Just then, Garith’s door bursts open, and he stands there, with his hat still on, looking as if he’s about to play the lead role in a Victorian melodrama.
‘Anyone got a fizzy pill for a poor old josser whose head’s about to explode?’ he shouts.
All the pillars and the ceiling above them are filled with flowers and fruit and garlanded, allegorical figures of women, with lots of soft light and gilded mirrors and red plush seats. I feel intimidated from the moment I walk into the Grand Véfour and have my shabby raincoat whipped away from me by a severe-looking lady dressed in black. On the far side of the room I can see Francis and George sitting together and the gauntlet of eyes I imagine I have to run through as I cross the gilded space becomes easier to deal with as I keep Francis’s welcoming smile directly in my sights. I take a mental snapshot of them as a talisman against what I know will be the colder, less privileged days to come. Francis is rosy and exuberant, as if everything is going his way, George looks tense and pale, with a deep furrow between his eyebrows. They are both immaculately dressed. George looks gangsterish in a very formal, dark-grey suit, a white shirt and a tightly knotted, burgundy-coloured tie. Francis looks a bit more casual. He’s got a silver-grey herringbone suit on and a blue Oxford shirt with a tab collar and the loosely tied, black, silk-knit tie he always has. It’s almost a kind of uniform. I’ve seen him wear it, with minor variations, for a couple of years now, as if at one point he’d decided once and for all how to dress for formal occasions. Otherwise it tends to be cashmere polo-necks, supple leather jackets, very tight, freshly pressed grey trousers and desert boots. He said to me once that he wanted to ‘look ordinary, but better than ordinary’. I should like that, too, because I worry that my old, creased charcoal-grey number isn’t up to the occasion, is in fact worse than ordinary, so I slip quickly into my seat, knowing that after a few glasses I will cease to care so much.
‘You’re looking terribly well, Michael,’ Francis says. ‘Paris must suit you.’
‘Yeh,’ George joins in. Although withdrawn and dragging on his cigarette as if he were on life support, he seems quite at ease in the restaurant’s opulence and faintly amused to be the focus of so much attention from the waiters hovering around our table. ‘I fink you must be ’avin’ a good time ’ere.’
‘Well, it’s not an easy place to make your way,’ I say ruefully. ‘Especially when you don’t know anyone. And the French, at least the Parisians, don’t give you the time of day if you can’t express yourself absolutely perfectly.’
‘I’ve always liked that about the French,’ says Francis. ‘They’re much clearer about things than the English. I think they expect quality in everything, and they’re very aware of exactly how they look and how they present themselves.’
Oddly, this remark reminds me that my father has much the same admiration as Francis for all things French. I wonder if it’s because they were both brought up with the Edwardian assumption that our Gallic cousins were more naturally sophisticated than us and less inhibited about enjoying the pleasures of life – notably food, wine and sex. For Francis, of course, Paris remains the absolute centre of the art world, and much of his respect for the way they do things stems from this. I’m very impressed by Paris and the Parisians too, and by the way that certain thoughts and attitudes sound so much more brilliant when they are expressed in French. The French people I’ve come across seem to think so as well, and I often feel they’re talking down to me, relishing the fact that I’m not as at ease in their quicksilver language as they are.
‘Though I do remember when I first came here,’ Francis continues, as if he’d read my mind, ‘they made me feel so shy that I couldn’t go into a shop to ask for anything. Especially with being so gauche and everything from being brought up in Ireland. But I’ve got over that now, and I’ve worked a great deal on myself, because I thought there’s really no point in being both old and shy. Even though I’m still nervous, the whole time, and particularly when I come into these very grand French establishments. I think they’re there to make you feel nervous.’
I now feel much more comfortable and gratefully accept a coupe de champagne from the grave wine waiter who has materialized at my side with a carafe. When he has served us he leaves the clear glass decanter bubbling up in the middle of the table.
‘There’s something marvellous about seeing champagne like that, just spending itself,’ Francis says. ‘But I’ve always thought you spoke marvellous French, Michael. To me you’ve always seemed to speak what’s called more languages than exist.’
‘Well, that’s very nice of you to say so, Francis,’ I counter, at ease in an old game of mutual flattery. ‘But the French seem to me to be waiting for you to commit some small grammatical error, some faux pas, as they say. Then they pounce on it as though they’ve exposed you. That doesn’t actually put you at your ease.’
