The Panama Portrait

by Stanley Ellin

  “And you really believe he is a great artist?” Ben said. “I got the impression from Nora that he’s turned out some pretty bad things along the way.”

  “By his own standards, yes. As for his stature, even in his representational period he was superb. In his later period he produced, oh, about a hundred paintings. A dozen of them are great art, and that is enough to make any man a great artist. No proven master may be judged by his failures. Luckily for him, he rarely is. That part of the populace which pretends to worship art has an unbounded capacity for self-delusion. I have heard people exclaiming over some of Cézanne’s most insipid views of Mont Sainte-Victoire in tones of ecstasy. I have seen them stare at Monet’s tutti-frutti haystacks with almost religious rapture. Fair enough. Cézanne and Monet were great masters. It is a virtuous form of stupidity to applaud anything they may have signed. For that matter, I’ve been paid a fortune for some of David’s own abortions. I’ve taken the money with a clear conscience because he is a great painter.”

  “And doesn’t that pinch his integrity a little around the toes?”

  “It might, if he felt that his work could be so nicely divided into triumphs and failures. But he has no such feeling. When he views a finished painting it is always with despair. He knows it is a failure. In his mind was an image to set down. The image on canvas can never equal it. How can it? What reality can ever equal the impossible perfection locked in one’s imagination? Yet, David is no fool. Failure or not, when the work is complete he knows it must buy him freedom to start a new work. That’s where I come in. The money I obtain for the picture buys that freedom.”

  “At fancy prices, too. And a career and fame and everything that goes with them. All right, they make good enough reasons for his attachment to you. But what about Nora? How did you get her on your side?”

  “I gave her David.”

  “Just like that? Or was it the other way around?”

  “You have a conventional way of looking at things,” said Klebenau, unruffled. “If you don’t mind, I’ll have another of these refreshing drinks. Conversation along conventional lines always makes me thirsty.”

  When the drink was delivered Ben watched Klebenau pour sugar into it with a reckless hand.

  “You ought to think of your father and grandfather when you do that.”

  “I do.” Klebenau raised the glass in a toast. “And I also think of insulin which, thank God, is readily available if I ever need it. As for Nora—”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, to understand our relationship, we must go back a few years to the time I first met her. To be exact, that was seven years ago. I had asked an agency to send me an office worker, someone who would be willing to work long hours for low pay, and it was Nora they sent. How I remember that morning. I looked at her, that enchanting child with the guileless face and splendidly provocative body, and I thought, my God, she is a Renoir come to life! She is everything the old sensualist ever dreamed of in his most glorious dreams. He was a sensualist, you know. So much so that it sometimes damaged his work. He was mad about women, and there were times, I think, when he must have had the same problem painting them that a starving artist would have in painting a particularly delicious still life.

  “So, as I said, here was this living Renoir before me. She was nineteen then, fresh from her first year at college. She had been studying fine arts, that dismal course of instruction for untalented people which is aimed at making them teachers to other untalented people, but she had left college to learn about real life. She was quite serious about it. She wanted to live, to savor the human experience, and it was a little difficult to do that at Sarah Lawrence. But the life of the galleries on Fifty-seventh Street, the sidestreets of Greenwich Village, the bistros on the waterfront—ah, that was living.

  “And why this great decision? Because, she said, she must prove herself to her parents. They loved her, true, but they didn’t like her. She was too staid and proper, too modern, and what they yearned for was the old-time fire. The first couple of years of their marriage they had lived the Bohemian life in the heart of Greenwich Village. They had a contempt for the younger generation as represented by Nora and her comrades who didn’t know what freedom, what intensity of experience, one could find in that sort of life.”

  “Strange parents,” said Ben.

