Allan Stein. Matthew Stadler
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my fork to him—“to poke around and see if these drawings are even what we think they are, and then, if they are, Herbert will insist on their worthlessness and make his pitiful little offer.”
“Which of course they’ll reject.” The curator spoke.
“Right, which of course they’ll reject … which is when you show up, Hank, and buy the pieces right out from under us. You see, this will give the family the pleasure of thinking they’ve taken you to the cleaners, because Herbert will have established that the drawings are nearly worthless except as wallpaper for some children’s hospital, and then you sweep in, the big rich bumbling American who doesn’t know his ass from his elbow—that’s the masquerade anyway, the part you’ll be playing—and the family sells to you at twice what we offered, thinking they’ve hit the jackpot. And voilà! you’ve got the drawings!” Herbert rolled his eyes.
“Voilà!” Hank echoed, smiling. “That sounds like fun.”
“Oh.” Herbert sighed. “I’m sure it would be.”
“I can do that,” Hank announced. “I mean, why not? April in Paris.” Herbert looked strangely disappointed. “Say, isn’t that one of your students?” Hank pointed his bent fork tine toward the crowded windows of the Hair Health and Vanity store, and there was Dogan, Mother beside him clutching a fresh wig bag, with Daddy evidently gone. “Donald, wasn’t it, or Doogie, that kid you brought to the football game?”
“Hank, have you seen the Grand Marble Bar yet?” I asked. “It’s really the highlight of the whole hotel.”
“Noah certainly did have a good time with him.” Hank strained to follow the swiftly moving boy but was distracted by his bladder.
I turned toward Herbert. “Herbert? The Grand Marble Bar? We seem to be out of wine in any case, and I’m sure Hank is sick of this dreary emporium.”
“I’ll join you two in a sec,” Hank offered, rising. “Gotta go to the pisser.” We waved a feathery good-bye, and Herbert glared at me.
“Are you mad about something?” I asked. Dogan, fragmented, drifting, afflicted my periphery.
“Where do you come up with these fantasies?”
“With what?”
“You certainly improvised well. I just can’t believe Hank swallowed all that garbage, flights to Paris to hobnob with the rich.”
“Come on, you’ll have a great time.”
“Look, Miss Double-oh-seven, the sort of espionage you described has nothing to do with art acquisition. One buys drawings at galleries. You know, like at a store?”
“You made these sound like the Dead Sea Scrolls.”
“Did I? Well they might be worth a small fortune, but I’m afraid the chances of their being at all important are remote to none. I was just fishing around to see how far Hank was willing to go with that checkbook of his.”
“Do you always rely on swindling the rich?”
“I wouldn’t say ‘rely.’ I’d say I ‘delight’ in it.”
“Well, Hank’s willing to go to Paris.”
“Going to Paris on this kind of wild goose chase—with Hank, no less—would be sheer torture.”
“It looks like you’re either going or backing out.”
“I can back out easily enough. Hank won’t mind. I would just appreciate it, Madame Assistant, if you would leave the whole affair alone for a while, the rest of the evening at least, and let things settle.”
In the bar, the Grand Marble Bar (massive countertop hauled from Firenze, installed on broad cedar stumps with a rough fir trim, brass fixtures from Berlin—spoils of the last World War—all this from the napkin supplied with my drink), we found Hank, and voilà! Dogan, without his mom or dad. The pair was installed at a small round side table with two beers, Dogan’s in a tall pewter stein (Hank’s largesse, no doubt, plus a nimble bribe of the waiter). The boy watched me.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” Hank announced. “Doogie’s here.” I smiled at “Doogie” and Herbert shook his hand, introducing himself as my new colleague. Sweet Herbert.
Dogan sipped from the beer, leaving a mustache where no mustache could be. “I saw you eating.”
“Yes, that was me. Hello, by the way.”
“Hi. My mom and dad left.”
“I saw you shopping.”
“Yeah, Mom got her wig and they both had headaches.”
“Well, long time.”
“I guess so; I mean, a month.”
“A month’s a long time, though you must be busy with studying and sports and all, so it wouldn’t seem so long to you.”
“Doogie tells me the soccer squad has made it to the playoffs this year,” Hank put in, hoisting his beer. Herbert, utterly bored by the soccer squad, ordered himself an expensive scotch (Day-Glo money) and a Bombay for me.
“Oh?” I was surprised. “That’s terrific. It’s hard for me to keep track, you know with all my work at the museum.” Meaningful glance at Dogan, met, puzzled, returned. “I’ll probably be seeing them on TV before long.” The round table was minuscule, built for crowding onto the tiny sidewalk of a Parisian back street, and we were rather large. Getting anywhere near the drinks meant navigating an intimate slalom of knees and chair legs; I paid no mind to the press of Dogan (left thigh and calf) and Herbert (right knee).
“There was a picture in the newspaper,” Dogan announced, grimacing at the beer stein as he sniffed it and took a sip. “But I wasn’t in it.”
“Hardly worth clipping.”
“Are you gonna be in the yearbook?” my little waif asked.
“You know”—Hank leaned in, disturbing almost everything—“I don’t know if you’re on the yearbook squad or anything, Doogie, but I recall in fifty-three, my senior year, when Professor Schmatza—you’re a senior, right?”
“Sophomore.”
“That’s right. Well, when Professor Schmatza left our school midyear to join the Lucy expedition, the kids got together and dedicated the yearbook to him, just as a kind of tribute.” Herbert accepted his scotch from the waiter and handed me my gin. “I’m sure someone’s already suggested it in this case, I mean, it’s probably a fait acompli.” Hank smiled at me.
“I’m not on the yearbook staff,” Dogan said, but Hank wasn’t really listening to him.
“My goodness, Professor Schmatza was surprised—and pleased, of course. It was a terrific surprise for everyone.”
“As it would be for me,” I added. I clinked my glass to Herbert’s, Hank’s, and, with some prompting, Dogan’s nearly full beer stein.
“They’re putting extra pages in for soccer, if we make it to finals.” Dogan spoke only of what he knew, a habit that always charmed me.
“The I Love Lucy expedition?” Herbert asked. Like Hank, he didn’t seem to notice that the boy ever actually spoke. “Or was it The Lucy Show already?” He and Hank laughed at the joke.
“What are you drinking?” Dogan asked me.
“Gin. You wouldn’t like it.”
“I don’t like this beer. It’s warm.” I looked into the tall stein and saw a dark well of stout, rimmed with scummy foam.
“What is it?”
“It’s called Guinness. Your friend said since I’m a soccer player I’d like it.” How cosmopolitan the Grand Marble