William Boyd - Stars and bars

“I’m afraid not. I’ve only been in New York a couple of months. Whereabouts is it?”

“It’s in back of Canal,” Gint said. “Between Eldridge Street and Alien Street.”

“Is that the lower east side?”

“You got it.”

“Ah.” Henderson suppressed his shout of laughter. He looked at Gage. The man seemed unperturbed by this information. They might as well have said their ‘gallery’ was in Harlem or the East Bronx. But the smiles were all polite, waiting for the conversation to continue.

Cora came down the stairs. To Henderson’s surprise Sereno went to meet her.

“Cora,” he said. “Good to see you again.” He kissed her on the cheek. To Henderson this came as a shock, almost an affront. Those fat wet lips on Cora’s small face.

“You remember Peter?” Sereno said.

Gint raised a hand. “Hi. We met last time.”

“Are you guys staying with us?” Cora asked, in familiar tones.

“No. In Atlanta.” Sereno offered Cora a cigarette and lit it for her. “Monopark 5000. Quite a place.”

Henderson tasted voleburger in his mouth.

“Isn’t that where you and your colleague are staying tomorrow?” Cora said. How did she know? Shanda.

“Hey, that’s wonderful,” Sereno observed. “Let’s all have dinner. Freeborn, Cora, Shanda, you and your colleague.”

“Alas, I’m fully occupied that night. Very sorry.”

“Carbon dating,” Cora said.

“Dating who?” Gint said, then laughed. Sereno joined in with enthusiasm.

“That wit,” Sereno said. “I love his wit.”

“Could I have a word?” Gage said softly, touching Henderson’s arm. “In my room.” He trotted off up the stairs. Henderson made his goodbyes to the gallery owners and followed obediently.

Gage stood in his room at the escritoire studying some documents. He waved Henderson to a chair and handed him a piece of paper. It was a list of his paintings with prices beside them.

“I’ll come right out, Henderson. Sereno and Gint have made me an offer for the paintings.”

Henderson saw that the figures approximated closely to his own, except in one crucial degree: Sereno and Gint were offering $100,000 each for the four Dutch landscapes, the portrait and the allegory.

“But this is absurd,” Henderson said in desperation.

“Have you seen what they’re offering for the landscapes? They must be mad.”

“It’s up to them. Their estimation of the value.”

“But nobody would ever pay this amount. It’s preposterous.”

“One man’s opinion, Henderson.” He moved away to look at the Dutch paintings. “I must confess,” he kept his back to him, “that I feel you have been a little — what shall we say? — hasty in pricing the landscapes. I ask myself…I wonder if your urge to leave us has influenced your evaluation.”

Henderson protested loudly. Gage turned.

“Look, I want to sell through Mulholland, Melhuish,” he said benignly. “For the sake of my friendship with Eddie Mulholland and, if I may say so, with you. But I can’t afford to make a half-million deficit.” He came over and patted Henderson’s shoulder. “I’d like for you to stay on a few more days. Consider the Dutch paintings some more.”

“But I’m going to Atlanta tomorrow. Then, um, other business demands—”

“I’m really sorry to hear that. But I appreciate your time. Thanks for coming down.”

Henderson felt faint. He improvised. “Actually, this meeting in Atlanta is with a…an art historian and expert, precisely to do with, ah, some ambiguities in my dating of the Dutch paintings. It may, in fact I’m sure, it’ll cause me to reconsider.”

“Great. So, have your meeting and return here. Let me know the result.”

“Yes.” Henderson shut his eyes.

“I’m in no hurry. My decision can wait a few days.”

Henderson stood up. “May I ask how you got to Sereno and Gint.”

“They’re business associates of Freeborn. Freeborn suggested I get a second bid on the paintings. It makes sense. He called them up and they came on down.”

“I think I should tell you that I think they know as much about art as I do about medical wadding.”

“Can I be honest? I don’t really care, Henderson. I’m not giving the paintings to a museum. They are offering me cash now. I don’t have to wait for an auction.”

“I’d be very suspicious—”

“I think that’s my business, Henderson. Freeborn has told me that they are new to the art world. They’re starting out. But so what? They’ve got money.” He punched Henderson lightly on the shoulder. “Healthy competition, Henderson. A fair fight. Stay on a few days. Think, relax, enjoy yourself. I’m sure we’ll work everything out.”

♦

Henderson walked slowly down the stairs. This was disaster from a quarter he’d never anticipated. Nightmarish possibilities and problems presented themselves to him. What would Beeby do if they lost the sale? What would Irene say about another cancellation? That was the first priority: he had to phone Irene, put her off for a few days. Then warn Beeby of the new developments.

He walked outside and listened for noises from Freeborn’s trailer. It seemed quiet. Perhaps he had gone off somewhere with Sereno and Gint. He could hear the faint sound of a television. Shanda watching a soap. He knocked. Let it be Shanda, let it be Shanda, he prayed.

Freeborn opened the door. Behind him Henderson saw Sereno, Gint and Shanda watching TV.

“What the fuck do you want?”

“Is there any chance…? I’d be most grateful if I could…could I make a phone call?”

“No.”

The door was slammed shut. Henderson thought he heard him say “It was that English asshole,” followed by loud laughter, but perhaps it was just the television. He suddenly didn’t feel like telephoning anybody. He would just have to take his chances and endeavour to make the best of it.

Henderson packed glumly the next morning. His fear and concern over the arrival of Sereno and Gint had grown. What was going on? Could they really buy the Gage collection for three million? Or was it all part of some monumental bluff?…

Another portion of his brain writhed with apprehension at having to tell Irene of the radical truncation of their little holiday together. He was hoping now that his one night with her would be a sufficiently lyrical experience for her to forgive him. He would have to choose his moment with care…

Also, in Atlanta with its functioning telephones, he would call Beeby and tell him of this new development and work out some sort of a counter attack. Perhaps they could guarantee the reserve prices; work up the Dutch pictures’ value somewhat; suggest to Gage that — given enough publicity — the sale price might go even higher on the Sisleys or the Braque? That might work.

As he closed his case he felt thankful that in one area at least — his nether regions — everything was functioning normally at last. The squirrelburger, like some potent catalyst, had shifted the blockage in the small hours of the morning. It had proved to be the most efficient laxative he had ever encountered. He felt altogether fitter, younger— lighter — than he had done since arriving in Luxora Beach. And despite his looming crises he experienced too a repeating tremor of excitement at the prospect of seeing Irene. It seemed like years since he had spent some time in the company of a human being with whom there were reciprocal feelings of affection. Here there was only strangeness, cynicism and malevolent dislike.

He walked down the passage to Bryant’s room. He had told her last night that she too was leaving and had given her a choice of destination. She had opted sullenly for New York with no trace of her earlier protests. Perhaps she was, after all, keen to get away as well.