She shook her head. We were sitting at the big walnut table holding ceramic cups, while cars rushed by the window and Bach marched steadily forward, taking little figures and swelling them to great ones. “Uh-uh,” she said. “Not since … well, not since I saw you last. I mean, when we met.” She coughed into her fist and colored a bit.
I waved my hand as if to say It’s no big deal, I’m glad I stopped, I’d do it again anytime, swim out to Alcatraz and do thirty years in the federal pen for a glance from you, babe, and told her — with all the flourishes — of my scrape with Jerpbak at the Eldorado County jail.
“God, that guy is nuts,” she said. “He’s not responsible for his actions. If they don’t do something with him he’s going to hurt somebody one of these days.” She took a short angry sip of her tea. “Do you think he recognized you?”
“Who cares?” I said, hot and reckless, the tough guy, and then tried to shrug the whole thing off by telling her I’d got hold of a lawyer (which was true) who had assured me I would get off on all counts (not true), as I really hadn’t done anything, when you came right down to it (also true).
“You were acting like a rational human being, that’s all,” she said, fixing me with the kind of look Joan of Arc must have taken into battle with her. “I’ll testify to that.”
We sat there a moment in silence, brooding over the wrongs done us, and then she observed that the whole thing was ironic in a way.
“Ironic?”
“Yes, well,” she said, lowering her eyes, “I was the cause of the whole mess, and I actually got off easier than you. A lot easier. Compared to what you went through, I was lucky.” The resisting arrest charge, it seemed, had merely been a threat, and Jerpbak had not followed through on it. She’d been booked and then released on the promise of returning in the morning with her license, and given forty-eight hours to correct the defects Jerpbak had ferreted out in the antique hulk of her VW Bug — from improperly displayed license plates to inoperable signal lights and eviscerated muffler — in lieu of paying the fines. It had cost her a hundred and twenty dollars in repair bills, she said, but at least she was free of it. And then her voice dropped to a whisper and she gave me the sort of look only martyrs nailed to the cross have a right to hope for: “I’m really sorry you had to get involved. If there’s anything I can do …”
There was plenty she could do, I thought, in terms of local anesthesia and release of tension, and to avoid leering at her — she was feeling sorry for me, feeling sorry and grateful, and I didn’t want to blow it by leaping at her like a sex maniac — I looked at my watch. It was one-thirty. Lunchtime. While I debated asking her to lunch (no doubt she’d already nibbled an alfalfa-sprout-and-feta-cheese sandwich while hunched over the potter’s wheel), I bought a vase I couldn’t afford, thinking I’d use it to enliven the déeAcor at the summer camp or else ship it to my ninety-year-old maiden aunt in Buffalo.
“You sure you want this?” Petra asked me.
I nodded vigorously, mumbling something banal about the quality of the craftsmanship and the intricacy of the design.
“Do you know what it is?”
“A vase,” I said.
She laughed — a short, toothy, ingenuous laugh — and then informed me that it was a funerary urn. “For ashes.”
“Okay,” I said, “you got me. I was going to put flowers in it.” I held up a qualifying finger. “Dead flowers.”
I was the soul of wit. We laughed together. She poured me a second cup of the wretched acidic tea (it tasted like a petroleum derivative) and asked if I’d like to see her workshop. “We’ll call it an educational tour,” she said, rising from the table.
I followed her into a brilliantly lit back room — cement floor, lath-and-plaster walls, high banks of gymnasium windows. It was hotter back here and the place smelled strongly of the clay that dominated it, coating everything in a fine thin layer, like volcanic ash or the residue of a dust storm. Petra took me round the room in a slow sweeping arc, pointing out the plastic bags of clay, the potter’s wheel, her kiln the size of a gingerbread house, the buckets of glazes and the greenware in the drier. I smelled the ferment of the earth, fingered the clay and marveled at its moistness and plasticity; I saw her in her smock and her bare feet and felt I knew her. When I thought I’d seen everything and was trying to wrest the flow of the conversation from ceramics and push it in the direction of lunch, she gave me an odd look — eyes half-lidded, lips curled in a serene inscrutable smile — and asked if I’d like to see her real work.
“Real work?” I echoed. The room was as still and dry as an ancient riverbed; pots uncountable and in every phase of production littered the floor, the makeshift shelves, the drying racks and firing trays. I was puzzled.
She crooked her finger and I followed her — she in jogger’s shorts, her long naked legs leaping from the cutaway smock, me in my least offensive T-shirt and most imbecilic smile — to a doorway at the far end of the room. I’d seen the door earlier and taken it for a closet, but now she flipped a light switch and led me into still another room. Perhaps the blandness of the workroom and my growing preoccupation with lunch had lulled me, but this was a surprise: suddenly I found myself amidst a host of strange figures, colors that pulsed, glazes that dazzled. If the shop was a potter’s paradise, then this was the treasury of the gods. Or no: this was the dwarf kingdom. Bearded, mustachioed, long-eared and thick-browed, fifty faces leered at mine, their expressions crazed, demented, vacant. Human figures, two-thirds scale, stood, sat and crouched round the room, their heads pointed, eyes veiled, lips curled with private smiles or fat with the defective’s pout. It was like being on a subway in Manhattan. I laughed.
Petra seemed relieved. She was grinning. “You like them?”
I was making various marveling noises — tongue clucks, throaty exclamations of wonder, giggles that rose in crescendo to choke off at the top. I stroked the slick, brightly glazed dunce cap of a man perched on the edge of a park bench and reading a newspaper. “Todd Browning,” I said. “Fellini.”
She nodded. “And Viola Frey. And Robert Arneson.”
“And you,” I said.
“And me.”
A trio in buskins and leotards — men? women? — groped for a ball suspended from a string; a child with the drooping features of Leonid Brezhnev played at jacks. “These are great,” I said, unraveling my arm to indicate the full range of them. “They’re hilarious and weird, they’re grotesque. Has anybody seen them?”
Petra was leaning against an enormously fat woman in a bridal gown decorated with dancing fishes. “A few people,” she said, and I felt a surge of exhilaration (she was showing them to me, I was one of the chosen) and a corresponding jolt of jealousy (to whom else had she shown them?). Pots and creamers and orange-juice pitchers were okay, she said after a moment, and she enjoyed doing them — but she was an artist, too, and these pieces were an expression of that side of her. She was collecting them for a show in San Francisco.
I asked her if she knew anything about metal sculpture, and then if she’d ever heard of Phil Cherniske. “He does — he did — these big preposterous things in metal,” I said. “He used to be known as Phil Yonkers?”
She looked as if she hadn’t heard me, looked distracted, but she said, “No, I don’t think so.” And then: “Have you had lunch yet?”
“No,” the word a hurtling shell, my lips the barrel of an artillery gun, “no, I haven’t.”
“Because I was going to close early — now, in fact — and go to a barbecue at this little country bar just outside of town. You know, steak and ribs and whatnot. They’re celebrating national heifer week or something and a friend of mine who runs a health-food store made up some of the salads. I mean, I’m not that much into red meat, but I thought it might be fun.”