Restoration

by John Ed Bradley

  “Or me,” I said, shouldering up next to Rhys. “I’m colored, too, Mr. Smallwood. Don’t leave me out.”

  The room was quiet but for his labored breathing. He gave his head a shake and removed the gloves from his hands. “Bunch of lunatics,” he said. “You’re a bunch of crazy people.”

  “Colored ones,” Rondell said. “Yeah, you right.”

  Rhys walked to the door and pulled it open. “Mr. Smallwood, if you intend to bid tomorrow please make sure to come on time. And remember you won’t have a fifteen-minute cushion like you did today. We start promptly at three o’clock.”

  Mary Thomas Jones slipped past Rhys into the hall, and Smallwood followed as far as the door. He looked back at the painting and sniffed one more time, seeming to find what he was after even for the distance.

  An hour or so later, after Joe Butler and Rondell Cherry had unknotted their ties and left for home, Rhys ordered dinner from the room service menu and we ate by candlelight with the curtains pulled open to a view of the river. “I’m rooting for the Andersons.” I said. “I don’t like that they’re from Texas, but I like that he cried and she wanted to touch Jacqueline and Levette.”

  “What’s wrong with Texas?” Rhys said.

  “Nothing. I’d just like to see the painting stay in the South.”

  “Texas isn’t part of the South?”

  “Texas isn’t part of anything but Texas.”

  She forked up another piece of New York strip. “I’m for the Andersons, too. No matter where Texas is on your map, Jack, I’d much rather see the mural go there than to Smallwood’s mansion on Prytania Street. But we both know who’s going to get it and it’s no use pretending.”

  “Why can’t someone else win the auction?” I said. “The Andersons have almost as much money as Smallwood, and so do some of the other collectors. Why can’t one of them win out for a change?”

  She poured more wine in my glass and I watched the light from the candles in her eyes. “It’s not always about money,” she said. “Winning at auction is as much about moxie. In a situation where everything is equal—everything meaning personal wealth—moxie is what triumphs. Every one of the collectors asked me the same question today: Is Tommy Smallwood going to be bidding? They deflated like balloons when I said he would be. Watch him tomorrow, Jack. Every aspect of the man’s persona will be an exaggeration carefully thought out. The clothes he wears, the way he walks, the things he says when he first enters the room, the type of woman he likely will have on his arm. He wants you to think he’s an ignorant bubba, but every detail is calculated to intimidate the opponent and build on his projecting invincibility.”

  When we were done we stood at the window looking out at the water and the ships and small lights along the bank and we kissed again and it was as powerful as before. She started to laugh, feeling me tremble in her arms, and she pulled me even closer and made a shushing sound in my ear. It had been a while since a woman shushed me and I’d forgotten how nice it was to be shushed. “Do that again,” I said.

  “I can’t hold you any tighter,” she said.

  “No, I mean shush me again. That sound you made.”

  She did it and I trembled and she laughed, precisely in that order. I was rusty and out of practice, and I didn’t know how to talk to a woman except to say exactly what was on my mind. “Let me stay with you tonight.”

  “You can’t, Jack.”

  “We don’t have to do anything. Let me just stay in the suite with you. I’ll sleep on the floor. I’d really like to be with you.”

  “You can’t. I’m sorry.”

  “Is it still because I’m not like you? Not black like you?”

  “Black like me? What are you talking about?”

  “That day after we had oysters at Casamento’s you said you wanted ‘somebody like me,’ and I quote you on that.”

  “Yes, I did say that. But I meant somebody who thinks like me, and who shares my values, and who cares about what I care about, and whose passion for art is as great as mine is. I didn’t mean somebody who is the same race as I am. The reason you can’t stay tonight,” she said, “is because I have a few things to take care of yet. And I’ve already committed to Levette tonight.”

  “So my rival is a dead man?”

  “Right,” she said with an exaggerated nod. “Who happens to be my grandfather. Now come on, Jack. I’ll walk you to the elevator.”

  She held my hand and escorted me down the hall. I punched the Down button and the car arrived. “Rhys, what about taxes?” I said suddenly.

  When the door started to close she stuck a hand out and stopped it. “That’s an odd question. What about them?”

