The Complete Roderick

justify that? If it were art you wouldn’t need to bring in all the big guns, the Church and Freud, Marx and Pater or any other dear damned dead philos, where’s that waiter? Hauling in Wittgenstein or maybe Kirke, waiter! Hey, over here!’

‘No, look fella, I’m not trying to justify anything. But so what that they’re all alike, so were icons, most of them look like mass production jobs.’

‘Mass production I like that, keep the old prayer-wheels of industry turning, isn’t that religion?’

‘Well I’m not really—’

‘Counting the revs, counting the revs see, because numbers make it all important, don’t they? This geek here could paint one purple square and who cares, but if he paints twenty, in comes the old number magic. What does the twenty stand for? What does it mean? Because that’s religion too, numbers have to mean something: the eight-fold path, the seven deadly sins, the ten commandm—’

‘What’s wrong with that? Just a way of keeping track, I mean even truth is binary, if you—’

‘Telling the beads,’ said Allbright, lifting two drinks from a passing tray. ‘Listen pal, numbers are everything in religion, telling the beads, when I was a kid I used to think that meant you know, talking to the beads. Only later on I found out it meant telling like a fucking bank teller, counting up the days of indulgence, no good storing up riches in Heaven if you can’t count them — Listen, you want my advice?’

The woman in the Abbott & Costello t-shirt moved on without waiting to hear his advice; a moment later she was advising Dr Tarr to look for religious significance in these paintings.

‘Lyle Danton? Is it you?’

The young man in patched denim work-clothes turned. ‘I call myself Tate now.’ He studied the old woman in lace, the corsage of radishes at her throat. ‘Ma?’

Ma Wood squeezed his forearm. ‘I’m glad to see my best pupil still interested in art.’

‘Art?’ His unhappy laugh startled her. ‘Let’s talk about something else. You still living in Newer?’ He moved to keep his face in profile, a habit she remembered.

‘Of course. Oh, I see, like Picasso? Taking your mother’s name I mean. But if you’re not painting now, why in the world—?’

‘Oh I’m painting, all right. I mean when I can afford the materials. Well it’s a long story…’

She kept hold of his arm. ‘But don’t your parents — I mean they used to be the richest folks in town when your father was running the factory. I thought he’d be doing even better by now, didn’t you all move to the city so he could become general manager or some such, was it managing director?’

‘Him.’

‘You don’t get along?’

‘We never did. And when he killed my mother… No, well okay it was an accident everybody says, traffic computer goes haywire and he smashes into the back of this truckload of tranquillizers; it could happen to anybody.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know.’

‘Okay an accident maybe but he hated her guts, he always hated her guts. On account of me.’

‘The birthmark?’

He still kept his face in profile to hide it. ‘Mom would have split long ago, only she was too damn kind- hearted, you know? I mean he needed all his money to start this new business, she knew he couldn’t make it if he had this alimony around his neck, so she just stayed, stayed and stayed until he—’

‘But wait, what business? Did he leave Slumbertite?’

‘Got canned, so did all the execs. They got some new system there now, some, I guess they call it BIGSHOT or something, some kind of decision-maker — so anyway he’s in the restaurant business now. I don’t see much of him. I dropped out of the University and just been doing odd jobs, even tried working in a tattoo parlour, how’s that grab you?’

Ma continued to grab at his arm, to stare at his sullen profile. ‘…you were always good at people, the human figure and the, the human face…’

‘Well I got fired from the tattoo parlour just the same, wrote something about T. S. Eliot on a guy’s arm, the illiterate old bastard running the place thought it was “toilets”, how does that—?’

‘Lyle, listen. I want to commission you to do a portrait.’

‘What?’ He turned full-face in surprise, showing the birthmark, a red shadow over half his features, a glimpse of Harlequin, before he turned it away again. Poor boy, she thought. Not just to have it, but to be hated for it.

‘Well, not a portrait exactly, more a painted head. I’m working it up now, maybe I could send you a cast of it to study…?’

The profile looked pleased. ‘Well sure. Sure Ma, sure. Only you don’t mind that I do it symmetrical?’

‘That would be just fine, Lyle. Just what I wanted.’

‘Art, well I leave it to the experts,’ said Mr Kratt. ‘I’m just the money man.’

‘Oh but you should take an interest.’ Mrs McBabbitt looked at him through lowered lashes as black as her sable coat. ‘Dr Tarr has just been telling me it all has deep religious significance. Are you a religious man, Mr Kratt?’

‘I manage to keep pretty busy without it, you know? Ha! But of course I respect the next guy’s religion as much as anybody — just like I respect the next guy’s wife.’ He leaned a little closer. ‘Mr McBabbitt’s a lucky man.’

She seemed to agree.

‘What was that?’ said the taller critic.

The building rocked from the crash. The shorter critic peered through the waves of people running towards the sound. From here it looked as though two cars had tried to drive into the gallery together and wedged themselves in the doorway. Shards of mirror lay strewn over the green carpet like peculiar angular lakes.

‘Mr K.’s Rolls there, looks like. And isn’t that other car flying the flags of Ruritania? The consul’s car I suppose, only those boys getting out of it don’t look like diplomats to me.’

‘God, I hope this isn’t someone’s idea of a happy accident or—?’

‘That would be unfortunate,’ said the taller critic. ‘Did you cover that boring exhibition of wrecked cars last May?’

‘Not me, you mean the freeway thing, when all those cars and trucks piled up? I wanted to go, really, thought it sounded enterprising at least, getting out there and casting the whole mess in fibreglass right on the spot, I mean whatsis-name, Jough Braun must have been actually cruising the city with a ton of epoxy — imagine getting an actual body in there!’

‘He was just lucky, though, what he was really out doing was dog turds. Trying to get a casting of every pile of doggy do-do in the city on one particular day, kind of Conceptualist record — anyway he gave that up in a hurry once he saw what kind of money these German museums were bidding for Freeway Disaster. I still say he’s a boring little prick.’

‘But you gave him a good review?’

‘Wouldn’t you?’ said the shorter critic. ‘I mean with two German museums going bananas over him, wouldn’t you?’

‘What happened?’ the taller asked someone else. ‘Accident?’

‘Nothing. Just some college kids smacked into Mr Kratt’s car. Nobody hurt. A chauffeur killed.’

‘Drunk, were they?’

The stranger shrugged. ‘Sure, but they got diplomatic immunity, see? On account of the car. Cops won’t do a thing.’

It was true. The police came and went, the cars and the body were discreetly removed, but the three grinning members of Digamma Upsilon Nu remained to sip champagne and brag of their adventure.

‘Sure I’m religious,’ said Mr Vitanuova. ‘I’m a good Cat’lic, what else? Just because a guy gets his hands in garbage don’t mean he ain’t got a soul, ya know.’

Allbright, holding a champagne glass in each dirt-encrusted fist, leaned in an unpremeditated direction.