wife.” But she returned reluctantly to the bedroom.
“And put your shirt on before you go down,” he called after her. “You might meet Mr. Monk down there.” Mr. Monk was the groundsman.
“I wonder ifhe'd be willing to relieve me of this disgraceful chastity?”
“Not on what I pay him,” Jonathan mumbled to himself.
“I assume you want your eggs raw,” she called as she left.
After breakfast, she wandered about in the greenhouse garden while he brought the morning mail into the library, where he intended to do a touch of work. He was surprised and disturbed not to find the usual blue envelope from CII containing his cash payment. By routine, it was always placed by hand in his mailbox during the night after his return from a sanction. He was sure this was no oversight. Dragon was up to something. But there was nothing he could do but wait, so he went over his accounts and discovered that, after he had spent the ten thousand for the new Pissarro and paid his groundsman in advance for the summer, he would have very little left. There would be no lavish living this season, but he would get by. His major concern was that he had promised the underground art dealer in Brooklyn that he would have the money today. He decided to telephone and persuade him to hold the painting for an extra day.
“...so whencan you pick it up, Jonathan?” the dealer asked, his voice crisp with the overarticulated consonants of the Near East.
“Tomorrow, I imagine. Or the next day.”
“Make it the next day. Tomorrow I take the family to Jones Beach. And you will have the twelve thousand we agreed on?”
“I will have theten thousand we agreed on.”
“It was only ten?” the dealer asked, his voice laden with grief.
“It was only ten.”
“Jonathan, what am I doing? I am allowing my friendship for you to threaten the future of my children. But—a deal is a deal. I am philosophic. I can lose with grace. But make sure you bring the money before noon. It is dangerous for me to keep the item here. And also, I have another prospective buyer.”
“You're lying, of course.”
“I don't lie. I steal. There is another buyer. For twelve thousand. He contacted me today. So, if you don't want to lose the painting, be prompt. You understand?”
“I understand.”
“Good. So! How is the family?”
“I'm not married. We go through this every time. You always ask me how the family is, and I always remind you that I am not married.”
“Well, I am a forgetful man. Remember how I forgot it was only ten thousand? But seriously, you should get a family. Without children to work for, what is life? Answer me that.”
“I'll see you in two days.”
“I look forward to it. Be punctual, Jonathan. There is another buyer.”
“So you told me.”
For several minutes after he hung up, Jonathan sat gloomily at his desk, his spirits dampened by fear of losing the Pissarro. He wondered uneasily what was in Dragon's oblique mind.
“Feel like banging balls?” Cherry called from across the nave.
There was nothing to be gained by moping, so he agreed. The storm had rinsed the sky clear of clouds and the day was brilliant with sunlight. They played tennis for an hour, then they cut their thirsts with splits of champagne. She imitated his sacrilegious habit of drinking the wine from the bottle, like beer. Later they cooled off with a short swim. Cherry swam in her tennis togs, and when she came out, her shorts were nearly transparent.
“I feel like an Italian starlet,” she remarked, looking down at the dark ecru outline through her wet shorts.
“So do I,” he said, dropping down on the hot sand.
They small-talked while she let handfuls of sand seep from her fist onto his back. She mentioned that she was going to spend the weekend on the Point with some of her friends. She invited him to come along. He refused; her too-young and too-liberal friends bored him with their nomadic affections and catatonic minds.
A cool wind
“And put your shirt on before you go down,” he called after her. “You might meet Mr. Monk down there.” Mr. Monk was the groundsman.
“I wonder ifhe'd be willing to relieve me of this disgraceful chastity?”
“Not on what I pay him,” Jonathan mumbled to himself.
“I assume you want your eggs raw,” she called as she left.
After breakfast, she wandered about in the greenhouse garden while he brought the morning mail into the library, where he intended to do a touch of work. He was surprised and disturbed not to find the usual blue envelope from CII containing his cash payment. By routine, it was always placed by hand in his mailbox during the night after his return from a sanction. He was sure this was no oversight. Dragon was up to something. But there was nothing he could do but wait, so he went over his accounts and discovered that, after he had spent the ten thousand for the new Pissarro and paid his groundsman in advance for the summer, he would have very little left. There would be no lavish living this season, but he would get by. His major concern was that he had promised the underground art dealer in Brooklyn that he would have the money today. He decided to telephone and persuade him to hold the painting for an extra day.
“...so whencan you pick it up, Jonathan?” the dealer asked, his voice crisp with the overarticulated consonants of the Near East.
“Tomorrow, I imagine. Or the next day.”
“Make it the next day. Tomorrow I take the family to Jones Beach. And you will have the twelve thousand we agreed on?”
“I will have theten thousand we agreed on.”
“It was only ten?” the dealer asked, his voice laden with grief.
“It was only ten.”
“Jonathan, what am I doing? I am allowing my friendship for you to threaten the future of my children. But—a deal is a deal. I am philosophic. I can lose with grace. But make sure you bring the money before noon. It is dangerous for me to keep the item here. And also, I have another prospective buyer.”
“You're lying, of course.”
“I don't lie. I steal. There is another buyer. For twelve thousand. He contacted me today. So, if you don't want to lose the painting, be prompt. You understand?”
“I understand.”
“Good. So! How is the family?”
“I'm not married. We go through this every time. You always ask me how the family is, and I always remind you that I am not married.”
“Well, I am a forgetful man. Remember how I forgot it was only ten thousand? But seriously, you should get a family. Without children to work for, what is life? Answer me that.”
“I'll see you in two days.”
“I look forward to it. Be punctual, Jonathan. There is another buyer.”
“So you told me.”
For several minutes after he hung up, Jonathan sat gloomily at his desk, his spirits dampened by fear of losing the Pissarro. He wondered uneasily what was in Dragon's oblique mind.
“Feel like banging balls?” Cherry called from across the nave.
There was nothing to be gained by moping, so he agreed. The storm had rinsed the sky clear of clouds and the day was brilliant with sunlight. They played tennis for an hour, then they cut their thirsts with splits of champagne. She imitated his sacrilegious habit of drinking the wine from the bottle, like beer. Later they cooled off with a short swim. Cherry swam in her tennis togs, and when she came out, her shorts were nearly transparent.
“I feel like an Italian starlet,” she remarked, looking down at the dark ecru outline through her wet shorts.
“So do I,” he said, dropping down on the hot sand.
They small-talked while she let handfuls of sand seep from her fist onto his back. She mentioned that she was going to spend the weekend on the Point with some of her friends. She invited him to come along. He refused; her too-young and too-liberal friends bored him with their nomadic affections and catatonic minds.
A cool wind
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