A Body In The Bath House

XIX

when i came out from seeing the floorers, the fresco painters' hut next door now lay silent. I looked in.

It was the same kind of chaos, though more crowded since their best friend was a trestle. It had been given a home where the table would have been if these lads had been proud housekeepers. Instead, they ate squatting on the floor (I could tell from the mess) and had upended the table against a window, to give them more access to wall space. They wanted lots and lots of free area to cover with their sheer brilliant brushwork.

The last painters I had dealings with were a mad crowd of crooked, aimless semi-criminals from a wine bar called the Virgin; they wanted to bring down the government but had no money for bribes and no charismatic charm to fool the plebs. Most of the time they could hardly remember their own way home. They were connected with my father. Enough said.

These loud characters here were probably layabouts too. All gambling, drink, and high ideals about betting systems. What they possessed in abundance was talent. All over their hut were fantastic examples of mock-marble scumbling. Dainty purple flecks on red, with trickles of white. Wandering orange streaks. Two shades of grey, sponged in layers. A blank square patch of wall was satirically labelled 'lapis blue here', presumably because the jewelled paint was too expensive to waste in experiments. All other surfaces were daubed. Every time they came in for a break and a barney and a bite to eat, they must flick new paint around just for the joy of seeing different colours and effects. When they were feeling even more obsessive, they produced elaborate bands of wood-graining so perfect it seemed a tragedy that this crude hut with their experiments would one day be pulled down and burned.

There were paint pots everywhere, mostly with great wet glops sliding down them. Paint rings stained the floor. I kept well outside.

"Anyone home?"

No reply. I did feel saddened.