would be allowed to drain her. She had a small knobbled pencil now; she was making a note on an envelope. He approached.
âDarly?â
She turned in the other direction and reflexively he stepped back. As two men came from the left he brought his newspaper to his face, turned in a half circle, and walked back the way heâd come, through the doorway, out of the room.
He couldnât make out quite what they were saying, but over the horizon of the newspaper he saw the large figure of the fellow who had been with her at Lady Dunfieldâs reception, his name was Freddie or Chuck or some such ⦠and another more sallow manwith Brylcreemed hair. They were so young, Dacres thought; they were smiling and laughing. They began to go away; the painting sheâd been looking at was Spanish. A young girl who looked like a midget staring up at the painter. Angles and angels. He wondered at his reticence. Darly and the young men had stopped between the two galleries and, fearing she might look in his direction, Dacres doffed his hat and examined it intently. Caption: A man discovers that the answers to all lifeâs mysteries lie in
She went quickly through the galleries as if late and he had to walk quickly to keep up. And then he had to stop equally suddenly when she stopped, and try to look, from the doorway, at the painting she was looking at, to see what she could see. Otherwise he didnât consider the walls. In fact, heâd come here three days before with Janusz and walked around explaining why, in a Chardin, the blue of a padded-boxlid was green one day and pink the next. Rubens held open-house in his studio, he told Janusz as they looked at a banquet by someone in his workshop; Janusz gaped, open mouthed, at the nymphsâ breasts firmed up by their covering arms. Janusz hadnât known either what OSA meant after the weak-wristed menâs names. Heâd said the high ceilings made him feel anty. But now Dacres had found something to see in these same rooms.
The need was to see her, to continue to look, but it was already becoming the urge to touch her long arms, her sharp cheek, and it was becoming the more difficult need to paint her also, to make the evanescence last. A yellow rose lay in her piled-up hair. He wanted to tell her he was alone, and lost, and suffering; if she turned her face to him, he would tell her, and she would save him. Something inside spat at his gangliness: for Godâs sake, if you want a woman, you go up to her and tell her as much. Theyâre simple creatures after all. Yet he resisted, watching her in profile, taking one step closer, pausing, one step closer, as she moved her lips silentlyâmumbling or composing, he didnât know what. Tongue at her upper lip, thinly. Then she was looking in her purse for something. Was she meeting that bastard Davis? I donât know you at all, he thought, at all.
All I wanted from Evelyn was to look at her forever; thatâs all you really want. If Darly were his wife, he thought, he wouldnât let her out of his sight. He would lock her up, no eyes would be allowed to drain her. She had a small knobbled pencil now; she was making a note on an envelope. He approached.
âDarly?â
She turned in the other direction and reflexively he stepped back. As two men came from the left he brought his newspaper to his face, turned in a half circle, and walked back the way heâd come, through the doorway, out of the room.
He couldnât make out quite what they were saying, but over the horizon of the newspaper he saw the large figure of the fellow who had been with her at Lady Dunfieldâs reception, his name was Freddie or Chuck or some such ⦠and another more sallow manwith Brylcreemed hair. They were so young, Dacres thought; they were smiling and laughing. They began to go away; the painting sheâd been looking at was Spanish. A young girl who looked like a midget staring up at the painter. Angles and angels. He wondered at his reticence. Darly and the young men had stopped between the two galleries and, fearing she might look in his direction, Dacres doffed his hat and examined it intently. Caption: A man discovers that the answers to all lifeâs mysteries lie in
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