Pay and Pay

Chapter 4

THE morning in late June was truly summery and even before noon it was already very warm. The fresh green of the leaves on the trees was not yet pale under the dust of the city that would accumulate in the succeeding months. Kevvin left his apartment as he did almost every Saturday to buy his copy of the New York Times and head toward his favourite bistro. It had a rather European flavour to it, despite its lack of an adequate amount of outdoor seating, particularly now that the nicer weather had finally begun. It was the memory of hours spent in similar cafés in Paris one summer years before that led him there that morning.

It was still too early for there to be anyone from outside the Village to have made it down, but the weather had brought many residents of the neighbourhood out to enjoy the sunshine that morning too, so Kevvin was dismayed to find that he was not early enough to find an outside table. As he took the only free table inside, almost at the back of the bistro, he thought back to his short stay in Paris. For three days he had left his hostel early and wandered around the Left Bank, avoiding tourists as much as he could, and had returned only just in time for the curfew each night. He had lived on baguettes and café-au-lait in bowls (which were surprisingly hard to come by in Paris) and essayed to engage local street artists and performers in conversation as often as he could.

Kevvin had been dismayed that he was always taken for one of the legions of university students trekking through Europe each summer, and took pains to emphasise that he saw himself as more of a romantic vagabond. He would explain that he had taken time from his soulless job in a government office in order to find inspiration for his writing. Neither point seemed to elicit much reaction from whomever he told, and seldom gained him entrée into deeper conversation on such things as mattered to him. He was disappointed by this, and even slightly puzzled. If you could not discuss art and literature in Paris, where could you? In spite of that, if any period of his life had been spiritually formative for him, it was those three days in Paris.

The small café he entered now had been discovered by Kevvin shortly after moving into his apartment in the Village after his holiday in Europe. He had come across an ad in one of the underground papers announcing an exhibition of the work of new artists at the bistro the following Friday. He counted himself lucky to be among the attendees of such a show. The event placed him firmly within the artistic scene of the community, and he made a point to speak with each of the artists whose works were on display. The experience confirmed for him that he had made the right choice when he had been house-hunting. He was living where he belonged, among like-minded people who shared his artistic values and his outlook on life.

The same bistro hosted such exhibitions for local artists three or four times every year. These would usually be accompanied by wine (for which the coffee shop had to obtain a special licence for the event) and finger food served by the regular waiters and waitresses from trays as they circulated among the attendees. In between these showings, the walls of the café were lined with the same artists' paintings, each one with a neat card giving information on the work itself, the artist and the price of the picture. Kevvin considered it quite elegant when a sale was marked by a small red star affixed to the accompanying card.

Kevvin regarded his patronage of the establishment as a demonstration of both his membership in and his support of the art scene in the city. More than a simple gesture of solidarity, it showed everyone that he himself belonged in this world. His only regret was that writers such as himself rarely had any similar opportunity to showcase their works. Other than the occasional poetry reading-they had become much rarer than they had been in his university days-there was little chance for a writer to get his work before the public without formal publication.

Many of the paintings he saw left him cold, but on occasion he would fall in love with a particular piece and admire it for weeks. Much as he might adore a canvas, he had never made a single purchase there. He refused to pay the prices demanded for the work of unknown artists. Upon enquiry, he discovered that the prices were non-negotiable and set by the artists and the owner of the coffee house together. One-quarter of the sales price went to the café and the remainder to the artist. From time to time Kevvin still wished that he might be able to bargain directly with one of the artists. That in itself would have added an enviable back-story to relate to admirers if he had guests over to show off a purchase.