The Fifty-First Night.

 

“Your website turned out really beautiful,” Nick said when I showed it to him. “Clean, simple, lovely. I honestly like it.”

“That’s good to hear. I’m pleased with it too.”

“Bilingual. Very elegant.”

“We speak French here. I felt I owed that to the country that welcomed me so generously.”

“That welcomed us.”

“Well then? I also considered the island’s native language, for the same reason as French, but that would have made the project far too expensive—and it’s a language no one speaks beyond these shores. Portuguese is my own tongue, and I’d love the site to have it, but again, financially and logistically, French and English are convenient and sufficient.”

“I noticed the other day that your library has a lot of books in Portuguese.”

“My language is my homeland, Nick. Through it, I am a brother to Europeans, Asians, Africans, and Americans who speak it as well.”

“Is Portuguese really spoken that widely?”

“The Portuguese were the first masters of the world. The only place they didn’t colonize was Oceania.”

“I’ve never felt that kind of bond with the English just because of the language, and I don’t see it as my homeland. You surprise me—again. So, what’s your next move?”

“In seven days my website goes live. After that, I’d like to get in touch with art galleries in your country.”

“And that’s where you want me to step in?”

“I think you’re the right person for it.”

He looked at me with a half-smile—part eager, part uncertain—and then went on:

“I don’t know the first damn thing about art.”

“‘Art’ covers a lot of ground. I only need you to sell a product. You just have to know that. Ceramics, terracotta, things like that.”

I went to a drawer, took out a small booklet I had prepared, handed it to Nick, and said, “Here—you’ve got everything you need to know.”

“You really thought of everything.”

“No one ever thinks of everything. Life is far too big for that. But yes, I’m a good manager. I’ll cover your travel expenses, and you’ll get a generous percentage of what you sell. In the end, you’ll make more money than I will—an artist just starting out at sixty. Your sales can cover the studio, not a life.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes. I laid it all out in that little booklet. It’s not a contract—just a first idea. Take it with you. Read it.”

“Suddenly, I felt a weight on my shoulders,” Nick said.

“Nonsense. It’s just a small challenge and a slight change of life. Nothing that should frighten a seasoned man full of spirit, descendant of freedom-seekers, of warriors like Washington!”

He burst out laughing and said, “You’re being ridiculous!”

I laughed with him and said, “Ridiculous, maybe—but never false.”

 

Archibald MacNeal Willard - The Spirit of '76.