details, another on furniture, perhaps one on Victorian clothes or dishes.”
“
“Yeah, he said they’ve never done a photographic record of the whole collection. ‘ Rick finished with the window and recapped the lens.
“I’ve got some pictures in my room,” Pascal said proudly. “Dr. Peake said I could. Come see.”
He led Rick back down the passageway and through the kitchen. Beyond the service stairs was what had once been the downstairs butler’s pantry, connected to the one above by a large dumbwaiter. This was where the Breul maids had put the finishing touches on meals before sending them aloft. Now the space was outfitted for the only live-in help left. On the counter beside the small sink was a new microwave oven, a coffee maker and a hot-air popcorn popper; below, a half-size refrigerator.
Although the kitchenette was for Pascal Grant’s use, it was open to the stairs and kitchen and to the casual inspection of anyone passing through. Perhaps that was why it looked as impersonal as any laboratory, thought Rick.
As if he could read thoughts, Pascal paused before a closed door at the rear of the alcove and looked up at him with another of those seraphic smiles. “Mrs. Beardsley says everything has to be neat out here.”
He opened the door and clicked on a wall switch. “I can do what I want to in here.”
The room was astonishing. Everywhere Rick looked he saw patterns upon figures upon designs-paisleys and florals beside stripes and basketweave and geometries. It was like a private retreat designed by some mad Victorian decorator and it should have overwhelmed Rick’s visual senses; yet, the colors were so rich and dark that lamplight was soaked up until the whole room coalesced into a mellow warmth that made him think again of a small anthropomorphic animal’s cosy den. A human hobbit hole.
Originally the servants’ sitting room, the ceiling and windowless walls were papered in a faded turkey red and the floor was layered with odd-size throw rugs, all threadbare but of oriental design. A couple of shabby easy chairs stood on either side of an open hearth that sported a handsome overmantel of carved walnut. For sleeping, Pascal had pushed a double bed mattress and box springs up against a cluttered sideboard and covered it with embroidered shawls and thickly fringed pillows so that it looked more like a Persian divan than a bed.
The lower doors of the sideboard had been folded open to store his clock radio, tape player, and stacks of tapes within easy reach, while a nearby Moroccan brass coffee table held a miniature television.
Pascal unzipped his coverall and stepped out of it. Beneath, he wore jeans and a thin knitted jersey that molded every line of his slender torso. He hung the coverall inside a tall wooden wardrobe and pulled on a blue Fair Isle sweater, a castoff from one of Mrs. Beardsley’s sons that echoed his clear blue eyes. Smoothing his tousled golden hair, he looked up at Rick happily.
“See my pictures?”
It was impossible not to since every wall was covered so closely that the red wallpaper beneath was almost hidden.
A large sentimental farmyard scene hung above the fireplace. It pictured baby ducks and chicks, rosy-cheeked children, and other young animals and was doubtless meant to inspire wholesome thoughts among the servants.
But that was the only properly framed picture in the room and the only one that clearly belonged to the nineteenth century. Everything else was thumbtacked to the walls and was vigorously modern: Kandinsky, Klee, Rothko, Pollock, Picasso, Dali, Ernst-all the twentieth-century icons. None were smaller than twenty-four by thirty- six inches and, looking closer, Rick saw that they all seemed to have begun as high-quality art posters. Some were so beautifully reproduced on such heavy stock that, with the subdued lighting, he had to touch the surface of a Dali dreamscape to reassure himself that it wasn’t real.
“I cut off all that writing stuff,” said Pascal.
“Writing stuff?”
“Museum names and numbers and stuff like that,” the young handyman explained earnestly. “I don’t read so good, but I know real pictures don’t have that stuff on the bottom, so I cut it off.”
“Where did you find so many posters, though?” asked Rick, curious.
“Dr. Kimmelshue-he was here before Dr. Peake. He died. He had a bunch of them in his office and lots more down here.” He gestured in the direction of the storage rooms. “Dr. Peake told me to throw them all out and I told him I could take them if he didn’t want them so he said I could have anything there I wanted.”
Pascal paused and caught his short upper lip with his lower teeth. “Well, he didn’t mean
There was such innocent generosity in his voice that Rick hesitated, looking for tactful words. “They’re wonderful pictures, Pascal, but I think Dr. Peake’s mainly interested in the real old stuff. Like that one over the fireplace. It’s a terrific room, though, and you’ve fixed it up great.”
To change the subject, he walked around the bed, sat down on the edge, and began reading the titles on the other youth’s stack of cassette tapes. “Hey, what kind of music do you like, Pasc?”
Happiness suffused Grant’s beautiful features. “Pasc. That’s what my friend called me, my friend at the training center. That’s where I learned how to fix things. Are you going to be my friend?”
“Sure,” Rick said automatically.
“I’ll get us some soda, ” Pascal decided. He fetched two cans from the kitchenette, and upon returning, stretched across the bed to hand one to his new friend.
Rick continued to read the titles of the tapes as he sipped from the can. “Basie, Lionel Hampton, Cootie Williams, Gene Krupa-you’re really into classic jazz, aren’t you?”
Pascal Grant sat down on the other side of the bed and began pulling out his favorite tapes. “I like it,” he said simply. “It makes me feel good. Like the pictures do. Sometimes they-they get all mixed up together sometimes, the jazz and the pictures.”
“You have Benny Goodman’s Carnegie Hall concert?”
“ ‘Sing, Sing, Sing’!” Pascal exclaimed. “It’s on the player. That’s my very first favorite.”
Balancing his soda, he pulled himself over the billowing cushions and punched buttons until Krupa’s hypnotic drums filled the room.
“Hey, yeah!” breathed Rick. He pushed a couple of cushions into a stack and leaned back on them. Pascal did the same at the opposite end of the bed so that they sprawled heel to head, facing each other as they drank and listened to the pounding intensity of one of the greatest outpourings of spontaneous jazz ever recorded.
The music, the warmth, the rich reds and golds and purples of the room, the vibrant posters-Pasc was right, he thought, somehow they
And there was Pasc himself, his angelic face in shadows, his tangled curls turned into a golden halo by the lamp behind him. A rush of love and pity welled up inside of Rick.
Then, as Jess Stacy’s piano explored the outer reaches of the melody, he felt Pascal touch his shoe, heard his low voice say, “I’m glad you’re going to be my friend, Rick, ” and was wrenched by something deeper and terrifyingly primal.
Startled, he sat upright and saw Mrs. Beardsley’s disapproving face at the door.
“I knocked,” she said in a stern voice, “but the music’s so loud-”
Pascal Grant eeled across the end of the bed to lower the volume, then turned to smile at the woman. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Beardsley. I was showing Rick my tapes. He’s going to be my friend.”
“That’s very nice, Pascal,” said Mrs. Beardsley, “but right now, I think Mr. Evans is expected upstairs.”
“Oh, gosh!” Rick groaned. Embarrassed and guilty, he left his soda on the sideboard and bolted past the stern- faced docent.
Benjamin Peak had, on his own initiative, called this special meeting to explore-informally, he assured them archly-various ways of stemming the Erich Breul House’s rapidly growing deficit, and he was prepared to be gracious about Rick Evans’ tardy entry for dear old Jacob’s sake.
Not that Jacob had turned into a doting grandfather. A respected dealer and now senior partner at Kohn and