  “As a matter of fact, they are charming people. I came to know them well, and I found that they worshipped Nora. Not only that, but the attitude she charged them with was largely a wistfulness for their own brief, happy interlude as free souls. You will understand what I mean when I tell you that after their two-year interlude in New York, they had to settle in Hartford, Connecticut, where Nora’s father works for an insurance company. Compared to Hartford, Port Buchanan is an earthly paradise.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” said Ben. “What about Nora?”

  “Well, I hired her, and within a year she was invaluable. Not only did she make an efficient secretary, but she learned something about art, learned how to handle customers, proved capable of operating the gallery by herself when I was away. She has a rare quality. She has an implicit trust in anyone she meets, and this seems to inspire a trust in her. I’ve known her for seven years. In all that time I’ve never known her to tell a lie, aside from the occasional polite one about the way someone’s new hat looks or about a nonexistent headache when she wanted to avoid the company of a pestiferous suitor. She is the most truthful person I know. Perhaps it’s because she’s somewhat humorless. The ability to lie fluently and convincingly has always struck me as being part of a sense of humor. That is, when it’s a characteristic of an ordinarily decent person. When a villain lies, it’s a natural part of his villainy.

  “As it turned out, her faith in me made me her guardian angel, and she badly needed one. She remained grimly intent on studying the human comedy at close range, and, of course, there are plenty of wolves around to prey on that sort of lamb. And lamb she was. She roomed with a drearily unwholesome girl in Greenwich Village, she made friends with every conceivable sort of creature who came her way, but still she remained the unsullied virgin from Hartford, Connecticut. As guardian angel I encouraged that. It was not that I have any great admiration for chastity, which is an unnatural condition for the adult of either sex. It was simply that I suspected that the first man Nora went to bed with would be the man she would marry, and I wanted to make sure he was the right man.”

  “So you picked Chapin for her.”

  “No, she was the one who picked him. In fact, when she first told me that she was in love with him I tried to discourage her. I pointed out that he was twenty years older than she, that he was a bachelor at the age of forty—always a bad sign—and that he was, at best, a hard man to get along with. It would be like marrying Michelangelo. He never did marry, you know. He had an old servitor, as dirty and bad-tempered as himself, to take care of him, and that was a lucky thing for some innocent, unsuspecting Italian girl. It was the worst possible argument I could have used, because, as it turned out, Nora worshipped Michelangelo. She would, of course. Every young and healthy female finds that flamboyant muscularity of his images irresistible. In the end, when I knew I was beaten, I resigned myself to serving as matchmaker.”

  “How?”

  “By telling David that the girl adored him and that he would be a fool not to marry her. Why beat around the bush? As both man and artist he could hardly be blind to the attractions of my living Renoir. Also, any male would be flattered to learn that someone like Nora loved him enough to marry him on the spot. As a last resort I was conscienceless enough to utilize my experience as an art dealer. I advised him that if the merchandise wasn’t satisfactory, it could be returned. After all, no one takes marriage so seriously nowadays that it must be maintained at all costs. If Nora and he were not compatible, I would be glad to pay for the divorce myself.”

  “Did you tell her that?”

  “Do I look that much of a fool? I told her nothing
. I saw them married, and I wished them well. After that it was up to Nora. Marriage, far from being a partnership, is really the relationship of two people in a small boat. The man stands proudly at the tiller guiding it, and the woman bails furiously, hoping to keep it afloat. Knowing how leaky Nora’s boat was, all I could hope was that she had sense enough to start bailing immediately and endurance enough to keep at it permanently.”

  “A hell of a marriage,” Ben said shortly.

  “It was all of that,” Klebenau agreed, “until Nora learned her role in it. Our society today does not prepare a woman for marriage. On the physical level it presents her with the picture of a handsomely dressed couple made of plastic, sharing a nationally advertised brand of cigarettes. On the psychic level it hammers insistently at the need for communication between husband and wife. Communication! What an obscene word for the relationship between male and female. It suggests nothing so much as a pair of psychiatrists taking turns at analyzing each other.

