cwilleford.theburntorangeheresy-第28部分
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blue became much bolder。 I then mixed enough of the diluted blue to paint a slightly ragged border； not less than an inch in width； nor more than three inches； around the four sides of the rectangle。 To fill the remaining white space with burnt orange was simple enough； once I was able to get the exact shade I wanted； but it took me much longer than I expected to mix it； because it wasn't easy to match a color that I could see in my mind； but not in front of me。
But the color was rich when I achieved it to my satisfaction。 Not quite brown； not quite mustardy； but a kind of burnished burnt orange with a felt； rather than an observable； sense of yellow。 I mixed more of the paint than I would need； to be sure that I would have enough； and thinned the glowing pile with enough linseed oil and turpentine to spread it smoothly on the canvas。 Using the largest brush； I filled in the center of the canvas almost to the blue border； and then changed to a smaller brush to carefully fill in the narrow ring of white space that remained。
I backed to the wall for a long view of the pleted painting； and decided that the blue border was not quite ragged enough。 This was remedied in a few minutes； and the painting was as good as my description of it in my article。 In fact； the picture was so bright and shining under the floor lamp； it looked even better than I had expected。
All it needed was Debierue's signature。
I had a sharp debate with myself whether to sign it or not； wondering whether it was in keeping with the philosophy of the 〃American Harvest〃 period for him to put his name on one of the pictures。 But inasmuch as the burnt orange； blue…bordered painting represented the 〃self〃 of Debierue； I concluded that if he ever signed a painting； this was one he would have to sign。 I made a mental note to add this information to my article…that this was the first picture Debierue had ever signed （it would certainly raise the value for Mr。 Cassidy to possess a signed painting！）。
Debierue's letter to the manager of the French clipping service was still in my jumpsuit。 I took it out and studied Debierue's cramped signature； sighing gratefully over the uniqueness of the design。 Forgers love a tricky signature： it makes forgery much simpler for them because it is much easier to copy a plicated signature than it is a plain； straightforward signature。 There are two ways to forge a signature。 One is to practice writing it over and over again until it is perfected。 That is the hard way。 The easy way is to turn the signature upside down and draw it； not write it； but copy it the way one would imitate any other line drawing。 And this is what I did。 Actually； I didn't have to turn the canvas upside down。 By copying Debierue's signature onto the upper left…hand side upside down； when the picture itself was turned upside down the top would then be the bottom； and the signature would be rightside up and in the lower right…hand corner where it belonged。
Nevertheless； it took me a long time to copy it； because I was trying to paint it as small as possible in keeping with Debierue's practice of writing tiny letters。 To put ebierue inside the 〃D〃 wasn't simple； and I had to remember to 〃write〃 with my brushstrokes up instead of down； because that is the way the strokes would have to be when the painting was turned upside down。
〃James！〃
Berenice called out my name。 I was so deeply engrossed in what I was doing I wasn't certain whether this was the first or the second time she had called it out。 But it was too late to do anything about it。 I was sitting in the straightbacked chair facing the canvas； and I barely had time to turn and look at her； much less get to my feet； before she lifted the brass hook； opened the door； and entered the room。
〃James；〃 she repeated flatly； halting abruptly with her hand still on the doorknob。 She had removed her makeup； and her pale pink lips made a round 〃0〃 as she stared at me； the canvas； and the makeshift palette on the low coffee table。 The sheet I had used to wrap the once…blank canvas was on the floor and gathered about the chair I was using as an easel。 I had spread it there to prevent paint from dropping onto the rug。
〃Yes？〃 I said quietly。
Berenice shut the door； and leaned against it。 She supported herself with her hands flat against the door panels。 〃Just now 。。。 on TV；〃 she said； not looking at me； but with her rounded blue eyes staring at the canvas； 〃。。。 on the ten thirty news； the newscaster said that Debierue's house had burned down。〃
