Free The Tomorrow File by Lawrence Sanders Page B

lived in poverty most of his life. He was imprisoned, briefly, for “immorality,” for having shown some of his drawings to curious children. He died of influenza, on the day of his wife’s funeral. She also died of influenza.
    Those were the bare bones of the em’s life. They tell you little, and what they do tell is without significance. The meaning lies in the man’s work.
    \ If you stared for hours, as I had, at the self-portraits, you would see the depth of demonic possession in that face, and you would-be disturbed, as I was disturbed. Did I like the work of Egon Schiele? I did not. But it obsessed me. There had not been a single day since 1992 when, at some time, awake or asleep, I had not suddenly remembered one of his drawings or paintings. With pain, and the sense of loss.
    I had purchased the exhibition catalogue, and the obso shopkeeper promised to try to find more of Schiele’s work. About a month later he mailed me a note—handwritten!—saying he had located another catalogue of a different Schiele exhibition. I bought that one, too. During the following years I was able to buy another book, in poor condition, of sketches Schiele had made while in prison.
    Then one day the owner of the shop where I had purchased the catalogue flashed me, in great excitement. He had heard of an obso ef, a widow, a recluse, who owned a biography of Schiele. If was, reportedly, in mint condition, an enormous volume of 687 pages with 228 full-page reproductions (84 in color), plus 612 text illustrations. She would accept no less than 1,000 new dollars for this prize. I bought it immediately, sight unseen. It was a prize.
    Those were the four books in my secret place: the life and work of Egon Schiele. I had never seen any of his originals (most were in museums in Pan-Europe). I had never been able to locate prints or large reproductions. Schiele’s name was not included on the list of artists whose work was available on film spindles.
    On the cover flap of the largest book, an unknown editor had written: “The anguish of the lonely, the . . . despair of the suffering, the desolation of the desperate, are the moods Schiele expressed. . . . The themes are genesis and decay, longing and lust, ecstasy and despair, suffering and sorrow. ...” This was all true, but it was not the entire truth.
    I sat in my creaking chair, alone in the world, turning pages to feed on those wonders. Yes, there was gloom there, pain and desperation. But I was once again shocked by the colors, the forms, the beauty he had seen and I had not. There was something indomitable there, something triumphant.
    It was after midnight before I closed the book, switched off the light, locked the door, went into my bedroom. Even in bed, my lids resolutely shut, I saw an explosion of color, pinwheels, great rockets and fireworks, all created by that long-stopped em whose eyes stared at me so intently from the self-portraits.
    I awoke at 0900 to the roar of the copter ascending: Chester K. Flair commuting to his office and factory near Mt. Clemens. The copter thrummed away, the noise faded. Then I heard gasping caws of delight: water birds over Lake St. Clair. I went to the south window but could not see them in the fog. But I heard their cries.
    The break in my daily routine was welcome. I pulled on old slacks, a heavy turtleneck sweater, worn moccasins. In the kitchen, with Miss Catherine bustling about, trying to force a “good, hot, solid breakfast” on me, I had only a glass of orange concentrate in cold Smack and a cup of something called coftea. It tasted like neither. To please Miss Catherine, I ate one slice of toast. Most of it anyway. Every year our bread became fouler and more nutritious.
    Then I wandered out onto the grounds. The fog was lifting from the lake. I could still hear the birds. I went down to the shore. I found a flat stone and tried to skip it over the surface of the water, but it sank instantly. I picked up another stone, almost