Master of the Game (26 page)

They went to Les Halles in the small hours of the morning and had onion soup at Pied de Cochon. They went to the Musée Carnavalet and out-of-the-way places where tourists did not go,
like Cimetière Père-Lachaise—the final resting place of Oscar Wilde, Frédéric Chopin, Honoré de Balzac and Marcel Proust. They visited the catacombs and spent a lazy holiday week going down the Seine on a barge owned by a friend of Dominique’s.

Dominique was a delight to be with. She had a quixotic sense of humor, and whenever Tony was depressed, she would laugh him out of it. She seemed to know everyone in Paris, and she took Tony to interesting parties where he met some of the most prominent figures of the day, like the poet Paul Éluard, and André Breton, in charge of the prestigious Galerie Maeght.

Dominique was a source of constant encouragement. “You are going to be better than all of them,
chéri
. Believe me. I know.”

If Tony was in the mood to paint at night, Dominique would cheerfully pose for him, even though she had been working all day.
God, I’m lucky
, Tony thought. This was the first time he had been sure someone loved him for what he was, not who he was, and it was a feeling he cherished. Tony was afraid to tell Dominique he was the heir to one of the world’s largest fortunes, afraid she would change, afraid they would lose what they had. But for her birthday Tony could not resist buying her a Russian lynx coat.

“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life!” Dominique swirled the coat around her and danced around the room. She stopped in the middle of a spin. “Where did it come from? Tony, where did you get the money to buy this coat?”

He was ready for her. “It’s hot—stolen. I bought it from a little man outside the Rodin Museum. He was anxious to get rid of it. It didn’t cost me much more than a good cloth coat would cost at Au Printemps.”

Dominique stared at him a moment, then burst out laughing. “I’ll wear it even if we both go to prison!”

Then she threw her arms around Tony and started to cry. “Oh, Tony, you idiot. You darling, fantastic idiot.”

It was well worth the lie, Tony decided.

One night Dominique suggested to Tony that he move in with her. Between working at the école des Beaux-Arts and modeling
for some of the better-known artists in Paris, Dominique was able to rent a large, modern apartment on Rue Prêtres-Saint Severin. “You should not be living in a place like this, Tony. It is dreadful. Live with me, and you will not have to pay any rent. I can do your laundry, cook for you and—”

“No, Dominique. Thank you.”

“But why?”

How could he explain?
In the beginning he might have told her he was rich, but now it was too late. She would feel he had been making a fool of her. So he said, “It would be like living off you. You’ve already given me too much.”

“Then I’m giving up my apartment and moving in here. I want to be with you.”

She moved in the following day.

There was a wonderful, easy intimacy between them. They spent weekends in the country and stopped at little hostels where Tony would set up his easel and paint landscapes, and when they got hungry Dominique would spread out a picnic lunch she had prepared and they would eat in a meadow. Afterward, they made long, sweet love. Tony had never been so completely happy.

His work was progressing beautifully. One morning Maître Cantal held up one of Tony’s paintings and said to the class, “Look at that body. You can see it
breathing.”

Tony could hardly wait to tell Dominique that night. “You know how I got the breathing just right? I hold the model in my arms every night.”

Dominique laughed in excitement and then grew serious. “Tony, I do not think you need three more years of school. You are ready now. Everyone at the school sees that, even Cantal.”

Tony’s fear was that he was not good enough, that he was just another painter, that his work would be lost in the flood of pictures turned out by thousands of artists all over the world every day. He could not bear the thought of it.
Winning is what’s important, Tony. Remember that
.

Sometimes when Tony finished a painting he would be filled with a sense of elation and think,
I have talent. I really have talent
.
At other times he would look at his work and think,
I’m a bloody amateur
.

With Dominique’s encouragement, Tony was gaining more and more confidence in his work. He had finished almost two dozen paintings on his own. Landscapes, still lifes. There was a painting of Dominique lying nude under a tree, the sun dappling her body. A man’s jacket and shirt were in the foreground, and the viewer knew the woman awaited her lover.

When Dominique saw the painting, she cried, “You must have an exhibition!”

“You’re mad, Dominique! I’m not ready.”

“You’re wrong,
mon cher.”

