The Loo Sanction

The garden at #46 was a pleasant contrast to the rest. Even this late in the season, and even in this color- sucking weather, there was an arresting balance and control that used the limited space comfortably. The hydrangeas were particularly consonant with the district and the mood of the climate; moist and subtle in mauve, blue, and tarnished white.

'Tragedy struck the life of noted art critic and scholar when his swinging, ballsy image was abruptly shattered yesterday afternoon.' Van stood at her door, leaning against the bright green frame, a glass of whiskey and a cigarette in the same hand.

'Hello, Van.'

'...Bystanders report having observed this internationally notorious purveyor of manly charm engaged in the mundane and middle-class activity of admiring hydrangeas.'

'OK. OK.'

'...Reports differ as to the exact hue of the flowers under question. Dr. Hemlock refuses comment, but his reticence is taken by many to be a tacit admission that he is becoming older, mellower, and—so far as this reporter can see—wetter with each minute he stands out there. Why don't you come in?'

He followed her into a dark overfurnished parlor, its Victorian fittings, beaded lampshades, antimacassars, and velvet drapes the antithesis of the black-and-white enamel, ultramodern apartment that had been hers when first they met in New York fifteen years earlier. Only the Swiss typewriter on a spool table by the window and a tousled stack of notes on the sill gave evidence of her profession. It was difficult to imagine that her regular flow of journalistic art criticism, with its insight and acid, had its source in this quaint and comfortable room.

'Want a drink, Jon?'

'No, thank you.'

'Why not? Somewhere on the high seas at this moment, the sun is over the yardarm.'

'No, thanks.'

She dropped into a wing chair. 'So? To what do I owe the honor?'

Jonathan toyed with a vase of cut hydrangeas on the court cupboard. 'Why are you trying to make me feel uncomfortable, Van?'

She ignored his question. 'I hate hydrangeas. You know that? They smell like women's swimming caps. Similarly, I hate flowery oriental teas. They smell like actresses' handbags. You'll notice I didn't say 'purses.' That's because I abhor sexual imagery. It's also because I eschew olfactory inaccuracy.' She leaned back against the wing of the chair and looked at him for a second. 'You're right. I'm feeling nasty, and I'm sorry if I'm making you uncomfortable. 'Cause we're old friends, pal-buddy-pal. You know what? You are the only straight in the world with soul.'

Jonathan sat opposite her in a floral armchair, not because he felt like sitting, but because it seemed unfair to stand over her when she was so obviously distressed and off-balance. He had never heard her throw up so thick a haze of words to hide in. Her back was to the window, and its wet, diffused light illuminated her face with unkind surgical accuracy. The short black hair, seme with gray, looked lifeless, and the lines etched in her thin face constituted a hieroglyphic biography of wit and bitterness, laughter and intelligence—accomplishment without fulfillment.

'How are the Christians treating you, madam?' he asked, recalling the opening cue of a habitual pattern of banter from the old days.

She didn't pick up the cue. 'Oh, Jon, Jon. We grow old, Father Jonathan, lude sing goddamn. Well, to hell with them all, darling. A pestilence on their shanties—wattles, clay, and all. And the lues take their virgin daughters.' She lit a cigarette from the stub of the last. 'Let's get to your business. I suppose it's about that guy I introduced you to at Tomlinson's? The guy with the Marini Horse?'

'No. Matter of fact, I'd forgotten all about him.'

'He hasn't contacted you again since that evening?'

'No.'

He could see the tension drain from her face. 'I'm glad, Jon. He's a good person to avoid. A real bad actor.'

'He pays well, though.'

'Faust could have said that. Well then! If it's not the Marini Horse, what impels you to break in on my matronly solitude?'

He paused and collected himself before launching into what was sure to be an imposition on an old friendship. 'I'm in some trouble, Van.'

She laughed. 'Don't worry about it. These days, it's no worse than a bad cold.'

'I have to get into The Cloisters.'

For a moment, she was suspended in mid-gesture, reaching for her glass. Then she looked him flat in the eyes, shifting her glance from one pupil to the other, her eyes narrowed in her attempt to analyze his intent. She sat back deep in her chair and sipped her drink in cold silence.

After a time she said, 'Why The Cloisters? That isn't your kind of action. Too baroque.'

'We grow old, Mother Vanessa. We need help.'

'Oh, bullshit!'

'OK. I told you I was in trouble. Explaining will deepen my trouble. And it might give you some. I'm mixed up with some nasty people, and they'll do old Jonathan in, unless he can get into The Cloisters and accomplish something for them.'

'And you came here to cash in old debts of friendship.'

'Yes.'

'Dirty bastard.'

'Yes.'

She stood up and wiped the haze off a pane of the window, and for a while she stared out past the garden and rain to the dull brick facades across the street. She ran her fingers through her cropped hair and tugged hard at a handful. Then she turned to him. 'Now I insist you have a drink with me.'

'Done.'

She poured out a good tot of Laphroaig and passed him the glass. Then she perched herself up on the wide windowsill and spoke while looking out on the rain, squinting one eye against the smoke that curled up from the cigarette in the corner of her mouth. 'I'd better tell you first off that you're in more trouble than you know. I mean... Jon, I don't know how much pressure these people can bring to bear on you to force you to try to get into The Cloisters, but it better be pretty big league. Because The Cloisters people are maximal bad asses. They could kill you, Jon. Honest to God.'

'I know.'

'Do you? I wonder. You remember reading about this Parnell-Greene? The one in the tower of St. Martin's? The Cloisters people did that. And think of how they did it, Jon. That wasn't just a killing. That was an advertisement. A warning in good ol' Chicago gangland style.'

'I've been filled in on Maximilian Strange's response to intruders.'

She drew a very long oral breath. 'Maximilian Strange. Jon, you're in worse trouble than I thought. I wish I could tell you. But if I did, I'd run a fair risk of being killed. I know that I've often described my life as a pile of shit.' She smiled wanly. 'But it's the only pile of shit I've got.'

Jonathan leaned forward and took her hand. 'Van, I'm very sorry you're in this thing at all. I'm not asking you to get me into The Cloisters yourself, because I know they could trace it back to you. Just put me onto someone who can. You know it's important, or I wouldn't ask.'

She stood and set her glass aside. 'Let me think about it while I make us a pot of tea. We'll drink tea and watch the rain.'

'Sounds fine. I'd like that.'

As he glanced over the titles of some of her books, she made tea in the kitchen, talking to him all the while in a heightened voice. 'You know, scruffy and middle class though it is, I really love this house, Jonathan. I bought it, and fixed it up, and painted it, and swore at the plumbing—all by myself. And I love it. Especially at night when I'm working by the window and I can watch nameless people shuffle by in the rain. Or on days like this, drinking tea.'

'It's a great place, Van.'