Temporary Kings - Anthony Powell [63]
He stumped off in the direction of the canvases in the corner.
Glober looked round the room.
‘Mr Tokenhouse, you ought to advertise your studio as Annex to the Biennale Exposition.’
‘I should, I should. I shall have to wait another two years now.’
Tokenhouse laughed excitedly, shuffling about arranging pictures at every angle. Glober’s interest must have encouraged him to widen the scope of what he was prepared to display. In addition to those shown in the morning were others stacked in two cupboards.
‘Do I detect the influence of Diego Rivera, Mr Tokenhouse?’
‘Ah-ha, you may, you may.’
‘Or is it José Clemente Orozco, who did those frescoes at Dartmouth? There is something of that artist too.’
Tokenhouse was in ecstasies, if such a word could be used of him at all.
‘I would not deny influence of the former. I am less familiar with the work of the latter. I flatter myself in these experiments in style, now wholly abandoned, I have caught a small touch of Rivera’s gift for speaking in a popular language. This, for instance – now who the devil can that be?’
A heavy knock had been given on the outside door. Tokenhouse set down the two pictures he was holding. He did not go to the door at once. Instead, he took a small diary from his pocket, and studied it. The knock came again. Tokenhouse, put out by this interruption, went into the passageway. The sound came of the door being opened, followed by muffled conversation. The caller’s enquiry had not been audible. Tokenhouse’s answer was testy, almost shrill.
‘Yes, yes. Of course he mentioned your name to me. More than once in the past. I had no idea you were attending the Conference. You’re not? Ah-ha, I see. Well, come in then. It’s not very convenient, but now you’re here, you’d better stay. I have some people looking at my pictures. Yes, my pictures, I said – but you can wait till they’re gone. Then we can have a talk.’
He returned to the studio-room accompanied by Widmerpool.
‘This is – did you say Lord – yes, Lord Widmerpool. Ah-ha, you know everybody. That makes things easier.’
Tokenhouse spoke the word ‘Lord’ with great contempt. Neither he, nor Widmerpool himself, looked in the least as if they believed the fact of ‘knowing everyone’ made things easier. Tokenhouse had spoken the words bitterly, ironically. In his own eyes nothing much worse could happen, now that his Private View had been interrupted, the chance of a lifetime mucked up; Widmerpool, armed with an introduction, arriving at this particular moment. Tokenhouse seemed to know instinctively that Widmerpool felt no interest whatever in pictures, good or bad.
‘Take a seat.’
Widmerpool looked round. There was no very obvious place to do so. He was undoubtedly surprised at finding Glober, Ada, myself, here; not more so than I, that he should suppose it advantageous to visit Tokenhouse. The connexion could hardly be publishing. By the time Widmerpool, in an advisory capacity, had been on the Quiggin & Craggs board, Tokenhouse’s days as a publisher were over. Possibly some link went back to Widmerpool’s time in a solicitor’s office; his former firm perhaps that recording the ban on religious rites at the Tokenhouse obsequies. Widmerpool had plainly not been warned that painting was Tokenhouse’s hobby. He stared rather wildly at the pictures propped up all over the room, then nodded to each of us in turn.
‘Yes – we all know each other. How are you, Ada? We haven’t met since Fission. I expect you’re at the Conference, or come for the Film Festival?’
The last suggestion seemed to have struck him on the spur of the moment, probably on account of Glober’s film connexions. Ada pretended to be piqued.
‘Didn’t you notice me at the Bragadin palace, Kenneth? I saw you. Pam and I talked away. I should have thought she’d have mentioned that to you.’
Widmerpool, discerning a probe for information, rather than expression of wounded feelings, gave nothing away. He smiled.
‘Pam often