Tony arrived home late the next afternoon to find that Dominique was not alone. Anton Goerg, a thin man with an enormous potbelly and protuberant hazel eyes, was with her. He was the owner and proprietor of the Goerg Gallery, a modest gallery on the Rue Dauphine. Tony’s paintings were spread around the room.

“What’s going on?” Tony asked.

“What’s going on, monsieur,” Anton Goerg exclaimed, “is that I think your work is brilliant.” He clapped Tony on the back. “I would be honored to give you a showing in my gallery.”

Tony looked over at Dominique, and she was beaming at him.

“I—I don’t know what to say.”

“You have already said it,” Goerg replied. “On these canvases.”

Tony and Dominique stayed up half the night discussing it.

“I don’t feel I’m ready. The critics will crucify me.”

“You’re wrong,
chéri
. This is perfect for you. It is a small gallery. Only the local people will come and judge you. There is no way you can get hurt. Monsieur Goerg would never offer to give you an exhibition if he did not believe in you. He agrees with me that you are going to be a very important artist.”

“All right,” Tony finally said. “Who knows? I might even sell a painting.”

The cable read:
ARRIVING PARIS SATURDAY. PLEASE JOIN ME FOR DINNER. LOVE, MOTHER
.

Tony’s first thought as he watched his mother walk into the studio was,
What a handsome woman she is
. She was in her mid-fifties, hair untinted, with white strands laced through the black. There was a charged vitality about her. Tony had once asked her why she had not remarried. She had answered quietly, “Only two men were ever important in my life. Your father and you.”

Now, standing in the little apartment in Paris, facing his mother, Tony said, “It’s g-good to see you, M-mother.”

“Tony, you look absolutely wonderful! The beard is new.” She laughed and ran her fingers through it. “You look like a young Abe Lincoln.” Her eyes swept the small apartment. “Thank God, you’ve gotten a good cleaning woman. It looks like a different place.”

Kate walked over to the easel, where Tony had been working on a painting, and she stopped and stared at it for a long time. He stood there, nervously awaiting his mother’s reaction.

When Kate spoke, her voice was very soft. “It’s brilliant, Tony. Really brilliant.” There was no effort to conceal the pride she felt. She could not be deceived about art, and there was a fierce exultation in her that her son was so talented.

She turned to face him. “Let me see more!”

They spent the next two hours going through his stack of paintings. Kate discussed each one in great detail. There was no condescension in her voice. She had failed in her attempt to control his life, and Tony admired her for taking her defeat so gracefully.

Kate said, “I’ll arrange for a showing. I know a few dealers who—”

“Thanks, M-mother, but you d-don’t have to. I’m having a showing next F-friday. A g-gallery is giving me an exhibition.”

Kate threw her arms around Tony. “That’s wonderful! Which gallery?”

“The G-goerg Gallery.”

“I don’t believe I know it.”

“It’s s-small, but I’m not ready for Hammer or W-wildenstein yet.”

She pointed to the painting of Dominique under the tree. “You’re wrong, Tony. I think this—”

There was the sound of the front door opening. “I’m horny,
chéri
. Take off your—” Dominique saw Kate. “Oh,
merde!
I’m sorry. I—I didn’t know you had company, Tony.”

There was a moment of frozen silence.

“Dominique, this is my m-mother. M-mother, may I present D-dominique Masson.”

The two women stood there, studying each other.

“How do you do, Mrs. Blackwell.”

Kate said, “I’ve been admiring my son’s portrait of you.” The rest was left unspoken.

There was another awkward silence.

“Did Tony tell you he’s going to have an exhibition, Mrs. Blackwell?”

“Yes, he did. It’s wonderful news.”

“Can you s-stay for it, Mother?”

“I’d give anything to be able to be there, but I have a board meeting the day after tomorrow in Johannesburg and there’s no way I can miss it. I wish I’d known about it sooner, I’d have rearranged my schedule.”

“It’s all r-right,” Tony said. “I understand.” Tony was nervous that his mother might say more about the company in front of Dominique, but Kate’s mind was on the paintings.

“It’s important for the right people to see your exhibition.”

“Who are the right people, Mrs. Blackwell?”

Kate turned to Dominique. “Opinion-makers, critics. Someone like Andre d’Usseau—he should be there.”

