Swiddenworld: Selected Correspondence with Tabitha Gotlieb-Ryder
Goldie’s van Dongen
To Serge Mayacou, of Hamilton
Serge,
I made some serious enquiries on your behalf about whether Goldie would be amenable to selling the Paul Kirchner and Peter van Dongen pieces. Kirchner is a definite no; with van Dongen, although he is rather attached to it, he did assure me somewhat indeterminately that this would not be the case forever. “This is not an ‘anfractuous’ enticement to entertain offers”—(his exact choice of words). I don’t know that he has a firm number in mind; when he says something like that, it’s usually to weigh up whether it’s enough incentive to let it go. If it’s too low, he may not counter-offer, just respond, “I’d rather just keep it” (as he has done before).
Confidentially speaking, however, I think I can tell you that no one—at least while I have been in his employ—has ever made an offer for it, much less expressed so much as an interest. I don’t want to get your hopes up, but I think this bodes well. I know that he has been negotiating for years with a collector in Kalamazoo about an original Roy G. Krenkel. Goldie is under the impression that they are about to agree on a number (seven years onwards), but this wouldn’t be the first time that he’s overestimated finances, or his bargaining power for that matter. Don’t let appearances to the contrary fool you—though the studio is certainly spacious, well-situated (opulent some might even be accustomed to say)—Le Nid de Duc it is not. I have your contact information now, so I can advise you should the time come.
I enjoyed our conversation about Bruce Pennington and Eschatus. I am not aware of any publisher other than Paper Tiger ever having rights to publication through legitimate means, however. You are always welcome to stop by in the studio if you have any further questions, or simply want to look through what Goldie will be putting up for sale in the future—I would be more than happy to set anything (available) aside for you.
–T. Gotlieb-Ryder
To T.G.R., of Toronto
Tabitha,
Thank you for your note. I am touched by the gesture of consideration. I enjoyed making your acquaintance as well—if you could reach out should the van Dongen go to market, I would be in your happy debt. I would not hesitate to show my gratitude.
I looked through my Galaxies and could not believe you were able to reference the artist based on my inadequate methods of description. I can confirm it was Phillipe Caza who did the cover in question.
–S. Mayacou
To Serge Mayacou, of Hamilton
Serge,
Movement on the Krenkel front imminent. If all goes as planned, the transaction will be finalized within a day or two. Privately, I can confirm Goldie is still taken with the van Dongen (it currently resides over his mantelpiece, next to the portraiture his wife Marlana made in his likeness). He will push lesser pieces on you to generate immediate funds for the Krenkel deal; additionally, he took note of your interest in Virgil Burnett and Howard Sherman (your taste does you credit) and has pieces in his possession to which he no longer bears an attachment. If you push past his resolve for the van Dongen, and make no allusions to possessing an awareness of privileged information, I know for a fact he will capitulate.
–T. Gotlieb-Ryder
To T.G.R., of Toronto
Tabitha,
The van Dongen is at the framers now. If I am being perfectly honest, I am still shaking with disbelief at my good fortune of having come into contact with you. Not the crown jewel by any stretch, but a very good specimen of the man’s untrammelled control of static movement, and a happy resident in any serious collection. What I find most appealing is how it is an example of his more oppressive and rough line work, uncluttered with the pretenses of Swartean flatness. I hope I am not being too forward in the hope of wanting you to see where it will be eventually situated at my residence. Please allow me to treat you to dinner one night as a show of my appreciation.
–S.
To Serge Mayacou, of Hamilton
Serge,
That would be lovely. When will you next be in the city? I leave all particulars to you, and can be free most evenings after Goldie has closed the gallery. I thought it would be worth mentioning that he has recently made contact with a reputed former associate of Frank R. Paul who has a small stockpile of his artwork. The provenance is currently being assessed by someone in Teaneck. Interest is expected to be above average/crash-hot on account of renewed interest in his work; knowing Goldie’s pricing, this will thin out the competition considerably. I can bring stats to dinner if you don’t object.
