Espresso Tales - Alexander Hanchett Smith [124]
“Yes,” he said, his tone becoming noticeably colder. “This is where I work.”
“I hope you don’t mind my dropping in like this,” said Janis. Matthew shrugged. “You’re very welcome,” he said, adding:
“I might drop into your flower shop some time.”
“Oh, please do,” said Janis. “Any time at all.” She cast an eye around her. “Not that we have much to interest you up there. Unless you’re particularly keen on flowers.”
“I don’t mind flowers,” he said. “In their place.” It was an enigmatic remark, capable of interpretation at many different levels. In one reading, it suggested that one should not concern oneself too much with flowers; that there were better things to think and talk about. In another sense, it could be taken to mean At the Gallery
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that flowers should remain where they grew, and should not be picked. And in another sense altogether, it could be taken as implying that people who dealt in flowers should not take up with the fathers of those who dealt in pictures, especially when the father was considerably older than the florist.
“Well, I’m not sure,” said Janis evenly. “Flowers bring a lot of pleasure to people – ordinary people.”
This was itself an enigmatic observation. At one level, it might have been self-deprecatory: working with flowers made no claims to being anything special, unlike dealing in art, which gave pleasure to a slightly grander set of people. That was one interpretation. Another was this: at least people who sell flowers to people who buy flowers have no pretensions; they get pleasure from flowers and that is justification enough. Whichever meaning Janis had in mind, she did not pursue it. Smiling politely at Pat, whom Matthew had not bothered to introduce to her, she made her way over to the far side of the room and began to peer closely at a painting of a girl picking flowers in a field.
“My father’s girlfriend,” whispered Matthew to Pat. “The florist. Note how she goes straight for the picture of flowers. Typical.”
“I don’t know,” said Pat. “She seems nice enough to me. And that’s a nice enough painting.”
“You don’t understand,” hissed Matthew. “Can’t you see the pound signs in her eyes? Can’t you see them?”
“No,” said Pat.
Matthew cast his eyes upwards in an expression of frustration, but said nothing, and returned to his catalogue. After a few minutes, Janis came over to his desk.
“You’ve got some nice paintings,” she said. “That Crosbie over there is very pretty.”
Matthew glanced at the painting in question. “Somebody may like it,” he said grudgingly. “You never know.”
“I thought that I might buy it,” said Janis. “That is, if you’ll sell it to me.”
“You’re welcome to it,” said Matthew. “It’s for sale.”
262 Dogs and Cuban History
“Then I’ll take it,” said Janis, adding: “It’s a present for your father. I’m sure that he’ll appreciate it.”
Matthew hesitated. The purchase of the painting as a gift for his father was a sign of intimacy between the two of them. One did not purchase paintings for those with whom one had a casual relationship.
“He’s not a great one for paintings,” muttered Matthew. “Are you sure?”
Janis nodded. “I’m very sure, Matthew. I’ve got to know him quite well, you know.”
Matthew said nothing. He rose from his desk and walked over to the place where the painting was hanging. Lifting it off its hook, he brought it back to Janis. He looked at the scene which Crosbie had captured so swiftly – a harbour-side scene with several fishermen sitting on upturned fish-boxes. It was a deft painting, a confident painting, of a subject that could so easily have appeared posed and trite. But that had been avoided. Janis looked at the painting and smiled. “He’ll like that, you know.”
“I hope so,” said Matthew.
Janis hesitated. “Would you mind if I did something?” she asked. “Would you mind if I told him that you chose it for him?”
It was Pat who answered the question.