The artists were not fools, most of them thought I was a charlatan but persistence left me representing Konstantin Koravin, George Braque, Max Ernst, Marcel Duchamp, Man Ray and a limited edition of Salvador Dali’s work. That was when Potala really got started.
The next day, Katharine and I went to meet my father with Mara. Katharine was dressed in a chiffon suit, flattering her best feature – nipples that stretched to break through the fabric and add to her charm. She also sported a tight fitting hat that attempted to contain her free imagination.
My father opened the door and welcomed us warmly, lifting up his four-year-old granddaughter then immediately giving his attention to her curiosity. He took her to a Praxinoscope and started rotating it. Mara’s face lit up with wonder and continued to play with it and other mechanical toys while the grownups walked into another parlor.
My father looked his full seventy-three years but his eye still gleamed with the entrepreneurship of his early years. I told him about my gallery, about the artists I had made deals with. And then, with his wife watching in the background, Louis Lumiere held me by my shoulders; a firm, almost aggressive hold told me that he was still my father, still my benefactor. He committed his support to the venture, then embraced me with a tenderness I longed for when I was a child.
He took Katharine’s hand and kissed it. My father seemed partial to her, almost too partial, as if he were unaware of his age and his relationship to his son’s lady. His wife came forward, took our coats, escorted us to a table where we could sit down for a late morning croissant and coffee.
He looked to Katharine. “How long have you known my boy?”
“Seven years now.”
“Seven years,” he mused. “What do you do here in Paris? Are you an actress or a model?”
“I’m a journalist. I’ve just come from Spain. I was working with Robert Capa.”
My father was impressed. “Dad,” I said. “What are you working on now?”
He looked down at his mangled hands. “I can’t do much with this arthritis but I have some ideas about television, about bringing a theatre into everyone’s home.”
“It will be awful,” his wife remarked, “but your father was never concerned about the implications of his work. She put her hand on his shoulder. He patted it, then asked us if we’d stay for lunch.
The leisurely repast opened with a bottle, a 1926 Chateau Lafitte. Our first course was pate served with rice; followed by a crisp, warm onion soup. The Lumiere’s cook served the meals himself, with a degree of curiosity about the guests. He knew who we were but he maintained an air of refined ignorance. Ignorance was in the air all that afternoon – ignorance about my conception and the circumstances of my abandonment, ignorance about my father’s depth of affection and concern for me, ignorance about his thoughts on his old age and the passage of time. He did talk about art, though.
He was impressed with my business sense, with acquiring work of these new artists, agreeing that their prices would skyrocket in America once war broke out.
“It is coming, I fear,” my father lamented.
“A repetition of the last one?”
“Worse,” he said.
Pause.
“But you’ve been doing well – and not just as an agent, I understand. You take still pictures.”
“For the movies,” I said.
“And some mighty fine credits,” he observed, “working for Murnau, for that rascal, Sternberg. Even for Chaplin.’
The old man smiled broadly, a smile that attempted to bridge the almost thirty years of absence. “I’d like to see some of your stills.”
“You will. I’ll have some photos sent from Los Angeles.”
“Grand,” the old man stated. “Maybe next time you’ll bring me stills from Renoir’s new film.’
“Rules of the Game?”
“You’ve heard of it?”
“Of course,” I said, “but I’ve given that up.”
“Given it up? You talk like an old man. I’m the one that’s giving things up. You’re still in the heat of life. I’ve already spoken to Jean and he wants you to do the job.”
Katharine was excited, of course. But I was hesitant. Certainly not because it was a Renoir film, that thrilled me. My pause came from the interruption of a new life, a devotion to being an art dealer, my strong desire to give up on promoting myself as any kind of creator.
“Dad,” I told him, “I’ve made storage preparations in Los Angeles, I have to arrange the importation of all this work.”
“That’s no problem, I’ll leave my staff at your disposal.”
Under the table, Katharine squeezed my hand. She was equally thrilled at the thought of working on such a production, for she knew she could stand right beside me with her own camera.
“Come on, son,” he said.
“You’re too generous.”
Louis Lumiere’s gaze fixed itself on me. “It’s only, money, Alex. I could have done more than that in all these years.”
My face was flushed. I agreed and extended my hand to my father.
“It’s not my hand you need to shake,” he said, “It’s Jean’s. Go see him tomorrow. He’s expecting you, you needn’t make an appointment.”
I remembered tilting my head down, studying the pattern of the tablecloth. It reminded me of a dress that my mother once wore. I looked up at my father, at what I saw as a devious grin.
The deception was complete. I could clearly see the hostility in my father’s look of love. He may have loved me now but my mother was still a sore spot in his heart.
All the years of loneliness when I was a child rushed through my spirit. I wanted to say something to him, touch upon the feelings that I had. But what could I say? Should I have admitted to a lifetime of self-hatred and paranoia because he was not around to guide me? We exchanged forgiveness without words and Katharine and I went out into the Parisian twilight. That was the first and last time I ever saw my father.
