Shadows in Paradise

by Erich Maria Remarque

  "Then you still have something to look forward to," she said. She walked quickly, taking such long steps that her skirt seemed too tight. It occurred to me that this was the first time I had walked with a woman in America.

  She was welcomed like a long-lost child. There were half a dozen people in an enormous bare room lit by spotlights. First the photographer, then two other men, hugged and kissed her. I was introduced, vodka, whisky, and cigarettes were passed around, and a moment later I found myself in an armchair off to one side, forgotten.

  I didn't mind, because the scene that unfolded was quite new to me- Cartons were unpacked, and their contents— coats and dresses—carried behind a curtain. There were two other models besides Natasha Petrovna: a blonde and a beautiful brunette in high-heeled silver shoes. An argument arose. What should be photographed first?

  "First the coats," said a woman who seemed to be the boss.

  "No. First the evening dresses," said the photographer, a slight, sandy-haired man with a gold chain on his wrist. "Otherwise they'll get rumpled."

  "They don't have to wear them under the coats. The coats have to go back first Especially the furs. The shop is waiting for them."

  "Okay. First the fur cape."

  More argument about angles and lighting. I listened without trying to understand. There was something theatrical about the general gaiety and animation. Each speaker was so intense about making a point that seemed to have no bearing on reality. I was reminded by turns of Midsummer Night's Dream, Rosenkavalier, and one of Nestroy's farces. At any moment I expected a flourish of trumpets announcing the entrance of Oberon, or at least of Casanova or Count Saint-Germain.

  Suddenly the spotlights converged on a white screen, beside which a vase of artificial delphiniums had been placed. The model with the silver shoes appeared in a beige fur cape. The supervisor smoothed out the cape and gave it a little tug here and there; two other spotlights flared into life, and the model froze into immobility.

  "Fine!" said Nicky. "Once more, darling."

  I leaned back. I was glad I'd come. Nothing better could have happened to me. "And now Natasha," somebody said. "The broadtail coat."

  And there she stood, slender and supple in a glossy, tight-fitting coat with a kind of beret to match.

  "Perfect!" Nicky cried. "Hold it!"

  The supervisor wanted to change something, but he shooed her away. "Later. Well take some more. But first like this, casual, imposed."

  The spotlights groped for the little face. Her eyes glittered like bright-blue stars in the glare. "Hold it," said Nicky.

  Natasha didn't freeze like the other model. She had no need to; it was as though she had been immobile all along. "Good," said Nicky. "And now with the coat open."

  She spread her arms, allowing the coat to open like the wings of a butterfly. The garment, which had looked so narrow before, was in reality very wide, lined with white-and-gray-checked silk. "That's itl" cried Nicky. "Like an emperor moth. Hold it!"

  "How do you like it here?" asked someone beside me.

  It was a pale young man with black hair and round, strangely brilliant black eyes. "It's marvelous," I answered in all sincerity.

  "Of course we're not getting things from Balenciaga and the great French houses. The war, you know," he said with a deep sigh. "But Mainbocher and Valentina aren't so bad, are they?"

  "Certainly not," I said, without the faintest idea what he was talking about.

  "Oh well, let's hope it'll be over soon, so we can get the best again. . . ."

  Someone called him away. His reason for being against the war didn't strike me as absurd; for the moment at least, I could think of no better reason.

  Then it was time for the evening dresses. Natasha stood before me in a long white gown, dazzling in its simplicity. "Are you terribly bored," she asked.

  "Not at all." And then I stared at her in amazement. "Happiness must be giving me hallucinations," I said. "That tiara you're wearing—I could swear I saw it this afternoon in Van Cleef and Arpels' window."

  Natasha laughed. "You have very good eyes."

  "Is it really the same one?"

  "Yes. The magazines we're working for borrowed it. Did you think I'd bought it?"

  "How would I know? Anything seems possible tonight. After all those beautiful things,"

  "What did you like best?"

  "It's hard to say. Maybe the black velvet cape. That might have been Balenciaga."

  She looked me straight in the eye. "It is Balenciaga. Are you a spy?"

  "A spy? Nobody's ever taken me for a spy. For what country?"

  "For one of our competitors. Are you in the trade? How else would you know it was Balenciaga?"

  "Natasha Petrovna," I said solemnly, "I swear to you that I never heard the name of Balenciaga until ten minutes ago. Before that I'd have thought it was a make of car. I heard it from that gentleman over there. Actually, he said Balenciaga models were unobtainable these days. I was joking."

  "Well, you hit it on the nose. The cape really is Balenciaga. Smuggled over in a bomber. A Flying Fortress."

  "I can think of no better use for a bomber."

  "Well, then you're not a spy. I'm almost sorry to hear it But it seems we've got to be very careful. They stop at nothing."

  Someone was calling her. "We're all going to El Morocco afterward. It's the custom. Would you like to come?"