  “You make a bank deposit of ten grand or more and the bank automatically notifies the IRS? It’s the law. Deposit a million and the government will probably send a Brinks truck to take its share.”

  “Why don’t we talk about that after the auction?” she said. She let go of the door and it started to slide closed again. “One more thing,” she said.

  This time it was I who stuck a hand out and forced the door back open.

  “I’ve invited Mr. Lowenstein to be here tomorrow,” she said. “I thought you should know.”

  “Why on earth would you invite him, Rhys?”

  “I thought he could use the lift.”

  “A lift? Are you kidding? Seeing Tommy Smallwood walk off with his friend’s mural is going to give Lowenstein a lift? I can’t imagine a worse form of torture. It would be like having to watch Levette die twice.”

  “That’s a bit of an overstatement, wouldn’t you say?” She shrugged at the same time I did. “He’s put the house up for sale, you know?”

  “Of course I knew. But how did you know?”

  “Trust me,” she said, then pushed my hand away, letting the door close.

  Breaking with tradition, Tommy Smallwood was the first of the bidders to arrive. He did not storm in like a proud champ with a title to defend but rather calmly entered the suite and led his date to the front of the room. They crouched beside the painting and studied the scene, Smallwood’s face arranged in an attitude of bliss. He was wearing a suit and his gumbo smell had been replaced today with one of aftershave. Against the small chandelier overhead the top of his head resembled the meringue of an icebox pie. I stared at him and asked myself the same questions that always came up at a Smallwood sighting: Why art? Why not souped-up muscle cars or trucks with big tires? Why not customized fishing rigs, for heaven’s sake?

  “I didn’t pass out,” he said, when he’d seen enough of the painting. “How about that, Charbonnet? I didn’t pass out.”

  I smiled at him.

  “Where do we get our paddles?” he said to Rhys.

  “We won’t be using paddles,” she answered.

  “No paddles?”

  “Not counting yourself, there will be five bidders in the room today. Since I know everyone, I didn’t think paddles were necessary.”

  “But how will I bid?”

  “You bid by raising your hand.”

  “I’d still like to have one,” he said. “I’d really like a number.”

  “Mr. Smallwood, it isn’t necessary. We know who you are.”

  “Yes, but I want one anyway.”

  Rhys wrote “00” on a sheet from her writing pad and handed it to him.

  “Is that a number?” he said. “I don’t think it is. You’re trying to trick me.”

  She snatched the paper from his hand, crossed out the “00” with her Sharpie pen, and wrote “01” next to it. “How’s that?” she said.

  “I’ll take it.”

  Even before Cherry and I had arrived at noon, Rhys and Joe Butler had arranged two rows of chairs in a semicircle facing the mural, in all about twenty chairs, although fewer than half would be occupied today. Smallwood and the woman selected seats in the exact center of the front row.

  The rest of the bidders arrived in short order, the last of them, Taylor Dickel, enjoying sur
reptitious sips from a whiskey flask. He sat one chair away from Smallwood.

  “Okay, then, that looks like everyone,” Rhys said. She opened the door to the adjoining suite. “Sally, darling,” she said.

  They came in together, Lowenstein in his wheelchair, Sally pushing him. The old man might’ve been another collector, judging from the reception he received. Each bidder inspected him closely as if to take stock of his strengths and weaknesses. Deciding he had only weaknesses, they quickly turned away from him.

  Sally wheeled the old man to the rear of the room close to where I was standing and maneuvered him into a corner. When she saw me she puckered her lips and kissed the air, but soundlessly. I kissed the air back.

  “I’d like to thank you all for being here today,” Rhys began. She was standing behind a lectern without a microphone. “I’m not a professional auctioneer, so bear with me, please. So as to avoid confusion, mostly to myself, the bidding will be increased by increments of no less than ten thousand dollars. You’re free and encouraged to bid higher than ten thousand, but you can’t bid less than that. Now before we start, I’d like to reiterate a few of our rules. The first is, when the gavel sounds today the sale is final. Under no circumstances will there be a return, not that I expect anyone who wins the bidding to ever consider parting with this wonderful painting. If the winning bidder is from out of town he must arrange his own shipping. If the winning bidder is local I can deliver the painting myself or arrange for the buyer to pick it up at the studio of the Crescent City Conservation Guild. As I’ve notified each of you before, there will be no taxes and no buyer’s premium. The price you pay is the hammer price. If there are any questions please don’t hesitate to ask them. It’s now or never.”

