The Burnt Orange Heresy

By 1:30 P.M. we were ready to go. I preceded Berenice down the stairs into the glare of the breathtaking Florida sunlight. The humidity was close to ninety, although the temperature wasn't quite eighty-five. There were threatening nimbus clouds farther south, but the sky was clear and blue above Palm Beach. It doesn't always rain in South Florida when the humidity hits 100 percent, although technically it is supposed to, but inasmuch as we were heading toward the dark sky above Boynton Beach, I decided not to put the canvas top back. Inside the car, on burning leatherefte seats, we sweltered.

We had hardly crossed the bridge into West Palm when Berenice pointed to a blazing orange roof and said, "Let's stop at Howard Johnson's."

"Why?' We just finished breakfast an hour ago."

"I have to widdle. That's why."

"I told you to pee before we left."

"I did, but I have to go again."

It was partly the heat, but I jerked the car into the parking lot, thinking angrily that it wasn't too late. I could call a cab and send Berenice back to the apartment.

But once inside the cave-cold depths and booth-seated, I ordered two chocolate ice cream sodas, waited for them and Berenice, and smoked a Kool. Because the service was seasonal, Berenice joined me at the table long before the sodas arrived. She picked up my cigarette from the ashtray, took a long drag, replaced the cigarette exactly as she found it, held the inhaled smoke inside her lungs like a skin diver trying to break the hold-your-breath-underwater record, and finally let what was left of the smoke out. I had noticed, during the three days I was in Miami, when Berenice had not been with me, that her so-called efforts to quit smoking caused three packs a day to go up in smoke instead of my usual two. She had merely quit buying and carrying them. She smoked mine instead-or took long drags off the cigarette I happened to be smoking. She hated mentholated cigarettes, or so she claimed, but not enough, apparently, to give them up altogether.

"If you want a cigarette," I said, pushing the pack toward her, "take one. When you drag mine down a quarter of an inch that way, I finish the cigarette unsatisfied because I didn't have the exact ration of smoke I'm accustomed to. Then, because I feel gypped out of a quarter inch, I light another one, only to find that an entire cigarette, smoked too soon after the one I just finished, is too much. I butt it, replace it in the pack, and when I finally get around to lighting the butt the next time I want a smoke, it tastes too strong and it still isn't a regular-length smoke. If I throw the butt away, with only a couple of drags gone, it's a waste, and-"

Berenice put a cool hand over mine. There were faint crinkles in the corners of her guileless cornflower blue eyes. Her bowed lips narrowed as they flickered a rapid smile.

"What's bothering you, James?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. I took an up with my third cup of coffee, and the combination of a benny with too much coffee makes me talk too much. As I told you last night, Berenice, this is a one-of-a-kind opportunity for me. And I'm apprehensive, that's all."

She shook her head. The smile appeared and disappeared again so fast I almost missed it. "No, James, you told me so much about this painter last night I got confused, bogged down in details, so to speak. Something is either missing or you didn't tell me everything."

"You fell asleep, for Christ's sake."

"No, I didn't. Well, maybe toward the end. But what I don't understand is how this painter, this Debierue, can be such a famous painter when no one has ever seen any of his paintings. It doesn't make sense."

"What do you mean, no one has seen his paintings?' Thousands of people saw his first one-man show, and his subsequent work has been written about by Mazzeo, Charonne, Reinsberg, and Galt, who all studied his paintings. These are some of the most famous critics of this century, for God's sake!"

She shook her head and pursed her lips. "I don't mean them, or even you-that is, if you get to see what he's painted since coming to Florida. I mean the public, the people who flock to museums when a traveling Van Gogh show comes in, and buy all kinds of Van Gogh reproductions and so on. I had seen dozens of Van Gogh paintings in books and magazines long before I ever saw one of his originals. That's what I mean by famous. How can I be impressed by Debierue's fame when I've never seen any of his work and can't judge for myself how good he is?"

Our ice cream sodas arrived. I didn't want to hurt Berenice's feelings, but I was forced to because of her ignorance.

"Look, baby, you aren't qualified to judge for yourself. Now keep quiet, and drink your nice ice cream soda- there's a good girl-and I'll try and explain it to you. Did you ever study cetology?"

"I don't know. What is it?"