Read Online The Dead Man's Brother by Roger Zelazny - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Roger Zelazny
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a photo," I said, "not that that takes anything away from his field and his breezes—"
"What do you mean? How can you tell?"
"I can tell by the way the perspective is off. Give me a piece of string and I’ll show you."
He glared at the painting and was beginning to turn red when he was saved from the string business by the arrival of Bruno Jurgen.
I had seen him coming, passing through the crowd like a dark, white-capped breaker, extending liquid hands in gesture, handshake, salute; smiling, nodding, very neat in his dark dinner jacket, his sandpaper complexion just beginning to crinkle beneath the tan, he flowed, leaving echoes and eddies in his wake.
"Ovid," he said, shaking my hand, "are you here to buy everything in sight?"
I protested that the people would cost a lot to feed, and he added a small gesture to his grin and clasped Walt’s hand with an equal professional fervor.
"I was detained in the office," he explained. "Some stupid phone calls. Otherwise, I would have been down here earlier to welcome you. Ovid, I did not know you were in town or you would have received an invitation. There was no difficulty…?"
"None," I told him.
"We have several mailing lists," he went on. "You should receive invitations for all the shows at our New York outlet, and all the ones of international importance from our other branches. I apologize for not knowing of your special interest in Mister Gladden. Are you here on your own or as a representative?"
"Actually," I said, "I’m not here for this specific exhibit," and I tried to let it go at that.
"Oh, a general buying trip," he replied. "Where else have you been?"
"Just here. That’s all."
"And where next?"
"Possibly Brazil," I said, with some bitterness.
"You like the climate perhaps?"
"I detest it, but that is of no importance."
He regarded me more closely, then decided, "If you are interested in the work of a particular artist or pieces in a specific style or medium, I can cable our branches in Rio and São Paulo and make arrangements."
"That’s quite good of you, thank you, but not necessary. I may not even have to make the trip. Much depends on how things go here."
"Oh? Well, whatever…You must give me your local address, so that I can take you to lunch or dinner while you are in town. Who knows? I may even be able to help you with your local business. You’re not up to your old tricks again, are you?"
I shook my head and told him where I was staying.
"I’ll phone you tomorrow then, after I have checked my appointments."
"Fine."
"In the meantime, can I sell you some of Mister Gladden’s things?" he asked, turning his head in that direction.
"Not just now, thanks."
He shook his head in smiling disbelief.
"That boy will be big one day," he said. "Now is the time to notice that. Not later. Right, Walter?"
"My spirit of the romantic has been sadly crushed," he said. "I have just determined that the man paints from photographs. The perspective, you know. I even begin to wonder whether he snaps his own. Perhaps he is a boon to the postcard industry."
Bruno flushed, which simply had the effect of darkening his tan.
"What of it?" he said. "It is true, but what of it? Many—no, most—modern artists do the same. Would you have them return to the same place every day and await identical conditions? The vision is there or they would not have selected the subject. A photo is only for mundane details. It is a valuable tool and its side effects are only incidental."
At this point, his gestures had become violent enough to cause bystanders to draw back. He turned to me then and fired, "Is that why you are not interested in his work?"
"No," I said. "As a matter of fact, I think some of them are very good. It is just that I am not in the market for this sort of thing right now. My budget, you know, is more limited than some and I have to be selective when it comes to speculation. I am certain I could sell the stuff. The question is—how much? I can’t
"What do you mean? How can you tell?"
"I can tell by the way the perspective is off. Give me a piece of string and I’ll show you."
He glared at the painting and was beginning to turn red when he was saved from the string business by the arrival of Bruno Jurgen.
I had seen him coming, passing through the crowd like a dark, white-capped breaker, extending liquid hands in gesture, handshake, salute; smiling, nodding, very neat in his dark dinner jacket, his sandpaper complexion just beginning to crinkle beneath the tan, he flowed, leaving echoes and eddies in his wake.
"Ovid," he said, shaking my hand, "are you here to buy everything in sight?"
I protested that the people would cost a lot to feed, and he added a small gesture to his grin and clasped Walt’s hand with an equal professional fervor.
"I was detained in the office," he explained. "Some stupid phone calls. Otherwise, I would have been down here earlier to welcome you. Ovid, I did not know you were in town or you would have received an invitation. There was no difficulty…?"
"None," I told him.
"We have several mailing lists," he went on. "You should receive invitations for all the shows at our New York outlet, and all the ones of international importance from our other branches. I apologize for not knowing of your special interest in Mister Gladden. Are you here on your own or as a representative?"
"Actually," I said, "I’m not here for this specific exhibit," and I tried to let it go at that.
"Oh, a general buying trip," he replied. "Where else have you been?"
"Just here. That’s all."
"And where next?"
"Possibly Brazil," I said, with some bitterness.
"You like the climate perhaps?"
"I detest it, but that is of no importance."
He regarded me more closely, then decided, "If you are interested in the work of a particular artist or pieces in a specific style or medium, I can cable our branches in Rio and São Paulo and make arrangements."
"That’s quite good of you, thank you, but not necessary. I may not even have to make the trip. Much depends on how things go here."
"Oh? Well, whatever…You must give me your local address, so that I can take you to lunch or dinner while you are in town. Who knows? I may even be able to help you with your local business. You’re not up to your old tricks again, are you?"
I shook my head and told him where I was staying.
"I’ll phone you tomorrow then, after I have checked my appointments."
"Fine."
"In the meantime, can I sell you some of Mister Gladden’s things?" he asked, turning his head in that direction.
"Not just now, thanks."
He shook his head in smiling disbelief.
"That boy will be big one day," he said. "Now is the time to notice that. Not later. Right, Walter?"
"My spirit of the romantic has been sadly crushed," he said. "I have just determined that the man paints from photographs. The perspective, you know. I even begin to wonder whether he snaps his own. Perhaps he is a boon to the postcard industry."
Bruno flushed, which simply had the effect of darkening his tan.
"What of it?" he said. "It is true, but what of it? Many—no, most—modern artists do the same. Would you have them return to the same place every day and await identical conditions? The vision is there or they would not have selected the subject. A photo is only for mundane details. It is a valuable tool and its side effects are only incidental."
At this point, his gestures had become violent enough to cause bystanders to draw back. He turned to me then and fired, "Is that why you are not interested in his work?"
"No," I said. "As a matter of fact, I think some of them are very good. It is just that I am not in the market for this sort of thing right now. My budget, you know, is more limited than some and I have to be selective when it comes to speculation. I am certain I could sell the stuff. The question is—how much? I can’t
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