–Tabby
The Joy Beaut Lover and the Glitz Cunt
To T.G.R., of Toronto
My Little Fuckling,
You were a right saucy Glitz Cunt last night. Nail on the ready, I could not wait to have you bucking and frisking like a hind in the wind. Your blithesome bunghole and its raucous puckerings hypnotized my mind to the Omega Point—glossolalic pronouncements, keeping perfect time with your intoxicated breathing, the echoing singsong of your colliding juddlies recalling me from the distant heavens of your tantra, the hint of a fetid musk wafting from your armpits. A more debauch ritornello has not been heard this side of midnight when I let my gasps unroll into moans.
When you began reciting the names of the assured masters—“Rey Feibush, Alex Schomburg, Virgil Finlay, Don Ivan Punchatz”—while engaged in unholy congress, I barely had the sense to blunder out myself into your mouth before it was too late. Even if I wanted to, I could not dispel the image of you soothingly anointing my gonads with my seed. My sweetest Tabby, tell me you will let me have you again, that you are not over-boyed (and with whom I must vie for your attentions). Barring such circumstances, that you will see me again in whatever capacity that allows me access to your naked splendour—cockservant, witness, figger, what have you. Let me be your nightstick, I have no hard limits. Old guard leather need not apply.
–The Joy Beaut Lover
To Serge Mayacou, of Hamilton,
Dearest Whorelet,
Did you think to have satisfied my ravening desires, O cockless wonder? Did I say you were finished with me? Did I give you permission to finish before I told you to? Your anointment was merely a prelude to your despoiliation. The sequelae of your actions will be tenfold. We will fructify your ten-a-penny cock yet, drudge. The acccidulants in your jissom will smart and stain your body, your mouth, your anus—I can hardly wait to see how much farther I can claw my finger up your gate and have you glimpse the storms in heaven. We will make a swidden out of you yet. Once we have finished laying the groundwork for your vitiation, I will sanctify your cockling with an appropriate and fitting ranking. I dub my quim Apeslayer: violator of all who kneel before my bilious heat. Fie, swoon and tremble before my blessed chalice, sate yourself on the quiniferous piquancy of my urticating clunge.
Do you know Julius Leblanc Stewarts’ work? Nymphs Hunting? Our pairing brings it to life. Familiarize yourself with its sick-making majesty. I will brook no clanking irons. Does it bring you shame or pride that you fuck for profit? You are a grotty, foul, lob-sided cock-disaster who can’t make up his mind about which hole you want to screw any more than you can decide which gets you hotter, the possibility that I might have an Ohrai or a Mark Harrison in the wings, hidden from Goldie’s view. Poor, lamentable art lover, born too late to get in on the ground floor of Guido Crepax’s reputation being pulled out of the rot-funk of the Italian gutter… You need me to derrick the vicissitudes of the art market so that I can maximize the length and breadth of your dollars like I maximize the length and breadth of your meat when I guide you inside me. I own you, therefore I can unmake you. You will need a shuftiscope when I am done with you, worm—skinfuls of foof,
–Glitz Cunt
To T.G.R., of Toronto
Tabby,
I read your letter with anticipation in the stockroom at work. I was already hard before my fingers found their way around my member. I frigged myself quickly and wiped myself on your letter before licking it dry. Your mention of Crepax occasioned my memory on the pages I had let slip all these years—Sterankos, Bodēs, Morrows. Why must you demean me so? Have I not been a percipient if tolerable servitor? What can I do to prove the fealty I swear unto you and your crimson cathedral of smut, bunt and disease? I could write a vexillology of your red minge and the congregants who advance behind it. The mild fragrance of sweat admixing with the sour sluices of your asshole awaken a dormant pathology inside me, the shit-stink of your soul are like embers that make your twat bawl out “Decretals of Minge!” in farting whimpers.
