wanted Bordeaux and nothing but Bordeaux, and
Clay Phipps saw less and less the virtue of denying himself what he
wanted at the moment that he wanted it. He pulled the cork. The
festive pop carried with it instant scents of black currants,
pepper, forest floor, and violets. Thank God there were some
things, some few things, that a man could count on and that did not
lose their savor.
He poured two glasses and carried them into
the living room, where Robert Natchez was sitting, dressed all in
black. Phipps wore tan linen, and the two of them might have been
the only people in the Florida Keys, not counting maitre'd's and
cops, in long pants just then. Clay Phipps was self-conscious about
his pale and hairless calves; Robert Natchez keenly felt that
shorts did not befit his dignity. So they sweated behind the knees
and felt well dressed.
"Cheers," said Phipps, handing the poet a
glass. "It's too good for you, but what the hell."
"Ever the gracious host," said Natchez, and
he nosed into the wine.
They settled into their chairs. Clay Phipps
had bought his Old Town house around a dozen years before, in the
wake of the infamous Mariel boat lift. Fidel Castro, in a gesture
of great magnanimity, slyness, and spite, had thrown open the gates
of his country's loony bins and prisons and allowed anyone who
wished to escape to America. Most of the fruitcakes, murderers,
catatonics, child molesters, mental defectives, and petty thieves
had made landfall in Key West, which did the local real estate
market no good at all. Those who, like Clay Phipps, believed that
the island outpost was a tough town to kill, scarfed up historic
houses at a small fraction of their worth, and found themselves
gentry when the Marielitos, not surprisingly, were absorbed into
the population with barely an uptick in the crime rate and no
discernible effect on the community's overall level of weirdness
and delusion. So Phipps now owned a sweet dwelling on a prime
block. It was one more instance of his traveling first class
without paying for it, living well but without the resonance of
believing that living well was an earned reward.
The walls of his house were made of
horizontal slats of white-painted pine, and here and there were
brighter rectangles where Augie Silver's paintings had formerly
been hung. There was something naked, naughty about those paler
patches, they grabbed the eye like an unexpected flash of a woman's
panties. Robert Natchez looked up from his glass of ruby wine and
peeked rather lewdly at the empty places.
"Show's been over a week or more," he said.
"When're the pictures coming back?"
This was a taunt, and no mistake. Phipps
took it in stride. Taunting was what he expected and in some
perverse way what he needed from Robert Natchez. "They're not," he
said.
The poet smirked in his Bordeaux. A glad
cynicism opened up his sinuses and he suddenly smelled cedar and
mint in the wine. "Don't tell me you've decided to sell them? I
thought everything was strictly NFS."
"They're being offered at auction," said the
allegedly dead artist's alleged best friend. In an effort to appear
casual, he swung a leg over the opposite knee. The dampness on his
thigh made the nubbly linen itch. "Sotheby's. Next month."
"Ah," said Natchez. He leered from under his
black eyebrows at the nude rectangles, and managed to work into his
expression both disapproval and nasty enjoyment. The look
maneuvered his host into an abject stance of self-defense.
"You think it matters to Augie?" Phipps
heard himself saying.
"I have no opinion on what matters to the
dead," said the poet. This was just the sort of pronouncement,
portentous yet inane, that delighted Natchez, and he was tickled
with himself for mouthing it. He paused, sipped some wine, then
added, "But they were gifts."
At this, Clay Phipps could not hold back a
nervous snorting laugh, a laugh that rasped his throat. "A
sentimentalist! You of all people a sentimentalist!"
The swarthy Natchez almost blushed at
Clay Phipps saw less and less the virtue of denying himself what he
wanted at the moment that he wanted it. He pulled the cork. The
festive pop carried with it instant scents of black currants,
pepper, forest floor, and violets. Thank God there were some
things, some few things, that a man could count on and that did not
lose their savor.
He poured two glasses and carried them into
the living room, where Robert Natchez was sitting, dressed all in
black. Phipps wore tan linen, and the two of them might have been
the only people in the Florida Keys, not counting maitre'd's and
cops, in long pants just then. Clay Phipps was self-conscious about
his pale and hairless calves; Robert Natchez keenly felt that
shorts did not befit his dignity. So they sweated behind the knees
and felt well dressed.
"Cheers," said Phipps, handing the poet a
glass. "It's too good for you, but what the hell."
"Ever the gracious host," said Natchez, and
he nosed into the wine.
They settled into their chairs. Clay Phipps
had bought his Old Town house around a dozen years before, in the
wake of the infamous Mariel boat lift. Fidel Castro, in a gesture
of great magnanimity, slyness, and spite, had thrown open the gates
of his country's loony bins and prisons and allowed anyone who
wished to escape to America. Most of the fruitcakes, murderers,
catatonics, child molesters, mental defectives, and petty thieves
had made landfall in Key West, which did the local real estate
market no good at all. Those who, like Clay Phipps, believed that
the island outpost was a tough town to kill, scarfed up historic
houses at a small fraction of their worth, and found themselves
gentry when the Marielitos, not surprisingly, were absorbed into
the population with barely an uptick in the crime rate and no
discernible effect on the community's overall level of weirdness
and delusion. So Phipps now owned a sweet dwelling on a prime
block. It was one more instance of his traveling first class
without paying for it, living well but without the resonance of
believing that living well was an earned reward.
The walls of his house were made of
horizontal slats of white-painted pine, and here and there were
brighter rectangles where Augie Silver's paintings had formerly
been hung. There was something naked, naughty about those paler
patches, they grabbed the eye like an unexpected flash of a woman's
panties. Robert Natchez looked up from his glass of ruby wine and
peeked rather lewdly at the empty places.
"Show's been over a week or more," he said.
"When're the pictures coming back?"
This was a taunt, and no mistake. Phipps
took it in stride. Taunting was what he expected and in some
perverse way what he needed from Robert Natchez. "They're not," he
said.
The poet smirked in his Bordeaux. A glad
cynicism opened up his sinuses and he suddenly smelled cedar and
mint in the wine. "Don't tell me you've decided to sell them? I
thought everything was strictly NFS."
"They're being offered at auction," said the
allegedly dead artist's alleged best friend. In an effort to appear
casual, he swung a leg over the opposite knee. The dampness on his
thigh made the nubbly linen itch. "Sotheby's. Next month."
"Ah," said Natchez. He leered from under his
black eyebrows at the nude rectangles, and managed to work into his
expression both disapproval and nasty enjoyment. The look
maneuvered his host into an abject stance of self-defense.
"You think it matters to Augie?" Phipps
heard himself saying.
"I have no opinion on what matters to the
dead," said the poet. This was just the sort of pronouncement,
portentous yet inane, that delighted Natchez, and he was tickled
with himself for mouthing it. He paused, sipped some wine, then
added, "But they were gifts."
At this, Clay Phipps could not hold back a
nervous snorting laugh, a laugh that rasped his throat. "A
sentimentalist! You of all people a sentimentalist!"
The swarthy Natchez almost blushed at
Similar Books
