Mr. Bridge_ A Novel - Evan S. Connell [93]
He read the letter through. It was not all he wished to say, but he felt he had clarified his position. He enclosed the headline he had torn out of the Journal, with no explanation. He thought she would understand.
98 Bernice
“My daughter. My most valuable jewel,” Isaac Glatz said, squeezing her plump arm. The girl’s black Mediterranean eyes narrowed with pleasure.
Mr. Bridge touched the brim of his hat and replied as he invariably replied when introduced to a woman: “How do you do?”
The elevator doors clicked shut, locking them in together. The cage began to descend. He heard himself talking to the jeweler, who had inquired about Mrs. Bridge and the children, and he knew he was responding normally, but he was conscious only of the girl. She resembled Ruth, but with a swarthy skin and the bent Semitic nose of her father. She was stockier than Ruth, with heavy bones and the eyebrows of a man. Her thick, masculine body gave off a strong odor as if she had been outdoors picking walnuts.
The elevator stopped. The doors slid apart. He stepped to one side so that the girl could leave first, followed by her father. Outside the building he said good afternoon to them, touched his hat again in deference to her, and went on his way. As he walked toward the garage it occurred to him that he was not attracted to the girl as he had supposed he was. It was not Bernice Glatz he wanted. Desire for his own daughter had surged from the depths where it must be concealed.
99 Jade Pig
Crossing Tenth Street on his way to the Muehlebach one rainy Wednesday he knew suddenly that he wanted to eat in some other place. Almost every day he had gone to the Terrace Grill. He decided to try the coffee shop at the Continental.
It was crowded, and he looked about for an empty table. Then he saw Grace Barron. He did not want to have lunch with her, but it would be embarrassing to pretend he had not noticed her, so he went over.
“Hello, Mr. B,” she said rather mournfully. “I thought you were planning to ignore me as usual.”
He took off his raincoat and hung it on the rack with his hat and his umbrella and sat down across from her.
“What have you there?” he asked, indicating a curious little stone object lying on a paper napkin. She pushed it toward him and he picked it up. The stone was cool and surprisingly heavy. He saw that it was a carving of a pig with pointed hooves and a sharp snout.
“He’s jade,” she said. “I think he’s jade, and he’s ancient. The catalog says he’s from the Han Dynasty. I got him at an auction this morning.”
“Jade, you say?” He turned the pig around, inspecting it critically. “I was under the impression jade was of a greenish hue.”
“Green, blue, yellow, white, almost any color. This little guy was in somebody’s tomb. That’s why he’s brown, he was buried in the earth for such a long time.”
“Do you plan to have it authenticated?”
“Do you enjoy finding out you’ve been swindled?”
“Well, perhaps you haven’t been ‘swindled,’ as you put it. Of course, I have no idea—”
“Oh, do stop,” she interrupted. “I hate to think of what I paid. If Virgil finds out he’ll be furious. I can just see him!”
Mr. Bridge smiled. “I won’t inform on you. I hope you didn’t get stung. I expect a great number of these so-called antiques are in fact fraudulent, but naturally there is a chance of it being genuine.” He continued to inspect the carving. It seemed to be well done, but he could not see why anybody would want it. “I wasn’t aware you were an art collector.”
“I saw him and I had to have him. I was terrified somebody else would get him. I was ready to spend everything. Sell the house, Virgil’s golf clubs, the Cadillac, everything. Everything. Everything!”
“If you’re pleased with your purchase, all right,” Mr. Bridge said neutrally, and set the pig on the napkin. “Let’s hope the thing is worth whatever you paid.