Duma Key

"For me, Edgar, that sums up what all art is for, and the only way it can be judged."

He smiled - a trifle defensively, I thought.

"I don't want to think too much about art, you see. I don't want to criticize it. I don't want to attend symposia, listen to papers, or discuss it at cocktail parties - although sometimes in my line of work I'm forced to do all those things. What I want to do is clutch my heart and fall down when I see it."

Wireman burst out laughing and raised both hands in the air. " Yes, Lawd! " he proclaimed. "I don't know if that guy out there was clutching his heart and falling down, but he surely was ready to clutch his checkbook."

Nannuzzi said, "Inside himself, I think he did fall down. I think they all did."

"Actually, I do too," Wireman said. He was no longer smiling.

Nannuzzi remained fixed on me. "No talk of gimmicks. What you are after in most of these paintings is perfectly straightforward: you're looking for a way to re-invent the most popular and hackneyed of all Florida subjects, the tropical sunset. You've been trying to find your way past the clich ."

"Yes, that's pretty much it. So I copied Dal -"

Nannuzzi waved a hand. "Those paintings out there are nothing like Dal . And I won't discuss schools of art with you, Edgar, or stoop to using words ending in ism. You don't belong to any school of art, because you don't know any."

"I know buildings," I said.

"Then why don't you paint buildings?"

I shook my head. I could have told him the thought had never crossed my mind, but it would have been closer to the truth to say it had never crossed my missing arm.

"Mary was right. You're an American primitive. Nothing wrong with that. Grandma Moses was an American primitive. Jackson Pollock was another. The point is, Edgar, you're talented."

I opened my mouth. Closed it. I simply couldn't figure out what to say. Wireman helped me.

"Thank the man, Edgar," he said.

"Thank you," I said.

"Very welcome. And if you do decide to show, Edgar, please come to the Scoto first. I'll make you the best deal of any gallery on Palm Avenue. That's a promise."

"Are you kidding? Of course I'll come here first."

"And of course I'll vet the contract," Wireman said with a choirboy's smile.

Nannuzzi smiled in return. "You should and I welcome it. Not that you'll find a lot to vet; the standard Scoto first-artist contract is a page and half long."

"Mr. Nannuzzi," I said, "I really don't know how to thank you."

"You already did," he said. "I clutched my heart - what's left of it - and fell down. Before you go, there's one more matter." He found a pad on his desk, scribbled on it, then tore off the sheet and handed it to me like a doctor handing a patient a prescription. The word written on it in large slanting capitals even looked like a word you'd see on a doctor's prescription: LIQUIN.

"What's Liquin?" I asked.

"A preservative. I suggest you begin by putting it on finished works with a paper towel. Just a thin coat. Let it dry for twenty-four hours, then put on a second coat. That will keep your sunsets bright and fresh for centuries." He looked at me so solemnly I felt my stomach rise a little toward my chest. "I don't know if they're good enough to deserve such longevity, but maybe they are. Who knows? Maybe they are."

viii

We ate dinner at Zoria's, the restaurant Mary Ire had mentioned, and I let Wireman buy me a bourbon before the meal. It was the first truly stiff drink I'd had since the accident, and it hit me in a funny way. Everything seemed to grow sharper until the world was drenched with light and color. The angles of things - doors, windows, even the cocked elbows of the passing waiters - seemed sharp enough to cut the air open and allow some darker, thicker atmosphere to come flowing out like syrup. The swordfish I ordered was delicious, the green beans snapped between my teeth, and the cr me br l e was almost too rich to finish (but too rich to leave). The conversation among the three of us was cheerful; there was plenty of laughter. Still, I wanted the meal to be over. My head still ached, although the throb had slid to the back of my skull (like a weight in one of those barroom bowling games), and the bumper-to-bumper traffic we could see on Main Street was distracting. Every horn-honk sounded ill-tempered and menacing. I wanted Duma. I wanted the blackness of the Gulf and the quiet conversation of the shells below me as I lay in my bed with Reba on the other pillow.

And by the time the waiter came to ask if we wanted more coffee, Jack was carrying the conversation almost single-handed. In my state of hyper-awareness I could see that I wasn't the only one who needed a change of venue. Given the low lighting in the restaurant and Wireman's mahogany tan, it was hard to tell just how much color he'd lost, but I thought quite a bit. Also, that left eye of his was weeping again.