My waking reveries of your sour stockinged feet pressed against my nose while I nibble on the flaking skin of your heels prevents me from coordinating the movement of my legs when I am returning from the bar. Just the other night I sat drunk, transfixed on another woman’s legs who reminded me of yours—they had the same bandiness, I swear I could perceive the same sweat stink of your armpits and the same contumelious smirk on your lips. I had a good frig with my thighs and had enough baby batter spilling down my ankles that I lost sense of myself and delighted in pouring my porter over my lap just so the barmaid could pat me down with her dirty dish rag.
I made my way home in a skronking stupor, vomited in the stairwell, and began to unbutton my shirt and trousers so that I could feel something warm on my chest and groin. I could not manage much more than half my normal size (it looked like a pufterlooner) but I smeared some vomitus up myself all the same and began to see the emblazoned image of your red, inflamed bunghole in my mind’s eye, the raphe extending down your taint like Jacob’s Ladder. When I had recomposed myself, I made my way into my apartment and called you on the telephone. We discussed Hannes Bok and Rowena Morrill briefly, but ended our conversation abruptly because you were feeling poorly. I regained my composure shortly afterwards and fell asleep while Charlie Bubbles was playing on the television.
–The Welland Canal
Insufflation Takes Two
To Serge Mayacou, of Hamilton
Serge,
I have not heard from you for several weeks now; a third letter going unanswered is bordering on incivility, but I think I catch your meaning. I could forgive your remissness if I did not suspect an ulterior motive. Did I frighten you? I warned you that my sex was not for the meek and faint-hearted. Did the insufflation of your nethers break you? Did you not like the feeling of being entered and roiled from within? Did the mere sight of blood make the measure of a man burrow up inside you?
You’ll have no bitter tears from I, worm-feeding cock-spastic. Never set foot in my place of business then; never write me, never phone me. I hope your van Dongen turns out to be a fake—knowing Goldie, the truth isn’t that far off. No one will deign engage you in transactions—your collecting days are finished. You’ll bear the mark of a welch in our circle, which I can assure you, is as broad as my mouth. Good luck ever getting into the pants of anyone else who knows who Bernard Sachs is. I hope you get gonorrhea in your throat and crust scabies in your taint, you hypospadic pup. Your necessaries smell like a leper colony. You were pissed up against a wall and hatched in the sun!
It’s a cock sweetie, not a crumpled bill you’re trying to squeeze into a vending slot. Fuck off and die you grostulating, rent-a-cock choirboy! The Glitz Cunt is dead!
To T.G.R., of Toronto
Tabitha,
I know full well that I am the last person you expected to hear from again, but I can only hope that if you are still reading these words, a morbid curiosity will give you the inclination to understand what I have to say.
Let me start by saying that I cannot apologize enough for my determined efforts to ignore you: yes, as I’m sure it will come as no surprise, I admit it freely. I was compelled to sever our relationship, such as I believe it was fast becoming, from outside influences I felt forced to succumb to. I will spare no detail, because I believe that an orderly mind still counts for something in these days of ease.
A few days after our last telephone conversation, I received a summons to Goldie’s Treffan Court offices. He refused to elaborate on the nature of the visit, save to say that it would concern a matter of “renewable interest.” I was met immediately by Goldie and two individuals approximately in their forties bearing the waxen demeanours of mortuary attendants. I believe you will know them to be Ms. Runthenthorpe and Mr. Freleng, celebrated art-scoundrel muckety-mucks and long-time associates of Goldie. They had a proposition for me, which piqued my interest, knowing their reputation for implacable, purposeful acquisition.
Runthenthorpe had gathered that I was making moves to acquire several Murphy Anderson pieces as privately as possible and almost always through direct sales. Freleng, similarly, had become aware of the growing Howard Sherman collection I was amassing. This unsettled me to no end as I had taken considerable steps to remain anonymous and to never discuss the pieces publicly unless someone demonstrated the velleity to relinquish a piece. The more publicity these transactions had, the better chance potterers would come hunting for the sake of the muck and unsettle my own motivations of unspoiled, artistic contemplation, as we have discussed in days of yore.