  Tommy Smallwood raised his hand. “Will you take cash?”

  “Cash?” It was Dickel, shouting out the word. “Did he say cash?”

  “No, Mr. Smallwood,” Rhys said, “I will not accept cash. The only payment I’ll accept, as I’ve stated before, is a wire transfer. Immediately after the sale I’ll meet with the winning bidder and provide further details. Anything else?” She glanced around the room, her gaze moving from one collector to the next. “Is everyone ready?” When nobody said anything Rhys took in a deep breath. “Up for bids now is the Levette Asmore Magazine Street post office mural of a Mardi Gras fantasia, circa 1941. Do I have a bid?”

  Several hands shot up and from his chair to the right of where I was standing Cedric Anderson called out, “Five hundred.”

  “Five hundred,” repeated Rhys. “Five hundred dollars? Five hundred thou—”

  “Five hundred thousand,” said Anderson, to scattered laughter.

  Good God, I thought. The record for a southern painting at auction had been shattered with the maiden bid.

  “Five hundred thousand dollars, then,” Rhys said. “Very good, Mr. Anderson. We have five hundred thousand dollars bid. We have five hun—”

  Smallwood raised the sheet of paper to the side of his head and gave it a shake.

  “Five ten,” Rhys said and pointed at him.

  “Five twenty,” countered Cedric Anderson.

  “Five thirty,” said Amanda Howard.

  “Five forty,” answered Rhys, for Smallwood.

  “Six hundred thousand,” crowed Taylor Dickel, hopping forward in his chair.

  “Six ten,” said Rhys, once again for Smallwood.

  Cedric Anderson thrust his hand over his head. “Seven hundred thousand,” he said, in a voice an octave higher than the one he’d used previously.

  “And seven ten to Mr. Smallwood,” came Rhys’s reply.

  “Eight… eight hundred thousand!” shouted Amanda Howard.

  A silence fell over the room but for the rattling of the paper in Tommy Smallwood’s thick right hand. “Eight ten,” Rhys said.

  “Eight twenty.”

  “Eight thirty.”

  Smallwood’s left hand went up now, the index finger pointing skyward, as he mouthed the figure he was prepared to pay. “One million dollars,” Rhys said. “I have one million dollars. Thank you, Mr. Smallwood. Do I have—”

  “One million ten thousand,” Amanda Howard said.

  Smallwood’s left index finger beat twice against the air. “One million one hundred thousand,” Rhys said.

  “One million two hundred thousand dollars,” came a bid from the collector in the chair directly behind Smallwood.

  “One million three hundred thou—”

  “And one million four to Mr. Smallwood,” Rhys said, cutting off Amanda Howard, who lowered her head on her husband’s shoulder. She began to weep silently.

  The Howards were out now. Faced with his own end moments later, Taylor Dickel reached for his flask and mumbled a single obscenity under his breath. The last two buyers were Cedric Anderson and Tommy Smallwood, and then it appeared to be only Smallwood.

  Rhys raised her gravel in plain sight of everyone in the room. “I have two million and fifty thousand dollars,” she said. “Do I have two million and sixty thousand dollars? Do I have two million and sixty, anyone? Anyone? Do I have it, anyone? In that case it’s going once… going twice…?”

  “Two million sixty,” cried David Howard, to the apparent surprise of his wife, who clutched his arm to keep from falling off her chair.

  “Two million seventy thousand,” replied Rhys, on Smallwood’s cue. “I have two million seventy. Do I have—”

  “Yes. Two million eighty,” came a voice from the rear of the room. It was Lowenstein, clearing his throat now with a wet cough. He thrust his hand in the air to make sure he had Rhys’s attention. “Did you get that, Miss Goudeau? I bid two million and eighty thousand dollars.”

  Smallwood craned his neck for another appraisal of Lowenstein. “Two million ninety,” he said out loud, abandoning his sheet of paper.

