d weathered to an unpatterned dirty gray； and most of the roofs had caved in。 The narrow road petered out at an open peeled…pine gate。 I eased into the fenced area； with its untended； thickly grassed yard； which resembled a huge； brown bathmat； and pulled up in front of the screened porch of the house。
Paradoxically； I was awed by my first sight of the old painter。 I switched off the engine； and as it ticked heatedly away； I sat and stared。 I say 〃paradoxically〃 because Debierue in person was anything but awe inspiring。
He resembled any one of a thousand； no literally tens of thousands； of those tanned Florida retirees one sees on bridges fishing； on golf courses tottering； and on the shuffleboard courts of rest homes and public parks shuffling。 He even wore the uniform。 Green…billed khaki baseball cap； white denim Bermuda shorts； low…cut Zayre tennis shoes in pale blue canvas； and the standard white open…necked 〃polo〃 shirt with short sleeves。 The inevitable tiny green alligator was embroidered over the left pocket of the shirt； an emblem so mon in Florida that any Miami Beach edian could get a laugh by saying； 〃They caught an alligator in the Glades the other day； and he was wearing a shirt with a little man sewn over the pocket 。 。 。〃
But unlike those other thousands of old men who had retired to Florida in anticipation of a warm death； men who had earned their dubious retirement by running shoe stores； managing light…bulb plants in Amarillo； manufac turing condoms in Newark； hustling as harried sales managers in the ten western states； Debierue had served； and was still serving； the strictest master of them all…the selfdiscipline of the artist。
Debierue； apparently unperturbed by the arrival of a strange； beat…up convertible in his yard； sat limberly erect in a green…webbed； aluminum patio chair beside the porch door； soaking up late afternoon sun。 I was pleased to see that he was allowing his white beard to grow again （for several years he had been clean shaven）； but it was not as long and Melvillean as it had been in photos of the old artist taken in the twenties。
Physically； Debierue was asthenic。 Long…limbed； longbodied； slight； with knobby knees and elbows。 Advanced age had caused his thin shoulders to droop； of course； and there was a melony potbelly below his belt。 His sunbronzed skin； although it was wrinkled； gave the old man a healthy； almost robust appearance。 His keen blue eyes were alert and unclouded； and the great blade of his beaky French nose did not have those exposed； tiny red veins one usually associates with aged retirees in Florida。 His full； sensuous lips formed a fat grape…colored 〃O〃…a dark； plump circle encircled by white hair。 His blue stare； with which he returned mine； was incurious； polite； direct； and distant； but during the long unfortable moment we sat in silent confrontation； I detected an air of vigilance in his sharp old eyes。
As a critic I had learned early in the game how unwise it was to give too much weight or credence to first impressions； but under his steady； unwavering gaze I felt…I knew…that I was in the presence of a giant； which； in turn； made me feel like a violator； a criminal。 And if； in that first moment； he had pointed to the gate silently…without even saying 〃Get out！〃…I would have departed without uttering a word。
But such was not the case。
Berenice； her hands folded in her lap over her chamois drawstring handbag； sat quietly； and there she would sit until I got out of the car； walked around it； and opened the door on her side。
I was uninvited； an unexpected visitor； and it was up to me to break the frozen sea that divided us。 Apprehensively； and dangling the Land camera from its carrying strap on two fingers； I got out of the car and nodded politely。
〃Good afternoon； M。 Debierue；〃 I said in French； trying to keep my voice deep； like Jean Gabin； 〃at long last we meet！〃
Apparently he hadn't heard any French （and mine wasn't so bad） for a long time。 Debierue smiled…and what a wonderful； warmhearted smile he had！ His smile was so sweet； so sincere； so insinuating that my heart twisted with sudden pain。 It was a smile to shatter the world。 His ageruined mouth； purple lips and all； was beautiful when he smiled。 Several teeth were missing； both uppers and lowers； and those that remained gave a jack…o'…lantern effect to his generous mouth。 But the swift transformation from mournful resignation to rejuvenated； unrestrained happiness changed his entire appearance。 The grooved down…pointing lines in his face were twisted into swirling； upswept arabesques。 He rose stiffly from his chair as I approached； and shook a long forefinger at me in mock reproach。