Andre d’Usseau was the most respected art critic in France. He was a ferocious lion guarding the temple of art, and a single review from him could make or break an artist overnight. D’Usseau was invited to the opening of every exhibition, but he attended only the major ones. Gallery owners and artists trembled,
waiting for his reviews to appear. He was a master of the
bon mot
, and his quips flew around Paris on poisoned wings. Andre d’Usseau was the most hated man in Parisian art circles, and the most respected. His mordant wit and savage criticism were tolerated because of his expertise.

Tony turned to Dominique. “That’s a m-mother for you.” Then to Kate, “Andre d’Usseau doesn’t g-go to little galleries.”

“Oh, Tony, he
must
come. He can make you famous overnight.”

“Or b-break me.”

“Don’t you believe in yourself?” Kate was watching her son.

“Of course he does,” Dominique said. “But we couldn’t dare hope that Monsieur d’Usseau would come.”

“I could probably find some friends who know him.”

Dominique’s face lighted up. “That would be fantastic!” She turned to Tony.
“Chéri
, do you know what it would mean if he came to your opening?”

“Oblivion?”

“Be serious. I know his taste, Tony. I know what he likes. He will adore your paintings.”

Kate said, “I won’t try to arrange for him to come unless you want me to, Tony.”

“Of course he wants it, Mrs. Blackwell.”

Tony took a deep breath. “I’m s-scared, but what the hell! L-let’s try.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Kate looked at the painting on the easel for a long, long time, then turned back to Tony. There was a sadness in her eyes. “Son, I must leave Paris tomorrow. Can we have dinner tonight?”

Tony replied, “Yes, of course, Mother.
We’re
f-free.”

Kate turned to Dominique and said graciously, “Would you like to have dinner at Maxim’s or—”

Tony said quickly, “Dominique and I know a w-wonderful little café not f-far from here.”

They went to a bistro at the Place Victoire. The food was good and the wine was excellent. The two women seemed to get along well, and Tony was terribly proud of both of them.
It’s one of the
best nights of my life
, he thought.
I’m with my mother and the woman I’m going to marry
.

The next morning Kate telephoned from the airport. “I’ve made a half a dozen phone calls,” she told Tony. “No one could give me a definite answer about Andre d’Usseau. But whichever way it goes, darling, I’m proud of you. The paintings are wonderful. Tony, I love you.”

“I l-love you, too, M-mother.”

The Goerg Gallery was just large enough to escape being called
intime
. Two dozen of Tony’s paintings were being hung on the walls in frantic, last-minute preparation for the opening. On a marble sideboard were slabs of cheese and biscuits and bottles of Chablis. The gallery was empty except for Anton Goerg, Tony, Dominique and a young female assistant who was hanging the last of the paintings.

Anton Goerg looked at his watch. “The invitations said ‘seven o’clock.’ People should start to arrive at any moment now.”

Tony had not expected to be nervous.
And I’m not nervous
, he told himself.
I’m panicky!

“What if no one shows up?” he asked. “I mean, what if not one single, bloody person shows up?”

Dominique smiled and stroked his cheek. “Then we’ll have all this cheese and wine for ourselves.”

People began to arrive. Slowly at first, and then in larger numbers. Monsieur Goerg was at the door, effusively greeting them.
They don’t look like art buyers to me
, Tony thought grimly. His discerning eye divided them into three categories: There were the artists and art students who attended each exhibition to evaluate the competition; the art dealers who came to every exhibition so they could spread derogatory news about aspiring painters; and the
arty
crowd, consisting to a large extent of homosexuals and lesbians who seemed to spend their lives around the fringes of the art world.
I’m not going to sell a single, goddamned picture
, Tony decided.

Monsieur Goerg was beckoning to Tony from across the room.

“I don’t think I want to meet any of these people,” Tony whispered to Dominique. “They’re here to rip me apart.”

“Nonsense. They came here to meet you. Now be charming, Tony.”

And so, he was charming. He met everybody, smiled a lot and uttered all the appropriate phrases in response to the compliments that were paid him.
But were they really compliments?
Tony wondered. Over the years a vocabulary had developed in art circles to cover exhibitions of unknown painters. Phrases that said everything and nothing.