RULES OF THE GAME
While European lives were in fear and reacting to the inevitability of war with Germany, the director, Jean Renoir, made a film, Rules of the Game, in which love is the only game to play. He eclipsed, for a moment, the catastrophes around us and led us on a journey where romantic pursuits, won and lost, were the subject of interest for both the nobility and their servants.
I had taken the job shooting stills for the film during which Katharine honored me with her presence. Jean was kind enough to let both her and Michel, her not-so-secret lover, help me to immortalize the making of the film in photographs.
The story was about the last days of French upper class society and its romantic intrigues.
“I’d be taking a big risk. I love Christine. I’d never get over losing her.” These are the words of a character who knows his wife was having an affair with a pilot named Andre. His friend, Octave, has asked him to invite his wife’s lover to their party.
“Everyone has their rights to free expression,” the husband Chesnay says. “I’m against barriers and walls. And that’s why I’ll invite Andre…if she loves Jurieu, separating them won’t stop her. They might as well see each other and talk it over.”
Now, the upper class may have their noble tolerance but when this scene was shot I was horrified. I’d read it in the script but I wasn’t prepared to see such a laissez faire attitude. I would rather kill Katharine then see her with Michel again.
And soon after that, I had a chance to make good on the threat. After shooting the scene, when most of the crew had wrapped and left for the day, I heard Katharine and Michel talking nearby.
“I don’t intend to rock your marital boat,” Michel said.
“Rock away,” Katharine said. “The love that binds Alex and I should be strong enough to withstand your appreciation of me.”
Appreciation my ass! It’s a ravenous appetite that this wealthy half-brother has for my wife. He stole my father through his damned legitimacy, now he wants to steal my wife through i
llegitimate means.
I moved closer and heard sighs and kisses.
“I’ll be in my room tonight,” Michel told her.
“And I should be in my husband’s.”
“I’m sure you can keep him there,” Michel said. “I have faith in you.”
Another kiss and then they parted, each leaving the sound stage separately. What was Renoir doing by inviting Michel to shoot the film along with me? I wanted to quit that moment and take Katharine away from the production. On the way back to my hotel I had every intention of doing so…but some bleak spirit that engaged me wanted to watch what she would do.
When I got back to the hotel, Katharine was already in our room. She was primping herself in the mirror, making herself even more desirable for my rival.
“Preparing yourself for dinner?”
“Why not? Don’t you want me to?”
I walked over to her and placed my hands on her neck.
“Did you get some good shots,” she asked.
“I think so.”
“You always do.”
“Are you going to your lab after dinner?”
“Mais, oui,” I told her.
Katharine stood up, went to put on her coat. “Are you ready,” she said as she turned around.
“As ever,” I said, providing an open arm for her to take hold of.
Rather than dining with the crew, I took Katharine, much to her disappointment, to a small family restaurant, one that I dined in with Michel not terribly long before.
“It’s a wonderful place. Have you been here before?”
“When were you here?” Katharine asked as we were seated at our table.
“With Michel.”
“Oh.”
“We were discussing his work, what he wants me to put in his new show once we get back to California.”
Our dinner arrived and we were silent for a while.
“Are you including these other artists with Michel’s work in the new show?”
Ignoring her entirely, I asked her why she thought the actress should cheat on her husband.
“I think hers is a special case,” she said. “The poor woman needs an outlet of some sort.”
“And don’t you?”
“I had my outlet, as you know.”
“Don’t you need to be free from me again?”
“I don’t know, Alex. Why don’t you tell me?”
I wanted to act as discretely as the characters in Renoir’s film but that was not in my nature. My approach to marital spats was usually to just hit and run. I played along with Katharine that evening, not attempting to spoil her plans to meet Michel when I was in the darkroom. We came back to the hotel and she prepared for bed while I went off to develop the day’s photos. But I left the darkroom early and not finding her in our room, I knew that she was betraying me.
I watched my wife from outside Michel’s room as she approached Michel and removed his clothing. Through the thin curtain of his room’s window, I could see them lying on the bed, I could hear them laughing, I could hear them making love. It was all too much. Katharine belonged in the film; not shooting pictures…love is a never-ending game to her.
I went back to bed, jealous and depressed. I vowed to leave her, to see what I could do for myself, find someone whom I could love. Somewhere in my anger and despair, I fell asleep. I dreamt that Katharine was next to me, that she brought breakfast to me in bed…Eggs Florentine.
And then I woke up to find that my dream was a reality. Katharine leaned over and kissed me. I sat up in bed with the breakfast tray on my lap. Katharine lit a cigarette and smiled at me.
“What’s all this,” I questioned her while assessing my tray.
“I like to see you happy.”
“You have a strange way of showing it. Where were you last night?”
Katharine smiled softly as if my question were based on some kind of paranoid delusion. “Where do you think?”
I couldn’t answer. I didn’t want to bring up what I knew and what would lead to another battle with the woman that I needed so much. “I think you were enjoying yourself.”
