The Wapshot Chronicle - John Cheever [133]
The curator sat down and let D’Alba fill his glass and when he turned to Justina she was reminiscing about the dirty palace where she had found the Sano di Pietro.
“These are all copies and forgeries, Mrs. Scaddon.”
“That’s impossible.”
“They’re copies and forgeries.”
“The only reason you’re saying this is because you want me to give my pictures to your museum,” Justina said. “That’s it, isn’t it? You want to have my pictures for nothing.”
“They’re worthless.”
“We met a curator at the Baroness Grachi’s,” Justina said. “He saw our paintings in Naples where they were being crated for the steamer. He offered to vouch for their authenticity.”
“They’re worthless.”
A maid came to the door and rang the chimes for lunch, and Justina stood, her self-possession suddenly refreshed. “We will be five for lunch, Lena,” she told the maid. “Mr. Dewitt won’t be staying. And will you telephone the garage and tell Giacomo that Mr. Dewitt will walk to the train?” She took D’Alba’s arm and went down the hall.
“Mrs. Scaddon,” the curator called after her, “Mrs. Scaddon.”
“There isn’t much you can do,” Moses said.
“How far is it to the station?”
“A little over a mile.”
“You don’t have a car?”
“No.”
“And there aren’t any taxis?”
“Not on Sunday.”
The curator looked out the window at the rain. “Oh this is outrageous, this is the most outrageous thing I’ve ever experienced. I only came as a favor. I have an ulcer and I have to eat regularly and it will be four o’clock before I get back into the city. You couldn’t get me a glass of milk?”
“I’m afraid not,” Moses said.
“What a mess, what a mess, and how in heaven’s name could she have supposed that those paintings were authentic? How could she have fooled herself?” He gave up with a gesture and started down the hall to the rotunda, where he put on the little hat that made him look like Boob McNutt. “This may kill me,” he said. “I’m supposed to eat regularly and avoid excitement and physical exertion. . . .” Off he went in the rain.
When Moses joined the others at lunch there was no talk at all and the silence was so oppressive that his hearty appetite showed some signs of flagging. Suddenly D’Alba dropped his spoon and said tearfully, “My lady, oh my lady!”
“Document,” Justina snapped. Then she swung her head around to Badger and said fiercely, “Please try and eat with your mouth shut!”
“I’m sorry, Justina,” Badger said. Maids cleared off the soup plates and brought in some chicken but at the sight of the dish Justina waved it away. “I can’t eat a thing,” she said. “Take the food back to the kitchen and put it into the icebox.” Everyone bowed his head, sorry for Justina and bereft of a meal, for on Sunday afternoons the iceboxes were padlocked. She put her hands on the edge of the table, glaring heavily at Badger, and rose. “I suppose you want to get into town, Badger, and tell everyone about this.”
“No. Justina.”
“If I hear a word out of you about this, Badger,” she said, “I’ll tell everyone I know that you’ve been in prison.”
“Justina.”
She started for the door, not bent but straighter than ever, with D’Alba in tow, and when she reached the door she threw out her arms and cried, “My pictures, my pictures, my lovely, lovely pictures.” Then D’Alba could be heard opening and closing the elevator doors and there was the mournful singing of the cables in the shaft as she went up.
It was a gloomy afternoon and Moses spent it studying syndicalism in the little library. When it began to get dark he shut his books and wandered through the house. The kitchen was empty and clean but the iceboxes were still padlocked. He heard music from the hall and thought that D’Alba must be playing, for it was cocktail music; the languid music