‘No, I do see that,’ Francis says. ‘Now, while we’re waiting for Michel and Zette, let’s see what we might like to eat. I myself am absolutely ravenous, although most of the time what I’d really like to eat is a lightly boiled egg with bread and butter. That would be a real luxury. I remember once going up in the lift at the Ritz with that very rich man called Gulbenkian and he was holding a brown paper bag and it burst and all these peas in the pod and new potatoes that he must have bought in the Berwick Street market fell out all over the floor. And I think he had been hoping just to cook something very simple for himself over a stove in his room or his suite or whatever. And of course to eat very simple food like that is a kind of a luxury for a rich man.
‘Anyway let’s have a look at the menu. I think they have this roast lobster with fennel. I don’t know whether you’d like to start with that, Michael? George wants something very simple. I’m not saying that because George is very rich. He may well be, of course. You never know about people and I’ve never been what’s called so rude as to ask. But he’s not been feeling very well, have you, George? Now what do you think you’d like, Sir George? I’m sure they do a very good roast chicken here.’
‘N’ile ’ave that,’ George says decisively as he lights another cigarette and twiddles his empty champagne glass round.
‘Well, it would be marvellous to have something really good and simple, just there in the middle of your plate with nothing else. I must say, I love the way they’ll give you just a grilled steak or piece of fish by itself in France, with the vegetables and things on a separate plate. Ah, look,’ Francis announces suddenly, glancing in the mirror opposite, ‘here’s Michel and Zette.’
George and I turn round to see a frail, elderly couple making their way over, preceded by a statuesque maître d’hôtel. Francis has got to his feet, so we do too.
‘Ah Francees,’ Michel says, and they have a brief hug. Francis kisses Zette on the cheek.
‘You’re both looking terribly well,’ Francis says, ushering them into their seats on the plush banquette. ‘It’s probably because Paris is so much more exhilarating than London, where everybody keeps going on strike and the pound seems to have turned to confetti it’s gone down so much.’
‘You always look well, Francees,’ says Michel. ‘You have the English complexion.’
‘Well, look at Michael,’ Francis says. ‘He’s got a kind of porcelain complexion. But then when you’re young, you’re not conscious of those kinds of things. That’s the way life is. You’re not aware of your advantages until you’ve lost them. That colour looks terribly good on you, Zette. What d’you call it?’
‘We call it cassis, Francees,’ says Zette, pleased to be drawn in to the conversation. Slight but sitting bolt upright, she is wearing a dark-red silk dress with pearls, and with her perfectly groomed white hair she looks the picture of wealthy respectability. Barely bigger than Zette, Michel also looks very Establishment in a dark suit, but you can see he has been following the latest trends because the collar of his shirt is longer and his tie wider than those of the other clients in the restaurant. I think Francis
told me that he always went to Savile Row to have his suits made. To me it seems extraordinary that a former Surrealist, who apparently nearly got lynched once for shouting ‘A bas la France’ during a demonstration, would cross the Channel in search of clothes. There are things I clearly don’t understand, and I put them to one side to ponder on later because Michel is talking to me in his elaborately courteous way.
‘We much regretted not being able to come to Francees’s dinner in London,’ he says, with all his facial features twitching as if they had a life of their own. ‘I was particularly looking forward to it. I have heard so much about le fameux bread sauce de Francees.’
‘Well, it was a delicious thing, Michel,’ I say, well groomed in this kind of amiable repartee. ‘We were just sorry you and Zette weren’t well enough. But I think they will be serving us equally delicious food this evening.’
Several black-coated figures have gathered round our table like crows to take our orders. George snorts derisively several times while they note everything down with elaborate attention. It’s been a moment since his glass has been refilled. Francis laughs at the whole performance, amused by George’s reaction but also attentive to the Leirises’s sense of decorum.
‘Thank you so much for sending me your most recent book, Michel,’ Francis says ceremoniously. ‘I read it right away and thought it was simply marvellous.’
‘I’m delighted you liked it, Francis,’ says Michel. ‘I only hope I can write something that does not totally misrepresent you in the catalogue that Galerie Maeght will publish for your exhibition there.’