  She was gone without waiting for an answer. Of course I couldn't go. I couldn't afford it I'd have to tell her that. An unpleasant task, but there was no hurry. For the moment I refused to think of the next day or even the next hour. The brunette, who had been photographed in a long bottle-green coat, threw it off to put on another. She had no dress underneath, only the strictest minimum of underthings. No one seemed interested. All in the day's work, I supposed. Besides, half the men were queer. She was very beautiful; she had the slow-moving negligent assurance of a woman who knows the cards are stacked in her favor and doesn't make much of it Natasha, when I saw her in between dresses, was white and long and slender, her skin like pearls in the moonlight. The brunette was more my type, I reflected, but only for the barest moment. That night I was too happy for comparisons or desires. I hardly knew these girls, yet I was aware of a strange and delightful feeling of intimacy with them, perhaps from seeing them dressed in so many different ways.

  When the cartons were all packed, I told Natasha that I couldn't go to El Morocco with them, "Why not?" she asked.

  "I can't afford it."

  "You dope!" she said, with her husky laugh. "We're all invited. Did you think I'd let you spend all that money?"

  I felt like a bit of a gigolo, but her way of including me in the invitation gave me a pleasant sense of complicity. I tagged right along, overwhelmed with gratitude at the way this day was ending. At El Morocco a Viennese was singing German songs. There were quite a few Army officers in the room, and they didn't seem to mind. But by that time nothing could surprise me. I only knew that in Germany this would not have been possible. I fingered the fifty dollars in my pocket, prepared to part with my whole fortune if anyone had asked for it. But of course no one did. This is peace, I thought, the peace I have never known, the carefree life I could never have. I felt no envy. It was enough for me that such things still existed. These strangers I was with were friendlier and seemed closer to me than a good many others whom I knew well. I was sitting next to a beautiful woman whose borrowed tiara glittered in the candlelight. Here I was, a petty parasite drinking other people's champagne, and it seemed to me that for one evening I had borrowed another life, which I would have to give back the next day.

  VII

  "It won't be hard to find you a job in an art gallery," said Lowy Senior. "You're lucky there's a war on. Everybody's shorthanded."

  "I'm beginning to feel like a war profiteer," I said ruefully. "People keep telling me I'd be sunk without the war."

  "Well, isn't it the truth?" Lowy scratched his scalp with the sword of a spurious fi
gurine of St. Michael. "You wouldn't even be here if it weren't for the war."

  "That's a fact. But if it weren't for the war, the Germans wouldn't be in France."

  "Wouldn't you rather be here than in France?"

  "That, Mr. Lowy, is a pointless question. In both countries I feel like a parasite."

  Lowy beamed. "Funny your saying that! You see, I've decided to introduce you to a certain parasite."

  I laughed. "Birds of a feather, you mean."

  "Not exactly," he said. "Let me explain. With your status, you can't get a regular job in a gallery. You can only be employed on the q.t., the way you've been here. I've just been talking with a man who might be able to use you. Now he's a real parasite. A rich parasite. An art dealer."

  "Does he sell phony paintings?"

  "God forbid!" Lowy put down the spurious St Michael and seated himself in a much-repaired Savonarola chair, the upper part of which was authentic. I could see he was warming up for a lecture. "An art dealer," he began, "is by definition a crook. The money he makes is the money some artist should have made. With antiques' it's not so bad. With modern art it's a different story. Take Van Gogh. He never sold a picture and he never had enough to eat; today the dealers make millions on his works. The artist goes hungry; the dealer buys castles."

  "In other words," I said, "art dealers are parasites."

  "No," he said. "Not «exactly. It's a question of degree. Take thé gallery owners. Of course they're exploiters, but at least they do something for their artists—the living ones, that is. They give them exhibitions, they support unknown artists in the hope that something will come of it, they take risks. I don't say they do it out of kindness of heart; their motives are a mixture of business and snobbery. They're not artists themselves, but they like to feel that they belong to the art world. The fact remains, though, that they do something for the artist—so they're not complete parasites."

  He paused for effect and thrust a cigar into his mouth without removing the band. "The real gilt-edged parasites," he went on, "are the dealers who have no shops or galleries. With no risk or expense to themselves, they cash in on the interest aroused by the galleries. They operate in their own apartments. Their only expense is a secretary. They even deduct their apartment rent from their tax declarations—on the grounds that it's their place of business. And the life they lead! You've been around here long enough to know what a headache it is to run a shop. And the worst of it is that we've got to be here from morning to night. Now take a look at the parasite's day. He sleeps until ten or eleven and then he dictates a couple of letters. The rest of the time he waits for customers like a spider waiting for flies."

  "Don't you wait for customers?"

  "Not in luxurious idleness like a spider. We have to work."

  "Then why don't you turn parasite, Mr. Lowy?"

  He looked at me with a frown. I saw I had put my foot in it "For ethical reasons?" I asked.

  "Worse," he said. "For financial reasons. You need money to be an art parasite. And good merchandise. A-l merchandise."

  "Does the parasite sell cheaper?"

