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plays. That’s all right. But by doing this he destroys what might be a genuine—a genuine and integrated personality. What is Picasso’s personality?”
    The reporters scribbled diligently.
    “What is your favorite painting in this show? Which do you think you like best?”
    “I have no— No, I can’t say that I have a favorite painting in this show. Thank you.” Did Derwatt smoke? What the hell. Tom reached for Jeff’s Craven A’s and lit one with a table lighter before two reporters could spring to his cigarette. Tom drew back to protect his beard from their fire. “My favorites perhaps are the old ones—‘The Red Chairs,’ ‘Falling Woman,’ maybe. Sold, alas.” Out of nowhere, Tom had recalled the last title. It did exist.
    “Where is that? I don’t know that, but I know the name,” someone said.
    Shyly, recluse-like, Tom kept his eyes on the leatherbound blotter on Jeff’s desk. “I’ve forgot. ‘Falling Woman.’ Sold to an American, I think.”
    The reporters plunged in again: “Are you pleased with your sales, Derwatt?”
    (Who wouldn’t be?)
    “Does Mexico inspire you? I notice there are no canvases in the show with a Mexican setting.”
    (A slight hurdle, but Tom got over it. He had always painted from imagination.)
    “Can you at least describe the house where you live in Mexico, Derwatt?” asked Eleanor.
    (This Tom could do. A one-story house with four rooms. A banana tree out front. A girl came to clean every morning at ten, and did a little shopping for him at noon, bringing back freshly baked tortillas, which he ate with red beans—frijoles—for lunch. Yes, meat was scarce, but there was some goat. The girl’s name? Juana.)
    “Do they call you Derwatt in the village?”
    “They used to, and they had a very different way of pronouncing it, I can tell you. Now it’s Filipo. There’s no need of another name but Don Filipo.”
    “They have no idea that you’re Derwatt ?”
    Tom laughed a little again. “I don’t think they’re much interested in The Times or Arts Review or whatever.”
    “Have you missed London? How does it look to you?”
    “Was it just a whim that made you come back now?” young Perkins asked.
    “Yes. Just whim.” Tom smiled the worn, philosophic smile of a man who had gazed upon Mexican mountains, alone, for years.
    “Do you ever go to Europe—incognito? We know you like seclusion—”
    “Derwatt, I’d be most grateful if you could find ten minutes tomorrow. May I ask where you’re—”
    “I’m sorry, I haven’t yet decided where I’m staying,” Tom said.
    Jeff gently urged the reporters to take leave, and the cameras began to flash. Tom looked downward, then upward for one or two photographs on request. Jeff admitted a waiter in a white jacket with a tray of drinks. The tray was emptied in a trice.
    Tom lifted a hand in a gesture of shy, gracious farewell. “Thank you all.”
    “No more, please,” Jeff said at the door.
    “But I—”
    “Ah, Mr. Murchison. Come in, please,” Jeff said. He turned to Tom. “Derwatt, this is Mr. Murchison. From America.”
    Mr. Murchison was large, with a pleasant face. “How do you do, Mr. Derwatt?” he said, smiling. “What an unexpected treat to meet you here in London!”
    They shook hands.
    “How do you do?” Tom said.
    “And this is Edmund Banbury,” Jeff said. “Mr. Murchison.”
    Ed and Mr. Murchison exchanged greetings.
    “I’ve got one of your paintings—‘The Clock.’ In fact, I brought it with me.” Mr. Murchison was smiling widely now, staring with fascination and respect at Tom, and Tom hoped his gaze was dazzled by the surprise of actually seeing him.
    “Oh, yes,” Tom said.
    Jeff again quietly locked the door. “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Murchison?”
    “Yes, thank you.” Murchison sat, on a straight chair.
    Jeff quietly began gathering empty glasses from the edges of bookshelves and the desk.
    “Well, to come to the point, Mr. Derwatt, I—I’m interested in a