"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 Fm 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, cheri. 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. "Cheri, 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 cafe 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 painter
s. Phrases that said everything and nothing.
"You really feel you're there ..."
"I've never seen a style quite like yours ..."
"Now, that's a painting! ..."
"It speaks to me ..."
"You couldn't have done it any better ..."
People kept arriving, and Tony wondered whether the attraction was curiosity about his paintings or the free wine and cheese. So far, not one of his paintings had sold, but the wine and cheese were being consumed rapaciously.
"Be patient," Monsieur Goerg whispered to Tony. "They are interested. First they must get a smell of the paintings. They see one they like, they keep wandering back to it. Pretty soon they ask the price, and when they nibble, voila! The hook is set!"
"Jesus! I feel like I'm on a fishing cruise," Tony told Dominique.
Monsieur Goerg bustled up to Tony. "We've sold one!" he exclaimed. "The Normandy landscape. Five hundred francs."
It was a moment that Tony would remember as long as he lived. Someone had bought a painting of his! Someone had thought enough of his work to pay money for it, to hang it in his home or office, to look at it, live with it, show it to friends. It was a small piece of immortality. It was a way of living more than one life, of being in more than one place at the same time. A successful artist was in hundreds of homes and offices and museums all over the world, bringing pleasure to thousands—sometimes millions of people. Tony felt as though he had stepped into the pantheon of Da Vinci and Michelangelo and Rembrandt. He was no longer an amateur painter, he was a professional. Someone had paid money for his work.
Dominique hurried up to him, her eyes bright with excitement. "You've just sold another one, Tony."
"Which one?" he asked eagerly.
"The floral."
The small gallery was filled now with people and loud chatter and the clink of glasses; and suddenly a stillness came over the room. There was an undercurrent of whispers and all eyes turned to the door.
Andre d'Usseau was entering the gallery. He was in his middle fifties, taller than the average Frenchman, with a strong, leonine face and a mane of white hair. He wore a flowing Inverness cape and Borsalino hat, and behind him came an entourage of hangers-on. Automatically, everyone in the room began to make way for d'Usseau. There was not one person present who did not know who he was.
Dominique squeezed Tony's hand. "He's come!" she said. "He's here!"
Such an honor had never befallen Monsieur Goerg before, and he was beside himself, bowing and scraping before the great man, doing everything but tugging at his forelock.
"Monsieur d'Usseau," he babbled. "What a great pleasure this is! What an honor! May I offer you some wine, some cheese?" He cursed himself for not having bought a decent wine.
"Thank you," the great man replied. "I have come to feast only my eyes. I would like to meet the artist."
Tony was too stunned to move. Dominique pushed him forward.
"Here he is," Monsieur Goerg said. "Mr. Andre d'Usseau, this is Tony Blackwell."
Tony found his voice. "How do you do, sir? I—thank you for coming."
Andre d'Usseau bowed slightly and moved toward the paintings on the walls. Everyone pushed back to give him room. He made his way slowly, looking at each painting long and care-fully, then moving on to the next one. Tony tried to read his face, but he could tell nothing. D'Usseau neither frowned nor smiled. He stopped for a long time at one particular painting, a nude of Dominique, then moved on. He made a complete circle of the room, missing nothing. Tony was perspiring profusely.
When Andre d'Usseau had finished, he walked over to Tony. "I am glad I came," was all he said.
Within minutes after the famous critic had left, every painting in the gallery was sold. A great new artist was being born, and everyone wanted to be in at the birth.
"I have never seen anything like it," Monsieur Goerg exclaimed. "Andre d'Usseau came to my gallery. My gallery! All Paris will read about it tomorrow. 'I am glad I came.' Andre d'Usseau is not a man to waste words. This calls for champagne. Let us celebrate."
Later that night, Tony and Dominique had their own private celebration. Dominique snuggled in his arms. "I've slept with painters before," she said, "but never anyone as famous as you're going to be. Tomorrow everyone in Paris will know who you are."
And Dominique was right.
At five o'clock the following morning, Tony and Dominique hurriedly got dressed and went out to get the first edition of the morning paper. It had just arrived at the kiosk. Tony snatched up the paper and turned to the art section. His review was the headline article under the by-line of Andre d'Usseau. Tony read it aloud:
"An exhibition by a young American painter, Anthony Blackwell, opened last night at the Goerg Gallery. It was a great learning experience for this critic. I have attended so many exhibitions of talented painters that I had forgotten what truly bad paintings looked like. I was forcibly reminded last night..."
Tony's face turned ashen.
"Please don't read any more," Dominique begged. She tried to take the paper from Tony.
"Let go!" he commanded. He read on.
