Rules of Civility - Amor Towles [42]
Very much in the style of Stuart Davis.
—Gansevoort Street? I asked.
—That’s right, said Hank, a little impressed.
—Why did you decide to paint Vitelli’s?
—Because he lives there, said Johnny.
—Because I couldn’t get it out of my mind, corrected Hank. Neon signs are like sirens. You’ve got to tie yourself to the mast if you’re gonna paint em. You know what I mean?
—Not really.
I looked at the picture.
—But I like it, I said.
He winced.
—It’s not a decoration, sister. It’s the world.
—Cézanne painted the world.
—All those fruits and ewers and drowsy dames. That wasn’t the world. That was a bunch of guys wishing they were painters to the king.
—I’m sorry, but I’m pretty sure the painters who curried favor did history paintings and portraits. Still lifes were a more personal form.
Hank stared at me for a moment.
—Who sent you here?
—What?
—Were you the president of your debating society or something? All that may have been true a hundred years ago, or whatever, but after being soaked in admiration, one generation’s genius is another’s VD. Have you ever worked in a kitchen?
—Sure.
—Really? At summer camp? The dorm dining hall? Listen. In the army, if you draw KP, you might chop a hundred onions in half an hour. The oil gets so deep in your fingertips, for weeks you can smell it every time you take a shower. That’s what Cézanne’s oranges are now, and his landscapes too. The stink of onion in your fingertips. Okay?
—Okay.
—Yeah, okay.
I looked over at Fran thinking maybe it was time to go, but she had moved on to Grubb’s lap.
Like most belligerent people, Hank was getting tiresome fast, so I had good reason to call it a night. But I couldn’t stop wondering about Tinker’s instincts. I mean, how should I take it that he thought Hank and I would hit it off? I decided to take it badly.
—So, I gather you’re Tinker’s brother.
I definitely knocked him off the rails with that one. You could tell it was a sensation he hadn’t much experience with and didn’t much like.
—How do you know Tinker?
—We’re friends.
—Really?
—Is that surprising?
—Well, he was never much for this sort of back and forth.
—Maybe he’s got better things to do.
—Oh, he’s got better things to do, all right. And maybe he’d get around to doing them—if it weren’t for that manipulative cunt.
—She’s a friend of mine too.
—No accounting for taste. Right?
Hank reached over for another one of Johnny’s cigarettes.
Where did this hack get off running down Evelyn Ross, I thought to myself. Let’s throw him through a windshield and see how he holds up.
I couldn’t resist observing:
—Didn’t Stuart Davis paint a pack of Lucky Strikes?
—I don’t know. Did he?
—Sure he did. Come to think of it, your paintings remind me a lot of his—what with the urban commercial imagery and primary colors and simplified lines.
—Nice. You should dissect frogs for a living.
—I’ve done that too. Doesn’t your brother have some Stuart Davises in his apartment?
—Do you think Teddy knows the least thing about Stuart Davis? Fuck. He would have bought a tin drum if I told him to.
—Your brother doesn’t seem to think so poorly of you.
—Yeah? Maybe he should.
—I bet you drew a lot of KP.
Hank laughed until he coughed. He picked up his glass and tilted it at me with his first smile of the evening.
—You got that right, sister.
When we all stood to go, it was Hank who covered the check. He took some wadded bills out of his pocket and tossed them on the table like they were candy wrappers. What about their colors and shapes? I wanted to ask. Didn’t they have purpose? Weren’t they things of beauty?
If only his trust officer could see him now.
After the drink at that Irish bar, I figured I’d seen the last of Fran. But she got hold of my number and called one rainy Saturday. She apologized for having ditched me and said she wanted to make it up by treating me to the movies. She took me to a string of bars instead and we had a gay old time. When I got around to asking why she had bothered to track me down, she said it