  “Look at a man like David. He alternates between the heights and depths of the manic-depressive mood. At his best he explodes in bursts of creative fury. At his worst his head is full of undefined images which he desperately tries to comprehend. He has no ability at all to communicate in words. I know artists who can, but I don’t trust them. Creativity is an unsolvable mystery, and the more verbose an artist, the more he is detaching himself from the possession of that mystery. He is arguing his case instead of exercising his talent.”

  “Even so,” Ben said, “there are other things to talk about besides art. Especially between a husband and wife.”

  “Yes, David and Nora do talk about other things. But she’s learned that, no matter what the subject, the larger part of his interest is focused on something far away, something she can never share with him. She once told me with unblushing frankness that the only time she feels she’s in complete possession of him is when they’re having sexual intercourse. He’s a virile man, and unlike most virile men, completely monogamous. From a woman’s point of view, that can compensate for a great deal.”

  “And that’s what Nora settled for?”

  “If you mean she’s getting the worst of the bargain, you’re wrong. For one thing, life with a Michelangelo can never be dull. Even more important is what’s happened to Nora in the marriage. By making herself into exactly the kind of woman David needs, she has made him the man she needs. He is her sole function. He completes her. She is a happy woman for that reason.”

  “Which doesn’t change the fact,” Ben said, “that she’s now living in the filthiest hole I ever saw. Whatever bargain she made, does that have to be part of it?”

  “Not if I can raise some money. After all, that’s what we’re talking about, isn’t it? It’s up to you.”

  “But why? I don’t even know you. And with all that’s been said, I still don’t know your business here. Why do I have to be the one to bail you out of your troubles?”

  “You gave Nora money last night, didn’t you?”

  “That didn’t mean I wanted to buy a partnership in the firm.”

  “Still,” Klebenau pointed out, “you did give her money. Such generosity is impressive. Even more impressive is the fact that you have money to give.” He held out a hand in appeal. “I’m speaking from the heart, Smith. I’m this close to one of the biggest deals of my life, and I need your help to put it over. There isn’t anyone else here left for me to go to, and I’m too far away from home to raise any more money there. I’ll meet whatever terms you set. I’ll guarantee to pay back double whatever you give me, whether the deal goes through or not.”

  “Then there is a chance it won’t go through.”

  “I’ll take that chance. Your return is guaranteed. I know the art business, Smith. Two years from now I’ll be back in it bigger than ever.”

  “Not by investing your money with strangers who won’t tell you what they’re up to, Klebenau.”

  “What a joke,” Klebenau said bitterly. “If I tell you what the deal is, you’d see at once why I can’t tell you what it is.” He pondered the joke. “No, I can’t risk it. With the best intentions in the world you might blow it sky-high. You know what that means? Two years of my life, and a pile of debts from here to Manhattan. I can’t do it. You’ll have to take my word for it.”

  Temptation rose in Ben. His two thousand dollars was doing him no good where it was. Why not use it to buy proprietorship of this trio? What was wrong with that? He considered what was wrong with it and put temptation aside. But the picture of Nora Chapin homeward bound to the Calle Indios remained.

  He said, “I can’t do business on your terms, Klebenau, but maybe I can help out a little. How much would it cost by the week to live in a decent place this side of the Plaza República?”

  “Not much. Fifty dollars American would cover everything.”

  “All right, I’ll give you that. And I’d like the three of you to move today, if you can arrange it.”

  Klebenau took the check and studied it unsmilingly. “It’s not what I need, but I guess it’ll have to do. Yes, I can arrange to move us today. I don’t like that place any more than you do, and I’ve got a lot more reason.” He put the check in his pocket, and then drew out a small notebook and made an entry in it. “Everything goes down here,” he said. “The money you gave Nora last night is here, too. This is no charity. It’s a friendly loan, and you’ll get it back as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll wait my turn,” said Ben. “That book ought to be pretty full by now.”

