The Evolution of Bruno Littlemore - Benjamin Hale [99]
Dudley Lawrence, however—even then I could tell—thought he possessed something that made him feel perfectly secure in the belief that he was the most important of all. Later, I would learn that this something was lots and lots of money.
So Dudley Lawrence entered the conversation and introduced his colorful wife. He was not a scientist; he was an interested layman. I could see that Lydia was extremely interested in what he had to say. She liked his attention. He wanted to know all about me. He kept asking questions—always addressing Lydia, whom he instinctively trusted more than Norm—which increasingly infuriated Norm. Meanwhile, his wife, Regina, lowered her big body back down to my level. Eventually she decided to actually sit on the floor, right in the middle of the gallery. With all the people milling around in the room, she sat down cross-legged on the floor in front of me.
“How are you, Bruno?” she said. Without waiting for an answer, she went right on speaking. Her sea green eyes matched her turquoise elephant earrings. “I’ve been dying to meet you, Bruno. I’ve been reading all about you. I adore your work.”
I nodded, graciously acknowledging the compliment.
“I wonder,” she continued, “how you would say your unique cultural perspective as a chimpanzee living in our society informs your art?”
I wondered that myself. Since then, I’ve been fielding questions like that my entire career. People never tire of asking it. I think I replied, communicating more or less in breathy, inarticulate puttering noises and vague gestures, that I supposed being a chimpanzee in human society makes one view the human condition in terms not of being but of becoming, compelling one to understand humanity as necessarily something swept up in the flow of nature, rather than over and against nature.
“Yes of course!” said Mrs. Lawrence.
We chatted some more in this affable fashion.
I had grown comfortable enough with this woman that I had let go of Lydia’s hand.
Meanwhile, in the conversation that was happening up above us—Lydia would later relate to me—Dudley Lawrence had asked at what price he could acquire the entire collection.
“I’m sorry,” said Lydia, or something to this effect, “Bruno’s paintings are actually not for sale. We consider them valuable documents that we need to keep for research purposes, plus—”
“That’s all right,” said Mr. Lawrence, or something to this effect, as he slid his pen and checkbook back into the inner pocket of his silver suit jacket, maybe even slightly embarrassed at having asked the question. “I understand. But I would at least like to commission the artist to paint a separate work for—”
“I’m really not sure that that would be appropriate for Bruno—,” Lydia began.
But at this point Norm, whose eyes had been following the exchange with increasingly frantic greed, interrupted: “Hold on, now, perhaps we could, er, maybe we could discuss the possibility of selling some of the works in this collection. We haven’t discussed the idea, actually—”
“Yes we have,” said Lydia. “We agreed that—”
Norm cleared his throat and scratched his cheek.
“Pardon me,” Norm said to Mr. Lawrence. “Would you please excuse us for a moment? I have to consult with my colleague.”
Mr. Lawrence graciously assented, nodding in understanding as Norm grasped Lydia’s arm and led her out of earshot. The two of them walked over to the other side of the room and began to argue in terse quick whispers, with heads bent close together. While they were gone Mr. Lawrence and the Important Man built another,