The Love Potion Murders in the Museum of Man_ A Norman De Ratour Mystery - Alfred Alcorn [87]
But Mr. Bain proved relentless. He wanted to talk about art, which turned out to be a subterfuge for talking about politics. I didn’t mind when he excoriated twentieth-century art, especially the abstract stuff, calling it the greatest hoax of all time. I have heard those sentiments before. I comfortably demurred, confessing that I found a lot of the early Picasso delightful. I declared a partiality for the works of Max Beckmann, saying I paid homage to his Self-Portrait in Tuxedo whenever I went to Cambridge.
“Beckmann!” He spit it out like an expletive along with bits of food he was chewing.
“And Gustav Klimt,” I went on, baiting him a little. “I find his prostitutes touching and beautiful.”
“Degenerates,” he said dismissively. “Weimar scum.”
The pot, I thought, calling the kettle black. But I simply shook my head and tried to dissemble a distinct repugnance as I remarked to myself the congruence between my host’s opinions and the shirt of scarlet silk beneath his tunic and the welling Wagner and the flames from the roaring blaze in the fireplace reflecting off the polished walls and the deplorable oils, the whole effect creating a hellish Valhalla.
It got worse.
Mr. Bain leaned across the table and shook his head with exaggerated effect. “Do you know, Norman, who is the greatest artist of the twentieth century?”
“I have some opinions, but I’m not very passionate about them,” I replied.
“Adolf Hitler.” He paused for effect. “Der Führer.”
“You’re not serious,” I said, rising to the bait with that queasy disquiet such topics elicit. Just a bad joke, I hoped. Because, guest or no, Miss Tangent or not, drunk or sober, I was not to be suborned into anything like admiration for or understanding of, however ironic, that archvillain.
Mr. Bain’s smile had that Mephistophelean curve I had come to know. “Think of it, Norman. Think of it in terms of what we are told art must do. Épater le bourgeoisie. Well, Mein Führer épatered them to the roots of their little beings. He épatered them like no one else has before or since. He made us stop and think what it means to be human.
“Or inhuman …”
It was not really a conversation. My host had turned declamatory, his words coming like something he had gone over in his mind or rehearsed with others again and again.
“War is not art,” I said.
“On the contrary. World War Two was his masterpiece. The world itself was his canvas. He drew his brush across it. He carved and painted with men and machines …”
“And madness.”
“Yes, but inspired madness. Der Führer was modern way beyond his time. While Picasso and the others were dabbling at their little experiments with reality, Adolf Hitler conceived and executed a fantastic, glorious war. He created new levels of reality. Do you have any idea of what life was like during the battle for Stalingrad? Do you know that human beings experienced there another order of existence?”
“Is that art?”
“By today’s standards, certainly. Think of it in conceptual terms. Think of it as a kind of installation …”
“Not a permanent one, thank God.” I turned to Miss Tangent, thinking she would at least smile at my rejoinder. But she was under the man’s spell.
Mr. Bain leaned across the table and jabbed the air with his fork. “What do those poncy little critics keep telling us every time someone slices a cow in half or buggers himself with a crucifix? They tell us it is art. And if we protest, we’re told it’s supposed to disturb us. Well, by that standard … I mean Der Führer disturbed all of us, didn’t he? He still disturbs us, doesn’t he?”
I looked to Diantha and, even allowing for the amount we had all drunk, was appalled to see her apparently impressed with the rantings of this charlatan. Perhaps she had heard this all before. Which made it worse.
“You are pushing the limits of irony,” I said, hoping for some relieving laughter.
Freddie Bain shook