Bluebeard - Kurt Vonnegut [42]
In the picture, they were obviously wondering if they could be playmates, or whether they had better go their separate ways.
In the story, the two black boys had very comical names: “Herman” and “Verman.” I often heard it said that nobody could paint black people like Dan Gregory, but he did it entirely from photographs. One of the first things he ever said to me was that he would never have a black person in his house.
I thought that was great. I thought everything he said was great for a little while. I was going to become what he was, and regrettably did in many ways.
I sold that painting of the two black boys and the two white boys to a real-estate and insurance millionaire in Lubbock, Texas, who has the most complete collection of Dan Gregory paintings in the world, he told me. As far as I know, he has the only such collection, for which he has built a large private museum.
He discovered somehow that I used to be Gregory’s apprentice, and he called me up to ask if I had any of my master’s works I was willing to part with. I had only that one, which I hadn’t looked at for years, since it hung in the bathroom of one of the many guest rooms here which I had had no reason to enter.
“You sold the only picture that was really about something,” said Allison White. “I used to look at it and try and guess what would happen next.”
Oh: one last thing Allison White said to me before she and Celeste went upstairs to their quarters which had priceless ocean views: “We’ll get out of your way now,” she said, “and we don’t care if we never find out what’s in the potato barn.”
So there I was all alone downstairs. I was afraid to go upstairs. I didn’t want to be in the house at all, and seriously considered taking up residence again as what I had been to dear Edith after her first husband died: a half-tamed old raccoon in the potato barn.
So I went walking for hours on the beach—all the way to Sagaponack and back again, reliving my blank-brained, deep-breathing hermit days.
There was a note on the kitchen table from the cook, from Allison White, saying my supper was in the oven. So I ate it. My appetite is always good. I had a few drinks, and listened to some music. There was one thing I learned during my eight years as a professional soldier which proved to be very useful in civilian life: how to fall asleep almost anywhere, no matter how bad the news may be.
I was awakened at two in the morning by someone’s rubbing the back of my neck so gently. It was Circe Berman.
“Everybody’s leaving,” I said. “The cook gave notice. In two weeks, she and Celeste will be gone.”
“No, no,” she said. “I’ve talked to them, and they’re staying.”
“Thank God!” I said. “What did you say to them? They hate it here.”
“I promised them I wasn’t leaving,” she said, “so they’ll stay, too. Why don’t you go up to bed now? You’ll be very stiff in the morning if you spend all night down here.”
“O.K.,” I said groggily.
“Mama’s been out dancing, but she’s home again,” she said. “Go to bed, Mr. Karabekian. All’s well with the world.”
“I’ll never see Slazinger again,” I said.
“What do you care?” she said. “He never liked you and you never liked him. Don’t you know that?”
17
WE MADE SOME SORT of contract that night. It was as though we had been negotiating its terms for quite some time: she wanted this, I wanted that.
For reasons best known to herself, the widow Berman wants to go on living and writing here rather than return to Baltimore. For reasons all too clear to myself, I am afraid, I want someone as vivid as she is to keep me alive.
What is the biggest concession she has made? She no longer mentions the potato barn.
To return to the past:
After Dan Gregory