〃Anything else？〃
She nodded。 〃Pending an investigation…something like that…Mr。 Debierue will be the house guest of the famous criminal lawyer Joseph Cassidy in Palm Beach。〃
I swallowed； and nodded my head。 I am a highly verbal individual； but for once in my life I was at a loss for words。 One lie after another struggled for expression in my mind； but each lie； in turn； was rejected before it could be voiced。
〃Is that Debierue's painting？〃 Berenice said； as she crossed the room toward my chair。
〃Yes。 I needed to look at it again； you see； to check it against the description in my article。 It was slightly damaged…Debierue's signature…so I thought I'd touch it up some。〃
Berenice pressed her forefinger to the exact center of the painting。 She examined the wet； bemerded smear on her fingertip。
〃Oh； James；〃 she said unhappily； 〃you painted this awful picture 。 。 。 ！〃
3
Looking back （and faced with the same set of circumstances）； I don't know that I would have handled the problem any differently…except for some minor changes from the way that I did solve it。 Ignorant women have destroyed the careers； the ambitions； and the secret plans of a good many honorable men throughout history。
It would have been easy enough to blame myself for allowing Berenice to discover the painting。 If I had locked the door； instead of being concerned with my physical disfort in the hotel room； I could have hidden the painting from her before allowing her into the room。 This one little slip on my part destroyed everything； if one wants to look at it that way。 But the problem was greater than this…not a matter of just one little slip。 There was an entire string of unfortunate coincidences； going back to the unwitting moment I had allowed Berenice to move in on me； and continuing through my foolhardy decision to allow her to acpany me to Debierue's house。
And now； of course； caught red handed…or burnt orange handed…Berenice was in possession of a lifelong hold over me if I carried my deception through…with the publication of the article； with the sending of the painting to Joseph Cassidy； to say nothing of the future； my future； and the subsequent furor that the publication of an article on Debierue would arouse in the art world。
Berenice loved me； or so she had declared again and again； and if I had married her； perhaps she would have kept her mouth shut； carrying her secret knowledge； and mine； to her grave。 I don't know。 I doubted it then； and I doubt it now。 Love； according to my experience； is a fragile transitory emotion。 Not only does love fall a good many years short of lasting forever； a long stretch for love to last is a few months； or even a few weeks。 If I think about my friends and acquaintances in New York…and don't consider casual acquaintances I have known elsewhere； in Palm Beach； for example…I can't think of a single friend； male or female； who hasn't been divorced at least once。 And most of them； more than once。 The milieu I live in is that way。 The art world is not only egocentric； it is egoeccentric。 The environment is not conducive to lasting friendships； let alone lasting marriages。 And that was my world 。 。 。
My remaining choice； which was too stupid even to consider seriously； was a bitter one。 I could have destroyed The Burnt Orange Heresy （such was the title I assigned to the painting）； and torn up the article I had written； which would mean that the greatest opportunity I had ever had to make a name for myself as an art critic would be lost。
These thoughts were jumbled together in my mind as I confronted Berenice； but not in any particular order。 Emotionally； I was only mildly annoyed at the time； knowing I had a major problem to solve； but bereft； at least for the moment； of any solution。
〃You may believe that this is an 'awful' picture；〃 I said coldly to Berenice； 〃and it's your privilege to think so if； and the key word is if； if you can substantiate your opinion with valid reasons as to why it's an 'awful' picture。 Otherwise； you're not entitled to any value judgments concerning Debierue's work。〃
〃I…I just can't believe it！〃 Berenice said； shaking her head。 〃You're not going to try to pass this off as a painting by Debierue； are you？〃
〃It is a painting by Debierue。 Didn't I just tell you that I was touching it up a little because it was damaged slightly in transit？〃
〃I'm not blind； James。〃 She made a helpless； fluttering gesture with her hands； her big eyes taking in the evidence of the art materials and the painting itself。 〃How do you expect to get away with something so raw？ Don't you know that Mr。 Cassidy will show this painting to Debie
