Гарри Гаррисон - 50 in 50

Brent stopped, aware of how weak his reasons seemedwhen brought out in conversation. He was more than pleased when Di Costa interrupted him.

"I understand perfectly, Mr. Dalgreen. I have had the same experience many times when looking at your paintings and those of some of our fellow artists." He smiled. "Not all of them, I assure you. I have looked at these works and said to myself, I would like to meet the man who did that. This very rarely happens, a fact which I deplore. That you feel the same way towards my work is both flattering and most enjoyable."

Di Costa's friendliness broke the ice; they were soon on the best of terms. Brent sat in the comfortable leather chair while Di Costa mixed drinks at the built-in bar. This gave him a chance to look around the room. A brown study, it fitted the word. The decorations were all subdued to the room as a whole, the sort of things a man would buy for himself. The only clashing note was the rotary book rack in the corner.

He suddenly realized that it was revolving slowly, had been doing so since he first entered the room. Something else. . yes, there on the desk, the bronze ashtray was also revolving with the same steady motion. They created an unusual effect, yet an oddly pleasing one. It fitted the room and the owner's personality.

"And here are the drinks. A toast first — always a good idea. Long life and good painting, to both of us."

Brent frowned to himself as he sipped the drink.

There is a fascination about shop talk that carpenters and bank executives indulge in with equal pleasure. Brent found himself easily drawn into conversation on the merits of alizarin crimson and the influence of Byzantine art on Renaissance Italy. Yet all the time he talked a small portion of his mind was weighing the other's words, testing and observing. But his host was everything he seemed to be — a gentleman of private means with an active interest in painting.

A half hour had passed, entertaining but unenlightening, when a light rap sounded on the study door. It opened to reveal an attractive woman, tastefully dressed in a gray-and-silver robe of classic Greek design, the latest fashion.

She hesitated in the doorway. "I don't mean to disturb you, Arthur, but there is — oh, excuse me, I had no idea you had a guest."

Di Costa took her gently by the arm. "I'm very glad you did, my dear. Let me introduce the famous Brent Dalgreen." He passed his arm around her waist. "My wife, Marie."

Brent took her hand and smiled into her large brown eyes. She returned his greeting warmly — with exactly the right amount of pressure on his hand. A loving wife, a pleasant home — Arthur Di Costa was a model of the modern gentleman. The painting in the museum seemed unimportant in the face of all this normality.

For a fraction of an instant as he held her hand, his eyes were drawn to a portrait that hung next to the door.

It was only by the strongest effort of will that he prevented himself from crushing her hand. Marie was there in the portrait, her portrait. .

The same subtle transformation as the painting in the museum. Something about a twist of the mouth — the haunting look in her eyes as she stared out of the picture. He tore his gaze from the painting but not before Di Costa had noticed his attention.

"It must be a strange sensation," Di Costa laughed, "to meet both my beautiful Marie and her portrait at the same instant. But here, let me show you." He touched the frame and a soft light bathed the painting. Brent mumbled something polite and stepped nearer, as if mere proximity would answer his questions.

Di Costa seemed flattered by his famous guest's interest. They discussed the many problems of a painting and their happy or unhappy solution. Blushing slightly, Marie was coaxed into standing under her portrait. She pretended not to notice the dissecting artistic analysis that could be so embarrassing to the outsider: "That blue hollow in the neck helps the form". . "the effect of the gold hair on the cheekbones." She turned her head "just so," and "a little more" while they talked.

Yet all during the discussion a small part of Brent's mind was weighing and analyzing. The how of the paintings was becoming clearer although the why still escaped him. It wasn't that there was an alienness in the figure itself, it was more as if the person were looking at something totally strange to worldly eyes.

He felt the small throb of an incipient headache as his frustrated thoughts danced dizzily inward on themselves in ever tightening circles. The mellow sound of a chime from the wall cabinet provided a welcome interruption. Di Costa excused himself and stepped out of the room — leaving Brent alone with Marie. They had just seated themselves when Di Costa returned, looking as if he had received painful news.

"I must ask you to excuse me, but my lawyer wishes to see me at once — a small but important matter about my estate. I am most unhappy to leave now. We must continue our talk another time. Please do not leave on my account, Mr. Dalgreen — my house is at your service."

When her husband left, Brent and Marie Di Costa talked idly on irrelevant topics; they had to, since he had no idea of what might be relevant. You couldn't walk up to a girl whom you'd met for the first time and ask, "Madam, does your husband paint monsters? Or perhaps you dabble in witchcraft! Is that the secret?"

A quick glance at his watch convinced him it was time to go, before he wore out his welcome.

Turning to light a cigarette his eyes fell on the mantle clock. He registered surprise.

"Why, it's three-thirty already! I'm afraid I'll have to be leaving."

She rose, smiling. "You have been a most delightful guest.” she laughed. "I know I speak for Arthur as well as myself when I say I hope to see you again."

"I may take you up on that," Brent said.

Their forward progress was suddenly impeded as the elevator swung open to discharge a small bundle of screaming humanity. Dazed, Brent realized it was a young girl as she swept past. The child collapsed on Marie Di Costa's shoulder, her golden hair shaking with muffled sobs. A plastic doll with a shattered head gave mute evidence of the source of the disturbance.

Brent stood by self-consciously until the crying was soothed. Marie flashed him an understanding smile while she convinced the child at least to say hello to the visitor. He was rewarded with the sight of the red, tear-stained face.

"Dotty, I want you to meet Mr. Dalgreen."

"How do you do, Mr. Dalgreen. . but Mommy the boy stepped on the doll and he laughed when it broke and…"

The thought was once again too much to bear — the tears began to course again through the well-used waterways.

"Cheer up, Dotty. You wouldn't want your father to see you like this.” Brent suggested.

These seemingly innocent words, while having no effect on the little girl, had a marked effect on her mother. Her face whitened.

"Arthur is not Dotty's father, Mr. Dalgreen. You see, this is my second marriage. He… I mean we cannot have children." She spoke the words as if they were a pain, heavy within her.

Brent was slightly embarrassed — yet elated at the same time. This was the first crack in the facade of normality that concealed the occupants of the house. Her sudden change of expression could only mean that there was something troubling her — something he would give his last tube of oil paint to find out. Perhaps it wasn't the secret hidden in the painting, but there must be a relationship somewhere. He was determined to search it out.

Apartment lights were out all over the city, the daytime world was asleep. Brent stirred in the large chair and reached out for the glass of sparkling Burgundy that was slowly dying on the end table. A little flat — but still very good. It was one of the luxuries he allowed himself. A luxury that might really be called a necessity to one who lived by selling his emotional responses, translated into color.