Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

In the course of her long career, Marianne Hauser published numerous works of fiction, including Prince Ishmael, which was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize and selected by The New York Times as one of the year’s outstanding books. Her other books include Monique, Shadow Play in India, Dark Dominion, The Choir Invisible, A Lesson in Music, Me & My Mom, The Memoirs of the Late Mr. Ashley, and The Talking Room. She died in June 2006, at the age of ninety-five.
 

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

SHOOTOUT WITH FATHER
By Marianne Hauser

FC2

Copyright © 2002 Marianne Hauser.
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1-57366-100-7

Chapter One

    Minutes before closing time my old man appears at the gallery. Now that he is technically blind, he condescends to see my show. With measured steps he enters on the arm of his lady companion or seeing eye, his custom-made tweeds too loose on his aged frame, his shoulders stooped. But his commanding presence remains undiminished. An air of power and money shields him like an armor. Old power. Old money. You can smell it miles away.

    His eyes are hidden behind shades. Yet I could swear he has them trained on me. Abruptly he's pulled free from the arm of his fur-swathed companion. Well then, shall we take a shot at it, Mrs. Q? His voice is raspy. He turns his head this way and that as if to appraise the market value of the gallery space. Then he snaps his fingers twice. Shall we have a look at my son's ... er ... objets d'art? But first we must greet the artist. Where would he be hiding?

* * *

    Hiding. I wish I could. Again he's got me by the balls, the old bastard. Now that he sees no more than an occasional flash of light, he'll have a look at what he maliciously refers to as his son's objets d'art. Mind you, not objets trouvés. Not even junk. That would lend distinction as cult art to my small sculptures. And the la-di-da lilt he affects as he pronounces the French.... It's a studied provocation for which I ought to be prepared and never am. Each time I'm stung anew. Each time he wins.

* * *

    And yet.... The mere fact that he took the trouble to come to the opening ... I'm grateful, damn it. I'm moved. For years I've mailed him an invitation. He never responded. Still, I continued the charade?why? Surely not because I'm after his money. Mother has left me plenty. No, those announcements I sent him (with a rather groveling note attached) had become a ritual, as our whole relationship is in fact ritualistic, managed from a safe distance. When he needs to get in touch, he will dictate a letter to his secretary. "Dear son" etcetera. A typed communication, with "Father" penned in a thick scrawl across "Sincerely yours." Not a hint of affection. Since Mother's death the formality has somewhat lessened. But there's no warmth. None.

    You may rightly ask why I don't just ignore the bastard. But ah! that is impossible. Nobody can ignore him, least of all I. He is unique, a genius not only in corporate business deals, but as a collector of ancient armor. The subterranean armory in the old family house glares, rattles and threatens with steely warriors who in my childhood scared me half to death. What former friend suggested I was working with metal to build my own miniature armory?

    No matter. Father has come to my opening. His acknowledgment that I exist at all as an artist, albeit one without name or fame, flatters the pants off me. You'd be amazed how low a character like me can sink. A few hasty swigs from the flask, and I rush forth to kiss his ass.

    Thank you for coming, Father!

* * *

    Gummed eyes searching the shadow walls of my loft. Jittery hand searching blindly for the bottle. And all at once I realize that I'm still in the clothes I wore at the gallery. Must have passed out on my bed, too far gone to shed the formal suit. Was it for Mother's funeral that I last wore it?

    The coat sits on my chest like armor; and struggling out of it, I hear the crash or clash not of steel but of glass as the bottle topples and breaks on the floor. There goes the rest of the vodka. And today is the day of the lord and every liquor store in the city is closed and shuttered.

    I morosely stare at the bottle shards in a smell of spilled booze?the nostalgic smell of old saloons, I think, trying to stop the hangover shakes as I set about to clean up the mess.

* * *

    So what keeps him from running downstairs to the nearest saloon? you'll ask. But I don't dare to, not since last night after the cursed opening when I got so smashed at the neighborhood bar I lost all judgment; buying round after round for the cheering gang; proclaiming a wizened wino my buddy for life; and finally, with drunk aplomb, smacking a wad of large bills on the bar top: Help yourself, gentlemen! (The saloon did not welcome ladies.)

    From here on memory turns mute, up to the sudden nightmare when I came to in a patrol car, squeezed in between a pair of burly cops. Fortunately I am white. And I had my credentials on me. Not that my cheap downtown address would have cleared me of I still have no idea what crime. It was my almighty father who came to my rescue by proxy. When the cops had laboriously spelled out his residence from an engraved card in my depleted wallet, they all but saluted. They apologized profusely, and blamed a crack dealer on parole for giving them the bum steer. They drove me home, helped me up the stairs and kissed me good night. The latter may be read symbolically.

* * *

    Thank god they didn't contact my old man! I'd rather not imagine the scene, had he got wind of my drunkenly squandering the sacred dollar I hadn't earned. Such shameless disposal of inherited wealth among the rabble would surely constitute the ultimate crime, one he neither could nor would allow himself to forgive, I ponder as I flop down again on the bed, the telephone close at hand while I watch the first snow of the season drive past the windows.

* * *

    But this is becoming a winter habit, my slumping down on the bed, waiting?for what? A phone call from Mrs. Q? Your daddy passed painlessly in his slumber. Or a call from the great man himself? Come over right away, my son. I am old and I need your love.

    The last scenario seems the most remote. I try in vain to picture it. Reality cuts me short. The tape whirs back to the gallery and freezes on Father's eyes, then unrolls in slow motion.

    His eyes behind smoked window glass are trained on me, converging into a gun barrel. I'd like to have a closer look, Mrs. Q. Why don't you show me one of his things.

    This time around it's things. She happens to pick my latest, a copper assemblage of seven triangles, spherical arcs mounted on a cut of black rock. What will the verdict be? I wait.

    His shades reflect a toy-sized gallery as he turns to the piece she has lifted toward him to touch. But his hands stay locked behind his back.

    I manage to open my mouth. She's showing you my most recent work. I finished it this past summer. On Clone.

    Clone Island, North Carolina. Off the coast of the Outer Banks? Good fishing and hunting.

    His hands have flown up from behind him and into the light. Finely shaped, sensitive hands. Who'd guess they would beat up on a seven year old for sobbing over a dead moose. The boy knee high in dry leaves and needles, bawling his lungs out: You killed him! You shot him dead! And the hands ripping the leather belt off the boy's pants to administer...