Rules of Civility - Amor Towles [41]
—What are the chances! said Grubb.
What are the chances? How about one hundred percent.
—Why don’t you join us, he said. This is Hank. This is Johnny. Grubb pulled a chair up at his side and hapless Johnny pulled up another. Hank didn’t budge. He looked more inclined to throw us out than the bartender had.
—Fran, I said. I think I’ll mosey along.
—Oh cmon, Katey. Have a beer. Then we’ll mosey together.
She didn’t wait for an answer. She went over to Grubb leaving me the seat next to Hank. Grubb poured beer from a pitcher into two glasses that looked like they’d already been used.
—Do you live around here? Fran asked Grubb.
—Do you mind? Hank said to Fran. We’re in the middle of something.
—Oh, come on, Hank. Let it go.
—Let it go where?
—Hank. I get you think he’s a hack. But he’s the fucking precursor to cubism.
—Who says?
—Picasso says.
—I’m sorry, I said. Are you guys arguing about Cézanne?
Hank looked at me sourly.
—Who the fuck do you think we’re arguing about?
—I thought you were arguing about boxing.
—That was an analogy, Hank said dismissively.
—Hank and Grubb are painters, Johnny said.
Fran squirmed with pleasure and gave me a wink.
—But Hank, Johnny ventured cautiously. Don’t you think those landscapes are nice? I mean the green and brown ones?
—No, he said.
—There’s no accounting for taste, I said to Johnny.
Hank looked at me again, but more carefully. I couldn’t tell if he was getting ready to contradict or hit me. Maybe he wasn’t sure either. Before we found out, Grubb called to a man in the doorway.
—Hey Mark.
—Hey Grubb.
—You know these guys, right? Johnny Jerkins. Hank Grey.
The men nodded to each other soberly. No one bothered introducing us girls.
Mark sat down at a nearby table and Grubb joined him. I barely noticed when Fran followed, leaving me to fend for myself. I was too busy looking at Hank Grey. Unwavering Henry Grey. Older, shorter, he looked just like Tinker after two weeks without food, and a lifetime without manners.
—Have you seen his paintings? Johnny said, gesturing surreptitiously toward Mark. Grubb says they’re a mess.
—He’s wrong about that too, Hank said mournfully.
—What do you paint? I asked.
He considered me for a moment, trying to decide whether I deserved a reply.
—Real things, he said finally. Things of beauty.
—Still lifes?
—I don’t paint bowls of oranges, if that’s what you mean.
—Can’t bowls of oranges be things of beauty?
—Not anymore they can’t.
He reached across the table and picked up the box of Lucky Strikes that was sitting in front of Johnny.
—This is a thing of beauty, he said. The boat-hull red and howitzer green. The concentric circles. These are colors with purpose. Shapes with purpose.
He took one of the cigarettes from Johnny’s pack without saying please.
—Hank painted that, Johnny said, pointing toward a canvas that was leaning against the coal scuttle.
You could tell from Johnny’s voice that he admired Hank and not just as an artist. He seemed impressed with the whole program—as if Hank was carving out an important new persona for the American male.
But it wasn’t hard to see where Hank was coming from. There was a new generation of painters trying to take Hemingway’s ethos of the bullring and apply it to canvas; or if not to canvas, then at least to innocent bystanders. They were gloomy, arrogant, brutish, and most importantly, they were unafraid of death—whatever that means for a guy who spends his days in front of an easel. I doubt Johnny had any idea how fashionable Hank’s attitude was becoming; or what sort of Brahmin bank account was propping up the rough indifference.
The painting, which was obviously by the same person who had painted the assembly of longshoremen in Tinker’s apartment, showed the loading dock of a butchery. In the foreground were trucks parked in a row and in the background loomed a large neon sign in the shape of a steer that read VITELLI’S. While figurative, the colors and lines of the painting