Bradbury, Ray - In A Season of Calm Weather

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IN A SEASON OF CALM WEATHER

by Ray Bradbury

George and Alice Smith detrained at Biarritz one summer noon and in an

hour had run through their hotel onto the beach into the ocean and back out to

bake upon the sand.

To see George Smith sprawled burning there, you'd think him only a

tourist flown fresh as iced lettuce to Europe and soon to be transshipped home.

But there was a man who loved art more than life itself.

"There..." George Smith sighed. Another ounce of perspiration trickled

down his chest. Boil out the Ohio tap water, he thought, then drink down the

best Bordeaux. Silt your blood with rich French sediment so you'll see with

native eyes!

Why? Why eat, breathe, drink everything French? So that, given time, he

might really begin to understand the genius of one man.

His mouth moved, forming a name.

"George?" His wife loomed over him. "I know what you've been thinking.

I can read your lips."

He lay perfectly still, waiting.

"And?"

"Picasso," she said.

He winced. Someday she would learn to pronounce that name.

"Please," she said. "Relax. I know you heard the rumor this morning,

but you should see your eyes - your tic is back. All right, Picasso's here, down

the coast a few miles away, visiting friends in some small fishing town. But

you must forget it or our vacation's ruined."

"I wish I'd never heard the rumor," he said honestly.

"If only," she said, "you liked other painters."

Others? Yes, there were others. He could breakfast most congenially on

Caravaggio still lifes of autumn pears and midnight plums. For lunch: those

fire-squirting, thick-wormed Van Gogh sunflowers, those blooms a blind man might

read with one rush of scorched fingers down fiery canvas. But the great feast?

The paintings he saved his palate for? There, filling the horizon like Neptune

risen, crowned with limeweed, alabaster, coral, paintbrushes clenched like

tridents in horn-nailed fist, and with fishtail vast enough to fluke summer

showers out over all Gibraltar - who else but the creator of "Girl Before a

Mirror" and "Guernica"?

"Alice," he said patiently, "how can I explain? Coming down on the

train, I thought, Good lord, it's all Picasso country!"

But was it really? he wondered. The sky, the land, the people, the

flushed pink bricks here, scrolled electric-blue ironwork balconies there, a

mandolin ripe as a fruit in some man's thousand fingerprinting hands, billboard

tatters blowing like confetti in night winds - how much was Picasso, how much

George Smith staring round the world with wild Picasso eyes? He despaired of

answering. That old man has distilled turpentines and linseed oil so thoroughly

through George Smith that they shaped his being, all Blue Period at twilight,

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Bradbury, Ray - In A Season of Calm Weather

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