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Authors: Roger Zelazny
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the paintings. I did not see Maria or Bruno around, though there were two officially friendly girls wearing discreet black gowns and upswept hairdos, moving among the talkers and helping with wraps.
I was only half-surprised to see Walter Carlon, an art critic, off in one corner, sketching in the air with his cigar and moving his lips at a rapid rate before a group of students and old ladies. Short, stocky, near-bald and in his forties, Walt had come into a lot of money and abominable taste somewhere along the line, and he traveled about the world exhibiting both. Over the years, he has demonstrated an amazing ability to back losers and mock the truly talented. His articles and books arouse a sense of wonder in art history and art appreciation classes, where they are held up as models of half-assedness. He is much in demand as a lecturer, though, for despite all else the man is glib. He fascinates as he infuriates. He should have been a politician or some other sort of con man. The power of his words vanishes, though, when they are committed to paper. I do not think he is a phony, however. He seems to believe whatever stupid thing he happens to be saying at any given moment. I cannot really say whether it is despite all this or because of it that I rather like the man.
As I did not wish to get tied down at the moment, I pretended not to have noticed him and made my way to the buffet table. Later, champagne glass in hand, I wandered the gallery, looking for Maria, half-studying Paul Gladden’s paintings.
After the better part of an hour, I had grown a bit impatient. Still, she had not said that she would be there right on the dot for the opening—simply that we would meet there. I asked one of the hostesses who said she had not seen her, but perhaps she was working upstairs. At my request, the girl found me a telephone and left me with it. I tried Maria’s number three times, but there was no answer.
So, she was probably either upstairs or en route. I determined to wait a while longer before growing concerned or trying anything else. If she did not prove the information source I hoped her to be, I decided that I would write me down as a failure and see whether I could sell the idea to our man at the embassy. I was convinced, though, that they would not let me off that easily. Not after all the trouble they had gone through to recruit me.
But Rome did indeed seem to be a dead end. I was afraid that they would feel, as I did, that Father Bretagne’s brother in Brazil would be the next logical person to check out. If they had not already done so, that is. Certainly they had people in Brazil…
Still, the thought came back to me, they have people in Rome, too, and they sent you.
Since I did not know the why about Rome, it was fruitless to speculate as to the if concerning Brazil.
So the hell with them both. I would run down any local leads Maria could give me, prepare a long report signifying nothing and get ready to go home. What else was there to do?
My subconscious chuckled at this, and forced a list of Portuguese verbs into my head. I threw them back and went after another glass of champagne.
*
After an hour or so I had grown so tired of Gladden’s Wyeth & Water countryscapes that I found myself welcoming a familiar slap on the shoulder and the odor of exhaled cigar smoke.
"Ovid! I thought I saw you skulking about earlier," Walter said. "How the hell have you been?"
"Pretty well," I told him. "Yourself?"
"Fine, fine. When did you get in?"
"A few days ago."
"Business, I take it?"
I shrugged.
"Some business, some pleasure. I like to mix them."
"What do you think of Paul’s stuff?" he asked, gesturing.
"Some of it is pretty good."
"Good? He’s great!"
He indicated a morningset scene: a farmhouse and some outbuildings, an old tower and yellow hills in the background.
"You can feel the breezes and smell the fields the way he did that morning when he stood there painting it."
"He painted it from
I was only half-surprised to see Walter Carlon, an art critic, off in one corner, sketching in the air with his cigar and moving his lips at a rapid rate before a group of students and old ladies. Short, stocky, near-bald and in his forties, Walt had come into a lot of money and abominable taste somewhere along the line, and he traveled about the world exhibiting both. Over the years, he has demonstrated an amazing ability to back losers and mock the truly talented. His articles and books arouse a sense of wonder in art history and art appreciation classes, where they are held up as models of half-assedness. He is much in demand as a lecturer, though, for despite all else the man is glib. He fascinates as he infuriates. He should have been a politician or some other sort of con man. The power of his words vanishes, though, when they are committed to paper. I do not think he is a phony, however. He seems to believe whatever stupid thing he happens to be saying at any given moment. I cannot really say whether it is despite all this or because of it that I rather like the man.
As I did not wish to get tied down at the moment, I pretended not to have noticed him and made my way to the buffet table. Later, champagne glass in hand, I wandered the gallery, looking for Maria, half-studying Paul Gladden’s paintings.
After the better part of an hour, I had grown a bit impatient. Still, she had not said that she would be there right on the dot for the opening—simply that we would meet there. I asked one of the hostesses who said she had not seen her, but perhaps she was working upstairs. At my request, the girl found me a telephone and left me with it. I tried Maria’s number three times, but there was no answer.
So, she was probably either upstairs or en route. I determined to wait a while longer before growing concerned or trying anything else. If she did not prove the information source I hoped her to be, I decided that I would write me down as a failure and see whether I could sell the idea to our man at the embassy. I was convinced, though, that they would not let me off that easily. Not after all the trouble they had gone through to recruit me.
But Rome did indeed seem to be a dead end. I was afraid that they would feel, as I did, that Father Bretagne’s brother in Brazil would be the next logical person to check out. If they had not already done so, that is. Certainly they had people in Brazil…
Still, the thought came back to me, they have people in Rome, too, and they sent you.
Since I did not know the why about Rome, it was fruitless to speculate as to the if concerning Brazil.
So the hell with them both. I would run down any local leads Maria could give me, prepare a long report signifying nothing and get ready to go home. What else was there to do?
My subconscious chuckled at this, and forced a list of Portuguese verbs into my head. I threw them back and went after another glass of champagne.
*
After an hour or so I had grown so tired of Gladden’s Wyeth & Water countryscapes that I found myself welcoming a familiar slap on the shoulder and the odor of exhaled cigar smoke.
"Ovid! I thought I saw you skulking about earlier," Walter said. "How the hell have you been?"
"Pretty well," I told him. "Yourself?"
"Fine, fine. When did you get in?"
"A few days ago."
"Business, I take it?"
I shrugged.
"Some business, some pleasure. I like to mix them."
"What do you think of Paul’s stuff?" he asked, gesturing.
"Some of it is pretty good."
"Good? He’s great!"
He indicated a morningset scene: a farmhouse and some outbuildings, an old tower and yellow hills in the background.
"You can feel the breezes and smell the fields the way he did that morning when he stood there painting it."
"He painted it from
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