Goldie and co. asked me in no uncertain terms if I would be willing to place bets at a coming auction they were holding. I professed that I did not quite grasp their meaning. Freleng and Runthenthorpe were in the process of downsizing their respective collections and were feeling anxious that they would not recoup their original expenditure, or that their pieces would not fetch the prices that in their estimation the broader marketplace could secure. It dawned on me that they were asking me to engage in shill bidding. I did not make any moral calculations on this front, but briefly considered the repercussions if caught. Goldie assured me that the only people who knew of the arrangement were present in the room, and that it had been the first time that any of them had attempted anything of the sort. A “chanson des mouches,” Goldie had called it. He opined that though ants and bees were like communists, flies comprehended private enterprise consummately.
Before I could ask what would motivate me to assume the risk, Freleng and Runthenthorpe produced Anderson and Sherman originals from their respective collections. I was besotted with the Sherman in particular because I had assumed the majority of these pages had been destroyed at the production level long ago. Goldie assured me I could have one artwork on the spot, and the other at the end of the auction. If things went according to plan, they envisioned a time when I could call on them to perform the same service, ensuring a provident future. We shook on the agreement cordially, and then Runthenthorpe and Freleng took their leave of us, placing the Sherman on the escritoire by the entrance door for me to wrap up.
When we were alone, Goldie took the Sherman in his hands to appraise the detail with the assistance of a magnifying glass before asking me how I knew about the van Dongen. I feigned ignorance as to his meaning, for he still did not suspect the nature under which I acquired it. I don’t need to tell you that van Dongen’s work experienced a significant uptick in the months since Goldie off-loaded the page, essentially tripling in value virtually overnight. Goldie harboured some ill will on this front, but was more impressed than anything by my talents for prognostication. I attempted to disabuse him of this opinion, but he was fixated, especially since my artistic interests overlapped with those of Runthenthorpe and Freleng.
The matter was settled that he wanted me as a junior buyer and assistant. The suggestion was both attractive and dismaying—this was essentially the position you held with him. I balked at the offer as graciously as I could. He would not take “no” for an answer, however. He didn’t care if I had heard of the Kupferstichkabinett or not; merely that I had produced results. He laid out exciting terms for my employment, but insisted that my focus could never attenuate or he would seek a replacement (a credo, as I would learn, he had lived by for years). Goldie found your focus recently to be lacking, and your oversight concerning the van Dongen was uncommonly galling to him. Of course, I am to be held accountable for the so-called lapses in your discernment.
It was inside the probable that your professional relationship with Goldie was now at an end. My intent was to continue seeing you and to work for Goldie, maximizing my wits and connections to more than make up for what had befallen you by my hand. It was my hope to buy you an original Pennington as a preliminary token of contrition. Your first letter had arrived asking why I had not responded to you, and though I drafted a version of the letter you now hold in your hands, I lost my nerve to send it. Goldie’s disobliging work expectations occupied the best of me for a few days, and by then it was too late, for your last letter had arrived on my doorstep making the decision easy for me. I was soon filled with tremendous sorrow and regret—you seemed perfectly adamant (and within your right) to feel this way, and it did not appear to me becoming to pursue your attentions further. I did not always keep to this resolve, finding myself on more than one occasion on the corner of your street watching outside your window for signs of suitors, or making cursory enquiries with your associates where you landed after Goldie sacked you.
