I have been furiously "scanning" Galehaut - my diary - for your upcoming pleasure, but there are a few things I need to remove from my chest. I just ran across several disturbing passages, all of them dealing with a man we will now call "The Artist". I need to talk about him before we go further.
I don't want to get sued for libel (but if it's true can that happen?), but I have to write about him.
Background and such.
We will just call him The Artist. In any case, I know for a fact that his name was not his real name (he adopted several pseudonyms) so I can't name him anyway. Confusing? Right. The Artist.
I have a pseudonym now too, mister, and I'm over the pond.
He lived in a dingy attic above the nearby Grange. Barely representational school of art, Hollywood good-looks, colorful silk ascots, and the smoothest Oxbridge I have ever heard. He was also perhaps the only other person remotely capable of reading my diary. His racket was to "teach" art to people from the area - mostly women from Cambridge with huge hats and encumbering painting material.
He rarely ended these classes going back to the Grange alone.
Every Saturday he was allowed by the nuns to take his "class" to the West Garden. There, they would paint distant cows, that decaying statue of Lady Gage, that enormous shamble known mysteriously as the "Hanging Tree", and the misty horizon.
He would troll around behind the phalanx of painters, and the mess of sketchbooks, canvas, stools, and umbrellas. Often he would offer an encouraging (sometimes lingering) touch on the shoulder or a word of praise. Like:
"Simply splendid, mum."
"Right - well done, well done"
"Hmm. May I see your palette? Hmm. Please eschew vermilion. It does not represent the sunny summer of our lovely East Anglia."
"Smashing. I think you need more magenta. I have a bit more at the Grange. Why don't you accompany me later?"
My first Saturday, during break, I was lying down on the grass of the West Garden. Next to me was my new friend, a young and plump Spanish Jesuit named Ceasar who was staying at the convent for, shall we say, "reflection". Since he was Spanish, I always had to refer to him as "Thayzar". Yes - that's the way they talk. Needing to pronounce such made me feel embarrassed. Like amateur drama.
Still, he was a good person, could play Flamenco on his guitar, and had complete access to the (surprisingly good) sacramental wine located in the labyrinthine cellar. I'll have a lot more about him later. And that cellar. And that odd locked room down there.
So there we were on the grass on that fateful day, near the canvas and the colors, and the class, and The Artist. Ceasar and I had been swapping Dunhills for Woobines and I had been scribbling in my nascent "Galehaut" about a laundry-maid I just met in the Manor. She was Hungarian, with, I suspected, a splendid dash of Romany. Dark infinite limpid pools for eyes, even darker hair, and a somehow constant fresh smell. Maybe it was from the detergent.
I was exhausted after endlessly cutting sod and had carelessly dropped Galehaut before me. I was staring up at the sky when The Artist walked by.
He picked it up - he actually picked up Galehaut - scanned several lines, and his eyes widened. His brows lifted. There was something about that. I knew he comprehended something. I knew he understood something about the laundry-maid.
"C'mon man. You dick! That's my diary!"
"Dick? No. Roger, actually. Sorry. I thought you were in the class. I thought it was your sketchbook. I'm accustomed to inspecting - and admiring - sketchbooks."
"No dude, it's alright. I'm the new gardener. Davy is the name...for now."
"Hmm." He dropped Galehaut in front of me and then he lifted himself up by his toes a bit, slapped his hands together, said "Right". Then he walked away as if he had a plan.
Ceaser's belly convulsed as he chuckled. He turned to me and said, "Well he ith the artitht, Davy."
"Thanks a lot Thayzar." Thufferin' Thuccotash.
This would not be my last encounter with The Artist. Oh no. Lifelong, really. Isle of Perfidy. In the future I will relate the stunning altercation between me, the laundry-maid, and The Artist during a Restoration comedy at the local amateur playhouse.
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