Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 36, No. 6, June 1991

The Wrong Century by Jay Bailey

I, me, little old Kelly John Kelly, was parked on a stool at the Terrapin Inn contemplating my future and drinking a cola. Whither, whence, thought I. Now, I pride myself on being a pretty good sculptor, or at least I’m in the process of becoming same, and I want to learn everything I can, including painting. I’d been studying at the art center and beating myself on the head because I didn’t know more. I’d just blown a sculpture that day and, as I’m a perfectionist and a fanatic (so was Michelangelo), I felt mighty low, mighty low indeed.

Anyhow, as I was sinking into my ratty old pea coat and my own self-abuse and misery, in walked this really impressive-looking beard, all gray and black, with a neat looking little old guy behind it. He was wrapped up in a nutty looking poncho, like he’d made it himself, and he had great big squeaky sandals on his dirty bare feet (and in this weather, too). Up here in Point Magiway, man, it gets really cold, so immediately I thought, wow, here’s a tough old character.

About this village, there are sure some great people who make it up like good rough and ready types, loggers and fishermen. The artists who can’t take it just disappear, and the really serious ones stay on and study at the art center. Only six teachers, but just fantastic, so this place is like the core of where it’s happening. Those teachers — oh, rats magoo, how can I say it, but they’re people who are just as fanatic as I am and that’s pretty far out. I’m not very articulate sometimes — I just know what I know. When I’m working with my hands, that’s a different matter. Then I don’t feel so sort of tongue-tied.

Anyhow, in walked this little man. He sat down beside me and of course we started talking, what with me being lonely and hating myself at the moment, and as it turned out we were both in the same racket, like art.

“My name is Wilfred Block,” said he, pulling his poncho around him and leaning over his coffee and sort of inhaling it.

“Hi,” I mumbled, hunching over my cola. Some character this! “I’m teaching, you know, my boy — up at the center. Do you know the center, lad?”

Well, did I know the center? Hell, yes. So we engaged in conversation and suddenly I felt greatness all around me, and my scuzzy beard embarrassed me because his was so good and old.

Pretty soon I was flipping out of my depression because this ancient guy could teach me about paint and like that, and so right there I enrolled in his painting class. Finally we were really buddy-buddy, like I was his son, and somehow the subject got around to a recent art theft in Southern California.

“Lad,” whispered Mr. Block as he sipped his coffee and pulled his shoulders up even higher, “one of the most magnificent paintings in the world was stolen. Did you know that, lad? Hey? Surely you’ve seen reproductions of Calagria’s work? No? What is this world coming to, tell me that, pray.”

I just sort of smiled and nodded and waited, knowing I’d get some information laid on me.

“My boy, the Venice Street Scene. The Venice Street Scene. Or, in this case you might call it the Venice Canal Scene...”

I thought to myself, Kelly John Kelly, this is a scene in itself, but I just kept my little mouth shut and waited.

“One of the most magnificent paintings on this planet, lad. Yes, stolen — by, if I remember correctly, Lawrence Weber Weeves. Fine artist, pity. At least all evidence points in his direction. I’ve seen the painting myself. Exquisite! You know, Calagria,” and here he started whispering, his eyes darting around, “was intelligent enough to use seasoned back-braced wood for his paintings. Each was covered with five coats of gesso, which if you don’t know, boy, is a blindingly white sort of chalk mixture.” Then his voice dropped even lower, almost like he was telling me some sort of crazy secret. “And with the patience of the Venetian craftsman that he was, he waited for each coat to become thoroughly dry, then rubbed it down with fine sand to give it a satin finish. IMPECCABLE! NOW, WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THAT?” His voice rose almost to a shout and the waitress looked at us funny. Then he shot his elbow into my ribs and I choked on my drink.

“Great, sir, great,” I squeaked. Man, I couldn’t wait to go to his class, like he was a wise little old elf with a secret. Ageless.

Well, the next week I started in with his painting class. Wizard! With his old beard and mustache and long salt-pepper hair and his poncho with the collar turned up, all you could see were his funny no-color eyes looking all secret and, well, weird. Old Mr. Block really had the knowledge, European training, the bit. Beautiful old guy. Anyhow, I started learning. He put up with the “new” techniques — oil and acrylics. All the time I thought oil was as old as God, but Mr. Block said no, that egg tempera was first, although he knew the rest of the jazz like he knew his beard.