You can imagine my happiness at learning that you are now the exclusive art representative of Thusnelda Baltuch. I can think of no one more deserving of this creditable position. I know there should be no reason for you to want any dealings with myself or Goldie, but I have been tasked by him personally to make whatever arrangements necessary to secure the best representations of Baltuch’s work that you have available. There are no lengths that we will not go to acquire these pieces—no lengths. Goldie appreciates the history between the two of you, and has given me an impressive range from his collection with which to begin negotiations. A combination of selections from this grouping and cash value are also feasible (within reasonable limits). I cordially invite you to come to the gallery at your nearest convenience to discuss terms and selections, but know that Goldie would also be acquiescent to meeting at a more neutral location of your choosing. Please find enclosed some Stanisław Szukalski prints with Goldie’s compliments. With apologies for the sprawling nature of this communication, and with sincerity and affection,
–Serge
To Mr. Mayacou, of Toronto
Dear Customer,
Thank you for your interest in Thusnelda Baltuch’s work. At this time, we are not making her pieces available publicly. We will notify you should this change. Regards,
–T. Gotlieb-Ryder
My Mind Is a Boggle-De-Botch
To T.G.R., of Toronto
Tabitha,
You can imagine Goldie’s displeasure when the Baltuch pages went public without advance knowledge. The pieces he was interested in were no longer available by the time he had frantically approached one of your representatives at the opening reception of the Baltuch show. I would have been in for quite a hiding, I can assure you, had I not successfully moved a handful of Victor Moscoso pieces a few hours beforehand. Goldie was so blinded by rage that night that he hurled a bronze busk of his mother into the painting Marlana made in his likeness. The psychical implications of the act are, sadly, beyond me.
I saw you briefly by the Spitzweg painting—I did not know that you wore glasses. You looked radiant in crushed velvet, and your hair was very fetching in a chignon. Who was the gentleman who never left your side? Perhaps I overstep my bounds…
I have been authorized to offer two pieces as complimentary gifts, provided you and Baltuch agree to meet with Goldie at a location of your choosing: a Jack Cole Betsy and Me strip, which he recalls you admired on several occasions while in his employ, and a Brenda Starr Reporter strip by Ramona Fradon, which Baltuch has made no secret of admiring. I would never forgive myself if my neglectful behaviour in our relationship was somehow at the root of our inability to discuss business.
–S.
To T.G.R., of Toronto
Tabby,
I am now hurriedly clearing the south wall of Goldie’s lake home for the five Baltuch pieces he was able to secure from you at your La Castile meeting. Goldie and Marlana imparted to me in passing that some infelicitous things were mentioned at my expense (Marlana said she would elaborate when Goldie was asleep, but I can no longer tolerate being alone with that badger-legged woman after the sun has gone down. Bad enough she thinks we are married but not churched). I must admit that I find the experience of being brought so low at your hand extremely… stimulating. Your proviso that I must under no circumstances attend the meeting completed the enchantment. My mind is a boggle-de-botch; what must I do to obtain a response from you? After all, your will was my debasement (and can be again). Yours if you want it, a wife in watercolours, as it were,
–Serge
Bespawler’s Hanging Place
To Mr. Mayacou, of Toronto
Bespawler,
Cease all correspondence with me or face the consequences.
–T. Gotlieb-Ryder
To Serge Mayacou, of Toronto
Serge,
I decided to break my silence after all these years because I heard the sad news of Goldie’s passing. The community will undoubtedly be devastated. He was loud and brash, but he never laid a finger on me or treated me as anything less than an equal (except financially speaking of course). I had some fond memories while working for him, and our last meeting in the autumn to broker the Baltuch pieces was pleasant, painless. He spoke fondly of you at the dinner. He said you were like a son to him, and hoped you would take over the gallery after he retired and do your best not to run it into the ground. I suppose time has palliated my feelings of resentment for you to a degree. I appreciated you not writing me further after I insisted we break off communication. The world is a hanging place. Wishing you solace in this time of grieving,
–T. Gotlieb Ryder
To T.G.R., of Toronto
Tabby,
Thank you for your thoughtful message. I confess I had lost all hope of ever communicating with you, in person or otherwise. It was a lovely gesture that cut me to the quick because of the nature of our romantic history. I often think about how our lives might have been different had I availed myself of a more courageous line of action at a critical juncture in our lives. Surely the position I now hold was not incommensurate with whatever potential we may have shared as lovers. I am filled with regret, but I realize the timing of a public disrobing of this nature is not entirely apropos.
