13 Little Blue Envelopes(11)
come through.
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#3
#3
Dear Ginny,
Let’s get right down to business.
Today is MYSTERIOUS BENEFACTOR DAY. Why
Mysterious Benefactor Day? Well, Gin, let me give
you a because: because talent alone doesn’t make an
artist. You need a little serendipity, a little
luck, a little boost. I stumbled right into someone
who helped me out, and it’s time to return the
favor. But it’s also good to be mysterious. Make
someone think that wonderful things are happening
to them for no reason they can see. I’ve always
wanted to be a fairy godmother, Gin, so help me out
here.
Step one: Withdraw 500 pounds from the account.
Step two: Find an artist in London whose work
you like, someone you think deserves a break. This
is going to require some looking around on your
part. Any kind of artist—a painter, a musician, a
writer, an actor.
Step three: Become A MYSTERIOUS BENEFACTOR.
Buy a new invisible box for a mime, get a mile’s
worth of violin strings for a violinist, roll up
in front of a ballet studio with a year’s supply of
lettuce . . . whatever you want.
Now, I think I know what you’re thinking: This
can’t be done in a day! You are so wrong, Gin. Those
are your orders. When you’ve successfully done
this, you can open the next letter.
Love,
Your Runaway Aunt
The Benefactor
The next morning, after reading her letter and splashing around in the tub, Ginny joined Richard at the kitchen table. He was loosely dressed—unbuttoned shirt, undone tie—and was roughly flipping through the sports section of the paper and shoving pieces of toast into his mouth.
“I have to find an artist today,” she said. “Someone who needs money.”
“An artist?” he said, his mouth half full. “Oh, dear. Sounds like a Peg task. I don’t really know much about that stuff.”
“Oh. That’s okay.”
“No, no,” he said. “Let me think a moment. It shouldn’t be hard. Giving people money can’t be hard.”
He munched on his toast thoughtfully for another moment.
“Hang on,” he said. “We’ll have a look in Time Out. That’s what we’ll do.”
He reached under a pile of shirts that sat on one of the
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kitchen chairs, felt around for a second, and produced a magazine. Ginny had a strange feeling that leaving laundry on the kitchen chairs was something Aunt Peg probably didn’t allow when she was here. For someone who lived pretty randomly, she was a bit of a neat freak.
“They list everything in here,” Richard said brightly, opening the magazine. “All kinds of movies, art events. Here’s one, and right near here. Izzy’s Café, Islington. Shelia Studies, paintings by Romily Mezogarden. And here’s another . . . a bit strange sounding. Harry Smalls, demolition artist. That’s just around the corner. If you’re ready, I can walk you there.”
He seemed genuinely pleased that he’d been able to come up with something.
Ginny wasn’t quite ready, but she hurriedly squeezed some water from her braids and put on her sneakers. She managed to make it to the front door just a second before he did, and they walked out into the drizzly morning together.
“I have a few minutes,” he said. “I’ll pop in with you.”
Izzy’s Café was a tiny place with a juice bar. No one was there, but the girl behind the counter was making a whole pitcher of beet juice anyway. She waved a purple-stained hand at them as they came in.
A series of paintings hung in a ring around the room, and it was immediately obvious that these were the “Shelia Studies.”
As advertised, they were studies of some girl named Shelia. The background in Shelia’s world was bright blue and everything in it was flat, including Shelia. Shelia had a large, flat head with a square chunk of yellow hair sticking up out of it. Shelia usually just stood around ( #4: Shelia Standing; #7: Shelia Standing in 54
Bedroom; #18: Shelia Standing in Road ). Sometimes, she would stand around and hold things ( #24: Shelia with Eggbeater) or look at things ( #34: Shelia Looking at Pencil ), and then she would get tired and sit (#9: Shelia Sitting on Box).
“I’m rubbish at this,” Richard said, scanning the walls
hopelessly. “But I’m sure you know something.”
Ginny took a closer look and discovered the little cards under the pictures. She was amazed to find that Romily Mezogarden wanted ￡200 for each and every one of the Shelia pictures. That seemed like a lot, considering that they were really ugly and the whole thing seemed uncomfortably stalker-like.
She didn’t know anything about art either. These could be the greatest pictures in the world. There were people who could tell these things. She was not one of them. Still, it seemed like she should have a slight air of competence. She was Aunt Peg’s niece, after all. She got the strange feeling that somehow Richard was expecting her to know something.
“Maybe not these,” she said. “I’ll look at the next one.”