William Boyd - Stars and bars

“I can see exactly what you mean,” Henderson said, diplomatically. “There’s no point in accumulation for accumulation’s sake.”

He moved back to the Dutch paintings.

“I bought those because I was homesick,” Gage said. “They reminded me of round here.”

Henderson couldn’t spot any similarity between the wet sombre landscapes and the countryside near Luxora Beach.

“And that feller there reminded me of my father. And the other one,” he indicated the allegory. “Hell, it’s just a dirty painting.” He caught hold of Henderson’s elbow and whispered in his ear. “Tell you a secret. It gave me a hard on when I saw it in the gallery. Still does, sixty years later.”

To avoid having to reply, Henderson peered closer. The painting was small, twenty by fourteen inches approximately. In a rather badly painted allegorical landscape — crags, woods, cataracts, stormy mouse-grey clouds, a distant view of sea and luxuriant islands — was a simple columned temple or shrine. Within this, glimpsed between the widely spaced columns, were two women. One woman was in the traditional sackcloth and ashes of mourning. She knelt, hands clasped, but her head was turned away towards the other. Even though she was in an attitude of prayer her face wore a broad smile. The other woman — dark, slim, younger — was laughing too. She was holding up the skirt of her robe to reveal her pudenda. She had plump creamy thighs, slightly parted. Her vaginal crease was clearly visible and some tiny single-haired brush had been used to touch in a near-transparent smoke of pubic curls. By her feet was a jug.

The smiles on the women’s faces were wide — almost crude grins — wide enough to reveal their teeth.

He looked at the young girl again. To his shame he felt a stirring in his trousers. He turned quickly to the portrait. Some hefty Dutch burgher with a dense beard. There was a slight resemblance to the portrait in the dining room. He remarked on this to Gage. He had to say something.

“And you say your father died when you were two?”

“That’s right,” Gage said.

“My father died before I was born.”

“I’m sorry,” Gage apologized, as if he were in some way responsible.

“He was killed in Burma, in the war. The Second World War.”

“Now, there is a coincidence,” Gage said. “My father died in a war too. In the Philippines.”

“What war was that?”

“Our war against the Philippines.” This was news to Henderson. “1898 to 1902.”

“What on earth was the United States doing fighting a war against the Philippines?”

“I don’t rightly know,” Gage said thoughtfully. “We killed three million of them, too.”

“You’re joking.”

“No sir. But the gu-gus got my Daddy. When they killed him they cut off his pecker and stuck it in his mouth.”

“Good God! How appalling!” Henderson touched his mouth and his groin reflectively.

“Nasty little war, that one,” Gage said. “Seems that’s what the gu-gus did to their victims.”

“The ‘gu-gus’ are the Philippines?”

“That’s right. But I don’t think there’s any call for that kind of mutilation.”

“Lord no,” said Henderson, unsettled. “Absolutely not.”

Then, to his astonishment, Gage dropped into a boxer’s crouch and fired a volley of jabs at the air in front of his face. Henderson was almost sick on the carpet, so taken aback was he. He reeled away.

“You a boxer, Mr Dores?” Gage said, still darting lefts and rights.

“No. I…no I’m not.”

“That’s a fair fight. Whew.” Gage stopped and patted his chest. “But there’s no such thing as a fair fight outside of a sporting arena, wouldn’t you agree?”

“It’s a point, I suppose. I don’t really know.”

“Five’ll get you ten your father didn’t die in a fair fight. Just like mine.”

“I’ve no idea.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Funnily enough I’ve been trying to discover for the last year how in fact he did die. Been writing to men who served with him, that sort of thing.”

“No such thing as a fair fight. Remember that.” Gage paced up and down his room. He seemed strangely flushed and excited. “You a sportsman?”

“Not really. I do a bit of fencing from time to time.”

“Fencing? You mean?” he did a hand-twirling flourish and lunged with an imaginary sword.

“Yes.”

Gage laughed. “Are you putting me on?”

“No, no, I assure you. I enjoy it.”

“The word ‘foible’ comes from fencing, am I right?”

“Yes. The foible is the weak part of the blade.”

“Foible…” Gage paused. His exertions had tousled his thick white hair. Henderson noticed how it seemed to spring straight up out of his skull for an inch before its weight caused it to fall over. A remarkable head of hair, he thought. Gage was looking at the carpet and tugging at the loose skin beneath his jaw.

“Know what unites us, Mr Dores? Every swinging dick, as we used to say in the army?”

“Well, it depends…”

“We all want to be happy, and we’re all going to die.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“You might say those are the only two unchallenge-ably true facts that apply to every human being on this planet.”

“Indeed.” Henderson’s eye shifted nervously about the room, glancing at the paintings. “Beauty is truth, truth beauty’ etc…That sort of thing seems a little rarified sometimes in this day and age.”

“I couldn’t have put it better myself. Tell me something, Mr Dores.” Gage wandered over to the Vuillards. “We all want to be happy and we’re all going to die. Wouldn’t you think that if everybody knew that, acknowledged that, things would be different?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yeah…” Gage frowned. There was a pause.

“I think these are my favourites,” Henderson indicated the Vuillards. “Magnificent.” He was disturbed and unsettled by the little old man. Vaguely shocked, too, by the news of Gage senior’s hideous mutilation. He wondered if his own researches into his father’s death would turn up something as distressing. Better perplexed ignorance, perhaps, than that sort of knowledge…He grimaced. Some blend of complicated writhing and uncoiling was going on in the depths of his abdominal cavity. He forced himself to concentrate.

“With paintings of this quality we would be happy to waive our seller’s commission. Naturally, there will be a full colour catalogue and—”

“Let’s talk about the details tomorrow, Mr Dores. It’s getting late.” He opened the door; he looked a little troubled. “And I must get back to my guests.”

Henderson said he thought he would go straight on to bed as he was still feeling the worse for wear. Gage left him at the top of the stairs and he walked slowly along the corridor to his room. As he passed Bryant’s room she came out.

“Hi,” she said. “How are you feeling?”

“Where are you off to?”

“Duane asked if I wanted to listen to some of his records.”

“Well, try to keep the noise down, OK?”

“Sure. And listen, Duane says he’s sorry but he’ll try to get your tyre back tomorrow.”

“Good. Look, what, um, happened with Cardew?”

“Oh God. He kept sorta trying to twine his legs round mine, so I let him have it in the knee with a fork.”

“Oh.”

“Dirty old men. I hate them.”

“See you tomorrow. Goodnight.”

♦

As he undressed, Henderson felt overwhelmed with tiredness. He climbed wearily between the sheets and laid his head with a sigh of relief on his cool pillow. Within seconds it became uncomfortably warm. He turned over. His ears were like hotplates. He lay on his back, breathing steadily, trying to summon up a mood of controlled relaxation. He was still awake an hour later when he heard the Cardews’ car drive away.