Then, in his lectures, he’d get off on old Calagria and how that cat was the real master and not enough people knew about him and how his paintings hadn’t cracked or faded through the centuries and somehow Mr. Block would suddenly look like one of those Venetian princelings that he kept talking about in the classroom.

Finally, after about three weeks of study with this eerie guy, he drew me aside after class, out under the cypress trees, and said, pretty excitedly, I thought, “Kelly John, my boy, would you like to see—” then his voice dropped to a hiss “—would you like to see a copy I made of that Calagria that was stolen? Hey?” Then he sort of shot his eyes around like somebody might hear him and I thought, so what’s his problem? We were alone. Anyhow I answered, well, yes, sir, I would, and he invited me to his pad that night for a little meat, bread, and wine, as he put it.

Man, I felt like I was in Paris!

Unfortunately, my teaching job in Southern California afforded me less money than I had hoped for. Such a shame. Teachers in this country are pitifully underpaid, even such trained and experienced professors as I. My age was against me, I fear. I am approaching seventy-one, but am quite spry and healthy — I often liken myself to Picasso. I’m also a respected artist; not of the stature of that Spanish gentleman, but I have my fans and a few of my paintings are hung in museums about the country.

That day, that humiliating day when I was impoverished and worried about some of the more foolish students in that small but prestigious college where I had been teaching, I decided to drive my old automobile to a rather poor museum a little south of the small town in which I was teaching. I put on my homburg and carried my walking stick, remnants of a more prosperous time. I also donned my greatcoat, as it was chilly due to an almost impenetrable coastal fog.

In the museum (bad lighting, dust — shameful!) I dashed about, hands clasped behind me, peering at one picture after another. And then I saw it. How had I missed it before? It was hung in a dark corner, but there it was.

THERE WAS THE CALAGRIA! It was no larger than a sheet of typing paper, but as I squinted, the tiny figures came to life — women haggling about the price of fish; orange rinds floating in the canal; dandies swaggering; clothes blowing on lines strung from one building to another; tarts with bleached hair and scandalously low necklines strutting beside the water; gondolas being propelled by muscular gondoliers. The true Venice. The Venice then. I was there, back where I should have been. I was born in the wrong century.

I stood for a few moments. The painting was slightly tilted, which offended me, so, reverently, I touched it, merely to make it straight with its fellow paintings. Then, the noise! Buzzers and bells rang and guards came dashing from every which way and I was grabbed roughly and hustled off to the office of the fusty old curator.

“Thief, eh?”

“No — I insist, no — the picture was a bit out of line — I merely tried to straighten it—”

“And who, sir, are you?” he asked, raising his gray eyebrows.

“I, sir,” I announced as I straightened, “am Lawrence Weber Weeves, artist, teacher, and you have a painting of mine hanging somewhere in this embarrassing establishment. Now,” I said, brushing the sleeves of my capacious coat, “I would like the courtesy of an apology immediately.”

“Oh, my,” mumbled the distraught and harrumphing curator (I forget his name — it wasn’t worth my time and effort to remember it). “Mr. Weeves, please accept our apologies, sir. What can we do to make amends? Would you enjoy a glass of fine claret, which I, ahem, keep on hand for the pleasure of distinguished guests? My, my, I am so dreadfully sorry.”

“I’ll accept, sir, and gladly.”

As I sipped and chatted, my plan was there, as though the muse had whispered into my ear — a truly creative plan indeed.

“Yes, well, to make amends, you say. I would be delighted if you would allow me to peruse your extremely fine museum for two hours, buzzers off, and let me straighten paintings to my heart’s content.”

“Mr. Weeves, it will be a pleasure.”

We shook hands, toasted each other, and for a while I reveled in paintings, straightening one here, dusting one there. Then I bade farewell to the curator, and as an afterthought I said, “Sir, there is a small Bonnard I wish to observe again — I’ll just leave by the back entrance, and thank you, sir.”

I tipped my hat, went swiftly down the hall to the Calagria in the dim corner, removed it from the wall, and slipped it under my coat, and then I walked out, got into my car and disappeared into the fog. I drove directly to my bank, removed my small savings, and simply vanished, leaving my personal belongings and that college town forever.

