“That’s enough, Benvenuti! Enough!”
I looked down. It was the Tapster.
“Look at it! It’s a work of art, now, for the love—gargoyles, even.” He shook his head, jowls quivering. “You couldn’t eat and drink that much in a lifetime.”
I climbed down off the colonnade. A lengthy debate followed, at the conclusion of which I managed to convince the Tapster that since I myself considered his beer and “arsters” a form of art in their own right I considered us to have made a reasonable exchange of use values. The clincher—a shrewd move, this, though it pained me deeply—was my insistence that I was deeply in his debt for correcting my pronunciation with respect to edible mollusks.
“Well, that’s true,” he mused, “seeing as how I not only did you the great service in its own right but probably saved your life, in the bargain. Most people aren’t as tolerant as myself, you know, when it comes to the proper name for arsters.”
In the end, he was mollified. But he still insisted that I’d done enough. And so there I was, it being only the early afternoon and with too much time on my hands.
After enjoying an enormous lunch—the Tapster insisted on heaping my platter time and again—I approached Gwendolyn at her table.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” I said—and no sooner did these accented words issue forth from my lips than I was greeted with a sea of hostile and suspicious faces from the people gathered about the table—”but I just wanted to tell you I’m going to wander about the town for the rest of the afternoon. I’ll see you tonight.”
Gwendolyn smiled at me. Then, noticing the expression on the faces of the others at the table, she scowled.
“And what’s your problem?” she demanded of them. “So he’s an Ozarine—so what? He’s with me. I vouch for him.”
The frowns eased, but did not vanish. Gwendolyn slammed her fist onto the table. Everyone jumped a foot in their seats.
“What is this?” she roared. “Bigotry? In the movement? I won’t have it!”
I managed to keep from smiling. This, coming from Gwendolyn!
The frowns were replaced by looks which combined shamefaced guilt and not a little trepidation. This latter was not surprising. Gwendolyn in a fury is not a thing to be taken lightheartedly.
“I’ll probably be tied up most of the night, Benvenuti,” growled Gwendolyn, her fierce gaze not on me but on her comrades. “There’s still a lot of the comrades I have to talk to, and then”—her voice here resembled a great feline’s—”there’s perhaps a little matter of political re-education to be dealt with.”
I left the room, then, trying not to laugh at the expressions I left behind.
The rest of the day passed pleasantly enough. It’s an odd place, the Doghouse, but not without its own charms. The artwork, I found, had a crude but strangely appealing quality to it. There was one figurine in particular that I found attractive. It was made of terra cotta, unpainted, depicting the bust of some very rough-looking man. More like an ogre than a man, really, with his beetling brows, great hook of a nose, and deep-set eyes. Some of that was due, I was sure, to the crudity of the craftsmanship, but I felt, without knowing why, that it was not unlike the original model. But what struck me about it was that, even despite the obvious lack of skill of the artisan, the figurine somehow managed to capture a hint of a great spirit lurking within that horrid exterior. It was really a fine piece.
I noticed it in one shop, and then began seeing it in several others. Eventually, I found myself so taken by the thing that I determined to obtain one, so that I might make my own carving. I retraced my steps back to the first shop, whose figurine had been of the best quality, and effectuated an exchange of services with the proprietor. It was not difficult. My travels about the town had made it clear to me that if I should ever decide to become a sign-maker I could easily set myself up in the Doghouse and enjoy all the simple bounties of its life.