The future of the gallery is uncertain. I want to continue on, but Marlana wants to unload the majority of the pieces to interested parties as soon as possible and sell the business; a few museums and private concerns have expressed interest in acquiring significant portions of Goldie’s artwork en masse, sight unseen in some cases. If we entertain a liquidation, I would like to ensure the most deserving parties receive the most relevant pieces, which is to say, I do not want them collecting dust at a gallerist’s warehouse because they are overpriced and deliberately out of reach, waiting for a Dominique de Menil to come nosing around like a truffle hog.
Marlana believes discrimination is unwarranted and wants to move to the south of France immediately. She wants us to be married at the moment it is (perceived) decent to do so. I am at cross purposes on that front, as it is compounding my stress over the funeral arrangements, of which I have (surprisingly) been charged with taking by the reins (where is Goldie and Marlana’s daughter?!). I would be happy to return to you free of cost the Baltuch pieces—I understand Thusnelda has expressed regrets about letting those pieces go, and quite frankly, Marlana will not be aware of the minor financial loss. You are free to do with them as you wish; sell them again, keep them, et cetera. Think of it as a token of my everlasting appetency for what we shared, once upon a time.
–Serge
P.S. I further enclose the details of the funeral. You would be most welcome there, along with anyone you wish to bring.
To Serge Mayacou, of Toronto
Serge,
I just wanted to write to let you know that the ceremony was tastefully done and in accordance with every law of propriety. It is exactly the way Goldie would have wanted it, barring of course the spectacle Marlana made of herself. On no less than four occasions I saw her fondling your genitals in full view of Goldie’s family. I can tell you that his mother especially did not care for the flagrant disrespect conferred on the dearly departed. I make no judgements as to who you share a bed with, but I would think that she could keep her hands to herself for a few blasted hours. Her behaviour was frankly indecorous and in shockingly bad taste.
I also want to ask about whose artwork hung above the casket. I have no recollection of the piece from the past, so assume it is a new work, perhaps one you commissioned on Goldie’s behalf? It bore a passage about a “day at the beach” or a “blank ballot” if I am not misremembering. And if I dare skirt the edges of shamelessness myself, can I ask if it is for sale? I know you are in mourning and I would not be surprised at a less than propitious response (if any), but it has been some time since I have been moved to enquire about a piece for my ownership. Apologies in advance for the indiscretion,
–Tabby
To T.G.R., of Toronto
Tabby,
Apologies unnecessary. Your request was a happy intrusion into the sea of calamitous shit my life has become embroiled in. You are incorrect about the piece being from a new artist, but I cannot disclose at the moment whose hand was responsible. You will have to forgive this inflated need for secrecy, but the artist in question has asked that I not divulge their identity before they have completed the series to which it belongs. The pieces are rendered in a style considered a departure from their established credentials, and he has been wavering on the question of whether these shall ever be exhibited publicly or not. What I can tell you is that the inscription you have referred to is by Molavi, and reads as such:
X Choosing the lesser evil is choosing evil
Doing nothing is always an option But what kind of nothing, my friend
A blank ballot A day at the beach.
I thought it summed up Goldie’s attitude toward political engagement rather well.
I will let the artist know that you have an interest in the work, and that you are also Baltuch’s representative. Who knows? Perhaps I could have a good word with him about your talents for representation. Baltuch’s profile has shot through the roof since she did those book-jacket designs for blewointment if I am not mistaken.
