The Burnt Orange Heresy

I knew that Debierue had read my article, and although I had made an educated guess that he would say nothing, I could not be positive that he would continue to say nothing. I had dared to assume that four important European art critics had also invented imaginary paintings by Debierue to write about. But they couldn't denounce me. Only Debierue could do that and, thanks to the fire I had set, he couldn't actually prove anything.

Nevertheless, late at night, I often awoke from a fitful sleep, covered with perspiration. Sitting in the dark on the edge of my bed, trying to keep my mind as blank as possible, I would light one cigarette after another, afraid to go back to sleep. In time, I would tell myself, all in good time, my nightmares would run their course and stop.

A year later, almost to the day that I returned to New York, Debierue died in Florida. Mr. Cassidy wired me, inviting me to the funeral, but I was tied up with other work and couldn't get away on such short notice. Bodies, in Florida, must be buried within twenty-four hours, according to the state law. I wrote the obituary-a black-bordered one-page tribute-for the magazine, of course, inasmuch as I was the authority on Debierue, and had already written the definitive piece on him for the forthcoming International Encyclopedia of Fine Arts.

Ten days after Debierue's death I received a long, bulky package at the office. When I unwrapped it at my desk I discovered the dismantled baroque frame that had once been Debierue's famous No. One. This unexpected gift from beyond the grave made me cry, the first time I had wept in several months. There was no personal note or card with the frame. Debierue had probably left word with someone at the nursing home to mail it to me after he died. But the fact that he sent me the frame meant exoneration. Not only a complete exoneration, it proved that he had been pleased by my critique of his "American Harvest" period. From all of his many critics, Debierue had singled me out as his beneficiary for No. One.

The dismantled frame had no intrinsic value, of course. I probably could have sold it somewhere, or donated it to the Museum of Modern Art for its curiosity value, but I couldn't do that to the old man. His gesture deeply moved me.

I walked down the hall to throw the frame down the incinerator. As I opened the metal door, I noticed a small dead fly scotch-taped to one of the sides of the frame. The old man, despite his age, had a keen memory. After seeing the fly, I couldn't throw the parts down the chute. On my way home from the office I left the bundled frame under my seat in the subway instead.

I had some correspondence with Joseph Cassidy concerning The Burnt Orange Heresy. He wanted me to suggest the best place for unveiling it for the public, New York or Chicago. I advised him to wait and to exhibit the painting at Palm Beach instead, at the opening of the next season, to coincide, as nearly as possible, with the publication date of the International Encyclopedia of Fine Arts, which would have a full-page color plate of the painting facing my definitive article on the painter . . .

. . . I opened the heavy volume and found my piece on Jacques Debierue. The color plate of The Burnt Orange Heresy was a beautiful reproduction of the painting. Reduced in size, color photographs often look better than the original oils. And this colored photo, on expensive, whitecoated stock, shone like burnished gold.

I read my article carefully. There were no errors in spelling, and no typographical errors. My name was spelled correctly at the end of the article. A short bibliography of the books and major critical articles on Debierue followed my by-line, set in 5 1/2-point agate boldface. There were no typos in the bibliography, either.

Satisfied, I began to leaf through some of the other volumes of the Encyclopedia, here and there, to check the writing and the quality of the work. I read pieces on some of my favorites-Goya, El Greco, Piranesi, Michelangelo.

My stomach became queasy, and I had a peculiar premonition. The articles I had read were well researched and well written, particularly the piece on Piranesi, but my stomach felt as if it had been filled with raw bread dough that was beginning to rise and swell inside me. I opened my desk drawer and took out my brass ruler. Taking my time, to make certain there would be no mistakes, I measured the column inches in the Encyclopedia to see how many inches had been allotted to Goya, El Greco, Piranesi, Michelangelo-and Debierue.

Goya had nine and one-half inches. El Greco had twelve. Piranesi had eight. Michelangelo had fourteen. But Debierue had sixteen column inches! The old man, insofar as space was concerned, had topped the greatest artists of all time.