The Burnt Orange Heresy

"I made a deal. And even if I decide not to take one back, which I doubt, I still have to see them myself. If you don't understand that, you don't understand me very well."

"I understand, but it's dangerous-"

"With Debierue in the movies, it's safer than houses. He dropped the door key into a potted plant on the porch. You saw him, too, didn't you?"

"But the studio is stifi locked, and-"

"I don't want to get you involved any more than you are already. But I want you to stay here by the highway, just in case. Debierue might think about the key himself and come back for it. I don't believe he will, but if he does you can run down the road and warn me and we'll get the hell out. Okay?"

"I can't stand out here in the dark all by myself! I'm scared and there are all these mosquitoes and I want to go with you!"

"We're wasting time. It's one thing for me to be a housebreaker, but it's something else for you-as a schoolteacher. There's nothing to be frightened about-I'm sorry about the mosquitoes-but if you're really afraid I'll take you down the highway to a gas station. You can lock yourself in the women's room till I come back for you."

"I don't want to lock myself up in-"

"Get out of the car. I want to get this over with."

"Let me have your cigarettes."

I handed her my half-empty pack, not the full one, and she climbed resignedly out of the car. "How long are you going to be?"

"I don't know. That depends upon how many paintings I have to look at."

"Don't do it, James. Please don't do it!"

"Why, for God's sake?"

"Because Debierue doesn't want you to, that's why!"

"That's not a reason."

"I-I may not be here when you get back, James."

"Good! In that case, I can say you weren't with me at all tonight if I'm caught and you won't get into any trouble."

Without lights I eased the car down the road, but turned them on again as soon as I was well into the pines and around the first bend. There was no good reason not to have taken Berenice with me except that I didn't want her along. That is, there was no rational reason. She had looked rather pitiful standing in the tall grass beside the road. Maybe I thought she would be in the way, or that she would talk all the time. Something. . . . It might have been something in my subconscious mind warning me about what I would find. As soon as I parked in front of the house I considered, for a brief moment, going back for her. I got out of the car instead, but left the headlights on.

Because of the rain-washed air the few visible stars seemed to be light years higher in the void than they usually were. There was no moon as yet, and the night was inky. In the black swamp beyond the house a lonesome bull alligator roared erotically. This was such a miserable, isolated location for an artist to live, I was grateful that the old painter had a place to go every night-and not only because the house was so easy to break into. If I had to live out here all alone, I too would have been looking forward to seeing the Bowery Boys and three color cartoons.

Debierue's "hiding" of the key was evidently a habitual practice, a safeguard to prevent its loss as he walked to and from the theater each night. I doubted that the idea entered his head that I would return to his empty house to make an illegal use of the key. But I didn't really know. My guilt, if any, was light. I felt no more guilt than that of a professional burglar. A burglar must make a living, and to steal he must first invade the locked home where the items he wants to steal are safeguarded. I meant no harm to the old artist. Any picture I took, and I was only going to take one, Debierue could paint again. And except for the visual impressions of his paintings in my mind-and a few photos-I would take nothing else.There was no reason to feel guilty.

So I cannot account for the dryness of my mouth, the dull stasis of my blood, the tightness of the muscles surrounding my stomach, and the noticeable increase in my rate of breathing. These signs of anxiety were ridiculous. The old man was sitting in the drive-in with a pair of headphones clamped to his ears, and even if he caught me inside the house, the worst he could do would be to express dismay. He couldn't hurt me physically, and he would hardly report me to the police. But I was an amateur. I had never broken into anyone's house before, so I supposed that my anxiety stemmed from the melodramatic idea that I was engaged in a romantic adventure. But after I had unlocked the front door and let it swing inward, I had to muster a good deal of courage before I could force my hand to reach inside to flip on the living room lights.

The light coming through the window would be bright enough to see my way back from the car. I switched off the headlights, and returned hurriedly to the house with a tire iron and a hammer I got from the trunk. But as it turned out, these tools were unnecessary.