Landfalls Read Free Page B

portraits, Mr. Webber?”
    â€œMy reputation is mostly in landscapes,” Webber says, then watches Monneron’s gaze travel around the room, taking in all the native faces. “Portraits of natives are really a kind of landscape painting too,” he says. “Why do you ask?”
    â€œI’m going away for so long—anything can happen—I thought—only if you have time, of course…” Monneron says, his discomfort entirely real.
    â€œYou want me to paint you?”
    Monneron laughs, embarrassed. “It would be for my mother. But you must be busy.”
    â€œNot as busy as you this week.”
    Monneron’s face warms. Indeed, he’s just shared with this man a long list of tasks he has less than a week to complete; this request for a portrait must sound absurd and vain. “Perhaps something quick, just in pencil or pen,” he says, “like one of these sketches from the voyage.” He stops, abashed to think he’s just characterized Webber’s work as something one can simply dash off. He puts a hand to his forehead, aware that it’s a nervous gesture people—women especially—find disarming.
    Webber is smiling at him. “I’d be delighted to paint you.”
    Monneron laughs with relief. “I don’t know how these things work,” he says. “Is twenty-five guineas an appropriate fee?”
    Webber shakes his head. “That’s not necessary.”
    â€œIt is necessary.”
    After some haggling, Webber reluctantly agrees to five guineas. He apologizes—he’d be happy to begin straightaway, but has engagements the rest of the day. Can Monneron return tomorrow?
    â€œCome around three,” Webber says. “The light is best in my studio then.”
    King’s Ransom
    Monneron has one more document on his person—a shopping list drawn up by Monsieur de Lap é rouse himself. The minister had not been altogether pleased by it: “‘English’ does not mean ‘better,’” he declared. “We have instrument makers in Paris!” But Lap é rouse had insisted. “We bring no glory to France by traveling with inferior instruments made at home,” he said. The minister relented, and now Monneron is on his way to the Fleet Street atelier of George Adams, Jr., to purchase several of the world’s finest compasses.
    Mr. Adams is a young man—not yet thirty-five, Monneron thinks—who inherited from his father both his business and his position as instrument maker to the king. Mr. Adams does not suffer from false modesty. Indeed, he doesn’t suffer from modesty of any kind. He subjects Monneron to questioning as if to determine whether his new customer is worthy of his wares. “Inigo Alvarez?” he says with a sniff. “Never heard of him.”
    â€œAh, but ’e knows of you, Monsieur Adams,” Monneron says, exaggerating his accent.
    The combination of flattery and Frenchness prevails, and Adams is persuaded to part with two azimuth compasses. They’re beautiful in their simplicity, each hand-painted compass face with its durable steel needle seated in a glass-covered brass housing suspended from an outer brass ring, which in turn is affixed to a wooden box, all of it designed to withstand the motions at sea. Unfortunately, Mr. Adams has no dipping needles—used to adjust compass readings, essential on a long voyage into unknown parts. Monsieur de Lap é rouse has especially requested them—two, in fact, one for each of the expedition’s ships.
    â€œI’ve had no orders for them in nearly a year,” Adams says, peering at Monneron with renewed suspicion.
    â€œDo you know anyone else who—?”
    â€œNo,” Adams says, apparently not given to recommending his competitors even when he cannot meet a customer’s needs himself.
    The other instrument makers Monneron meets that afternoon are friendlier and