cwilleford.theburntorangeheresy-第2节

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operation；　but　she　had　sick　leave　accumulated；　and　she　took　it。　Her　pale　pink　skin　had　turned　gradually　to　saffron；　and　then　to　golden　maple。　The　coccyx　scar　had　changed　from　an　angry　red　to　gray　and　finally　to　slightly　puckered　grisaille。
　　Our　romance　had　passed　through　similar　shades　and　tints。　I　met　Berenice　at　the　Four　Arts　Gallery；　where　I　was　covering　a　traveling　Toulouse…Lautrec　exhibit；　and　she　refused　to　go　back　to　Duluth。　That　would　have　been　all　right　with　me　（I　could　not；　in　all　honesty；　encourage　anyone　to　return　to　Duluth）；　but　I　had　made　the　mistake　of　letting　her　move　in　with　me；　a　foolish　decision　that　had　seemed　like　a　great　idea　at　the　time。　She　was　a　large…strapping　is　a　better　word…country　girl　with　a　ripe　figure；　cornflowerblue　eyes；　and　a　tangle　of　wheat…colored　hair　flowing　down　her　back。　Except　for　the　thumb…tack　scar　on　her　coccyx；　which　was　hardly　noticeable；　her　sun…warmed　sweet…smelling　hide　was　flawless。　Her　blue　eyes　looked　velvety；　thanks　to　her　contact　lenses。　But　she　wasn't　really　good　natured；　as　I　had　thought　at　first；　she　was　merely　lazy。　My　efficiency　apartment　was　too　damned　small　for　one　person；　let　alone　two；　and　she　loomed　in　all　directions。　Seeing　her　dressed　for　the　street　or　a　party；　no　one　would　believe　that　Berenice　was　such　a　mess　to　live　with…clothes　strewn　over　every　chair；　wet　bath　towels；　bikinis　on　the　floor；　the　bathroom　reeking　of　bath　salts；　powder；　perfume；　and　unguents；　a　tangy　mixture　of　smells　so　overpowering　I　had　to　hold　my　nose　when　I　shaved。　The　state　of　the　pullman　kitchen　was　Worse。　She　never　washed　cup；　dish；　pot；　or　pan；　and　once　I　caught　her　pouring　bacon　grease　into　the　sink。
　　I　could　live　with　messiness。　The　major　problem　in　having　Berenice　around　all　the　time　was　that　I　had　to　do　my　writing　in　the　apartment。
　　It　had　taken　all　of　my　persuasive　abilities　to　talk　Tom　Russell　into　letting　me　cover　the　Gold　Coast　for　the　season。　（The　official　〃season〃　in　Palm　Beach　begins　on　New　Year's　Eve　with　a　dull　dinner…dance　at　the　Everglades　Club；　and　it　ends　fuzzily　on　April　15。）　When　Tom　agreed；　finally；　he　refused　to　add　expenses　to　my　salary。　I　had　to　survive　in　Palm　Beach　on　my　monthly　stipend；　and　pay　my　air　fare　down　out　of　my　small　savings　（the　remainder　of　my　savings　bought　me　a　250　car）。　By　subletting　my　rent…controlled　Village　pad　for　almost　twice　as　much　as　I　was　paying　for　it　myself；　I　could　get　by。　Barely。
　　I　worked　twice　as　hard；　writing　much　better　copy　than　I　had　in　New　York；　to　prove　to　Tom　Russell　that　the　Gold　Coast　was　an　incipient　American　art　center　that　had　been　neglected　far　too　long　by　serious　art　journals。　Such　was　not　truly　the　case；　as　yet；　but　there　were　scattered　signs　of　progress。　Most　of　the　native　painters　of　Florida　were　stifi　dabbing　out　impressionistic　palms　and　seascapes；　but　enough　reputable　painters　from　New　York　and　Europe　had　discovered　Florida　for　themselves；　and　the　latter　were　exhibiting　in　galleries　from　Jupiter　Beach　to　Miami。　Enough　painters；　then；　were　exhibiting　during　the　season　to　fifi　my　Notes　column　on　new　shows；　and　at　least　one　major　artist　exhibited　long　enough　for　me　to　honor　him　with　one　of　my　fulllength　treatments。　There　is　money　in　Florida　during　the　season；　and　artists　wifi　show　anywhere　there　is　enough　money　to　purchase　their　work。
