The story broke the tension. “I should probably try to find out where his clown friends are, and let them know of Mickey’s passing.” There were nods and then the sadness was back.
The police chief stopped in, as did the mayor, Robert Wagner. When it was time to close down, the honorable Mayor Wagner issued a “royal decree” extending the hours, which made everyone howl. He had gotten there late, and thought another hour or so would help him with the grieving process. He also bought a round and earned a few votes that night.
When the final toast was done, Mickey's friends gave his picture one last look and headed out. Mike saw to it that Sylvia and Luna made it home, while Henry and Katarina stayed in town, at his apartment. Katarina went to bed, while Henry sat at the kitchen table. His bottle of vodka was ready, but unopened.
Chapter Forty-One
Well past 1:00 a.m., the staff was still on alert. Another full day of Garneau’s fury had worn everyone to the breaking point. Everyone except Arthur. He stood in the private viewing room with his employer, sipped brandy, and listened. He didn’t mind the endless rehashing of what might or might not happen to the auction. Arthur was not the least bit concerned for the welfare of the other worker bees. He considered himself above the fray. He also saw the advantage in their hatred, in their reaching the boiling point. Their frazzled nerves, the tension in the house, seemed to dovetail nicely with Arthur’s own plans.
“It's simply maddening! I have been there since day one. Who does he think he is?” Andre said with a suppressed rage, like a kettle about to blow.
Though rhetorical, Arthur took delight in responding, “He thinks you are a customer, nothing more, nothing less.”
This comment had an equal chance of sending his boss into a rage. Arthur was quite content to take some abuse for the good of the team. In fact, he looked forward to it. Instead, Andre simply set his glass down. In a defeated tone, he said, “You might be right. I suppose he does.”
Well, everything can’t go as planned, Arthur thought.
There was a long silence, the first in two days. The giant of a man stood and walked slowly among his treasures, running his hand over the base of a Degas, “Little Dancer of Fourteen Years,” careful not to touch the brass. He stood and looked at it, bending slightly to examine the form more closely. “This was my first love you know,” he said, barely audible.
“Sir?”
“I didn’t know I liked art, but the money was piling up, and I needed to spend it. I was younger. I saw this in a gallery, in Paris. The tiny dancing girl reminded me of a show my sister was in when we were young. Mother and Father forced me to go, to support her, and I thought it would be boring. I think it was April or May, I don’t remember. I just know that my friends…I had friends back then…” His voice faded ,he slumped down in his chair and looked at the statue.
Arthur said nothing.
Andre continued. “My friends were heading out somewhere…it was warm and beautiful, but I couldn’t go. I was furious. Missing the fun to go watch a ballet was unacceptable, in my mind. So there I was, in the third row, between my parents, watching my sister, in her tutu, dance.
"She was really good. I was shocked. It was the first time I had noticed that she was, well, not my bratty sister.” There was another pause.
Arthur couldn’t remember if he knew his boss had a sister. He had never thought of him as having had parents, or a childhood, or really anything that might be considered human. “It sounds like you have a lovely sister.”
There was another heavy sigh. “Yes…yes I did. When the performance was over, I was the loudest one cheering. I was so proud of her, and I made a scene. My parents let me, and she just glowed. We went out and celebrated that night. I don’t think I teased her much after that. We became close, and I didn’t even mind when she wanted to tag along that summer. She went to the lake with my friends and me, we swam, and they even grew to like her. She got small pox that winter and died. My parents shipped me off to boarding school, as they were overcome with grief. I've been an ass ever since.”
Arthur felt uncomfortable with this display of humanity.
Andre turned back to the statue. “I saw this and thought of her. It was my first piece of art. I don’t know when it went from buying something beautiful because it made me happy, to hoarding and hiding away such great works out of spite.”
Arthur was perplexed, and his usual poker face failed him.
“I know my friend…I know. I am just so tired. I have been screaming and yelling for days, or is it years? I don’t know. The latter, I guess; all my adult life, really. I am an angry, bitter, fat, old man. Why do I care so much about some two thousand year old contraption?”