Well, yours truly, little old Kelly John Kelly, went to Mr. Block’s pad. Too much! There was an old mandolin in the corner and prints and paintings were stuck all over the redwood walls and, believe it or not, there was a skull on a big desk with a candle burning in it. I later found out the old guy had lived in the mountains for a couple of months, digging for stuff, and he guessed the skull was Indian. On the scarred table in the middle of the kitchen was a huge loaf of French bread, with a stiletto, yet, lying beside it. It sure was a wicked looking knife; also a big hunk of salami and a jug of local wine, the kind that turns your teeth black. He wasn’t kidding when he said meat, bread, and wine. His eyes glowed and I was beginning to think he was some kind of nut, but then most artists are sort of, you know — odd — but Mr. Block was giving off really weird vibrations, like he was going to show me a corpse or something.

After we had eaten — man, it was good — and talked about painting, he suddenly yelled wildly, “AND HERE IT IS!” I almost heard trumpets and drums. He jumped up and threw some curtains apart at the end of the kitchen and here was this little bitty picture. Then he flipped on a little light and, man, I almost died. I crept up closer and closer and there it was, just like he said. Those Venice people were walking and talking and breathing and, well, it was just too much! But I knew something else, too. I’m no dummy. This was no copy, man, this was the real thing! Thousands of bucks’ worth of picture, right there in front of my little scared eyes. This was most definitely not Wilfred Block. This was Lawrence Weber Weeves, who had very neatly pulled the theft of the decade.

Oh my, oh mercy me, I thought to myself, what shall I do now? I just stood there and tried to gather my cool. There’s something about an original painting you can almost smell. Well, I thought, this old geezer is as nutty as a fruitcake. If I’d said anything right then, he probably would have bonked me on the head, so I turned around and kind of chattered, “You sure are a good painter, sir, and I sure would like to see the real one sometime, if they ever find it, that is...” Then I sort of dribbled out of words and blushed.

He was looking at me real funny by now and his wild little eyes got narrow and glittery. That old stiletto was still lying around, and I knew if he’d gone as far as he’d gone to get the picture, he’d go even farther and maybe stick that wicked knife into little chicken me.

“Now, lad,” he said real low, “it’s late and you’d best go.” Then he almost pushed me out the door. I made haste, indeed, and paddled my little boots home real fast. It was like he had to show it to someone before he blew a gasket and then he got sorry. You know how people are, just can’t keep a secret — like a teakettle with the lid on tight and then whoosh, off she blows. He gave me the willies and I was really dreading his class next day, like if I didn’t show up he’d positively know I knew. I was pretty upset, but I made it home and then had nightmares, like this cat with a knife was chasing me around Venice and everywhere I went there he was, and just before the knife went through my skinny neck I woke up, all sweating.

Alas, I do believe I have made a rather serious mistake, or a “boo-boo,” to quote Kelly John. I’m quite certain he knows the truth. It was difficult to “hide out” in order to change my identity, but I managed nicely and no one has suspected me, until now. That boy is entirely too perceptive, which of course could contribute to his being a fine artist one day, but unfortunately, that day will never come. It is most obvious that it has become necessary for me to dispose of him. The Calagria is my life, my wife, my child, sustenance and friend — the only great thing that has ever entered my somewhat barren existence.

You must have realized by now that I am Calagria — at least I’m his reincarnation. This knowledge has come upon me slowly, but now I am sure. (I keep this journal locked in my desk at the center, incidentally, in case robbers should enter my little house.) As I did the painting hundreds of years ago, why shouldn’t I have it? Let us simply say that I repossessed it. Sometimes I stare for hours at my painting, then something clicks and I’m there — there beside that canal. Occasionally I’m on the steps of the palazzo looking at my city with the piercing eyes of the artist. At other times I’m in a gondola sketching the bustling life about me. Always I’m dressed in slashed doublet, hose, and swirling cape. Often Leonardo and I discuss the Medici family — fine people, fine people. If there were only more patrons in the world like Lorenzo. Ah, yes, poor Kelly John. As we have wells here in Point Magiway (there is an unused one in the field in back of my house), it will be a simple matter for me to, shall we say, allow him to vanish. A pity, but there it is.

