CHAPTER XXXI : CHESTER BASTERFIELD.
Alice’s friendship with Michael continued and deepened as Alice took a strong interest in his application to his studies. She was the strict Cerberus, the three-headed dog guarding the entrance to Hades, standing guard over Michael’s diligence in his work. To encourage him she offered opportunities of recreation and relaxation. She invited him to the quality films and plays she, herself, wanted to see. He was flattered by her interest and was very proud to accompany his beautiful and bright cousin to the various events she chose to take him. Alice, too, enjoyed these outings with the handsome young man. They held hands as they walked and rode the subway, and the age difference was practically imperceptible between the dainty Alice and the sturdy young Mike. He often tried to kiss her and she avoided his lips saying, cut it out Michael, we are cousins. Cousins? So what, he would answer. Do you find me repulsive because I am your cousin? Not at all, she would explain. You are very attractive but it just doesn’t seem right. I’d do it with you even if you were my sister, Mike said laughing. I have made love with many girls, if you want to know. So have I, she would tease him. What? With girls? No you silly ass, with boys, Alice said laughing. With this and that, Alice became more and more attached to both Annie and Mike and spent much of her free time at their flat. With Omar the relationship was more formal. He seemed aloof and absorbed with his business and when he was home he was constantly talking on the telephone. He hardly talked to Annie or made a tender gesture such as a kiss as he entered his home. It was reciprocal, of course, because Annie also more or less ignored him. Alice was puzzled that this relationship had cooled to the point of indifference because Annie was still a very attractive woman in her early forties and their union was the result of passionate love. Actually she could see that this was the general trend of modern life especially with the moneyed class of people in England and Europe. Divorces and infidelities were very much easier and much more common than twenty, thirty years ago and were almost the rule.
About a month after Edgar Mackenzie died, Alice looked up the name Chester Basterfield in the telephone directory and found out the address of his gallery. One afternoon after work she loaded a few canvases in a taxi and went to the gallery in Chelsea, which was not far from her home. Chester was not there but a girl receptionist told her to wait as he would be in shortly. He arrived, a tall, elderly man of about sixty-five with white curly hair, looked at Alice and her pack of paintings and smiled. My dear girl, he said, I don’t want to disappoint you but I have more paintings than I know what to do with them. Nevertheless, I shall have a look at them because it would be cruel to send you away without even a look but the chances are I shall not be able to handle them. Alice smiled. A friend of yours, Edgar Mackenzie sent me here, she said. Friend? he cried, that bastard made my life a living hell. He still owes me money. Where is he? I’ve a good mind to send my solicitor to demand that he pays his debt. Plus interest, mind you. He died a month ago, Alice said. I’m a nurse at the Charing Cross hospital in Hammersmith and took care of him in his last days. Oh, well, there goes my money, Chester said in a low voice. Not that I had much hope of ever recovering it. And why, pray, did he send you to me? He saw some of my paintings and liked them, Alice said. He said you might be able to help me sell some of them. Well, Chester sighed with resignation, let’s have look at them.
Alice untied the bundle and spread them upright on the floor against a wall against two or three chairs and a desk. Chester took a chair and sat contemplating them for a few minutes each by turn. He was silent and after he finished he went back and repeated the same appraisal all over again. He looked at Alice. You are so young, he said, and a woman. I rarely get paintings from women with such maturity. Where is your studio? I want to have a look at the rest of your work. I have a small flat at 73 Fulham Road and work and live there. 73 Fulham Road? That’s funny, Chester said. Edgar Mackenzie at one time lived next door at 75. And something strange, you remind me of him for some odd reason. A fleeting aura. He was a wild one, this Edgar, and a ruffian, but he fell in love with a girl living next door to him and wanted to marry her. Luckily for her, she was sensible and refused. I believe she married a foreigner. I happened to meet them both when they were engaged to be married at a pub on Old Brompton Road which I frequented long ago. Anyway, when can I come to have a look at the rest of your work? I am free on the weekends but I usually travel to Hove where my family lives, Alice said. Will Saturday morning do? Yes, he replied, I must see them in the morning to see the colors properly. Where did you study, my dear? At Heatherly’s. He nodded. Some good people there. And your name is? Alice Ioannides. Oh? A foreign father? Ioannides is fine, he said with a smile, but Alice won’t do. Too common. How about Marian or Helen, my two other names, Alice said smiling. Ah, yes. I think Helen is good, he said. Eleni Ioannides, a brilliant Greek artist. It would be nice, by the way, if you could speak a few words in Greek, Eleni. I do, Alice said smiling. With an accent, of course. Perfect, exclaimed Chester. Leave your paintings here, Eleni, and Saturday at ten, at 73 Fulham Road, we meet again. Alice left in a cloud of happiness. A car nearly killed her as she stepped on the street in a daze and the driver who braked with screeching tires shouted, watch where you’re going you silly bitch, but Alice was unperturbed and smiled at him. Her good fortune started working overtime just then.