  “Two million one hundred—nah, I’m out, I’m out.” Lowenstein waved both hands to signal defeat. “I’m out, Miss Goudeau. Out…” And so that ended it. The painting was Smallwood’s.

  I sat for a while waiting for Rhys’s reaction, but she gave none. She didn’t leap to her feet and pound a fist in the air. She didn’t shout out or come to us for hugs and high-fives. There was no crying jag, either, at the prospect of having to turn over the painting to Smallwood. Instead she took a seat and waited for the room to clear out.

  I walked up and put a hand on her shoulder. “You okay?”

  She smiled and grabbed one of my fingers and gave it a tug. “Just tired. I have a new respect for my auctioneer friends. I feel like I’ve run a marathon.”

  “You did a fine job up there today, Rhys. I’m proud of you.”

  “I’m not.” She tugged at my finger again. “I’m not proud at all. All I feel is shame. Overwhelming shame. I can’t breathe for it. I think I’m going to suffocate.”

  The Howards came over and pulled her away before I could flesh out an explanation. As they were thanking her for including them in the auction, a loud voice sounded behind me, and I wheeled back in time to see Taylor Dickel attempt to shake Tommy Smallwood’s hand. Smallwood slapped him away. “But Mr. Smallwood?” Dickel was saying. “Mr. Smallwood, will you think of me if ever you change your mind about the—”

  “Leave me alone,” Smallwood muttered, and slapped at him again.

  “I was only—”

  “Leave me alone, Dickel. Do you hear? Leave me alone.”

  “But I was—”

  Smallwood knocked over chairs as he sidestepped Dickel on his way to the window. He stood staring out at the river below, then put his face in his hands and began to sob. His girlfriend remained seated, watching after him with a pretense of concern. I couldn’t presume to understand what motivated Tommy Smallwood to do anything, but I thought I knew why he was crying. It had something to do with why the truly rich and the truly beautiful always seem unhappy, if not altogether miserable. When it’s all been given, and it’s all been had, what use is there in dreaming any more? Smallwood had hi
s Asmore now. He might as well be dead.

  “But I don’t understand,” Dickel complained, ostensibly to the woman. “He’s won it, the fool has won it. Why the damned hell is he acting as if he’s lost?”

  Rhys ushered Dickel into the hall, nearly shoving him out when he tried to resist. “But he won, the bloody fool won…”

  After he was gone Rhys joined Smallwood at the window. He nodded when she spoke to him and after a time followed her into the neighboring suite. Having come to feel halfway sorry for his date, I was tempted to sit with the woman and give her company. But on second thought she seemed fine. Maybe Smallwood was paying her by the hour, it occurred to me.

  The Howards left, with the bidder whose name I never got fast behind them. Then Sally began to roll Lowenstein toward the door. “Excellent job, sir,” I whispered as they rattled by.

  “Excellent, was it?” said Lowenstein.

  He looked up at me and I gave him a wink.

  “Did you see that, Sally? Mr. Charbonnet just winked at me because I was excellent. I was excellent,” he went on, “although I have no idea what for.”

  I dropped to my haunches and checked around to make sure Smallwood and his girlfriend weren’t listening. “It’s called shill bidding, what you did. There’s no way you could afford to buy the painting and yet you drove up the price, presumably to fetch more for the consignor. It’s unethical, Mr. Lowenstein, not that I care. In fact, I was glad to see the bastard have to bleed a little more.”

  “So I’m a shill, am I? And what does that make you? A thief? Yes, I think it does. If I’m a shill, then you’re a thief. Let’s go, Sally.”

  “You can never be nice, can you?” I shot a look at Sally and she stepped back as if to reject any possibility of being brought into the conversation. “There’s something I feel compelled to tell you, sir. I hope you’ll forgive the sentiment, but I admire you for being here today. I can’t imagine how difficult it must’ve been.”

  “How’s that?” He cupped a hand around the back of his ear.

  “I said, it must have been very difficult for you, not to say painful, to sit back here this afternoon and watch your friend’s painting being sold. I admire your courage. It came to me during the auction that you’ve come full circle with the mural. It must feel like completing a journey.”