The Burnt Orange Heresy

Physically, Debierue was asthenic. Long-limbed, longbodied, slight, with knobby knees and elbows. Advanced age had caused his thin shoulders to droop, of course, and there was a melony potbelly below his belt. His sunbronzed skin, although it was wrinkled, gave the old man a healthy, almost robust appearance. His keen blue eyes were alert and unclouded, and the great blade of his beaky French nose did not have those exposed, tiny red veins one usually associates with aged retirees in Florida. His full, sensuous lips formed a fat grape-colored "O"-a dark, plump circle encircled by white hair. His blue stare, with which he returned mine, was incurious, polite, direct, and distant, but during the long uncomfortable moment we sat in silent confrontation, I detected an air of vigilance in his sharp old eyes.

As a critic I had learned early in the game how unwise it was to give too much weight or credence to first impressions, but under his steady, unwavering gaze I felt-I knew-that I was in the presence of a giant, which, in turn, made me feel like a violator, a criminal. And if, in that first moment, he had pointed to the gate silently-without even saying "Get out!"-I would have departed without uttering a word.

But such was not the case.

Berenice, her hands folded in her lap over her chamois drawstring handbag, sat quietly, and there she would sit until I got out of the car, walked around it, and opened the door on her side.

I was uninvited, an unexpected visitor, and it was up to me to break the frozen sea that divided us. Apprehensively, and dangling the Land camera from its carrying strap on two fingers, I got out of the car and nodded politely.

"Good afternoon, M. Debierue," I said in French, trying to keep my voice deep, like Jean Gabin, "at long last we meet!"

Apparently he hadn't heard any French (and mine wasn't so bad) for a long time. Debierue smiled-and what a wonderful, warmhearted smile he had! His smile was so sweet, so sincere, so insinuating that my heart twisted with sudden pain. It was a smile to shatter the world. His ageruined mouth, purple lips and all, was beautiful when he smiled. Several teeth were missing, both uppers and lowers, and those that remained gave a jack-o'-lantern effect to his generous mouth. But the swift transformation from mournful resignation to rejuvenated, unrestrained happiness changed his entire appearance. The grooved down-pointing lines in his face were twisted into swirling, upswept arabesques. He rose stiffly from his chair as I approached, and shook a long forefinger at me in mock reproach.

"Ah, M. Figueras! You have shaved your beard. You must grow it back quickly!"

His greeting me by name that way brought sudden moisture to my eyes. He pumped my hand, the single up-anddown European handshake. His long spatulate fingers were warm and dry.

"You-you know me?" I said, in unfeigned astonishment.

He treated me to the first in a series of bona fide Gallic shrugs. "You, or another-" he said mysteriously, "and it is well that it is you. I am familiar with your work, naturally, M. Figueras."

I gulped like a tongue-tied teen-ager, abashed, not knowing what to say, and then noticed that he was looking past my shoulder toward Berenice.

"Oh!" I said, running around the car, and helping Berenice out the door. "This is my friend, M. Debierue, Mlle Hollis'

Berenice glared at me when I pronounced her name "Holee," and said, "Hollis, Mr. Debierue," in English, "Berenice Hollis. And it's a pleasure to meet you, sir.',

Debierue kissed her hand, and I thought (I was probably oversensitive) he was a little uneasy, or put off by her presence. He didn't know-and there was no unawkward way for me to enlighten him-whether she was truly just a friend, my mistress, my secretary, or a well-heeled art patron. I decided to say nothing more. He would be able to tell for himself by the way she looked at me and touched my arm from time to time that we were on intimate terms. It was best to let it go at that.

The old man's English was adequate, despite a heavy accent, and as we talked in French, that beautiful late April afternoon, he or I occasionally translated or made some comment to Berenice in English.

"I'm one of those obscure journalists who presume to criticize art," I said modestly, with a nervous smile, but he stopped me by raising a hand.

"Non, no, no"-he shook his head-"not obscure, M. Figueras. I know your work well. The article you wrote on the California painter ...?" He frowned.

"Vint?' Ray Vint, you mean?"

"Yes, that's the name. The little fly. That was so droll." He chuckled reflectively. "Do not feel guilty, M. Figueras." He shrugged. "The true artist cannot hide forever, and if not you, another would come. Now, come! Come inside! I will give you cold orange juice, fresh frozen Minute Maid."