"I haven't got time, Irma. Anyway, this is lovely the way it is."
"Working your tail off, aren't you?"
"Well -- if I didn't, I'd feel I was taking the money under false pretenses."
"I know, but are you getting any sleep?"
"Not much, lately."
"Want some pills?"
"No, I can't use them. It'll be all right."
Pongo did not cook on weekends; there was a cold buffet for anyone who wanted it. Sometimes they all drove to Tampa in Gene's enormous motor home and had dinner at the Columbia, a Spanish restaurant with many high-ceilinged rooms. They ate behind a potted palm that gave Gene some protection from curious stares; the management brought out a special chair for him and !aid a place with his own china and silverware. The chef, a brown, smiling man named Ruiz, always came to the table afterward for low-voiced consultations with Pongo and compliments from all the rest.
Margaret did her necessary shopping over the weekend, or drove down to the public beach and swam, or went to a movie. Often, if she had been having a bout of insomnia, she simply stayed home, slept late, and lazed around the house in the afternoon.
One day Anderson came into the living room and found her reading a paperback novel. He sat down beside her; when she put the book down on the end table, he picked it up and examined it curiously. The cover depicted a young woman with pinkish hair and a scoop-necked violet gown who was being embraced by a young man in a business suit. Their upper portions were painted with a sort of pasty realism; below the shoulders, however, they dissolved into a scribble of black and brown over which the artist had laid a few strokes of moldy green with his palette knife. From the positions of the two faces it was apparent that the young man was thrusting his nose into the young lady's left eye-socket. She appeared to be enjoying this penetration.
"Rebecca West, 'Harriet Hume,'" Anderson read aloud. "This is an old paperback, isn't it? Where did you get it?"
"At Haslam's, downtown."
"Is it any good?"
"The first twenty pages are really awful, until you start to see what she's up to."
Anderson laid the book down. "Why did you read the first twenty pages?"
"I'd read 'The Birds Fall Down' by the same author, and it was so good that I couldn't believe she was being this awful by accident. And she isn't. It's a work of art."
"If you're awful on purpose, that makes it art?"
"Sometimes. What about Picasso?"
"Good point." He nudged the book with his forefinger and stood up. "Maybe I ought to read it. Will you put it on my list?"
She did not quite smile; she had done so on Friday.
At the door he turned to look at her. "Don't be too clever, Maggie," he said, and was gone.
One day after lunch when Margaret and Irma were lingering over coffee in the kitchen, the gate signal rang. Irma leaned back to the intercom. "Yes? Oh, Piet!" In the little screen, Margaret could see a gray-haired man looking out of a car window. "Come on up, sweetie, I'll tell Gene you're here." She pressed the gate button. "That's Piet Linck," she said to Margaret. "He's an old friend." She pressed another button. "Gene?"
"Yes, Irma."
"Pier is here."
The stocky man who entered a few minutes later was gray all over -- his tropical suit, his close-cut hair, his eyes. He gave Margaret a measuring glance when Irma introduced them. His voice was faintly English, but with a suggestion of an accent she could not identify. He was carrying an odd-shaped bundle wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine; he put it down to hug Irma.
Gene came in and the two men shook hands. "Piet, it's good to see you. Sit down. Irma, can't we give this man some coffee? Where's Pongo?"
"Out in back, Don't get in an uproar," She brought a cup, poured coffee.
"How was your trip?" Gene asked.
"Very good. I had some business to do in Minas Gerais, that was rather boring, but on the way here I spent four days in Colombia."
"Medellín? Did you see Rodrigo?"
"I did, and he sends his fraternal embraces. By the way; I have a present for you." He reached down for the bundle on the floor; Irma made room for it on the table.
Linck opened a pearl-handled pocket knife and began to cut the cords. Under the brown paper the object was wrapped in newspapers; Margaret could see Spanish headlines between the strips of tape. Linck cut the tape, pulled the papers away. Inside was a carving of pale brown wood, unstained and unvarnished.
"I got this in Cali," said Linck, turning the sculpture for their inspection. "They make them out of the roots of trees, and whatever form the roots take, that's what the artist uses. Here, this long loop becomes the snake biting the man's head, you see. Very ingenious."
"I like it," said Gene, bending close. "My goodness, he got everything in, didn't he? Here's the magic eye. Here's the book of wisdom. Sort of an allegory of human evolution, except that it goes from top to bottom -- this guy up here has a tail. Did you get it from the artist?"
"Yes. He is an indio, his name is de La Cruz Saavedra. He wanted six hundred pesos for it; I pretended to misunderstand him and gave him double. Then he was happy and I was happy."
"What's it like in Bogota now?"
"Awful." Linck shook his head. "Worse every year. Something very bad is going to happen there. I stayed there overnight only because I was invited to a reception at the ambassador's residence."
"The Dutch ambassador?"
"No, the American one. Have you been in that place, Gene? No? It's amazing. The entrance hall is bigger than your living room, with a rotunda for a ceiling, and all around this rotunda there are little blue light bulbs. The reception was for the novelist Eleanor Theil, a very nice woman, we had an interesting chat. Well, at this reception I also met a psychiatrist who is interested in occultism. He was flying back to Cali the next day and he offered me a ride and lunch in his club. The lunch was rather dull because the doctor wanted to talk about von Daniken, but afterward I wandered around town, and that's how I found this carving. Incidentally, I also brought you two small Boteros -- I'll show them to you later. If you don't want them I have another buyer in mind."
Pongo turned up and helped Linck carry his bags upstairs; it appeared that he was a frequent house-guest. Now that she had had an opportunity to study him, Margaret decided that the main impression he gave was one of sturdy roundness, like an animal's. His hair was brushed close to his round head; his hands were not plump but rounded, with thick, blunt fingers. He rarely gestured; his whole aspect was of watchful calm. He had a way of looking down when he spoke, and then darting a glance at your face to see how you had reacted. His speech sometimes seemed more American than British, and at dinner he gave a startling imitation of a Texan. He did not seem to fit into any model of a foreigner, and that made her a little uneasy.
After dinner Gene carried him off to his tower room. Several hours later Linck came into the living room where Margaret was reading. He stood with his hands in his back pockets, looking around. When she glanced up, he remarked, "This is an amazing place. It was not finished last time I was here. Do you find it a little overwhelming?"
"It was at first."
Linck sat down beside her, taking a flat tin box out of his pocket. "Do you mind if I smoke this?" he asked, showing her the box. In it were slender brown cigars, hardly bigger than cigarettes.
"No, please go ahead."
"May I offer you one? They are very mild."
She smiled. "No, thank you."
Linck lighted his cigar and sat back, puffing blue smoke. "I believe I am getting a touch of agoraphobia," he said, with a glance at the ceiling. Anyhow, it's good that Gene finally has a house built to his own scale,"
"Have you known him long, Mr. Linck?"