Part 23 (1/2)
The old man extended thin fingers and nodded his head. Dorn entered a large room that reminded him of a tombstone factory. Figures in clay, some broken and cracked, cluttered up its floor and walls. In a corner partly hidden behind topsy-turvy busts and more figures was a cot with a blanket over it. Dorn after several minutes of silence, looked inquiringly at his friend. The works of art, despite an obvious vigor of execution, were openly ba.n.a.l.
”He's got some more in the bas.e.m.e.nt,” announced Lockwood with an air of triumph. ”And there's some stuck away with the family upstairs. The whole street here's full of his works.”
The old man nodded.
”He doesn't talk much English,” went on Lockwood. ”But I'll tell you about him. I got the story from him. He's the greatest artist in the world.”
As Dorn moved politely from figure to figure, the old man like a museum monitor at his heels, Lockwood went on explaining in a caressing sing-song:
”This old boy came to New York when he was in his twenties. And he's been living here ever since and making statues. He's working right now on a statue of some general. Been working for fifty years without stopping, and there's n.o.body in this town ever heard of him or come near him. Get this picture of this old boy, Erik, buried in this hole for fifty years making statues. Working away day after day without anybody coming near him. I brought a sculptor friend of mine who kept squinting at some of the things the old boy did when he first came over and saying, 'By G.o.d, this fella was an artist at one time.' Get the picture of this smart-aleck sculptor friend of mine saying this old boy was an artist.”
The eyes of Warren Lockwood grew hard and seemed to challenge. He extended his arm and waved his hand gently in a further challenge.
”The fools in this town let this old boy stay buried,” he whispered, ”but he fooled them. He kept right on making statues and giving them away to the folks that live around here and hiding them in the bas.e.m.e.nt when there wasn't anybody to take them.”
Lockwood grasped the arm of his friend excitedly and his voice became high-pitched.
”Don't you get this old man?” he argued. ”Don't you get the figure of him as an artist? Lord, man, he's the greatest artist in the world, I tell you!”
Dorn nodded his head, amused and disturbed by the novelist's excitement.
The old sculptor was standing in the shadow of the figures piled on top of each other against the wall. He wore the air of a man just awakened and struggling politely to grasp his surroundings.
”A sort of altruistic carpenter,” thought Dorn. ”That's what Warren calls an artist. Works diligently for nothing.”
The respect and awe in the eyes of his friend halted him.
”Yes, I get him,” he added aloud. ”Living with a dream for fifty years.”
Lockwood snorted and then with a quiet laugh answered: ”No, that isn't it. You're not an artist yourself so you can't quite get the sense of it.” He seemed petulent and defeated.
They left the old man's studio without further talk. It had started to rain. Large s.p.a.ced drops plumbed a gleaming hypotenuse between the rooftops and the streets. They paused before a bas.e.m.e.nt restaurant.
”It looks dirty,” said Lockwood, ”but let's go in.”
Here they ordered dinner. During their eating the noise of thunder sounded and the splash of the storm drifted in through the dusty bas.e.m.e.nt windows. A thick-wristed, red-fingered waitress slopped back and forth between their table and an odorous kitchen door. Lockwood kept his eyes fastened steadily upon the nervous features of his friend. He thought as the silence increased between them: ”This man's got something the matter with him.”
Gradually an uneasiness came over the novelist, his sensitive nerves responding to the disquiet in the smiling eyes opposite.
”You're kind of crazy,” he leaned forward and whispered as if confiding an ominous, impersonal secret. ”You've got the eyes of a man kind of crazy, Erik.”
He sat back in his chair, his hands holding the edge of the table, his chin tucked down, as if he were ruminating, narrow-eyed, upon some involved business proposition.
”I get you now,” he added slowly. ”I'll put you in a book--a crazy man who kept fooling himself by imitating sane people.”
Dorn nodded.
”Insanity would be a relief,” he answered. ”Come on.”
He stood up quickly and looked down at his friend.