Duma Key(63)

"Would you be interested in having such a showing here at the Scoto?" Wireman asked me.

My lips were dry. I attempted to moisten them with my tongue, but that was dry, too. So I took a sip of my water and then said, "That's getting the harm before the force." I paused. Gave myself time. Took another sip of water. "Sorry. Cart before the horse. I came in to find out what you think, Signor Nannuzzi. You're the expert."

He unlaced his fingers from the front of his vest and leaned forward. The squeak his chair made in the small room seemed very loud to me. But he smiled and the smile was warm. It brightened his eyes, made them compelling. I could see why he was a success when it came to selling pictures, but I don't think he was selling just then. He reached across his desk and took my hand the one I painted with, the only one I had left.

"Mr. Freemantle, you do me honor, but my father Augustino is the Signor of our family. I am happy to be a mister. As for your paintings, yes, they're good. Considering how long you've been at work, they are very good indeed. Maybe more than good."

"What makes them good?" I asked. "If they're good, what makes them good?"

"Truth," he said. "It shines through in every stroke."

"But most of them are only sunsets! The things I added..." I lifted my hand, then dropped it. "They're just gimmicks."

Nannuzzi laughed. "You've learned such mean words! Where? Reading The New York Times art pages? Listening to Bill O'Reilly? Both?" He pointed to the ceiling. "Lightbulb? Gimmick!" He pointed to his own chest. "Pacemaker? Gimmick!" He tossed his hands in the air. The lucky devil had two to toss. "Throw out your mean words, Mr. Freemantle. Art should be a place of hope, not doubt. And your doubts rise from inexperience, which is not a dishonorable thing. Listen to me. Will you listen?"

"Sure," I said. "That's why I came."

"When I say truth, I mean beauty."

"John Keats," Wireman said. "'Ode On A Grecian Urn.' All we know, all we need to know. An oldie but still a goodie."

Nannuzzi paid no attention. He was leaning forward over his desk and looking at me. "For me, Mr. Freemantle-"

"Edgar."

"For me, Edgar, that sums up what all art is for, and the only way it can be judged."

He smiled a trifle defensively, I thought.

"I don't want to think too much about art, you see. I don't want to criticize it. I don't want to attend symposia, listen to papers, or discuss it at cocktail parties although sometimes in my line of work I'm forced to do all those things. What I want to do is clutch my heart and fall down when I see it."

Wireman burst out laughing and raised both hands in the air. " Yes, Lawd! " he proclaimed. "I don't know if that guy out there was clutching his heart and falling down, but he surely was ready to clutch his checkbook."

Nannuzzi said, "Inside himself, I think he did fall down. I think they all did."

"Actually, I do too," Wireman said. He was no longer smiling.

Nannuzzi remained fixed on me. "No talk of gimmicks. What you are after in most of these paintings is perfectly straightforward: you're looking for a way to re-invent the most popular and hackneyed of all Florida subjects, the tropical sunset. You've been trying to find your way past the clich ."

"Yes, that's pretty much it. So I copied Dal -"

Nannuzzi waved a hand. "Those paintings out there are nothing like Dal . And I won't discuss schools of art with you, Edgar, or stoop to using words ending in ism. You don't belong to any school of art, because you don't know any."

"I know buildings," I said.

"Then why don't you paint buildings?"

I shook my head. I could have told him the thought had never crossed my mind, but it would have been closer to the truth to say it had never crossed my missing arm.

"Mary was right. You're an American primitive. Nothing wrong with that. Grandma Moses was an American primitive. Jackson Pollock was another. The point is, Edgar, you're talented."

I opened my mouth. Closed it. I simply couldn't figure out what to say. Wireman helped me.

"Thank the man, Edgar," he said.

"Thank you," I said.

"Very welcome. And if you do decide to show, Edgar, please come to the Scoto first. I'll make you the best deal of any gallery on Palm Avenue. That's a promise."

"Are you kidding? Of course I'll come here first."

"And of course I'll vet the contract," Wireman said with a choirboy's smile.

Nannuzzi smiled in return. "You should and I welcome it. Not that you'll find a lot to vet; the standard Scoto first-artist contract is a page and half long."

"Mr. Nannuzzi," I said, "I really don't know how to thank you."

"You already did," he said. "I clutched my heart what's left of it and fell down. Before you go, there's one more matter." He found a pad on his desk, scribbled on it, then tore off the sheet and handed it to me like a doctor handing a patient a prescription. The word written on it in large slanting capitals even looked like a word you'd see on a doctor's prescription: LIQUIN.

"What's Liquin?" I asked.

"A preservative. I suggest you begin by putting it on finished works with a paper towel. Just a thin coat. Let it dry for twenty-four hours, then put on a second coat. That will keep your sunsets bright and fresh for centuries." He looked at me so solemnly I felt my stomach rise a little toward my chest. "I don't know if they're good enough to deserve such longevity, but maybe they are. Who knows? Maybe they are."