The Enterprise of Death - Jesse Bullington [134]
Oswald did not have anything to say to that, but he did stand and make for the door. Manuel leaped out of his chair and intercepted him, knowing the difference between burning a bridge and setting oneself on fire in the process. The abbot was gulping like a landed carp, and Manuel moved quickly to gut him.
“Those pictures, Oswald, all those filthy pictures I sold you,” said Manuel in a low voice, and then chanced a bluff. “We both know I’m not the only one who knows you have them, eh? Quite a scandal, if a confidant of yours and the artist himself both outed you for collecting such lewd, lustful images.”
Oswald drew back as if struck, and Manuel felt the slightest tinge of guilt. This was a collector he was shaming, a patron, an aficionado. There could be no hesitation now, however, and when Oswald began parroting Manuel’s excuses back at him the artist was ready to twist the knife.
“They’re art, art! Beauty is—”
“Art? They’re pictures of whores fingering themselves, Abbot, pictures of women fucking women and men and who knows what else I put in there. Tell me quick, Oswald, and tell me honest that you’ve never jerked off looking at them and I’ll trouble you no more!”
“Trouble me no more,” groaned the man, choosing neither to confirm nor deny the allegation.
“Gladly,” said Manuel, “eagerly, and with relish. You don’t even have to make good on your referral to Rome.”
Oswald groaned louder. “Who was the Judas, Niklaus, whose sweet kiss betrayed me? Tell me that, I beg!”
“What?” Manuel blinked.
“Which of my friends told you I showed them?” Oswald spat. “Who must I settle accounts with after you’ve exacted your blood money?”
“I’ll take care of it for you, if you get me what I want,” Manuel lied effortlessly, overjoyed that his wild stab had struck home. Now there was only Katharina to deal with. She was waiting when he arrived, and with an exaggerated sigh he sat down across from her at the kitchen table.
“Well,” she said blandly as he poured himself a drink into the glass already waiting on the table. “When do you leave for Rome?”
“The damndest thing happened,” said Manuel. “I lost the commission.”
“Oh my.”
“I know. Terrible. We’ll be destitute.”
“Oh my.”
“The thing is, I think I’ve also turned Oswald off putting in a word for me about that civic position.”
“Oh my.”
“So there’s nothing for it, really, but going back to the mercenary work.” Manuel examined his wife, trying to determine the rules and stakes of the game they were playing.
“This is the last time, Manuel,” she said, and he winced to see the sadness in her eyes. “And you need to know I lied to you and her earlier—I never told them where Awa went. I’ve thought it over and don’t want to be the clever, clever wife who knows the best way to help her husband is through clever, clever lies—if you go, it’s your choice, yours alone. Your things are in the studio.”
“Ah,” said Manuel, wondering for an instant if this confession changed matters in the slightest but knowing it did not. It had always been his choice. “After dinner then I’ll—”
“If you want to catch her you’ll have to leave immediately. I packed you a few meals.”
“But Lydie just took Hieronymus and Margaretha and won’t be back until later.”
“Yes.” Katharina was still looking him in the eyes, and he had to break her gaze.
“I’d have to leave without saying goodbye.”
“Yes.”
They sat in silence in the late afternoon warmth, and slowly Katharina stood and went to her husband. She held him for a time, then scratched his head and slapped him on the back. He stood, and she followed him to the studio. She had cleaned the room from top to bottom, so that no one would have known of the Dutch whirlwind that had blown through it earlier that day. On his table was a pack laden with pine planks, charcoal, his stylus case, several pairs of clean trousers, shirts, blankets, cheese from their cousins’ goats, bread from his favorite baker,