Judith Merril - The Year's Best Science Fiction & Fantasy 7

“How’s that?”

“No strings attached. No pregnancies, no mothers-in-law, no alimony.”

He glanced at his gold watch. “Listen, I haven’t much time. I have to get to New York before closing. What I came to see you about is this. I’ve just got to find a Jackson Pollock. I’ve got a party that will pay up in the five figures.”

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“Look, son,” he said, “don’t act so innocent. You know and I know that a lot of the artists out here liked Pollock very much, and he liked them. One way or another they got pictures out of him, and now they’ve got them hidden, waiting for higher prices. You’ve been living here for years, and you’ve been to all their houses—”

A moth ball shot between his feet, sped across the room, and came to rest with considerable clatter among the pots under the sink.

“What was that?” said Seymore sharply.

“There’s a lobster under the bed,” I explained. “He used to play marbles with the kids.”

“Look here,” said Seymore, “you been taking that Metrecal, or whatever they call it?”

“You mean mescaline?”

“Whatever they call it,” he said, “lay off. It’s ruined a lot of the boys down here. Tell me, how’s your painting coming along?”

“There’s one over there. I did it this morning.”

“Oh, God!” he moaned. “It’s way behind the Zeitgeist. It’s just a copy of what Harry Glottnik was doing last year. Got any others?”

“There are some piled in the corner.”

He began to look over them rapidly.

“Hmm,” he said. “Hmm… Say fella, you’ve got something here. I mean the one with the butterflies on it.”

“They’re not butterflies, they’re moths.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Seymore. “It’s saleable.”

He walked across the room and put his hand on my shoulder. “You know, fella, I kind of like you. And frankly, you’ve got a certain talent. It’s dormant, but it’s there. You’ve seen me sell some of these jerks that haven’t got half what you’ve got.” His face crinkled into a persuasive smile. “How about it, fella? Can’t you and I do a little business?”

“What do you mean?”

“Now don’t play stupid. Just tell me which one of the artists out here has a nice Pollock hidden in the attic. Just tell me, and I’ll take you on, and have you hanging in the Modern by Christmas.”

I picked up O’Hara’s book on Pollock off the floor and put my foot on the first step of the ladder.

“O.K., Seymore,” I said. “It’s a deal.”

She was at the far end of the loft, her elbows on the high sill of the little window. She didn’t move when I dropped the trap door. She was deeply absorbed, staring into the far distance. I don’t think she realized I was there until I got directly behind her.

“Darling!” she cried. “I’ve been thinking of you. You can’t imagine what I’ve seen.”

“What have you seen?”

“I think it has something to do with that nice man downstairs. I really do.” She took my face in her hands and looked at me for quite a long while. “I have a wonderful idea,” she said. “Why don’t you and I go over to the sofa and make love?”

I was so startled by this that I let go of O’Hara’s book. Its pointed cover struck her bare foot. She let out a small cry of pain.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“It’s a book full of Pollocks.”

She took her foot in her hand. “What are Pollocks? Animals of some sort?”

“No, no. Jackson Pollock. A great modern artist. Haven’t you heard of him?”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “We’ve sent hardly anyone down here lately. Only Buckminster Fuller.” She held the book up to the window. “Oh! This stuff. We passed through it ages ago. We called it Pre-Negative Realism.”

She bent her head over the pages. Beyond, on my climbing rose bush, there was one white rose left. In the center of it, a brilliant viridian green, was the last of the Japanese beetles.

“You know,” I said, “you can do me a great favor.”

“Why, I’d love to,” she said, with really enormous enthusiasm.

“You’re very amiable.”

“But naturally. I’m descended from the few who were left. So of course we’re amiable. What can I do for you?”

“Do you think you can turn yourself into a Pollock?”

“How large?” she asked.

“About forty-two by forty-eight. Just something that would fit up against the back seat of a Jaguar.”

“Oh, how exciting. You mean I’m going for a ride with that attractive dealer?”

“That’s the general idea,” I said. “He wants very much to hang you in his gallery. But I hope,” and I took her hand, “I hope that as soon as you hear him telephone the man about insurance, you’ll slip out and find your way back here.”

“Of course I will, darling,” she replied. “But how shall I find my way?”

“You take something,” I said, “they call the Long Island Railroad.”

She moved behind me.

“Don’t let go of my hand,” she said. “And don’t look back. Tell me, what do you see? Off in the distance?”

“Why the lighthouse at Montauk.”

“And beyond?”

“A dark fog rolling in.”

“And beyond?”

‘That’s all. What can you see?”

“I see a city, with water flowing through the streets.”

“It could be Mobile, Alabama,” I said. “It was right in the path of a hurricane. On the radio this morning.”

“It could be,” she said, “but I don’t think it is. The houses are of stone that is cut like lace, and the people move as if to music. There are four enormous shapes in the sky.”

“What sort of shapes?”

“Horses,” she said. “And there is a building, somewhat out of taste, that is filled with your pictures.” She was whispering now, her lips were close to my ear.

“There is a really attractive man with a forked beard, and he is handing you a check for a million… a million…”

“A million what?” I cried, and turned to her. But she wasn’t there. A strong smell of fresh paint drifted out the window and instantly disappeared. And then I realized that in my hand I held a Pollock, signed and dated 1949.

I began to feel a little guilty. I wondered if I’d done the right thing in changing her into a mere Pollock; and, I began to realize as I studied it, not a very good one at that. I was just about to politely request the Pollock to change itself back again when there came a loud knocking directly beneath my feet. Seymore, downstairs, had found the handle of the mop; he was getting impatient. I decided I’d go along with him. I set the picture up against the wall opposite the little window in the loft, and examined it critically.

“Frankly,” I said, “your color, it’s not Pollock’s color at all. It’s too sweet. It’s too old-fashioned. It’s School of Paris. And that big drip on the upper right throws the whole thing out of balance. If I were you I would eliminate it completely.”

Evidently her spirit still retained its amiability, for as I spoke a certain American harshness crept into the color and the heavy black drip faded and disappeared.

“That’s excellent!” I said. “Now, you’ve got Pollock’s calligraphic quality all right, but up there on the left you’re all tangled up. Clarify it a little, give it more meaning. That’s right. That’s better. Now. Just one thing more: couldn’t you possibly increase the over-all tension? That’s it. That’s perfect!”

I threw open the trap door and started down the ladder. But I had miscalculated. The picture was too large for the opening. It wouldn’t even go through diagonally.

“Shrink it down to forty-by-forty-six,” I whispered hoarsely.