The Flanders Panel

“The bastard,” she said when Julia had finished telling her about it. “I’ll talk to Don Manuel tomorrow. We must fight back.”

Sergio drew back from the tide of words issuing from Menchu, who was rushing from Montegrifo to the Van Huys, from the Van Huys to assorted platitudes, and from a second to a third drink, which she held in an increasingly unsteady hand. Max was silently smoking by her side, with the poise of a dark, sleek stallion put out to stud. Wearing a distant smile, Cesar sipped his gin-and-lemon and dried his lips on the handkerchief from his top jacket pocket. From time to time he blinked, as if returning from some far-off place, and distractedly stroked Julia’s hand.

“There are two sorts of people in this business, darling,” Menchu was saying to Sergio, “those who paint and those who pocket the money. And they’re rarely the same ones.” She sighed loudly, touched by the boy’s youth. “And all you young, blond artists, sweetheart.” She gave Cesar a poisonous sideways glance. “So utterly delicious.”

Cesar felt obliged to make a reluctant return from his remote thoughts.

“Pay no heed, my young friend, to voices poisoning your golden spirit,” he said in a slow, lugubrious voice, as if he were offering Sergio condolences rather than advice. “This woman speaks with forked tongue, as do all women.” He looked at Julia, bent to kiss her hand, and swiftly recovered his composure. “Forgive me. As do nearly all women.”

“Look who’s talking.” Menchu grimaced. “If it isn’t our own private Sophocles. Or do I mean Seneca? I mean the one who used to touch up young men as he sipped his hemlock.”

Cesar leaned his head back and closed his eyes melodramatically.

“The path the artist must follow, and I’m talking to you, my young Alcibiades, or Patroclus, or perhaps even Sergio… the path involves dodging obstacle after obstacle until finally you’re able to peer deep inside yourself. A difficult task if you have no Virgil by your side to guide you. Do you understand the subtle point I’m making, young man? Thus the artist at last comes to drink deep of the sweetest of pleasures. His life becomes one of pure creation and he no longer needs miserable external things. He is far, far above the rest of his despicable fellow men. And growth and maturity build their nests in him.”

This was greeted by a certain amount of mocking applause. Sergi0 looked at them, smiling but disconcerted. Julia burst out laughing.

“Take no notice of him. I bet he stole that from someone else. He always was a crook.”

Cesar opened one eye.

“I’m a bored Socrates. And I indignantly deny your accusation that I steal other people’s words.”

“He’s really quite witty, isn’t he?” Menchu was talking to Max, who had been listening with furrowed brow, while she helped herself to one of his cigarettes. “Give me a light, condottiere mio.”

The epithet caught Cesar’s malicious ear.

“Cave canem, sturdy youth,” he said to Max, and Julia was possibly the only other person present who knew that in Latin canem can be both masculine and feminine. “According to the history books, the people the condottieri really had to watch were those they served.” He looked at Julia and made an ironic bow; drink was beginning to have its effect on him too. “Burckhardt,” he explained.

“Don’t worry, Max,” said Menchu, although Max did not seem in the least upset. “See? It wasn’t even his idea. He crowns himself with other people’s bay leaves… or is it laurels?”

“You mean acanthus,” said Julia, laughing.

Cesar gave her a hurt look.