　　With　Berenice　around　the　tiny　apartment　all　the　time；　I　couldn't　write。　She　would　pad　about　barefooted；　as　quiet　and　as　stealthy　as　a　140…pound　mouse…until　I　plained。　She　would　then　sit　quietly；　placidly；　not　reading；　not　doing　anything；　except　to　stare　lovingly　at　my　back　as　I　sat　at　my　Hermes。　I　couldn't　stand　it。
　　〃What　are　you　thinking　about；　Berenice？〃
　　〃Nothing。〃
　　〃Yes；　you　are；　you're　thinking　about　me。〃
　　〃No；　I'm　not。　Go　ahead　and　write。　I'm　not　bothering　you。〃
　　But　she　did　bother　me；　and　I　couldn't　write。　I　couldn't　hear　her　breathing；　she　was　so　quiet；　but　I　would　catch　myself　listening　to　see　if　I　could　hear　her。　It　took　some　mental　preparation　（I　am；　basically；　a　kind　sonofabitch）；　but　I　finally；　in　a　nice　way；　asked　Berenice　to　leave。　She　wouldn't　go。　Later　I　asked　her　to　leave　in　a　harsh　and　nasty　way。　She　wouldn't　fight　with　me；　but　she　wouldn't　leave。　On　these　occasions　she　wouldn't　even　talk　back。　She　merely　looked　at　me；　earnestly；　with　her　welkin　eyes　wide　open…the　lenses　sliding　around…tears　torrenting；　suppressing；　or　making　an　effort　to　hold　back；　big；　blubbery；　gasping　sobs…　she　was　destroying　me。　I　would　leave　the　apartment；　forever；　and　e　back　a　few　hours　later　for　a　reconciliation　replay　and　a　wild　hour　in　the　sack。
　　But　I　wasn't　getting　my　work　done。　Work　is　important　to　a　man。　Not　even　a　Helen　of　Troy　can　pete　with　a　Hermes。　No　matter　how　wonderful　she　is；　a　woman　is　only　a　woman；　whereas　2；500　words　is　an　article。　In　desperation　I　issued　Berenice　an　ultimatum。　I　told　her　that　I　was　leaving　for　Miami；　and　that　when　I　came　back　twenty…four　hours　later　I　wanted　her　the　hell　out　of　my　apartment　and　out　of　my　life。
　　And　now　I　was　returning　seventy…two　hours　later；　having　added　two　extra　days　as　insurance。　I　expected　her　to　be　in　the　apartment。　I　wanted　her　to　be　there　and；　paradoxically；　I　wanted　her　to　be　gone　forever。
　　I　parked　in　the　street；　put　the　canvas　top　up　on　the　Chevy…a　seven…year…old　convertible…and　started　across　the　flagged　patio　to　the　stuccoed　outside　staircase。　Halfway　up　the　stairs　I　could　hear　the　phone　ringing　in　my　apartment　on　the　second　floor。　I　stopped　and　waited　while　it　rang　three　more　times。　Berenice　would　be　incapable　of　letting　a　phone　ring　four　times　without　answering　it；　and　I　knew　that　she　was　gone。　Before　I　got　the　door　unlocked　the　ringing　stopped。
　　Berenice　was　gone　and　'the　apartment　was　clean。　It　wasn't　spotless；　of　course；　but　she　had　made　a　noble　effort　to　put　things　in　order。　The　dishes　had　been　washed　and　put　away　and　the　linoleum　floor　had　been　mopped　in　a　halfassed　way。
　　There　was　a　sealed　envelope；　with　〃James〃　scribbled　on　the　outside；　propped　against　my　typewriter　on　the　card　table　by　the　window。
　　
　　Dearest　dearest　James…
　　You　are　a　bastard　but　I　think　you　know　that。　I　still　love