–Serge
High Fantastic, High Drudgery
To Serge Mayacou, of Toronto
Prannie-Mulch,
You may have succeeded in lowering my defences, but you still have many flights up the campanile to run. Do not presume that because I now entertain your personal company that the errors and follies of the past can be erased like a candle snuffed out in a parlour room; neither must you comprehend my small allowances with greasing your gut-stick in my presence for a passport to every home port at my disposal. You have merely entered the barbican, and must consider yourself a stateless person. Your whore’s bath this morning was the beginning of your variegated humiliations, trials and excoriations. I will make Giordano Bruno’s sufferings look like a morning constitutional compared to what you will endure at my hands. You will not be moving to Lourmarin, and you will not be selling off Goldie’s gallery. I will direct your every movement and stratagem with regard to Marlana. Am I understood, Manfat? We will engineer the swift dissolution of whatever fishmongering commerce you were caught up in with Madame Pudge—no need to die on that hill. My list of demands shall be forthcoming. Scorf up the medicine now, little sissified itch-mite. Remember, this isn’t high fantastic after all, this is high drudgery. The Glitz Cunt is dead. Long live the Glitz Cunt.
–T.G.R.
P.S. Press this letter to your nose and relive the fragrance of my putrescence. I had to see a star about a twinkle.
To Serge Mayacou, of Toronto
Gash-Hound,
Hilt and hair time will be further delayed. What follows is a list of my counter-value targets. Stand by for concurrence, leather stretching to follow.
- You will surrender all mid- to high-grade art in your possession to me at no later time than a week from receipt of this annexing letter. Supplemental to this requirement are all paper records and inventories pertaining to said collection.
- The forfeiture of these assets must occur on the lawn of Quail Pipe Manor, my place of residence, at the stroke of midnight on the night of the next blood moon (next Tuesday), wearing only a smile and after quaffing a vial of quebrachine, which I shall provide in preposterous quantities.
- For each article of art surrendered, you shall perform a short ritual of my devising, which I shall elucidate in detail. The ritual, hereinafter referred to as the shush bag, consists in the nibble and dribble of the scads of diamond-shaped bum oodles that are currently plaguing my nethers while you keep the census down. After each vitiation of seed, you will be allowed a short respite for hydration (quebrachine or water only). No gel packs will be provided.
- After this game of pebble dashing is concluded, you will undoubtedly need ample time for recovery. You will avail yourself of the amenities of Quail Pipe for no less than twenty-four hours, both to familiarize yourself in your new environs and become acquainted in the barracks with the other Sweetcorn Boys. There will be no quarter on this account. There will be no room for Marlana this night.
- When sufficient mindfulness has returned to your faculties, you will convene in the sub-level man-pits for locally televised shew-combat. Report to Claude and Aldegonde for sanitation and oiling. Clinch holds are strongly encouraged.
- Your future with me as Head Buggerclaw will depend entirely on this contest of wretches. I will not be undone by your pusillanimity again. Fight for your keepsakes as much as you fight for your Great Winnower. When and only when you have surpassed these requirements will my demands continue.
Assholes in retrograde,
–The Great Winnower
To Serge Mayacou, of Toronto
Gleetbag,
Your inventory is in shambles! I will have you consume more Stramonium and Bynin Amara if you cannot be brought to heel. I know from memory that you had in your possession Martin Van Maële, Ed Valigursky and Paul Lehr originals. I also distinctly recall a Frank Wilson drawing from Supermanship (“The Great Vice Versa”). Obfuscate again and the night physicals shall be accompanied with a very cold Roboleine spoon.
–Tabs qua Tabs
Quail Pipe Drippydick’s All Duff and No Grog
To T.G.R., of Toronto
Gatekeeper of Tabbydom,
Happy tidings on the Marlana question. She has taken my disappearance rather poorly I am told; her crying fits have spilled out into public spaces now. Rumours abound that she cannot continue on without me, and has splendidly made one attempt already at taking her own life involving a piece of chicken wire (I shall spare you the details). The police have been notified concerning my disappearance, and I reckon they shall approach you about an interview for questioning. I feel my resolve failing, which is not to say that I do not believe in the “saturnalias of our conventicle” as you term it, but then again, a rubber truncheon in less capable hands makes for less desirable results.
