“I am grateful you have told me about this,” she said at last.
“Grateful, Françoise? I wonder if it will ruin our friendship.”
“That is entirely and absolutely not possible, Maximilian.”
She had moods. At one moment she would be delicately sensitive to the feelings of others. At another she would be deliriously happy, a girl dancing in the wind. Then, without warning, a serene summer day would be riven by a flash of lightning. I gradually came to understand that the latter episodes always had something to do with her ferocious devotion to truth, as she saw it.
One day, she stood by my large easel in the new studio, examining a work in progress. With folded arms and frowning brow, she spent some minutes with it as I waited beside her, trying to see it with her eyes: a large male face with wide-open mouth, an upside-down torso with arms and hands reaching upward, a man falling through flames.
“Its title is The Scream,” I said.
“Max, I worry about this,” she replied, staring at the canvas. “Why do you repeat Edvard Munch?”
“It’s only a superficial similarity—the title. Real screams cross all ethnic and national boundaries.”
“D’accord. Okay. The title is Munch, but the contents are Goya. Why are you trying to be like him? You are not Francisco de Goya!”
“I know I’m not Francisco de Goya. I simply admire him.”
“And emulate him. But why him, why this macabre sadness, this bitterness and irony over la condition humaine?”
“Because we are birds in a cage, Françoise, and he shows us the cage.”
“Like Sartre’s Huis clos, No Exit? Hell is other people?”
“No, not like Sartre. Goya shows us something more human and sad and beautiful, revealing to us our folly, asking us to live a better way.”
“Beautiful and sad.” She clicked her tongue, shaking her head. “Sad, sad, sad, always the sad.”
“You once told me how you yearn for me to speak my heart without hesitation. But when I try to speak that way through my paintings, you are repelled. Do you think this encourages transparency on my part?”
“You simply do not understand me. I am saying that in this life you are not condemned to slavery. You are not the creation of the things that happen to you.”
“Really? You must have had a very sheltered life.”
“Perhaps. But does this take away all my credibility? To have hope, to have joy—does this make me a spoiled naif?”
“I’m not saying that. I just mean you don’t see the whole picture.”
“And I am saying, it is you who fail to see the whole picture.”
“I paint as a voice for the voiceless.”
“Yet this painting is intensely personal. You have been badly hurt by your sufferings, I know, but why do you let them define you?”
“C’est facile, Françoise.”
“Chagall’s early life was painful, très difficile. He chose to turn his memories into joy.”
“Chagall’s family was not burned to ashes in an instant.”
“How many of them, I wonder, were burned to ashes in Auschwitz.”
“Oh, Auschwitz. How can one argue with Auschwitz? It demolishes every debate.”
“Is this a debate?”
“If it is, I didn’t start it.”
She tightened her crossed arms, frowning. I leaned over to kiss her, for kisses, too, cross all ethnic and national barriers. She jerked her head away.
“Do you love your tragedy?” she asked. “Do you love it more than you love me?”
Speechless, with an ache in my throat, I threw up my trembling hands.
“I love you,” I pleaded. “I love you with my whole heart.”
“I know you love me,” she said, her face crumpling, tears springing to her eyes. “But you cannot yet say, with complete honesty, that it is your whole heart.”
“It’s the only heart I have.”
She wiped her eyes with her fingertips, and said, “I’m sorry. I made this conversation go wrong. But I have to leave, Max. I have a paper to submit in the morning and it is not yet half-written.” She smiled sadly. “It is on the medieval exegesis of love.”
I walked her back to her residence, and at the doorstep we briefly kissed good-bye.
“Across the barriers,” she whispered, and turned away.
Returning to my studio I told myself that she was right—she was almost always right about the important things. But this only made it worse, because, in the end, I was incapable of changing myself.
I threw myself down on the cot in my studio, scrutinizing the screaming face. I suddenly wanted to burn it. I wanted to get up and carry it down to the Luxembourg and set fire to it. To destroy the image of destruction, to silence the cry of protest.
I turned off the lamp beside me and lay back with an arm across my eyes. I fell into a troubled sleep, and during the night I dreamed of a woman reaching out for me. I could not see her face, only a young feminine hand with a gold ring on its wedding finger, offering me a piece of paper. I took it and looked closely. On it was a photo of the New York City skyline and two jets angling downward for collision with the towers. At the base of the image a monumental human figure strode between the buildings with his arms raised to hold off the attack.
Beneath his feet were numbers:
09-11-20-01
As more and more memory returned, it separated into fragments:
Her voice: “You would benefit greatly from catharsis, Max.”
My voice: “I do not believe in catharsis.”
Her voice: “That is because you have never tried it.”
My voice: “It offers only temporary relief. And often makes more damage.”
Hers: “How would you know that?”
Mine: “I once was on the receiving end of it.”
Hers: “Oh well, perhaps it does not work for everyone immediately.”
Mine: “Huh?”
