"I must admit the lady with the General's name appears to preside over Necropolis," he said, smiling.
"With 'Tiresias, Old Man With Wrinkled Breast'—"
"'Jug, Jug, Jug'"—quoted Vermillion, raising his glass.
Vida laughed happily, his conclusion delighting her more than if she had quoted it herself.
Her clean-cut irregularities stimulated him not only to improvise on their forms in drawing but to desires restrained only by an unwillingness to become entangled in an inevitable discussion of life or art after lovemaking. One Simone was enough. He saw the throbbing of her full throat, her upturned handsome head and strong inviting mouth. He leaned over and kissed her.
It's me he likes best, she exulted quivering.
"Hey you, come back here," Lucy called to Vermillion as he returned from the far comer. She patted the cushion beside her.
Far gone, he made his way to her. His stronger eye was strained and widened because the weaker one was half closed and he saw everything magnified. His fingertips twitched for lack of a medium to transmit the images jostling in his vision. The group of figures, lighted by two lamps and united by one great shadow, comprised a perfect composition of one large form revealing remarkable discoveries of weights and balances and nuances of facial expression. A round blind spot was Tessie's quivering mouth.
Vedder was still brooding over the financially disquieting thought that advanced painting might become old hat. "You seem to condemn avant-garde art."
"Not at all," Vermillion said, surprised to find the subject still open. "I only object to those who show you nothing and want you to find something in their nothingness. Nowadays we're scared not to be avant-garde—so anything goes, especially obscurity. Don't you dare question me because I am avant-garde. It's a camouflage. There's a difference between an oracle and in being oracular, a stuttering Ouija board. When you say a rose is a rose, you are saying nothing three times, and admit you don't know what to say about a rose. Renoir knew what to say about a rose when he painted it at eighty. And what he said was his—and when we look at it, yours and mine."
And when we look at it—yours and mine. This is the best moment of my life, thought Vida, even though he had left her to rejoin Lucy who never could understand or appreciate him.
"I talk too much," he said to Lucy, finishing his drink.