I don’t want to let you down again. I realize that breaking off communication was what doomed us the first time, so instead I want to make my fears perfectly understandable and ask for assurances (come what may). As irresistible as the attractions of Quail Pipe are, I am beginning to bristle at being under the floorboards for so long (there are only so many Hy Averback films you can watch). Couldn’t I step out to pick up a few things, Dovey? I might have to run an errand in Moss Park for a night or two…
I really think you are taking too much on your shoulders. Claude is a dear, but the polybabble that passes for conversation is so astonishingly poor that I really might quash his quongs one night with a coat hanger—I am sure that you would grant me that much. What a radgepot you have running this madhouse; châteaued out of his mind half the time from jimmyjohns he’s hoisted out the cellar and rolled into his quarters.
In more cheerful news, I received word through protected channels from an old friend. Ingram Freleng, upon hearing of my disappearance after Goldie’s death, began to fear for the worst. Far from presuming that I was absconding from the scene of a crime, his letter of concern went to great lengths to assure me that I had a friend who wanted to repay an old debt. He seems enthusiastic about paying homage to Goldie’s legacy, and has expressed an interest in fencing the majority of the collection to international parties at white-market pricing. We will not be sending more than two pieces per party (and none to France, naturally) to ensure they are not consolidated in one pool, and trackable by the authorities. But perhaps we should make some small allocation for Marlana—she will after all have limited means in Europe, and I do feel she will be hard done by, even if we make arrangements on her behalf.
Eagerly awaiting your return from the west. I have not moused off during your absence, as promised. I hope you will be feeling better in a few days. I agree with your sentiment that summer colds are the worst: predictably ill-timed, with a hint of insouciance for good measure. My anxiety unseats my mind. I fear it has made me disastrously unproficient in the goodly art of letter-writing. Adieu for now, your
–Serge
To Serge Mayacou, of Toronto
Drippydick, Lovetick, Stypdick,
You Cooper Union dropouts are all the same. All duff and no grog, ineluctably doomed by a lack of imagination. I left Bella Coola earlier than communicated and should be arriving shortly after this letter reaches you. Do not set foot outside of quail pipe you dermophiliac duck shit unless you want abrogations of your privileges to result. You will receive an Arthur Ranson if you comply.
Your recalcitrance will be our undoing. Claude has already apprised me of your undisciplined self-gratifications. Evirates are my speciality, remember?
Claude has rummaged through your rubbish and found enough evidence to damn an onery house. A night-diddle to buy his silence counts for hardly anything in today’s delicate economy. I run a tight ship, Jagabat. Never forget where you are—sowgelders aplenty.
Marlana is no longer a concern. I went to Bella Coola in part to negate her involvement in our future. Her kitling Prue Enz lives there, remember? We have always been on good terms. Goldie had long suspected that Prue was not produced of his bloodline.
I have to impart the paramount importance of my next question: you are absolutely certain Goldie included an infidelity or non-paternity event clause in his prenuptial agreement? I don’t need to know particulars. I am with Prue as I write this, who assures me there is no love lost between her and her mother. Her recollection is that Goldie pledged to her that in the final event, she would be taken care of, but that should any proofs of Marlana’s inconstancy turn up, Prue could expect courtly munificence on his part. Prue had always construed that to mean she would receive the Stanley Pitt painting. Whether or not this in actuality means, as I suspect, the whole kit and caboodle of the inheritance, you are my proof for this legal eventuality taking place and leaving Marlana to toy with only otiose recriminations in solitude and wonder.
I will give Marlana the option of giving chase to her roi fainéant and losing all stately entitlements to Prudence, or that of keeping the villa in Lourmarin, along with her share of the bequeathment (minus the unaccounted-for artworks), and the abandonment of her search of one “missing” business partner. Another fly jockey wants looking after. What else is new? Is that a happy enough ending for you or do you want to go again?
More gambitfields to follow.
–Tabs