The Last Painting of Sara de Vos Read Online Free
Author: Dominic Smith
your cab fare back,â says Rachel from somewhere in the crowd. âWeâll get you all in a taxi with some leftovers from the caterer.â
This condescension makes the man on the chair tilt and gesticulate, a street corner evangelist warming to the Apocalypse. âOh, that kills me. We donât want your fucking tinfoil sack lunch, Lady Macbeth. Weâre not here for the food or the wine ⦠weâre here because Amerika with a k is about to suck the phallus of Uncle Russkie and we want you to all see what a pinko commie dick looks like up closeâ¦â
At that moment, Clay Thomas comes bustling through the crowd. Later, Marty will think that he looks no angrier than a man woken abruptly from a nap. He seems put out, but thereâs nothing like violence in his manner. En route, he takes off his jacket, unclasps his cuff links, and rolls up his sleeves, like heâs about to do the dishes. But as an old Princeton welterweight, Clay is limber and martial on his feet. Marty is about to ask him whether they should call the police when he finds himself holding his bossâs dinner jacket. Without looking up at the man, Clay positions himself behind the chair and pulls the legs from the back, forcing the beatnik to lunge into a squat on the floor. He drops the fruit bowl en route, sending apples and pears under the furniture.
âWhat the hell, old man!â
Clay shoves the man once, hard, in the chest. âItâs time for you all to leave.â
The man in the beret stands his ground for a moment, his eyes walled back, his hands limp. It seems equally possible that heâll smash an antique vase over Clayâs head or run from the house in narcotic terror. Honey and the other Beats gather in the hallway and call to their comrade in plaintive voices.
Rachel says, âThe police are on their way.â
He considers this, mulls it through a mental fog. Eventually he leans back on his heels and relents, following his friends down the hallway. Clay comes after them as they head into the stairwell. Marty uses the intercom to call down to Hart Hanover and tells him to make sure the intruders leave the building when they get to the main lobby. After making sure they get into the private elevator on 12, Clay appears back on the top floor to a hearty round of applause. Marty claps along, but he feels slighted and embarrassed. He just watched his sixty-year-old boss toss the Beats out like a bunch of profane teenagers causing havoc in a matinee. To make matters worse, Rachel had actually paid for this humiliationâcalled up and ordered it like room service.
Clay stands beside Marty, rebuttoning his cuffs. He takes his dinner jacket back and puts it on. Clay says, âYou invite the lions to a dinner party and sometimes they bite.â
Marty knows the gracious thing to do is thank Clay for handling the situation, but he canât. He watches the Thomases walk down the hallway. Other guests begin nodding their goodbyes and slipping out after them. Rachel is nowhere in sight and the guests are met by a chagrined Hester at the coat closet, her eyes averted. When the last of them have left, Marty stands for a moment with his back against the elevator doors. Hester says good night and he climbs the stairs before fumbling his way in the dark toward his bedroom. Itâs not until heâs undressed, standing naked in the light coming from the en suite bathroom, that he thinks of this day as a cruel hoax. Rachel is turned toward the wall, feigning sleep. Heâs still buzzing with embarrassment, feels it throbbing in his knuckles and teeth. He stares up at the painting, hoping to be lulled by its frozen quiet. The girl is so frail, mired between the woods and the icy river. The skatersâ faces and hands are pinked from the cold. He looks at the dog trotting on the ice, chasing after the boy, and thinks of the Russian mongrel pinwheeling through space. Itâll be many years
This condescension makes the man on the chair tilt and gesticulate, a street corner evangelist warming to the Apocalypse. âOh, that kills me. We donât want your fucking tinfoil sack lunch, Lady Macbeth. Weâre not here for the food or the wine ⦠weâre here because Amerika with a k is about to suck the phallus of Uncle Russkie and we want you to all see what a pinko commie dick looks like up closeâ¦â
At that moment, Clay Thomas comes bustling through the crowd. Later, Marty will think that he looks no angrier than a man woken abruptly from a nap. He seems put out, but thereâs nothing like violence in his manner. En route, he takes off his jacket, unclasps his cuff links, and rolls up his sleeves, like heâs about to do the dishes. But as an old Princeton welterweight, Clay is limber and martial on his feet. Marty is about to ask him whether they should call the police when he finds himself holding his bossâs dinner jacket. Without looking up at the man, Clay positions himself behind the chair and pulls the legs from the back, forcing the beatnik to lunge into a squat on the floor. He drops the fruit bowl en route, sending apples and pears under the furniture.
âWhat the hell, old man!â
Clay shoves the man once, hard, in the chest. âItâs time for you all to leave.â
The man in the beret stands his ground for a moment, his eyes walled back, his hands limp. It seems equally possible that heâll smash an antique vase over Clayâs head or run from the house in narcotic terror. Honey and the other Beats gather in the hallway and call to their comrade in plaintive voices.
Rachel says, âThe police are on their way.â
He considers this, mulls it through a mental fog. Eventually he leans back on his heels and relents, following his friends down the hallway. Clay comes after them as they head into the stairwell. Marty uses the intercom to call down to Hart Hanover and tells him to make sure the intruders leave the building when they get to the main lobby. After making sure they get into the private elevator on 12, Clay appears back on the top floor to a hearty round of applause. Marty claps along, but he feels slighted and embarrassed. He just watched his sixty-year-old boss toss the Beats out like a bunch of profane teenagers causing havoc in a matinee. To make matters worse, Rachel had actually paid for this humiliationâcalled up and ordered it like room service.
Clay stands beside Marty, rebuttoning his cuffs. He takes his dinner jacket back and puts it on. Clay says, âYou invite the lions to a dinner party and sometimes they bite.â
Marty knows the gracious thing to do is thank Clay for handling the situation, but he canât. He watches the Thomases walk down the hallway. Other guests begin nodding their goodbyes and slipping out after them. Rachel is nowhere in sight and the guests are met by a chagrined Hester at the coat closet, her eyes averted. When the last of them have left, Marty stands for a moment with his back against the elevator doors. Hester says good night and he climbs the stairs before fumbling his way in the dark toward his bedroom. Itâs not until heâs undressed, standing naked in the light coming from the en suite bathroom, that he thinks of this day as a cruel hoax. Rachel is turned toward the wall, feigning sleep. Heâs still buzzing with embarrassment, feels it throbbing in his knuckles and teeth. He stares up at the painting, hoping to be lulled by its frozen quiet. The girl is so frail, mired between the woods and the icy river. The skatersâ faces and hands are pinked from the cold. He looks at the dog trotting on the ice, chasing after the boy, and thinks of the Russian mongrel pinwheeling through space. Itâll be many years