“And is that really so bad?”
It was of course, but I couldn’t admit it. I didn’t want to shatter the pleasant time that we had been sharing in the last few weeks. I swallowed my pain with a little bit of the breakfast Katharine served me. But not that much. I wasn’t really hungry.
Katharine picked up the breakfast tray and put it on the table. I got out of bed and approached her from behind. She turned around and gave me a kiss, the kind that excites in spite of the lies surrounding it. When I pulled back Katharine was crying. Were these real tears or some part of the game?
“I’m sorry,” she said as she pulled herself close to me.
I put my arms around her waist and embraced her with desperation. Something about her infidelity, no it was something about the way she was torn, that’s what made me desire her so much. I fell prey, like the rabbits and pheasants in the field that are ferreted out and sent to their slaughter in the hunting scene of Rules of the Game.
When we were finished and were lying in bed, the alarm went off and Mara, who had been sleeping in the adjoining room, came in with sleep weary eyes. She climbed into bed with us and we were that happy family again…if I could only forget the night before.
We shot exteriors that day, a scene with the paramour of Mssr. Chesnay, the wealthy Jewish host of the elaborate and extended vacation at his estate. He was leaving the woman for his wife. He wanted to luxuriate in the pleasures of a dignified and unsullied marriage. But his lover warned that she would tell his wife about their relationship.
“Fine,” Chesnay says, “you can tell Christine everything. To what end?”
“To hurt you.”
“Charming of you.”
“I hate suffering alone. Misery loves company. I want to see your face when Christine leaves you. And she will if I tell her.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“You’ve stopped loving me?”
“Let’s change the subject.”
“Please give me an answer.”
“No, I don’t love you anymore. I’m very fond of you, but…
“But I bore you.”
“The words you come up with my dear…”
“The right ones.” She walks on. “I give up. You can fight hatred but not boredom. I’m leaving.”
“Yes, that would be best.”
“I’m leaving but bid me a tender farewell.”
“Not farewell. Good – bye.”
“No, no. Farewell. But a beautiful farewell.”
Katharine and I took our stills together that day. And at the end of the scene, I could see her lost inside her bulky jacket. She wasn’t with me but Michel, bidding him farewell, I hoped.
“Can you tell me that it’s over Katharine?”
She squeezed my hand and I brought her close to me. The crew was all around us and I couldn’t kiss her as I wanted to. I could only look in her eyes…and my dream came back to life. I read the end of her relationship with Michel in the moistness of her look.
The next day Michel left and a cautiously pleased Katharine walked around the set with me. Michel left but he was sure to be back. I wanted to believe in Katharine’s sincerity but I could see the two of them together again.
On our final day of production, Renoir directed the scene of a poacher, alone in the hallway, collecting the boots of the guests to polish them overnight. The mistress of the house walked down the hallway, checking on her guests, on their romances and proclivities towards indulgent pleasures and easy infidelity.
These many years later, have I learned anything but that my youth was a pretense? I mimicked the thoughts of those around me, trying to evade the cold-hearted reality of the sycophant that I had become.
Renoir loved my stills. I had captured the elegance and the cruelty, he told me. He cried when he looked at my photographs of his weeping characters, of the ones from an older
order who took all the pain of this world as a noble settling of accounts.
The following morning, with Katharine asleep at my side, I caressingly put my hands around her throat. I began to press, just a little, but she didn’t move. She was blissfully unaware that she might die soon…but it was bravado. I would never kill Katharine. I couldn’t even leave her.
I stared at her closed eyelids. She had the peace of sanity that I envied more than I felt jealousy about her and Michel. I couldn’t kill someone who was so much more sane than myself. I pulled my hands back and got up. I cleaned up our hotel room and ordered breakfast. Then, Mara came in. She ran to her daddy’s arms and I held her with the sense of security that I used to feel with her mother.
As I was holding Mara I looked at her beautiful mother asleep in bed. And as I watched her, her hair started to blow backwards. There was no wind but my own and it seemed as if my hatred was causing the wind to blow…as if by magic, I was pushing her away as I begged her to stay with me.
THE BIG SHOW
The memory of Renoir’s film was appropriate for what we worked on the day I was going to have dinner with Margaret. We shot a scene in Norma’s Isotta – Fraschini, then a scene of Gillis in “the finest men’s shop in town” where he took advantage of her generosity by ordering a vicuna coat instead of Camel’s hair. He was, slowly, getting used to luxury.
I still had Joe Gillis in my heart when I sat down to dinner with Margaret after shooting that day. She was in good spirits, bursting with something she wanted to tell me.
“Darling, I have wonderful news for you.”
“What news?”
“Your gallery is about to have a tremendous show.”
“That’s funny,” I said, “I didn’t plan one.”
Margaret stretched her arms out. “It’ll be a show with my collection.”
“I already heard.”
“From who? That little tramp that’s working for you?”
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