"At first I thought a joke was being perpetrated. I could not seriously believe that anyone would have the nerve to hang such amateurish paintings and dare to call them art. I searched for the tiniest glimmering of talent. Alas, there was none. They should have hung the painter instead of his paintings. I would earnestly advise that the confused Mr. Blackwell return to his real profession, which I can only assume is that of house painter."
"I can't believe it," Dominique whispered. "I can't believe he couldn't see it. Oh, that bastard!" Dominique began to cry helplessly.
Tony felt as though his chest were filled with lead. He had difficulty breathing. "He saw it," he said. "And he does know, Dominique. He does know." His voice was filled with pain. That's what hurts so much. Christ! What a fool I was!" He started to move away.
"Where are you going, Tony?"
"I don't know."
He wandered around the cold, dawn streets, unaware of the tears running down his face. Within a few hours, everyone in Paris would have read that review. He would be an object of ridicule. But what hurt more was that he had deluded himself. He had really believed he had a career ahead of him as a painter. At kast Andre d'Usseau had saved him from that mistake. Pieces of posterity, Tony thought grimly. Pieces of shit! He walked into the first open bar and proceeded to get mindlessly drunk.
When Tony finally returned to his apartment, it was five o'clock the following morning.
Dominique was waiting for him, frantic. "Where have you been, Tony? Your mother has been trying to get in touch with you. She's sick with worry."
"Did you read it to her?"
"Yes, she insisted. I—"
The telephone rang. Dominique looked at Tony, and picked up the receiver. "Hello? Yes, Mrs. Blackwell. He just walked in." She held the receiver out to Tony. He hesitated, then took it.
"Hello, M-mother."
Kate's voice was filled with distress. "Tony, darling, listen to me. I can make him print a retraction. I—"
"Mother," Tony said wearily, "this isn't a b-business transaction. This is a c-critic expressing an opinion. His opinion is that I should be h-hanged."
"Darling, I hate to have you hurt like this. I don't think I can stand—" She broke off, unable to continue.
"It's all right, M-mother. I've had my little f-fling. I tried it and it didn't w-work. I don't have what it t-takes. It's as simple as that. I h-hate d'Usseau's guts, but he's the best g-goddamned art critic in the world, I have to g-give him that. He saved me from making a t-terrible mistake."
"Tony, I wish there was something I could say ..."
"D'Usseau s-said it all. It's b-better that I f-found it out now instead of t-ten years from now, isn't it? I've got to g-get out of this town."
"Wait there for me, darling. I'll leave Johannesburg tomorrow and we'll go back to New York together."
"All right," Tony
said. He replaced the receiver and turned toward Dominique. "I'm sorry, Dominique. You picked the wrong fellow."
Dominique said nothing. She just looked at him with eyes filled with an unspeakable sorrow.
The following afternoon at Kruger-Brent's office on Rue Ma-tignon, Kate Blackwell was writing out a check. The man seated across the desk from her sighed. "It is a pity. Your son has talent, Mrs. Blackwell. He could have become an important painter."
Kate stared at him coldly. "Mr. d'Usseau, there are tens of thousands of painters in the world. My son was not meant to be one of the crowd." She passed the check across the desk. "You fulfilled your part of the bargain, I'm prepared to fulfill mine.
Kruger-Brent, Limited, will sponsor art museums in Johannesburg, London and New York. You will be in charge of selecting the paintings—with a handsome commission, of course."
But long after d'Usseau had gone, Kate sat at her desk, filled with a deep sadness. She loved her son so much. If he ever found out... She knew the risk she had taken. But she could not stand by and let Tony throw away his inheritance. No matter what it might cost her, he had to be protected. The company had to be protected. Kate rose, feeling suddenly very tired. It was time to pick up Tony and take him home. She would help him get over this, so he could get on with what he had been born to do.
Run the company.
For the next two years, Tony Blackwell felt he was on a giant treadmill that was taking him nowhere. He was the heir apparent to an awesome conglomerate. Kruger-Brent's empire had expanded to include paper mills, an airline, banks and a chain of hospitals. Tony learned that a name is a key that opens all doors. There are clubs and organizations and social cliques where the coin of the realm is not money or influence, but the proper name. Tony was accepted for membership in the Union Club, The Brook and The Links Club. He was catered to everywhere he went, but he felt like an imposter. He had done nothing to deserve any of it. He was in the giant shadow of his grandfather, and he felt he was constantly being measured against him. It was unfair, for there were no more mine fields to crawl over, no guards shooting at him, no sharks threatening him. The ancient tales of derring-do had nothing to do with Tony. They belonged to a past century, another time, another place, heroic acts committed by a stranger.
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