I wrinkled my brow. What was she saying? That victims of catharsis should be considerate enough to give the perpetrators time to get it right? I hated to contradict her, to risk weakening our bond, so I let it slide. I told myself that no one’s opinions were perfect, after all, nor were they fully formed at her age. Besides, she was so perfect in every other way.
“My unhappy sisters, for example,” she continued. “One of them blames my parents for everything that went wrong in her life. Her counselor tells her so. Her psychiatrist instructs her to vent her rage against them. My other sister punishes them with silence. I’m not sure which sister hates them more.” She gave a Gallic shrug. “There have been several separations, you see, then reconciliations, followed by more conflict. These leave their mark on children.”
“And you, what do you feel?” I asked.
“I used to storm and scream at Maman and Papa. It really made me feel better. Now that it is out of my system, I choose not to fall into the gravitational pull of their miseries. I see their flaws but I do not blame them for their humanity.”
“So why haven’t your sisters come to the same conclusion?”
“Neither of them have yet pushed their catharsis to the extreme.”
“Extreme, again. You girls must make your parents’ lives rather painful.”
“Oui,” she laughed mischievously. “We give them no relief.”
Somewhat appalled, I said, “Really, Françoise, isn’t it better to be patient and kind?”
“Why? Repression is not healthy.”
“Um. . . maybe not in some things. But why not talk it out with them in a calm, reasonable way?”
“They would not listen. They would rationalize everything into molecules.”
“Whew,” I said, shaking my head, glad that her family wasn’t mine. “Sounds like misery without relief.”
She squeezed my arm and skipped along like the charming gamine she was. “But we, Max, you and me, we have relief.”
“Can one build a life together on a feeling of relief?” I asked, s
till uneasy.
She frowned. “We have more than that.”
“Yes, we do,” I said, wondering over the frown.
Spring again:
We were standing together at a wine-and-cheese reception in a commercial art gallery of moderate but not insignificant repute. Our arms were around each other’s waists. She held me tightly, smiling, smiling. I swelled with pride, exalted by new hope. The paintings were selling.
“You see, my wicked uncle is not so wicked after all.”
“Nepotism,” I said.
“No, not nepotism. He recognizes your quality. He has friends. Should you have turned your back on this? Your first show and it is in Paris!”
Autumn:
We stood arm in arm on the Champ de Mars, the Eiffel Tower rising above and behind us. A small lady, a dwarf, came up to us and asked if we would like a photograph of ourselves. Françoise handed the woman her camera, and we posed. We talked with her about gardening and painting. She loved irises, above all the dark-purple “flags”, though she did not so much like the golden iris. Monet was her favorite painter. His water lilies. And of course Renoir’s children. She herself could not have children—a great pity. She hoped le bon Dieu would bless us with many. She was very fond of Degas as well, though not everything he had painted. Did we know that absinthe would drive one mad? Yes, it was true, the wormwood in it created insanity. We assured her we would avoid it. Well, it is now illegal, she demurred. Françoise and the woman exchanged addresses and embraced—two strangers, no longer strangers.
That evening we went out to dinner at our favorite cafe near the Palais du Luxembourg. Over wine, I took a gold ring from my pocket and offered it to her in my open palm.
“It is a promise ring, a fidelity ring,” I said. “It means I am yours forever.”
You do not have to accept it, lady of sweet fire, but my part is to offer it.
“You must put it onto my finger,” she whispered.
I slipped the ring onto her finger.
“I put my whole self into your hands, Françoise.”
In answer, she opened her purse and removed a white cloth, tightly folded and bound by red ribbon. Unwrapping it, she brought forth a gold ring and held it out toward me.
“It is a ring of promise, Max, my promise to you. It means I am yours éternellement.”
The mutual exchange of rings was unplanned, uncanny, and doubly wonderful because of it.
“This is like something in a story,” I said. “These things don’t happen.”
“But they just did!” she laughed with shining eyes.
Another memory:
We were walking the quais around the He de la Cité, the wind blustery, the sky overcast.
“Do you trust me?” I asked.
“Of course I trust you!” she said. “Do you trust me?”
“Of course. Still. . .”
“Why are we asking this? If we have to ask—”
“Nothing in life is absolutely certain. . . other than death and loss.”
“Do not worry, Max, I will fix that.”
“You cannot fix human beings,” I said. “We are not machines.”
“True, we are not machines. But I know my chevalier du roi will be healed of his great sorrow one day.”
“You wish your knight to become a perfect prince, like in a fairy tale. That is not reality, Françoise.”
“I do not wish my prince to be perfect. I want him to be happy.”
“I am happy.”
“These sweet days, they are not long, Max.”
“You are in a dire mood today.”
She squeezed my hand and pressed closer as we continued to walk.
“I would give everything, Max. Would you?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
“I mean. . . can you?”
Startled by what she had just communicated, I halted and faced her.
“You don’t trust me,” I said in a quiet voice. “You don’t have confidence in me.”
“I. . . I have confidence that you are un bonhomme, Max, and that you love me.”
