Read Online The Truth About Lorin Jones by Alison Lurie - Free Book Online
Authors: Alison Lurie
Tags: General Fiction
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distaste, over a collating frame.
“Now shall we go into my office, where we won’t be disturbed?... Good. Alan!” he called to the colorless young man. “Two cups of espresso, please. And no calls, please, for the next hour, unless it’s a serious buyer.
“So, how is it going?” he said, shutting the door and pulling forward an Eames chair for Polly. He leaned toward her over the desk, smiling with his large white perfectly capped teeth.
“Oh, pretty well.” Polly didn’t smile; Jacky’s fussy concern for her comfort, as if she were a possible client, hadn’t mollified her, but made her more suspicious. What was he going to try to sell her?
“I’m so pleased. You know, Paolo said before his stroke — Well, I think he was surprised, rather, that you hadn’t come to see him again. He wondered if you were making any progress. And he said that perhaps we should try to interest some writer with more experience.” Jacky flapped his hands deprecatingly. “But I said no, it has to be someone who hasn’t got so many other interests. Someone who can take the time to interview everyone: go to Wellfleet to see Garrett and down to the Keys to talk to that awful Hugh Cameron. And I’m convinced it should be a woman, too. Polly is the right person. That’s what I told him.” Jacky smiled. “Oh, that’s lovely, Alan.” He took the “tiny cup of coffee,” which in his big pale hand looked literally tiny.
“Well, thanks,” Polly said grudgingly. Why was Jacky telling her this? To flatter her and convince her that he was on her side? To make her feel nervous and dependent on him? Or both?
“Sugar?”
“Yes, please.” Polly held out her cup, then lifted the steaming espresso to her mouth and swallowed uneasily. Since Jacky Herbert was a man, she automatically distrusted him. He was also, of course, an art dealer, and — like most museum people — she was professionally suspicious of dealers. She knew that Jacky was currently engaged in gathering as many Lorin Jones canvases as he could find, with a view to selling them at large prices when Polly’s book appeared — indeed, he made no secret of this.
On the other hand Jacky (unlike Paolo Carducci) had always been lavish with praise of Jones’s work. More than once he had castigated himself in Polly’s hearing for not doing anything sooner about her paintings.
Also, like many people in the New York art world, Jacky was gay, and Polly didn’t usually distrust gay men. It was clear that some of them, like Jacky, would have preferred to have been born women if they’d been given the choice. Besides, she sympathized with them because, like her, they were so often attracted to the wrong type of guy.
“You’ve been interviewing Lennie Zimmern, I hear,” Jacky remarked after his assistant had left. “Hard work, I should imagine.” He made a wry face.
“Well; yes, rather. He doesn’t approve of personal biography.”
“He wouldn’t.” Jacky giggled. “Wouldn’t want his own written, I’d imagine. And whom else have you seen? Did you talk to what’s-her-name, Marcia, the father’s widow?”
“I saw her briefly. I didn’t learn a hell of a lot, though. You know Lorin Jones never lived with her, and they obviously weren’t close. I’m not sure I’ll bother to see her again.”
“I think you might, you know.” Jacky leaned forward.
“I don’t know. A friend of mine who works for Time says you should always go back for a second interview if you can. And bring a present, so they’ll feel obligated.”
“That sounds like good advice,” Jacky agreed. “I expect Marcia could tell you a lot, if she wanted to.”
“Maybe. There was something I meant to ask you about her, anyhow. Why aren’t there any of Lorin Jones’s pictures in her apartment? I mean, I already knew she didn’t have any, because we asked at the time of the show; but don’t you think that’s a little odd?”
“I don’t know that I do,” Jacky said. “I
“Now shall we go into my office, where we won’t be disturbed?... Good. Alan!” he called to the colorless young man. “Two cups of espresso, please. And no calls, please, for the next hour, unless it’s a serious buyer.
“So, how is it going?” he said, shutting the door and pulling forward an Eames chair for Polly. He leaned toward her over the desk, smiling with his large white perfectly capped teeth.
“Oh, pretty well.” Polly didn’t smile; Jacky’s fussy concern for her comfort, as if she were a possible client, hadn’t mollified her, but made her more suspicious. What was he going to try to sell her?
“I’m so pleased. You know, Paolo said before his stroke — Well, I think he was surprised, rather, that you hadn’t come to see him again. He wondered if you were making any progress. And he said that perhaps we should try to interest some writer with more experience.” Jacky flapped his hands deprecatingly. “But I said no, it has to be someone who hasn’t got so many other interests. Someone who can take the time to interview everyone: go to Wellfleet to see Garrett and down to the Keys to talk to that awful Hugh Cameron. And I’m convinced it should be a woman, too. Polly is the right person. That’s what I told him.” Jacky smiled. “Oh, that’s lovely, Alan.” He took the “tiny cup of coffee,” which in his big pale hand looked literally tiny.
“Well, thanks,” Polly said grudgingly. Why was Jacky telling her this? To flatter her and convince her that he was on her side? To make her feel nervous and dependent on him? Or both?
“Sugar?”
“Yes, please.” Polly held out her cup, then lifted the steaming espresso to her mouth and swallowed uneasily. Since Jacky Herbert was a man, she automatically distrusted him. He was also, of course, an art dealer, and — like most museum people — she was professionally suspicious of dealers. She knew that Jacky was currently engaged in gathering as many Lorin Jones canvases as he could find, with a view to selling them at large prices when Polly’s book appeared — indeed, he made no secret of this.
On the other hand Jacky (unlike Paolo Carducci) had always been lavish with praise of Jones’s work. More than once he had castigated himself in Polly’s hearing for not doing anything sooner about her paintings.
Also, like many people in the New York art world, Jacky was gay, and Polly didn’t usually distrust gay men. It was clear that some of them, like Jacky, would have preferred to have been born women if they’d been given the choice. Besides, she sympathized with them because, like her, they were so often attracted to the wrong type of guy.
“You’ve been interviewing Lennie Zimmern, I hear,” Jacky remarked after his assistant had left. “Hard work, I should imagine.” He made a wry face.
“Well; yes, rather. He doesn’t approve of personal biography.”
“He wouldn’t.” Jacky giggled. “Wouldn’t want his own written, I’d imagine. And whom else have you seen? Did you talk to what’s-her-name, Marcia, the father’s widow?”
“I saw her briefly. I didn’t learn a hell of a lot, though. You know Lorin Jones never lived with her, and they obviously weren’t close. I’m not sure I’ll bother to see her again.”
“I think you might, you know.” Jacky leaned forward.
“I don’t know. A friend of mine who works for Time says you should always go back for a second interview if you can. And bring a present, so they’ll feel obligated.”
“That sounds like good advice,” Jacky agreed. “I expect Marcia could tell you a lot, if she wanted to.”
“Maybe. There was something I meant to ask you about her, anyhow. Why aren’t there any of Lorin Jones’s pictures in her apartment? I mean, I already knew she didn’t have any, because we asked at the time of the show; but don’t you think that’s a little odd?”
“I don’t know that I do,” Jacky said. “I
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