—— 26 ——
The tapestry was hung beside the stair foot. I’d heard Tinker say to Michelle, “Shut it, missus. Just friggin’ scribble,” but I was no longer listening.
Sometimes the best plan is its absence. Like, I never know how I’m going to divvy.
Setting about examining an antique is as individual as making love. Even people who know a little (which excludes all known experts, museum curators, and antique dealers) approach the task differently. There’s a geezer in Manchester who goes through a whole superstitious ritual, knocking wood, hex signs, the lot. Another, a Kendal bird good with amber, always sits on the floor even if she’s in public. Me, I just touch and listen. No particular order, no magic incantation.
Single antiques are easy, in a way, because meeting any one is like meeting a woman.
The love quantum is immediately apparent. Encounter two together, and immediately there’s difficulty. They react on each other, so a man’s bemused. The only way he can recognize that inner essence is by concentrating on one, to the utter exclusion of the other. Society calls it rudeness. In divvying antiques, it’s essential. The trouble is the process is so seductively pleasing that it sucks time from the day. I mean, here was I with hundreds, maybe thousands, of alleged antiques to divvy, and I couldn’t resist touching this tapestry, the first thing I’d clapped eyes on stepping through the porch.
“Hello, Jean,” I said to it, mist blurring the figures. Jean Berain, Frenchman, once turned fashion upside down. He and his son struck eighteenth-century nerves by depicting naked courtesans reclining provocatively wearing the haunches and legs of a lion. You see Sevres porcelain with similar figures. It became quite the thing for a famous beauty to have herself erotically depicted thus, like Peg Woffington, the famous actress, for example. “Long time no see.” I touched the lovely tapestry’s texture. Warm.
The feeling was heat, an exalting swirl of energy to the chime of melodious bells. I found myself starting to move, slowly at first, then quicker, quicker still, all else forgotten in a wondrous hedonistic spree. Distantly, Tinker’s emphysematous croak was there, “Hundred ern free, no; eight-six-nine, yeah,” but only for a while.
Battles do it. Orgies do it. Mysticism is said to do it. And women. Maybe it’s true. The experience of beauty leads to a temporary death from recognizing its unattainability.
I’ve never been in a trance as far as I know. I often wonder if it’s the same as recovering from these other things. If so, I don’t envy mediums. Certainly, coming out of one of these divvying sessions is appalling.
There was light intruding everywhere. My head was splitting. People talking in murmurs. A long leathery cough. A bottle, glugging. Somebody spluttered, murmured,
“Gawd.” A woman’s voice, thin as a reed pipe, played out on the water. She was asking about something with numbers. I must have slept.
Headaches are a woman’s best friend. They’re not mine. The kitchen, shimmering. Mrs.
Buchan peeling something, one of her scullions doing mysteries on a cake’s top.
Another minion teasing about hair done different.
This end of the long table was fenced with beer and bottles. The talk was going on, that cough, her still counting. I drew breath.
“Help us up, Tinker.”
Hands hauled, propped. The place swam for a few seconds. I swigged the tea and stared at my hands until the world tidied itself up. Tinker scornfully refuted the women’s suggested medications, clove inhalations, feet up, sal volatile. “He needs a coupler pints, obstinate bleeder,” Tinker said.
“Shut it.” I got out, and winced at his cackling laugh.
“He’s back. Wotcher, Lovejoy.”
“All right?”
“Aye, great. Missus, brew up. He’ll be dry as a bone any mo.”
Michelle was there, weary. I told her she looked like I felt and got a wan smile.
Trembler reached across to pat my shoulder.
“Beautiful, beautiful. A few questions when you’re ready.”
That cheered me up. Auctioneers lust in percentages. Trembler was thinking ahead. As I recovered coherence, he began slowly introducing particular antiques into the conversation.
“That bronze cat, Lovejoy. What’ve you got, lady?”
“One-five-oh-seven.” Michelle’s papers rustled as she worked her clipboard. “It’s one of six from Boy Tony, Winchester. Six reproduction metal sculptures, 1850, Birmingham.”
“As one’s genuine Egyptian, we should delete it, Lovejoy.”
“And?” I prompted. Exquisite tea, strong enough to plow.
Trembler shrugged. “I incline to Phillips, London.”
“No.” I’m never sad vetoing a deal between auctioneers. Once you’ve decided that money’s the name of the game, all is clarity. “No. Make out an addendum list. Have Hamish print it, free issue on the door. Say that One- five-oh-seven’s now only five repro bronzes, that one’s been withdrawn. Bronze cat, Egyptian, resembling Saite period 644-525 B.C. And tell Boy we’ll split the markup one to two.”
“But why take it out of the auction?” Michelle asked.
Trembler answered for me. “If six cheap reproductions are listed, and one is specially withdrawn, it’s as good as announcing that somebody’s realized it is genuine. From ten quid it leaps to maybe ten, twenty thousand. Lovejoy says we ask for a third of that difference. The addendum sheet’s the first thing dealers look at. Bronze collectors will pay on the nail.”