Little Kelly John, me, I went to class anyhow, in. spite of my teeny shrinky soul. I decided that everybody should see that picture, not just one wiggy little old man, so I tried to figure something out. I was too much of a marshmallow-heart to turn him in — he’d just die away — and he was a good artist and a great teacher, so I had what I guess you’d call a moral problem, or ethical, or something. I knew there was something loose in his brain; poor old guy, but dangerous.

Well, in class he started looking at me kind of spooky when he thought I wasn’t watching. I’m of a nervous type nature and under this mouselike exterior beats the heart of a mouse. Believe it or not, yesterday he showed up in class with his beard and mustache all trimmed kind of sharp and pointy, and wearing a cape that looked like he’d made it himself out of an old bedspread. Yet he didn’t look funny at all — he looked like Lucifer, but seemed to be younger or more determined; something like that.

Anyhow, there was a creepy change, and I could barely hold my paintbrush.

Standing at my easel slopping away, I heard him creep up behind me, and then he sort of breathed into my ear, “Kelly John, you’re doing fine. Wouldn’t you like to come over tonight and partake of some humble food? We’re not ready for egg tempera technique here in class, but I’ll be only too happy to show you, my boy. Hey, what?”

“Oh yes, sir, I guess so, sir, thank you, Mr. Block, sure, I’d like that fine,” I babbled.

My cool had definitely departed and I droobled some paint where it shouldn’t be and I heard him padding away, sort of chuckling under his breath. Yikes! What had I done?

After classes, while I made it back to my room, I wondered should I be honest and tell him I knew — like put it to him straight — or should I bluff it through or what? I damn near chewed my fingernails down to my wrists. He sure seemed pretty far gone to me, and I knew, I mean I knew, he was going to do something entirely illegal which might hurt me, like maybe I would cease to exist unless I thought something out and quick. I kept thinking of that stiletto looking too sharp and pointy, like old crazy’s beard. Mercy.

I finally decided I’d play all innocence, never turn my back on him, and maybe it would all go away. I’m pretty fast on my feet and he was an old man, but no telling what he’d do if something gave — like he might get extra adrenaline. If he did manage to do me in, it sure would be one heck of an artistic way to go, with a Venetian stiletto between my bony little shoulder blades. But I didn’t intend to die, even artistically. I mean, I’m just a young cat and I have a lot of living to do.

Yes, tonight is the night. I shall play it cool, to quote my young and entirely too perspicacious friend. I do feel the entire situation is unfortunate, but what am I to do? The stiletto, of course. I remember when I bought it in a Los Angeles antique store. How many intrigues had it seen? Had it belonged to one of the Borgias? Well, the time has come for it to come to life again. Has it been waiting for all these years to taste that precious thing, blood? I have already removed the cover from the well — those heavy cement lids are difficult to manage, but this is something that must be done and I find that my strength is now that of ten.

I, Calagria (I have become bold enough to use my true name), must now protect myself so that I may continue to offer the world my genius, for what is one lad compared to the deathless paintings which I shall produce? Life is short and art is long; a cliche; but so true, so true. The boy has great talent, yes, but then another will come along. Through the centuries great talents have always been with us, sung and unsung. It would be best for me to spare the poor child the intense pain of maturing in this violent world, where his sensitivity might be permanently damaged. In a way I’m doing him a favor. It is all so simple, really. We shall have our dinner, I will interest him in the process of egg tempera paint, and knowing the lad, he will become so involved with the new knowledge that it will be quite easy for me to, shall we say, send him to a happier place.

While gazing at my painting last night I was discussing with Lorenzo de’Medici the fine art of people disposal, as I prefer to call it.

“Diversion, diversion,” he said, smiling, as he fingered one of his priceless rings. Of course Lorenzo himself would never do such a thing, but he did have people working for him. We Venetians are clever, subtle people. I have prepared what might be termed a “last supper” for the boy. I do feel that the lad should spend his last night upon the earth happy and well fed. Only two more hours and he will be here. Everything is in readiness. The lasagne is waiting only to be popped into the oven and the wine is chilled. I am prepared.

Hoo, boy, Kelly John Kelly, I mumbled to myself as I combed what beard I have, here we go. It sounds sort of, well, melodramatic, and like it would be easier just to turn the poor guy in but, I repeat, I’m a fanatic about art and I just couldn’t hurt him. I was sincerely hoping that it could all be settled, like nice and peaceful. So off I went. One of the of-age students had bought me a half pint of vodka and I’d downed some of it — Dutch courage, my old grandmother used to say. I trundled along, sort of all drunked up under the spooky moon, and as the one sidewalk in this village sort of rolls up at eight o’clock I really never felt so alone in my life, like going to my doom.