〃Ah； M。 Figueras！ You have shaved your beard。 You must grow it back quickly！〃
His greeting me by name that way brought sudden moisture to my eyes。 He pumped my hand； the single up…anddown European handshake。 His long spatulate fingers were warm and dry。
〃You…you know me？〃 I said； in unfeigned astonishment。
He treated me to the first in a series of bona fide Gallic shrugs。 〃You； or another…〃 he said mysteriously； 〃and it is well that it is you。 I am familiar with your work； naturally； M。 Figueras。〃
I gulped like a tongue…tied teen…ager； abashed； not knowing what to say； and then noticed that he was looking past my shoulder toward Berenice。
〃Oh！〃 I said； running around the car； and helping Berenice out the door。 〃This is my friend； M。 Debierue； Mlle Hollis'
Berenice glared at me when I pronounced her name 〃Holee；〃 and said； 〃Hollis； Mr。 Debierue；〃 in English； 〃Berenice Hollis。 And it's a pleasure to meet you； sir。'；
Debierue kissed her hand； and I thought （I was probably oversensitive） he was a little uneasy； or put off by her presence。 He didn't know…and there was no unawkward way for me to enlighten him…whether she was truly just a friend； my mistress； my secretary； or a well…heeled art patron。 I decided to say nothing more。 He would be able to tell for himself by the way she looked at me and touched my arm from time to time that we were on intimate terms。 It was best to let it go at that。
The old man's English was adequate； despite a heavy accent； and as we talked in French； that beautiful late April afternoon； he or I occasionally translated or made some ment to Berenice in English。
〃I'm one of those obscure journalists who presume to criticize art；〃 I said modestly； with a nervous smile； but he stopped me by raising a hand。
〃Non； no； no〃…he shook his head…〃not obscure； M。 Figueras。 I know your work well。 The article you wrote on the California painter 。。。？〃 He frowned。
〃Vint？ Ray Vint； you mean？〃
〃Yes； that's the name。 The little fly。 That was so droll。〃 He chuckled reflectively。 〃Do not feel guilty； M。 Figueras。〃 He shrugged。 〃The true artist cannot hide forever； and if not you； another would e。 Now； e！ e inside！ I will give you cold orange juice； fresh frozen Minute Maid。〃
I was flattered that he knew my work as well as my name； or at least one article…I checked myself…written in English； at that； and not to my knowledge translated into French。 But why did he mention this particular article on Vint？ Ray Vint was an abstract painter whose paintings sold sparsely…for a dozen good reasons I won't go into here。 Vint was an excellent craftsman； however； and could get all the portrait work he desired…more； in fact； than he wanted to paint。 He needed the money he made from portraits to be able to work on the abstracts he preferred to paint。 But because he hated to do portraits； he also hated the people who sat for them and provided him with large sums for flattering likenesses。 He got 〃revenge〃 on the sitters by painting a fly on them。
In medieval painting； and well into the Renaissance； a fly was painted on Jesus Christ's crucified body： the fly on Jesus' body was a symbol of redemption； because a fly represented sin and Jesus was without sin。 A fly painted on the person of a layman； however； signified sin without redemption； or translated into 〃This person is going to Hell！〃 Ray Vint painted a trompe…l'oeil fly on every portrait。
Sometimes his patrons didn't notice the fly for several days； and when they did they were unaware of its significance。 They were usually delighted when they discovered it。 The fly became a conversational gambit when they showed the portrait to their friends： 〃Notice anything unusual there about my portrait？〃
Artists； of course； when they saw the fly； laughed inwardly； but said nothing to the patrons about the meaning of the Vintian trademark。 I had hesitated about whether to mention Vint's symbolic revenge when I wrote about him； not wanting to jeopardize his livelihood。 But I had decided； in the end； to bring the matter up because it was a facet of Vint's personality that said something implicit about the emotionless nature of his abstracts。
As I guided Berenice into the house in Debierue's wake； holding her left elbow； I became apprehensive about the old painter's offhand remark and dry； brief chuckle。 A chuckle； unlike a sudden smile or a sincere burst of laughter； is difficult to interpret。 Whether a chuckle is friendly or unfriendly； it merely serves as a nervous form o