William Boyd - Stars and bars

At least and at last he had seen the paintings, he told himself. He farted noisily. What had he eaten? Was it the corn dogs, the hoppin’ John or the turnip greens? Or was it all down to Henry’s Goat?…He’d phone Beeby with the good news tomorrow. He couldn’t see any major problem with Gage; they got on fine and he seemed happy enough to sell. He pondered vaguely on Beck-man’s notion of Freeborn’s premature sale. They were so obviously Gage’s personal possessions it seemed inconceivable that his son would have any independent claim on them himself.

But why was Gage selling? It was a question he rarely asked of his clients — it was none of the auction house’s business. Often, though, some reason was voluntarily given: security concerns, death duties, a move — but seldom, however, the most common: poverty. He strongly suspected this was what applied here. Gage was broke. Clearly he had been rich once, but everything about the household spoke of galloping penury.

He wondered how he would get through to Beeby the next day. Freeborn had said he was going away so perhaps he could prevail on Shanda without fear. He didn’t fancy having to walk into Luxora Beach every time he wanted to make a phone call…And when was that cretin Duane going to fix his car? He was paying good money for it precisely to afford him the mobility he now required, and yet it stood uselessly outside on three wheels, gathering dust.

Thinking about phoning Beeby reminded him of the call that had come through to Freeborn’s trailer. He felt sure it had been for him, but who? Beeby? Melissa checking on Bryant? Irene? The mild sensual stimulus provided by Gage’s sixteenth-century bit of erotica set up aches of longing for Irene. She should get his letter by tomorrow…He had to get her down here, to patch things up. He couldn’t let one disastrous night ruin everything. He would send her a first class return ticket to Atlanta, book them both into the plushest hotel they could find and have three or four undisturbed days together after this whole business was over. He ran through half-a-dozen scenarios of their reunion. Sleep had left him far behind now, he realized. He should get up and read, make notes on the paintings. He compiled a swift catalogue in his head, estimating possible prices. The Dutch paintings were curiosities and worth nothing significant. But the Sisleys and the Vuillards were important, and the Braque…He thought suddenly of Gage’s father and his father. They had both died in the East in a war and had never known their sons. A strange coincidence. It made him warm to the little man…Still gets a hard on from his dirty painting…

He found himself thinking again of Gage’s father’s horrible death. Surely nothing so dreadful would have befallen Arnold Dores in Burma? To his surprise he found himself worrying for his father’s safety, as if he were still alive and still involved in his perilous mission. Take care, Dad, he said to himself — and then rebuked himself for his absurd sentiment. It had been an odd moment, though, a kind of eerie time shift. He felt suffused by a low, steady sadness, which gradually gave way to unease. He hoped he wouldn’t hear of anything too awful…

The next morning Henderson got out of bed and fell over. He sat on the floor for a few seconds and watched his hands shake. A largish prism seemed to be wedged between his spine and his rib cage. The internal triangle. His viscera felt stuffed to capacity with gravel. His eyes throbbed painfully, as if they had been removed from their sockets, bounced up and down on the floor and reinserted. He crawled back between the sheets.

Bryant looked in later to inform him she was going to Atlanta with Duane to buy some records. Henderson waved her on her way. At lunchtime Alma-May brought him a pickled cucumber and chopped onion sandwich. He crawled out on to the balcony and threw it in the garden.

In mid-afternoon he received a visit from Cora.

“How are you feeling?” she said. She stood in the centre of his room, cigarette burning in one hand. She seemed quite friendly now.

“Not so good,” he replied. “Very weak. Chronic indigestion. Intermittent nausea. It must be that sipping whisky.”

“You got a phone call, Shanda says. A Miss Irene Dubrovnik? You’ve to phone back.”

“Oh! Oh right. Good. Thanks very much.”

She left and Henderson shakily got dressed. His back was aching, as if his spine couldn’t take the strain of keeping his body erect. He went to the lavatory and sat there for five minutes, teeth gritted and eyes watering with the pressure, but nothing shifted.

He tottered carefully down the stairs and shuffled over to Shanda’s trailer. Out in the park an old black man drove about on a miniature tractor cutting the grass.

Henderson knocked at the door and Shanda let him in.

“Can I use the phone?”

“The phone? Sure.”

He sat down warily on the glass and wrought iron seat. He wondered what Shanda did with herself all day. She settled down on a sofa and leafed through a magazine. He punched out Irene’s number. He felt excited but a little inhibited by Shanda’s presence and subdued somewhat by his weakened state.

“Hello, Irene. It’s Henderson.”

“Hi. I got your letter.”

“Look, I’m really sorry about all the—”

“Forget it. How are you?”

“Actually, I’ve got the most appalling indigestion. I drank something called Henry’s Goat and ate something called hoppin’ John.”

“Redneck food, Henderson. You’ve got to be reared on that stuff. Have you had grits yet?”

“It feels like it.” Perhaps that caused the stuffed-gravel sensation. He shifted slightly in his seat, turning his back towards Shanda who was listening with candid curiosity. He felt huge relief and gratitude at this restoration of feeling between him and Irene.

“Listen,” he said, “can you get down here?”

“I don’t know. When?”

“This weekend. We can stay in a hotel. Then we’ll take a few days and drive around. Charleston, Savannah, somewhere like that.”

There was a pause.

“OK, maybe I can get down on Friday night.”

“I’ll meet you at the airport. Atlanta.”

“No. I don’t know which plane I’ll get. I’ll come straight to the hotel.”

“Great. Hang on a sec.” He turned to Shanda. “Shanda, what’s the very best hotel in Atlanta?”

“Excuse me?”

“Hotel. The very best. In Atlanta.”

“Well…I guess Monopark 5000. But it’s real expensive.”

It sounded more like a brand of hair conditioner than a hotel, but he would have to take her word for it. He relayed its name to Irene, who said she’d heard of it and the massive complex of shops, plazas, banks and adventure playgrounds out of which the enormous hotel soared.

“See you there,” he said. “Friday night.” His voice went hoarse. “Bye.” He put the phone down.

“Was that your wife?” Shanda asked. “I mean your fiancée. Bryant’s mommy?”

“No.” He thought quickly. “A business associate.” No word of Irene’s trip must reach Bryant’s ears. He asked if he could make some more calls (“seein’ as how he wuz darned well a’sittin’ by the phone”) and received Shanda’s permission. She went off into the kitchenette to make him some coffee. He called Beeby and told him the good news, gave him a description of the paintings and approximate market prices and said that Gage seemed entirely happy and prepared to sell through Mulholland, Melhuish.

Beeby’s joy was profound. “We are all in your debt, Henderson. Great news. When are you coming home?”

Henderson told him of his plans to drive around for a few days, explore the South a little further.