I finally came to the little shack, looking dark and forbidding, in the middle of a weed patch, with dinky glimmers of light coming through the window — like a goblin house. Up I tippy-toed and knocked on the door, gulping oxygen all the while. Then I stuck my chin up and tried to relax. Man oh man oh manaroonian, I was scared, but still feeling the vodka, like the rough edges were sort of dulled.

The door slowly squeaked open and there he was, grinning through his beard, wearing, for Pete’s sake, this Venetian-type costume, like one in the Calagria picture.

“Ah, my boy, come in, come in. Delightful to see you, yes indeed.”

The food smelled great. He poured me a glass of wine — real good stuff this time, though I couldn’t help wondering about poison — but seeing as how he poured a glass for himself out of the same bottle and I didn’t see any funny stuff going on, I started to relax, and pretty soon my worries were sloughing off. It was warm and cosy and I thought, well, I’ve had a paranoid spell. Hell with it.

Then and there I decided, oh, let him keep the picture. Who am I to deprive this neat old artist of his precious picture? Who really cares about an old painting anyhow? Most dumb people don’t even take the time to look. So, what with everything, we were talking away over a fine dinner. He had opened the curtains that covered the painting and, man, after a while I felt like I was back in Venice eating and drinking and being merry and he was yabbering about that egg tempera technique and I was feeling like an idiot. Me and my fantasies. Maybe the picture was a copy. Who cares?

Then, after we’d burped for a while and he’d put the dishes in the tiny sink, he said, sort of grandly, “And now, lad, for the egg tempera process.”

He cleared the table of the rest of the stuff and brought out all the paint and the eggs and a hunk of wood with gesso on it. Then he started to tell me all about it and pretty soon I was all involved messing with the paint and leaning over the table with the kerosene lamp in the middle of it. He was kind of pussyfooting around in back of me while I got more and more into what I was doing.

Suddenly the hair on the back of my neck stood up. I glanced at the kerosene light and saw, so help me granny, his reflection. His lips were peeled back, and the glints from that stiletto were just too much. I jumped aside, pushing the table over, and everything fell off with a big crash and the old kerosene just went spoosh and everything was on fire. By now he was screaming — the flames had got to the Calagria — and suddenly he turned into a devil and I was running out the door and he was after me. With that and the old shack burning up like crazy, I thought goofily, oh, man, there goes the beautiful picture.

I headed out toward the open field and then I saw this open well, so I zigged a bit and zapped around it and there he was on the other side holding that knife and by now I didn’t know what I was doing. I was plain mad, so I thought, well, dammit, he tried to get me, so I’ll get him because he’s dangerous. I grabbed a stick lying on the ground and we had a duel right there, round and round that open well. Then he let fly with the stiletto. I ducked, and whiz, down came my stick on his skull and he went flat and hit his head on the side of the well. I knelt down and saw that poor old Lawrence Weber Weeves was as dead as could be. I started crying. Then I heard the volunteer firemen coming, so after scrabbling around in the weeds, I found the stiletto and tossed it in the well.

I sort of went into shock for a while. Finally I told everybody we were having dinner when the lamp got knocked over and we ran outside and he tripped over the well.

After that I kind of kept to myself. I think I cried for a month or two. Then one night I bought myself some French bread, salami, and wine, sat down at my table, and had a sort of memorial dinner for him.

A couple of weeks later I found a reproduction of the Calagria at the bookshop. I framed it and it’s on my wall. Man, I really get lost in that thing, like I was there! Sometimes I even feel like I’m one of the people in the picture — or maybe old Calagria himself. I’ve been working with egg tempera and I’m doing a copy of the Venice Street Scene, or the Venice Canal Scene, actually. It’s got everything — women haggling about the price of fish; orange rinds floating in the canal; dandies swaggering; clothes blowing on lines strung from one building to another; tarts with bleached hair and scandalously low necklines strutting beside the water; gondolas being propelled by muscular gondoliers. The true Venice. The Venice then. I sometimes get back there, back where I should have been in the first place. I was born in the wrong century.