“Oh my …” Anne muttered.
Dangling from the roof and running along the walls were plants, vines, and flowers blossoming among the easels, the paint containers, the brushes. Taking a few steps forward, Anne spotted many paintings that didn’t correspond to the slides sent to Amanda. The setting for all of them was this very studio. They were at once dazzling and disturbing. It was as though Phil had tried to combine the Garden of Eden with a dark prison.
“It’s wonderful,” Anne said. “I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
Silent, she kept on walking and saw a few smaller paintings, one of a man among wildflowers and plants. Were those self-portraits? If so, Phil’s representation of himself revealed an intense feeling of loneliness. It was as though this man didn’t know whether he was despairing among this wild and lush flora or finding salvation. A bit further on, she noticed pastels of Lizzie’s naked and full body.
“So this studio is going to be the theme of your next show?” Anne asked.
“My first show,” Phil said.
Anne looked surprised, and Phil added, “I’ve never exhibited my work before. Alexis is one of the rare people who’ve set foot in here. He talked to me about you often and said you might be interested. I finally agreed not for myself, but for my wife!”
As they all chatted, Anne learned that Alexis and Phil had met in a record store. After talking about the latest Santana album, they had gone for drinks in a bar nearby. Since then, Alexis visited the couple almost every weekend. As she was listening to all this, Anne wondered why Alexis’s wife wasn’t mentioned.
When she and Lizzie wound up alone in the kitchen, Anne asked, “Have you met Geneviève?”
“Not yet.”
They started the grill and continued chatting. The strong smell of vegetation all around made Anne slightly dizzy. She noticed that Alexis had set his chair right next to hers. He and Phil were kidding around, and even though she didn’t understand everything they were saying, she laughed along with them. Many times, she felt his eyes on her. She believed that Alexis found her attractive, and though that made her feel good, it wasn’t enough. California was filled with attractive women. …
20
The following day, as she and Alexis took a stroll around the giant sequoias of Muir Woods, Anne commented on Phil’s work for the first time.
“I loved his paintings. The colors he produces, the tragic atmosphere he creates. It’s the work of a tormented soul. I just don’t want to make empty promises to him. I sent Amanda a telegram this morning with my first impressions. She trusts my tastes, but I’m afraid she might change her mind.”
“Because of transportation problems?”
“For starters. The paintings are larger than I thought. And then there are customs fees, insurance …”
“And the fact that he’s an unknown artist doesn’t help. …”
“It’s an added risk.”
“I shouldn’t have told you about him. I’m sorry you came all the way out here for …”
“No, I’m glad I came!”
Conscious that her excitement might have betrayed her feelings, she asked, “What do you know about Phil?”
“Only what he chooses to tell me. At a very young age, his father left Latvia for America. He worked as a longshoreman in New York, where he met a woman who was a cleaning lady. Phil was born soon after that.”
As he spoke about his friend, Alexis remembered stories he was told one evening in a pub when the painter had had more to drink than usual, making him less reserved than he ever had been. As soon as he was born, Phil had been considered unwanted. He was barely four when his mother left with another man. He hadn’t heard from her since.
“Since his father didn’t want to raise a child by himself, Phil grew up in a foster home. At seventeen, he had only one thing on his mind: to get as far away as possible. Only the merchant marine didn’t want him. Too skinny, no experience. But he didn’t give up, and finally he was hired—for a ridiculously low salary—on a cargo ship that sailed to West Africa and South America. For years, he traveled the world on that ship. Nobody ever believed him when he said that there was no one waiting or worrying for him, and that all he owned in the world was under his cot.
“What made him quit?”
“Meeting Lizzy! Talk about a romantic story …”
“Tell me about it.”
Alexis seemed amused by Anne’s curiosity.
“During a layover in Los Angeles,” he said, “Phil was walking around town when he saw a man stealing some woman’s purse just a few feet ahead of him. And he began running after the thief, even though the guy was huge! Phil caught up to him at an intersection. The guy started to cross the street against a red light, and he got hit by a car. Broken neck, fractured knee, multiple contusions. Lizzie had followed them. And when she got to the scene of the accident, Phil picked up her purse and handed it to her. Then they waited for the police to arrive. …
“After giving her deposition to the cops, Lizzie offered her hero a cup of coffee. Even though it was early, Phil said he’d rather have a whiskey. That same night, his ship was sailing for Honolulu. When Lizzie gave him her business card, he put it in his pocket thinking he’d never give her a call. But when he wound up back in Los Angeles eighteen months later, he phoned her, at a time when she was breaking up with her boyfriend …
“At first, the two didn’t seem to have much in common. Phil had never been in a serious relationship, and Lizzie was coming out of a bad one of her own. What she wanted now was a change of scenery. A company up in San Francisco was launching a new, hip brand of clothing, and Lizzie sent in her résumé.”
“And she got a job,” Anne said.