“But you’re afraid I’ll turn out to be like your father.”
“No, not like him. But I have seen too many of my friends fall in love with men who made them happy for an hour, a day, even a year, and then ruined their lives. Some women cannot resist losing themselves entirely in the love of a criminal or a wild drinker or a tough guy who beats them. They believe his violence is masculine strength. They fool themselves that their love will tame him, make him nice but keep the strength.” She dropped her eyes and stared at the sidewalk. “Among my friends there have been suicides.”
“I will not ruin your life, Françoise.”
“I do not mean you would ruin my life. It is just that we must be sure before giving our lives to each other.”
“I thought we already had.”
We walked on, silently ruminating on the confusion between us. It had been a moment’s lapse in our communion, and both of us hastened to shake it off.
Another fragment:
“Why do we not sleep together, Max? Why do you not push for it?”
“I respect you.”
“Are you afraid of sex?”
I laughed outright. “Au contraire, Françoise.”
“Then what? What is the problem?”
“I am afraid of losing you.”
“This makes no sense at all.”
“L’être,” I said.
Uncomprehending, her eyes puzzled over me. “Pardon?”
“I want you to know—I want you to know deep in your soul—that I love you totally for who you are. I would rather die than use you.”
“That never stopped the other young men who have loved me totally, who also believed they did not want to use me.”
“Are you saying they tried to use you, or are you saying they did use you?”
She shrugged off the question as unworthy of an answer.
“Do you think men are mainly animals?” I asked.
“You sound so surprised. Look around you, Max. Look at the world.”
“The world wasn’t always this way. Men were once protectors, not predators.”
Again she fixed me with a look of uncertainty.
“So, let me try to understand this, Françoise. You don’t trust men who are too moral, have I got that right?”
“Not exactly. I am merely asking, where does this morality of yours come from and why do you need it?”
It was a fair question. I wasn’t sure of the answer. I hadn’t really thought about it before. Some of my morality may have been instinctive, a sense infused in me from birth that any man worthy of the name respected women. The thought of Granddad Robbie flashed into my mind. And my father. Neither of them had been self-righteous types, but they had loved their wives—passionately and morally.
“There are all kinds of men,” I said, “and you’ll find that the ones who love best are the ones who aren’t slaves to impulse. If I’m your first, well, I think you need to be informed that there are plenty of us out there.”
“Do not ruin your chances, Max. I might start looking out there.”
I shook my head, still trying to understand. “So, you believe in sexual catharsis as well as emotional catharsis?”
“I believe in love.”
“Me too. Do you trust men who can’t control their sexual appetites? They may look and feel more romantic, but please explain how this is different from the women who fall for criminals and tough guys.”
“Non, non, non, it is not the same.”
“How is it different? Is it because the users you’ve known have been sweeter about it? Chocolates and roses and into the blanket toss as fast as we can?”
She gave me a cold look. And now another possibility struck me—and it struck hard. Did some women prefer sexually driven, immoral men because they were predictable and controllable, like the manikin in Goya’s painting?
Suddenly she grinned with sly amusement.
“You are a virgin, aren’t you? Admit it, Max, you are a virgin!”
“Yes,” I said. “I am.”
“You need not be so defensive about it,” she tittered.
“I don’t feel defensive about it.”
“But of course you do. All young men are desperate to lose their virginity. And those who have not lost it usually lie about it. They are afraid to admit they have not had sex.”
“Françoise, I haven’t had sex.”
“And it is also complicated by their fear of inadequacy.”
“You’ve taken too many psychology courses.”
“Now you are feeling hostile.”
“No. I’m feeling irritated.”
“Poor boys, until you really know a woman, you do not know what you are missing.”
“The poor boys who throw away their virginity don’t know what they’re missing.”
“That is absolutely a non sequitur.”
“They lose their chance for the joys of expectation, and for the ecstasy that comes when longing and self-restraint are finally fulfilled with the one you will love forever.”
“Why not have it now?”
“Imagine a prize racehorse. When the gate opens, all that magnificent discipline and pent-up energy are released. Would you rather ride him or some pretty pony dribbling around a barnyard thinking he’s a wild stallion?”
“This is absurd,” she murmured, pained. “We are having our first argument. And about sex, of all things!”
“It seems like a reasonable discussion to me.”
“Max, enough! Let’s go to a film. After, we will drink wine and you will kiss me with mad passion.”
“Yes to all three propositions. But you will have to be strong for the both of us. Otherwise, the animal in me will take control.”
She laughed. We both laughed, and the moment of tension was over.
How much later was it? Three months? Six months, perhaps. There came an offer from a gallery in America, a dealer who had visited Paris at the time of my first show and had stopped into the gallery quite by chance. I had to fly to New York for negotiations, to see the exhibition space, to know if I could trust these people. They offered temporary lodgings in an apartment in the East Village of Manhattan, where I could stay rent free.
The Fool of New York City Page 16