  Lowy stubbed out his cigar in a Renaissance mortar, but a moment later picked it up again and relit it. "No!" he bellowed. "That's what you might think, because he has no overhead. Actually, he gets higher prices. The rich fools fall for his game; they think they're getting a bargain. Hard-headed businessmen fall for it. They think it's classy to buy from a 'private collector.' Tell one of these fresh-baked millionaires to buy a Renoir, and hell laugh at you. He'll think it's a bicycle. But tell him a Renoir will improve his social standing, and he'll take half a dozen!"

  I listened with keen interest. Now and then Lowy gave. me these free lectures on the realities of life, usually in the slack hours after lunch.

  "Do you know why I'm giving you this course in the higher art trade?" he asked.

  "To prepare me for a business career, I suppose."

  "In a way," he said. "You see, I've mentioned you to one of those parasites. He can use an assistant who knows something about pictures. A fellow like you who doesn't talk too much. I've arranged for you to see him at five-thirty today. Okay?"

  "Thanks a lot," I said. "I'm really grateful."

  "You won't be making much at first, but as my father used to say, it's the prospects. Here ..." He made a sweeping gesture, taking in the whole shop. "Here you haven't got any prospects."

  "I'm thankful for the time I've spent here. And I'm thankful to you for helping me now. What makes you want to help me?"

  Lowy smiled. "It is funny," he said. "Because we're not exactly philanthropists. I suppose it's because you seem so helpless."

  "What!" I wasn't too pleased.

  "Yes, that's what it must be. You don't look helpless. But somehow you make a helpless impression. My brother noticed it first. He said you must be lucky with women."

  The parasite's name was Silvers. He lived in a private house with no name plate on the door. I had expected some sort of two-legged barracuda; Instead, I saw a slender, exceedingly well-dressed man, who seemed gentle to the point of timidity. He poured me a drink and questioned me tactfully. Then he brought two drawings from another room and set them on an easel. "Which do you prefer?"

  I pointed to the one on the right. "Why?" Silvers asked.

  "Must I have a reason?"

  "It would interest me. Do you know whom they're by?"

  "Degas," I said. "Anyone can see that."

  "A lot of people wouldn't," said Silvers, with à strangely diffident smile. "Some of my customers, for instance."

  "Then why would they buy them?"

  "Because it's high class to have a Degas in your living room."

  I remembered Lowy Senior's lecture. He seemed to know what was what.

  "Pictures," said Silvers, "are refugees like yourself. You refugees often end up in strange places. Whether you're happy about it is another question."

  He left the room and came back with two water colors. "Can you identify these?" he asked.

  "Cézanne water colors," I said.

  Silvers was surprised. "Can you tell me which one is better?"

  "All Cézanne water colors are good," I said. "The one on the left is probably the more expensive."

  "Why? Because it's bigger?"

  "No. Because it's from bis late period, and the style is almost Cubist. It's a very beautiful landscape. Mont Sainte-Victoire in Provence. There's one like it in the Brussels Museum."

  Silvers' face had changed. Suddenly he was on his guard. He stood up. "Where have you been working?" he asked.

  I remembered the Balenciaga incident with Natasha. "I haven't been working anywhere," I said calmly. "I don't know any of your competitors and I'm not a spy. I was in the Brussels Museum for a while."

  "When?"

  "During the German occupation. I was hidden there. And that's where I learned what little I know."

  Silvers sat down again. "We can't be too careful in this business," he muttered.

  "Why?" I asked.

  Silvers hesitated for a moment. "Pictures," he said then, "are like living creatures. Like women. If they've been exposed to too many eyes, they lose their magic. And their value."

  "But that's what they're made for."

  "Maybe. I'm not so sure. It's important for a dealer that they shouldn't be too well known."

  "That's odd. I'd think that would raise the price."

  "Not always. Far from it. Pictures that have been shown too. much are 'burned out,' as we say in the trade. Pictures that have always belonged to the same private owner and that next to no one has seen are known as 'virgins.' They bring higher prices. Not because they're better, but because the connoisseur and collector feels that he's made a discovery."

  "And he's willing to pay for it?"

  Silvers nodded. "Unfortunately, there are ten times as many collectors as connoisseurs today. It takes time, patience, and love to become a connoisseur."

  I listened to him. The room, with it
s gray velvet hangings, seemed to have captured the silence of a peaceful past "Do you know this one?"

  "Monet. One of his poppy fields."

  "Do you like it?"

  "It's magnificent. What peace! And that sun! The sun of France."

  Silvers cast a quick look in my direction. "I often sit here in the morning with my pictures," he said. "Alone. But with paintings one is never alone. One can talk with them. Or, rather, listen to them."

  I wasn't entirely convinced. His little speech sounded a bit too glib, rather like a come-on for his customers. And why should he be saying this to me? I had come here only to see about a temporary job. But since I was sentimental about peace and anything that could induce a feeling of peace, I banished the thought that Silvers' mornings might be devoted more to reckoning up his profits than to "listening" to his beautiful paintings.