“Yes. In charge of inventory control. At the same time, her relationship with Phil was becoming more and more important to her. To the point where she’d meet up with him in whatever American port his ship dropped anchor. When he showed her his drawings and watercolors, she encouraged him to start painting. It was the signal he’d been waiting for to put an end to his life as a sailor. …”
Heading for the Sonoma Valley, they passed a group of bikers. Straddling their Harleys, the men projected an image of rebellion and freedom. Alexis turned on the radio, and soon Barbra Streisand’s voice filled the car.
“Oh, my man, I love him so, he’ll never know,” she sang.
A roadside sign indicated that the town of Sonoma was six miles away. Lined by vineyards, the road was overflowing with people enjoying a Sunday afternoon drive. After parking the car downtown, Anne and Alexis walked to Main Street, which housed wine shops, boutiques, and restaurants. Barrels resting on the sidewalk in front of Spanish-style houses indicated wine-tasting locations. Alexis showed Anne to a room with whitewashed walls and large hardwood beams that reminded her of the decor of some Mexican movie. Sitting around rough wooden tables, customers were offered different types of wines to sample.
“What do you prefer?” Alexis asked after they found seats. “Red or white?”
“Let’s stick to white,” Anne said. “Like at your friends’ house last night.”
As they waited to be served, Alexis said, “There are two main varieties in this region. Chardonnay for white wine, and zinfandel for red.”
“How long ago did they start making wine in California?” Anne asked.
“Around 1830. Italian, German, and French immigrants began to plant vineyards back then. If Prohibition hadn’t nearly put an end to wine production, it would’ve grown much faster. It’s only been since the end of World War Two that things really picked up. And now there’s a great demand for affordable wines by Americans.”
Raising the glass that a waiter had just poured him, Alexis said, “To us! “To us!” Anne echoed.
The sun was beginning to set when they stopped for one last tasting at a wine shop with a ceiling covered
with garlands of dried peppers.
Before bringing her glass to her lips, Anne said, “I remember when I was a little girl, I couldn’t understand how adults could enjoy drinking this stuff!”
“My father introduced me to the characteristics of wines from the Jura and Savoy regions. I didn’t drink it, but he told me a great deal about their origins and the different types. One day, he told me he would’ve loved to be a wine grower.”
“Instead of a bookseller? I thought he enjoyed doing that.”
“You remember him?” Alexis said.
With a few words, Anne showed him that she hadn’t forgotten about the shy man who waved back at her when she walked by the bookstore.
“I didn’t have any money to buy anything, but I looked in the window. There were always great-looking books.”
“He did like his work. I’ve often wondered what happened to all the books he left behind. …”
“The shop closed down just before the Liberation,” Anne said. “Your mother never tried to learn who bought the building?”
“After her husband’s death, she didn’t want to go back to the past. She wasn’t doing well at all for a long time.”
“She’s still living in France?”
“Yes. Still in Lyon. Her job as a dresser keeps her busy, and she gets to interact with interesting people at the theater. But she’s getting older! I’ve asked her many times to come visit us, but she won’t fly.”
On their way back, they drove with the windows rolled down. Her hair dancing in the wind, Anne was on a bit of a high—the effects of alcohol combined with the sensation of getting closer to Alexis.
“Cigarette?” Alexis asked, handing her a pack of Philip Morris.
As they reached the Golden Gate Bridge, Anne was quiet, enjoying the ride. After driving in the country for a while, they went through a series of upscale towns whose main roads were lit up with signs.
“Are you cold?” Alexis asked as they were about to cross the bay.
“A bit, but the fresh air is doing me some good.”
“We didn’t have that much to drink.”
“I did!”
As they neared Anne’s hotel, Alexis said, “I’m teaching all day tomorrow. What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to visit a bunch of galleries.”
“As soon as I’m done, I’ll come pick you up.”
“Alexis … I hope you don’t feel like you have to keep me company.”
“Don’t be silly. …”
Anne woke with a nasty headache. She took a couple of aspirins and, feeling sluggish, got ready to go. She had jotted in her notebook the address of several art galleries she wanted to see in town. The first one was unfortunately closed because of renovations. The second was displaying paintings she didn’t care for. Things got better when she saw some of Roy Lichtenstein’s work in the window of the third gallery. Ever since she had discovered the pop artist, Anne had taken a keen interest in his paintings, his comic-strip approach. She loved his women, tormented vamps in melodramatic, dime-novel environments.
The gallery owner, an extremely well-dressed man, came up to Anne as soon as she stepped inside his shop.
“You’re French?” he asked before Anne had time to utter a single word.
“How did you know?” she asked.
“Your elegance. Your clothing …”
“Thank you.”
Admittedly, her Monsoon Sahara dress was very stylish! Especially since Anne had added a Hermès belt as an accessory.
“You’re visiting San Francisco?”
“That’s right?”
“For business or pleasure?”
“Both!”
Anne told him that she also worked in an art gallery in Paris.
“I was there last April!” the man said.
Two hours later, they were still chatting. Benjamin Baxter was extremely well versed in contemporary art. When learning that Anne had traveled so far to look at the paintings of an unknown, he looked at her as though she had lost her mind.
“And you weren’t disappointed?”
“Not at all.”
