THE CAT WHO SANG FOR THE BIRDS

In the galleries there was more talking than viewing of art: “Somebody did a nice job of tracklighting here… What do you think they have in the punch? … My cousin has just bought her fourth shafthouse … How do you like the manager’s haircut?”

Guests were dressed as if they had just come from church, or from hiking. There were civic leaders, students in MCCC shirts, oldsters with walking aids, families with small children, and a few strangers, whose identities were being wildly guessed. They were dealers from Down Below, looking for new talent. They were spies from the Lockmaster Art Center, looking for ideas to copy. They were undercover detectives, looking for offensive art or photography.

Qwilleran’s party scattered: Arch to investigate the refreshment table, Mildred to confer with the manager, Polly to meet Paul Skumble. As soon as artist and librarian met, an immediate rapport was evident, and Qwilleran left them alone, wandering off to visit Jasper.

The Butterfly Girl’s studio was crammed with visitors, chanting silly phrases at the parrot and then screaming when he replied, “C’mon, baby, gimme a tickle! … Anybody wanna go to bed? … I’m a go-o-od boy!” He bounced up and down on his perch and ruffled his feathers.

The artist herself stood in a far comer near the window, oblivious to the commotion. She was talking to a good-looking young man with unruly red hair, gazing at him amorously with the lustrous brown eyes that were her best feature. Then, catching sight of Qwilleran, she dragged her companion over to meet “Mr. Q.”

“This is my boyfriend, Jake Westrup,” she said. “He’s the one who gave me Jasper.”

“Yeah. I always wanted a parrot,” the fellow said, “but when I got Jasper home I found out my roommate’s allergic to feathers, and my boss wouldn’t let me have a bird because we handle food, and it’s against the law… Well, I gotta go to work now. Nice to meetcha. Mr. Q … S’long, Monkey. See ya t’night.” He tweaked her chin.

Qwilleran, never having tweaked a woman’s chin in his life, was offended by the man’s impudence, but the Butterfly Girl seemed not to mind. He said to her, “I don’t believe I know your name.”

“Phoebe. Phoebe Sloan. My father has the drugstore downtown.”

“Yes, of course. I know Sloan’s very well. Phoebe is a beautiful name. It comes from the Greek word for bright.”

“My boyfriend doesn’t like it,” she said apologetically. “He calls me - “

Before she could finish, Beverly Forfar stormed into the studio. “You’ll have to throw the blanket over his cage, Phoebe! He’s causing too much annoyance.”

“Big Mama, come to baby!” Jasper squawked.

Qwilleran made a discreet exit and went to see the collage demonstration. The woman who would be teaching a class in the art was doing a self-portrait with bits of torn newspaper. Also exhibited on ledges around the studio were landscapes created with fragments of cloth, snippets of wallpaper, theater tickets, shirt labels, and computer printouts. “You don’t have to be able to draw or paint,” she said. “The bits and pieces are your paint. The process makes you think a little.”

Qwilleran moved on to the next demonstration. A calligrapher, who would teach a class in “beautiful writing,” was using special pens to form the thick-and—

thin letters of modified Old English script. He said, “The practice of scribing began in ancient Rome and became an art in the Middle Ages. Sign up for the class, folks, and thumb your nose at computers!” For a donation to the Art Center, he would scribe any saying to order, at a dollar a word, suitable for framing. Qwilleran ordered three dollars’ worth of Shakespeare, which looked quite profound in modified Old English: Words, words, words!

He caught up with Mildred in a studio that displayed charcoal drawings of animals. With a few fluid strokes the artist had captured the tranquillity of a well-fed cat, the alertness of a hunting dog, the sheer power of a galloping horse.

“Come and see these wonderful figure studies, Qwill,” said Mildred. “Daphne is going to teach our class in life drawing. The human body is one of the greatest challenges in art.” Unframed drawings, large and small and covered in shrink-wrap, were filed on end in an open bin. Male and female figures were depicted with honesty and elegance - twisting, stooping, relaxing, reaching, running, leaping.

Qwilleran complimented the artist. “You say so much with so few lines! What’s the secret?”

“Anatomy,” said Daphne. “You have to know how the human body is constructed, how the basic masses are connected, how the bones and muscles function. You have to use your brain more than your eye. That’s what I teach.”

Arch was getting impatient. Art was not his area of interest. After signaling the women, he and Qwilleran waited for them on the porch.

“See anything you like?” Arch asked.

“A totem pole about two feet high. I like wood carvings. It would look good on the table in my foyer.”

“And it would be handy to have around in case you have to protect yourself.”