high shine by a variety of street boys all over the red city of Manchester, though Levell only knew of their condition after the fact. The tight tie at his neck was yellow-gold, pinned with an opal, and there was a yellow silk handkerchief in the top pocket of his jacket. He was dressed for a dinner, or a dance, like an unusual, exotic bird, its silk and sheen foreign in the cold landscape. The artist thought to himself that the man was not lost. He hadcome to the valley as a man would enter a room to receive a guest – territorially, impossibly possessive, and with charm, politeness, with the tip of a hat, a warmly shaken hand. He, the stranger, assuming control.
Levell hung back behind the wall, watching the scene intently, like a tall, silent heron scanning the waters. The stranger did not appear to be in need of assistance. He twisted his neck, rolled it to the side to bend out its stiffness from the drive, but seemed at a general ease. He half-circled to observe his surroundings. A brief nod of the head. No, he was not lost. And yet he could not be in the right place, must somehow have become dislodged from his natural, metropolitan setting. Unless he was a tourist, but Levell did not think so. He had neither the attire, nor the aroused composure. The man turned again, this time to look at the village, the church. Levell cocked his head, stepping closer, the edge of the mountain now gone from his mind.
The man in the suit did not touch himself with his own hands, but kept them gracefully away from his body, his neck. As he smoked, his movements seemed perfectly to complement the action, as if he was the kind of man whose habits would always shortly become fashionable with the general public. There was poise to him, purpose and elegance. Something else too, an alarming degree of control, as if he was detached even from himself. The artist paused along the wall again, suddenly feeling unable to approach the man. All thoughts of assistance disappearing, his typical affability and garbled verbosity absent.
Levell had with him a charcoal stick and a small, porously papered notebook. He was seldom without such equipment. His hand was cold but he rested it for a moment under the collar of his sheepskin, warming it back to life. His sketch was furious, it can have taken no longer than a minute. He caught the man in abstracts, the first time his art had become broken down, deconstructed, since the war. The first time he had rendered a human being since that same troubled period, also. Sothe man in the suit was moving, persuasive and, in a way, terrible or beautiful, enough to bring a man out of himself for a time. Enough to set him back. In the sketch the face was dark, like the hair, and it was made up of many layers, of paper and office objects, his cigarette a stack chimney, his skin smoke. In the man’s hair were the bright wings of industry.
The stranger had still not seen the artist. He checked his wristwatch, pushing his arm out so that the green jacket sleeve slipped off his wrist and crooking his hand back, without a single touch, with no self-affection. But the horizontal light in the valley told the man all he needed to know. He was standing in almost the last piece of it. It was early evening. Soon darkness would be pulling the men in from the fields.
He buttoned his suit jacket, opened the car door and pulled out a briefcase, then a hat and an overcoat, both of which he put on. Looking to the side, the stranger saw that the village was not deserted as he had thought it to be. There was a man in the field next to him. A wiry, lean character, who must have been sketching the mountains. They held eyes. For a while they did not speak, the tall, unkempt artist and the man in the suit like a forest at night. Neither felt compelled enough by the silence to break it, neither felt that an exchange was warranted. Nor did their eyes drop to the earth. Then a smile from the visitor, as if to welcome the artist forward, as
Levell hung back behind the wall, watching the scene intently, like a tall, silent heron scanning the waters. The stranger did not appear to be in need of assistance. He twisted his neck, rolled it to the side to bend out its stiffness from the drive, but seemed at a general ease. He half-circled to observe his surroundings. A brief nod of the head. No, he was not lost. And yet he could not be in the right place, must somehow have become dislodged from his natural, metropolitan setting. Unless he was a tourist, but Levell did not think so. He had neither the attire, nor the aroused composure. The man turned again, this time to look at the village, the church. Levell cocked his head, stepping closer, the edge of the mountain now gone from his mind.
The man in the suit did not touch himself with his own hands, but kept them gracefully away from his body, his neck. As he smoked, his movements seemed perfectly to complement the action, as if he was the kind of man whose habits would always shortly become fashionable with the general public. There was poise to him, purpose and elegance. Something else too, an alarming degree of control, as if he was detached even from himself. The artist paused along the wall again, suddenly feeling unable to approach the man. All thoughts of assistance disappearing, his typical affability and garbled verbosity absent.
Levell had with him a charcoal stick and a small, porously papered notebook. He was seldom without such equipment. His hand was cold but he rested it for a moment under the collar of his sheepskin, warming it back to life. His sketch was furious, it can have taken no longer than a minute. He caught the man in abstracts, the first time his art had become broken down, deconstructed, since the war. The first time he had rendered a human being since that same troubled period, also. Sothe man in the suit was moving, persuasive and, in a way, terrible or beautiful, enough to bring a man out of himself for a time. Enough to set him back. In the sketch the face was dark, like the hair, and it was made up of many layers, of paper and office objects, his cigarette a stack chimney, his skin smoke. In the man’s hair were the bright wings of industry.
The stranger had still not seen the artist. He checked his wristwatch, pushing his arm out so that the green jacket sleeve slipped off his wrist and crooking his hand back, without a single touch, with no self-affection. But the horizontal light in the valley told the man all he needed to know. He was standing in almost the last piece of it. It was early evening. Soon darkness would be pulling the men in from the fields.
He buttoned his suit jacket, opened the car door and pulled out a briefcase, then a hat and an overcoat, both of which he put on. Looking to the side, the stranger saw that the village was not deserted as he had thought it to be. There was a man in the field next to him. A wiry, lean character, who must have been sketching the mountains. They held eyes. For a while they did not speak, the tall, unkempt artist and the man in the suit like a forest at night. Neither felt compelled enough by the silence to break it, neither felt that an exchange was warranted. Nor did their eyes drop to the earth. Then a smile from the visitor, as if to welcome the artist forward, as
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