My Uncle Oswald(52)

She looked at me very straight and said simply, “He smote me.”

“You mean he hit you? Good God, I am sorry! You mean he actually struck you?”

“Don’t be an ass, Oswald.”

“What do you mean then?”

“I mean I was smitten by him. He’s the first man who’s ever bowled me completely over.”

“Oh, I see what you mean! Good heavens!”

“He is a wonder, that man,” she said. “He is a genius.”

“Of course he’s a genius. That’s why we chose him.”

“Yes, but he’s a beautiful genius. He is so beautiful, Oswald, and so gentle and wonderful. I’ve never met anyone like him.”

“He smote you all right.”

“He certainly did.”

“So what’s your problem?” I said. “Are you feeling guilty about it?”

“Oh no,” she said. “I don’t feel in the least guilty. I’m just overwhelmed.”

“You’re going to be a hell of a lot more overwhelmed before we’ve finished,” I said. “He’s not the only genius you’re going to call on.”

“I know that.”

“You’re not running out, are you?”

“Certainly not. Give me some more drink.”

I filled her glass for the third time in as many minutes. She sat sipping it. Then she said, “Listen, Oswald . .

“I’m listening.”

“We’ve been pretty jokey about this whole thing up to now, haven’t we? It’s all been a bit of a lark, right?”

“Rubbish! I take it very seriously.”

“What about Alfonso?”

“You were the one who joked about him,” I said.

“I know that,” she said. “But he deserved it. He’s a joker.”

“I can’t quite see what you’re getting at,” I said. “Renoir was different,” she said. “That’s what I’m getting at. He’s a giant. His work is going to live through the ages.”

“So will his sperm.”

“Stop it and hear me out,” she said. “What I’m saying is this. Some people are jokers. Some are not. Alfonso is a joker. All the kings are jokers. We have a few other jokers on our list, too.”

“Who?”

“Henry Ford’s a joker,” she said. “I think that fellow Freud in Vienna is a joker. And the wireless boy, Marconi. He’s a joker.”

“What’s the point of all this?”

“The point is,” Yasmin said, “I don’t in the least mind being jokey about jokers. I don’t mind treating them a little rough either if I have to. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to start sticking hatpins into men like Renoir and Conrad and Stravinsky. Not after what I saw today.”

“What did you see today?”

“I told you, I saw a really great and wonderful old man.”

“And he smote you.”

“You’re damn right he did.”

“Let me ask you this, did he have a good time?”

“Amazing,” she said. “He had an amazing time.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“No,” she said. “I don’t mind telling you about the jokers. But the non-jokers are private.”

“Was he in a wheel-chair?”

“Yes. And now he has to strap the paint-brush to his wrist because he can’t hold it in his fingers.”

“Because of arthritis?”

“Yes.”

“And you gave him the Blister Beetle?”

“Of course.”

“It wasn’t too much for him?”

“No,” she said. “When you’re that age you have to have it.”

“And he gave you a picture,” I said, pointing to the brown-paper parcel.

She unwrapped it now and held it up for me to see. It was a small unframed canvas of a young rosy-cheeked girl with long golden hair and blue eyes, a wondrous little picture, a magic thing, a marvel to look at. A warm glow came out of it and filled the entire room. “I didn’t ask him for it,” Yasmin said. “He made me take it. Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Yes,” I said. “It is beautiful.”





16





THE EFFECT that Renoir had upon Yasmin during that dramatic visit to Essoyes did not, thank heavens, take all the fun out of our future operations. I myself have always found it difficult to treat anything too seriously and I believe the world would be a better place if everyone followed my example. I am completely without ambition. My motto--”It is better to incur a mild rebuke than to perform an onerous task”--should be well known to you by now. All I want out of life is to enjoy myself. But before one can achieve this happy end one must obviously get hold of a lot of money. Money is essential to a sybarite. It is the key of the kingdom. To which the carping reader will almost certainly reply, “You say you are without ambition, but do you not realize that the desire for wealth is in itself one of the most obnoxious ambitions of them all?” This is not necessarily true. It is the manner in which one acquires wealth that determines whether or not it is obnoxious. I myself am scrupulous about the methods I employ. I refuse to have anything to do with moneymaking unless the process obeys two golden rules. First, it must amuse me tremendously. Second, it must give a great deal of pleasure to those from whom I extract the loot. This is a simple philosophy and I recommend it wholeheartedly to all business tycoons, casino operators, chancellors of the Exchequer, and budget directors everywhere.