“May I ask you where this artist is hiding?”
“In Sausalito.”
Realizing that she wouldn’t say more than that, Benjamin Baxter changed the subject. For a while now, he had been interested in the work of a few hyperrealist painters.
“It’s a trend that won’t last very long,” he said, “but it’s good business these days.”
After a moment of silence, he said, “I paid a lot of money for this gallery.”
“It’s in a great location.”
“Yes. That’s why I moved here. I used to live in New York. …”
Back in the streets of San Francisco, Anne decided to do what she had refrained from doing since she first arrived. A cable car took her to the part of town where Alexis and his family lived: in North Beach, right next to Little Italy. She stepped out of the cable car and headed toward the street whose name she’d seen many times on envelopes. She stood in front of number 46, a nondescript apartment building. On which floor did he live? She had forgotten to ask him. Feeling like some kind of voyeur, she remained there for a while, in front of the house he had chosen to inhabit with the woman who bore his name. Geneviève Messager. Did his wife know that he had found a childhood friend? Did he talk to her about it? If not, was it just a simple omission? Or was he being deliberately secretive? Pensive, Anne walked away from the building. It was now rush hour, and so the cable cars were crammed. She had a hard time getting into one that would take her back to her hotel. In Union Square, the crowd was dense with shoppers coming out of Macy’s—their arms filled with bags—street vendors, loud teenagers. The papers in the newsstands all talked about the same thing. Tomorrow, July 16, 1969, Apollo 11 was to leave Cape Canaveral. Its destination: the moon. Men were preparing to land on the celestial body that had fascinated humans since the beginning of time, and to walk on its surface. The possibility of this amazing feat had been in the news for weeks. If they succeeded, it would be a huge victory for America over the Russians in the space race. The first moon walk was planned for July 20, which meant that Anne would still be in San Francisco. Would Alexis ask her to watch it on TV with him?
As Anne was picking up the key to her room, the front desk clerk handed her a note. Her husband had called late afternoon. He had gone down to Cormery to spend some time with the girls over the July 14 break. Everything was fine. …
The room was dark when Anne woke up. She was confused for a couple of seconds, and then she turned on her bedside lamp. Eight thirty! Still jet-lagged, she’d fallen asleep while reading a magazine.
She jumped out of bed. Not knowing where Alexis was going to take her, she put on a cotton blouse and khakis. Then she watched television while waiting for his call. At nine thirty, she became very nervous. Would he stand her up without any explanation? Maybe he had met some old friends and decided to go out for a few drinks with them? Maybe he needed some time alone? Or maybe … maybe he had perceived that she was attracted to him, and he was trying to send her a message? Feeling that she had lost everything, Anne got undressed and went back to bed. This was going to be a long, sleepless night. …
And then the phone rang. Alexis was downstairs in the hall.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “At the end of the day, my supervisor called me and other professors to his office, and the meeting went on and on. I couldn’t escape to give you a ring.”
“I didn’t think you were going to come anymore,” Anne said.
“I would’ve called if I hadn’t been able to come at all. Have you had supper yet?”
“No.”
“What were you doing?”
“I was reading.”
“If it’s too late to go out, I’ll understand.”
&
nbsp; Thirty minutes later, they walked into the Old Spaghetti Factory, a hangout for hippies and old beatniks. People were drinking Coke and beer to the sound of psychedelic music. Sporting afros or long hair à la Jesus Christ, young men wore flowery shirts and faded jeans. As for their girlfriends, they were in loose cotton dresses, with leather sandals on their feet and strings of glass beads around their necks and wrists. Some, who must have smoked too much weed, were talking loudly and bursting into hectic laughter. Others talked about the Vietnam War. …
Anne and Alexis sat at a table. A Jimi Hendrix poster hung on the wall next to them. As they looked at the menu, a young blonde woman came over to say hi to Alexis.
“Jessica!” he said. “I should’ve known you were going to be here! This is Anne, a friend from France visiting San Francisco. Anne, this is Jessica. She teaches piano at my school.”
As they shook hands, Anne thought that Jessica’s expression wasn’t friendly at all. After a short while, she went back to her friends.
“She could’ve had a successful career as a pianist,” Alexis said. “But she’d rather enjoy life. For her, success and wealth are poison. You hear that sort of thing a lot around here. Most of my students don’t have any real plans in life, apart from leaving home as quickly as possible to take a trip to India or Nepal.”
Anne didn’t pay much attention to what he was saying. After the agony she had felt earlier when she thought Alexis had abandoned her, she was happy just gazing at him, moved by his mere presence.
“You seem distant.”
“I’m just looking at this place. It’s … entertaining.”
Putting a hand on hers, Alexis said, “Tell me the truth. Did you really think I’d stood you up?”
Her eyes planted on his, she shook her head.
“Have I ever let you down?” he said.
“No.”
“So …”
Anne realized she had to talk to him about it. It was the healthy thing to do. Without interrupting her, Alexis listened to her recount the scene that had taken place shortly before the exodus, almost thirty years before.
I Looked for the One My Heart Loves Page 13