  “It is.” The check, instead of brightening Klebenau’s mood, seemed to dispirit him. He sat in silence for awhile, then said abruptly, “There’s one other thing I have to ask you. I understand you’re friends with the Bambas-Quincy family. Can you get me an introduction to them?”

  “I wouldn’t even try to. I’ve already heard their opinions of Chapin, and I have a feeling that they’re all for guilt by association. You’ll have to arrange your own introduction.”

  “Don’t you think I’ve been trying to? They’ve got worse than an Iron Curtain around that family. You’d think I was trying to assassinate them instead of just trying to have a little talk.”

  “Little talk about what? Are they the ones you want to do business with?”

  Klebenau was deaf to the question. He looked at his watch and stood up. “I guess I can take my turn in the tub now,” he said. “Well meet you here for lunch. Oh, yes, when you’re with David, for God’s sake don’t talk about his painting. He hates to have anybody ask him about it or discuss it in front of him.”

  “Is there any particular subject he doesn’t mind talking about?” Ben asked pointedly, and Klebenau pressed a hand to his chest in a declamatory gesture. “You don’t have to worry about that,” he said. “When I am among the company, there is never an embarrassing silence.”

  Which, Ben saw at lunch, was no less than the truth.

  7

  He was dressed and ready long before the Bambas-Quincy limousine came to pick him up that evening. While he was waiting he allowed himself one drink to steady his nerves, but it was no more helpful than the flattering view he had of himself in the mirror. The new suit was perfectly tailored; he looked, as the phrase goes, highly presentable. Yet, his qualms remained. All the evidence added up to one thing: the game was really beginning now, and this dinner party was its first big move. He would be up for inspection by the Bambas-Quincy clan, and if he failed to pass inspection—

  It was a nerve-racking prospect for anyone who was not a born gambler. Ben Smith knew that he was not. Beneath these glittering vestments, he told himself wryly, is still the small-town boy from Aurelia, Kansas, who was brought up to avoid poker and dice. That was poor training for anyone who craved so hungrily to make it big. It was the O’Harraghs and Alden-Aragones and Klebenaus of the world who enjoyed going for all or nothing. With the same stakes to play for, any one of them would relish the prospect of attending this dinner party. Or was it all a front? Was i
t possible that while they played the game they suffered the same qualms he did, but managed to conceal them so well that no one could guess their secret? He took what comfort he could from that. According to the mirror, the visible Ben Smith, at least, looked like a winner.

  The car arrived on the stroke of eight, an air-conditioned juggernaut manned by an Indian chauffeur. Air-conditioning was a rarity in Port Buchanan, and Ben yielded to it gratefully, enjoying not only its coolness, but the relief it provided from the familiar miasma wafted his way on the sunset breeze. The aroma was still with him in the car, but unobtrusively so.

  His destination lay on the far side of the bridge over the Rio Xares. Beyond the suburban developments of the new city was a hilly rise, and as they ascended it their headlights revealed flashes of white masonry ahead, glimpses of ornate homes half-hidden behind tall hedges of tropical growth. The Bambas-Quincy mansion stood on the crest of the hill. Seen close up, it reminded Ben of what he had heard about those architectural monstrosities which blighted the Hollywood landscape during the gaudy 1920’s.

  This motif, he found, extended to the air-conditioned interior of the building. It was a mélange of luxurious bad taste, a conglomeration of silk, plush, mahogany, and wrought iron. The one pleasing object he saw in the anteroom where he waited, while a servant scurried away to announce his arrival, was the handsome, clean-lined model of a sailing ship in a glass case. A replica, said the silver plaque on the case, of the original Maid of New Bedford. Blas had mentioned it to him, he recalled. A historic ship. A Quincy had arrived on it to mate with a Bambas, and out of them had come all this. Or, to be accurate, out of them with a major assist from a fin de siècle Argentinian heiress, the formidable old crone he would meet tonight. There seemed to be no doubt in anyone’s mind that she was the one who had made the family’s fortune.