　　you　but　I　will　forget　you…I　hope　I　never　forget　the　good
　　things。　I'm　going　back　to　Duluth…don't　follow　me　there。
　　B。
　　
　　If　she　didn't　want　me　to　follow　her；　why　tell　me　where　she　was　going？
　　There　were　three　crumpled　pieces　of　paper　in　the　wastebasket。　Rough　drafts　for　the　final　note。　I　considered　reading　them；　but　changed　my　mind。　I　would　let　the　final　version　stand。　I　crumpled　the　note　and　the　envelope　and　added　them　to　the　wastebasket。
　　I　felt　a　profound　sense　of　loss；　together　with　an　unreasonable　surge　of　anger。　I　could　still　smell　Berenice　in　the　apartment；　and　knew　that　her　feminine　pound　of　musk；　sweat；　perfume；　pungent　powder；　lavender　soap；　bacon　breath；　Nose…cote；　padded　sachet　coat　hangers；　vinegar；　and　everything　else　nice　about　her　would　linger　on　in　the　apartment　forever。　I　felt　sorry　for　myself　and　sorry　for　Berenice　and；　at　the　same　time；　a　kind　of　bubbling　elation　that　I　was　rid　of　her；　even　though　I　knew　that　I　was　going　to　miss　her　like　crazy　during　the　next　few　terrible　weeks。
　　There　was　plenty　of　time　before　the　preview　at　Gloria's　Gallery。　I　removed　my　sport　shirt；　kicked　off　my　loafers；　and　sat　at　the　card　table；　which　served　as　my　desk；　to　go　over　my　Miami　notes。　My　three　days　in　Dade　County　hadn't　been　wasted。
　　I　had　stayed　with　Larry　Levine；　in　Coconut　Grove。　Larry　was　a　printmaker　I　had　known　in　New　York；　and　his　wife　Paula　was　a　superb　cook。　I　would　reimburse　Larry　with　a　brief　ment　about　his　new　animal　prints　in　my　Notes　columm。
　　I　had　enough　notes　for　a　2；500…word　article　on　a　〃Southern　Gothic〃　environmental　exhibit　I　had　attended　in　North　Miami；　and　an　item　on　Harry　Truman's　glasses　was　a　good　lead…off　piece　for　my　back…of…the…book　columm。　Larry　had　steered　me　to　the　latter。
　　A　mechanic　in　South　Miami；　a　Truman　lover；　had　written　to　Lincoln　Borglum；　who　had　finished　the　monumental　heads　on　Mount　Rushmore　after　his　father's　death；　and　had　asked　the　sculptor　when　he　was　going　to　add　Harry　Truman's　head　to　the　others。　Lincoln　Borgium；　who　apparently　had　a　better　sense　of　humor　than　his　late　father；　Gutzon；　claimed；　in　a　facetious　reply；　that　he　was　unable　to　do　so　because　it　was　too　difficult　to　duplicate　Harry　Truman's　glasses。　The　mechanic；　a　man　named　Jack　Wade；　took　Borgium　at　his　word；　and　made　the　glasses　himself。
　　They　were　enormous　spectacles；　more　than　twenty…five　feet　across；　steel　frames　covered　with　thickly　enameled　ormolu。　The　lenses　were　fashioned　from　twindex　windows；　the　kind　with　a　vacuum　to　separate　the　two　panes　of　glass。
　　〃The　vacuum　inside　will　help　keep　the　lenses　from　fogging　up　on　cold　days；〃　Wade　explained。
　　I　had　taken　three　black…and…white　Polaroid　snapshots　of　Wade　and　the　glasses；　and　one　of　the　photos　was　sharp　enough　to　illustrate　the　item　in　my　column。　The　spectacles　were　a　superior　job　of　craftsmanship；　and　I　had　suggested　to　Mr。　Wade　that　he　might　sell　them　to　an　optician　for　advertising　purposes。　The　suggestion　made　him　angry。
　　〃No；　by　God；〃　he　said　adamantly。　〃These　glasses　were　made　for　Mr。　Truman；　when　his　bust　is　finished　on　Mount　Rushmore！〃
　　Th