Angelica Lost and Found

Chapter 26. Dim Red Taverns of Sheep

Hoyt Smith rang me up to tell me that my request would go out next morning between eleven and twelve. While waiting for that to happen I acted on a heads-up from Phyllis Stein. She collects the paintings and drawings of autistic savants in the belief that they contain hidden messages. She said there was a fellow in Hunter’s Point who was doing the Periodic Table of the Elements with nude figures in elemental combinations, explicitly. Sadominsky was his name and she wanted me to check him out before she showed her chequebook.

So I schlepped myself out to the address she gave me, an ex-factory of some kind, all girders and skylights and high spaces. The door was open and as I stepped inside the Smell hit me. Yes, that one: Volatore! Holding myself ready for whatever there was to be ready for, I advanced slowly.

‘Well,’ said a husky voice with a heavy accent, ‘you looking for?’

‘Sadominsky?’ I said as I descried a bulky figure in a shadowy corner.

‘Zhabotinsky am.’

‘Oh, sorry.’

‘Who sent?’

‘Me?’

‘Why?’

‘Aren’t you doing the Periodic Table of the Elements with nude figures?’

‘They say I?’

‘You what?’

‘Automatic?’

‘You mean autistic?’

‘Not am. Eccentric, OK? They always.’

‘Get it wrong?’

‘Not Periodic Table.’

‘Not?’

‘Big not. Beeriodic Fable of the Elephants.’

‘Elephants!’

‘With beer tell fable to.’

‘Whom?’

The smell got stronger as he put his head on one side and looked at me slyly.

‘Winey, winey trancing clients in the dim red taverns of sheep.’

‘Sheep!’

‘Baa.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Zhabotinsky.’

‘Your name’s always been Zhabotinsky?’

‘Only since born. See paintings?’

‘All right, let’s see them.’

We went past his kitchen to get to the paintings. It consisted of the factory sink, a little fridge, a Coleman stove, and a cardboard box for crockery and pots and pans. Some beets in a string bag. The furniture was orange crates. No empty pizza or Chinese cartons, his budget clearly didn’t run to such luxuries. His clothes were shabby and he was pretty scruffy. The guy was poor.

There were lots of canvases: he was a full-time painter, so what was Volatore to him or he to Volatore? The smell, I noticed, was gone. The paintings were weird and witty and original, not like anyone else’s.

‘These are very good,’ I said.

‘Talk numbers?’ he said.

‘Big numbers if I can sell you as an autistic savant.’

‘No prob. Big autistic savant, me.’

He probably hadn’t ever sold a picture before. He was a latter-day Albert Pinkham Ryder, a recluse who had uncashed cheques lying around all over the place. Except this one had no cheques, maybe he lived on an allowance from an older brother in Siberia, who knows. Maybe he was a dishwasher in some café. Certainly no part of any artistic community or he’d have learned the ropes and found some buyers. A dyed-in-the-wool loner. I was pretty sure I could do right by him.

‘Phone?’ I said.

He took one out of his pocket; he was at least that much connected to the age of technology and commerce.

‘Got a first name?’ I asked him.

‘Alexander. Alyosha you can.’

‘Call you. OK, Alyosha. Let’s see if we can move you into a higher income bracket.’ I wrote down his cellphone number and said, ‘I’ll phone you tomorrow or the day after and arrange to bring somebody to see your work. Be careful crossing streets and don’t talk to strangers. Do svidaniya.’

He kissed my hand. Blessed are the pure in heart, but it takes more than purity to put blintzes on the table.

But Volatore! My Volatore was trying to reach me! Yes,

One day soon, you and I will merge,

Everything that rises must converge …

Yes, my love! I want to merge with you, I long for the two of us to converge! Was it you who put a coin in my jukebox to play me that old Shriekback track? Clever Volatore!