Temporary Kings - Anthony Powell [65]
‘I’m sorry I didn’t know you were an artist,’ said Widmerpool.
There was silence. Tokenhouse blew his nose. Glober returned to the question of buying a picture himself.
‘Then I take it you will sell one, Mr Tokenhouse?’
‘I see no reason why not, no reason at all.’
‘The emigrant ship?’
‘They are a poor family found travelling without a ticket on the vaporetto.’
‘Better still. A souvenir of Venice. That’s fine.’
Glober, certainly aware of Widmerpool’s impatience to speak with Tokenhouse alone, was determined not to be hurried. Tokenhouse, equally recognizing Widmerpool’s claim on him, whatever that was, also showed no scruple about keeping him waiting. He seemed almost to enjoy doing so. Glober enquired about terms. Widmerpool was getting increasingly restive. He fidgeted about. Glober began to argue that the sum Tokenhouse had named as price for his picture was altogether inadequate. A discussion now developed similar to that about paying the restaurant bill. At last Widmerpool could bear it no longer. He interrupted them.
‘I expect you know our mutual friend was unable to come?’
He addressed himself to Tokenhouse, who took no notice of this comment.
‘Our friend is not here,’ Widmerpool repeated.
Although clear we should have to go soon, the strain of waiting for that moment was telling on him. Tokenhouse merely nodded, as much as to say he accepted that as regrettable, though of no great importance.
‘He mentioned when I last saw him he might not be able to undertake the trip this time… Now, about wrappings. It will have to be newspaper. You must not mind it being a not very pro-American journal.’
Tokenhouse laughed quite heartily at his own joke. The all but unprecedented sale of a picture had for the moment quite altered him. He could not be bothered with Widmerpool’s problems, however grave, until the negotiation was completed.
‘It’s all – well – a bit unfortunate,’ said Widmerpool.
‘Ah-ha, it is? I’m sorry … Now, string? Here we are. We’ll have to unknot this. I think it good to have to make use of your hands from time to time. A bourgeois upbringing has given me no aptitude in that direction. I always tie granny knots. There we are. Not a very neat parcel, I fear, but people don’t fuss about that sort of thing in this quarter of Venice. There we are. There we are.’
He handed Glober the picture, enclosed now in several sheets of Unità. Glober took it. Tokenhouse stood back.
‘Luckily my pictures are a manageable size. Patrons of Veronese or Tiepolo would need more than the painter’s morning paper to bring their purchases home wrapped up.’
The name of Tiepolo seemed to cause a moment’s faint embarrassment, not only to Widmerpool, but also, for some reason, to Ada and Glober. In any case, if we did not leave, Widmerpool was soon going to request our withdrawal in so many words. I could recognize the signs. Glober, too, seeing a showdown imminent, and deciding against a head-on clash at that moment, brought matters to a close, shaking hands with Tokenhouse. Tokenhouse saw us to the top of the stairs.
‘I may get in touch with you again. Nick, before you leave Venice. There might be a small package I should like you to post for me in England. The mails are very uncertain here. Ah-ha, yes. Goodbye to you then, goodbye. I’m glad we had opportunity to meet again, Mr Glober. Yes, yes. I do my poor best. Ah-ha, ah-ha. I hope I may at least have acted as a signpost away from Formalism. Yes, do let me know about the blocks, Mrs Quiggin. I quite see your position. Goodbye, goodbye.’
We left him to Widmerpool, whatever dialogues lay ahead of them. After reaching the street, nothing was said for a minute or two. Then Glober spoke.
‘That was a most interesting experience – and a superb addition to my collection of twentieth-century primitives.’
‘I adored Mr