‘Well, it’s an honour for me,’ says Francis, ‘that the greatest living French writer has accepted to do something about my work. I really can’t thank you enough, Michel.’
The exchange of elaborate compliments reminds me of the last time I saw them both at Sonia’s dinner in London.
‘I have been thinking a great deal about realism and reality,’ Michel says, wrinkling his forehead. A large, knotted vein throbs on his temple, and his face twitches constantly as he talks. But when he laughs all signs of anxiety disappear and he looks quite different. ‘They turn out to be very complex notions, and I must admit that I have not been able to define them at all satisfactorily. I try to pin them down but they constantly wriggle out of reach.’
‘They are complex,’ Francis says, ‘and of course it’s almost impossible to define them. I think everyone has their own idea of reality. We think of it as something objective, but in the end it’s perhaps the most subjective thing that exists. For me, realism is a question of capturing life as it is and returning it more violently, more intensely, on to the nervous system. People say I’m an Expressionist, but I think of myself as a realist. After all, I have nothing to express. I’m not trying to say anything in particular in my work. I’m simply attempting to convey my sensations about existence at the deepest level I can. After all, people live behind screens, they live screened off from reality, and perhaps, every now and then, my paintings record life and the way things are when some of those screens have been cleared away. That’s probably why so many people find my work horrific.’
‘I should like to do something similar in my writing,’ says Michel. ‘And I constantly wonder how I can put myself most at risk while writing. But in the end the only real risks are physical, when you put your life at risk.’
‘I completely agree with you, Michel,’ Francis says. ‘People go on and on about moral risk, which I don’t believe in. The real risks we take are physical. Now, I wonder whether we might have a little of that Château Latour they’ve decanted. I believe it’s meant to be a good year, but I’m such a fool with those things. I remember the years clearly, but then of course I can’t remember which were very good and which were very bad.’
George has been growing increasingly restive. I can hear his foot tapping next to mine under the table, and he is chain-smoking. Now that his champagne glass is empty and he’s scooped the port out of his melon, leaving it otherwise untouched, he seems to have found nothing else to do but smoke. So far he has been following the conversation with a look of polite blankness, but now he’s begun scowling at the haughty demeanour of the wine waiter who has begun his round, dispensing a minute quantity of the decanted Bordeaux into Zette’s and then Michel’s glass. As the sommelier comes closer, bearing the wine like a chalice before him, George gives a loudly dismissive snort and wrests the decanter from the alarmed waiter, filling his glass and mine, then leaning over to fill the others’ to the brim.
As George pours the last drops into Francis’s glass, the wine waiter recoils in horror, saying: ‘But, Monsieur, those are the dregs.’
‘But I love the dregs,’ says Francis, beaming up at him. ‘The dregs are what I prefer.’
Everyone at the table starts laughing. Even George is smiling. Another bottle of the same has been ordered. The conversation quickens. The gilt-framed mirrors glow with reflected light. Life has suddenly become more amusing.
‘Where the bloody hell is Michael?’ Garith comes out of his office shouting.
‘He’s at home doing background research for the interview he’ll be doing in Rome with Balthus,’ David replies.
‘Doing research on his own bloody navel, I should think,’ Garith roars. ‘Just because he’s got some poofter painter in town he goes flapping around getting bloody plastered with, he thinks he doesn’t have to turn up at the office. I’m trying to run an international magazine here, David, not some bloody whorehouse for pisspots and nancy boys.’
He slams his door shut, only to open it a moment later.
‘I’m trying to run a tight ship here, not some playground for pansies,’ Garith shouts in an aggrieved voice. ‘And all I get is subterfuge and evasiveness. Subterfuge and evasiveness,’ he repeats, clearly relishing the portentous sound of the words.
‘If you think an article as central to the February issue as a rare interview with the reclusive maestro of the Villa Medici is not worth a morning’s research,’ David replies icily, ‘then I suggest you give up any pretensions about making the magazine more than a pale, awkward English-language version of French Réalités and fire the lot of us.’
It is first-class David. Even Garith realizes that. He goes back into his office, then reappears immediately afterwards. He has his hat still on but his jacket off and his braces flapping around his thighs.
‘Got such a head this morning myself,’ he concedes. ‘Wouldn’t have one of your fizzy pills, would you, old boy?’
David has just given me this latest update over the phone. It’s true I was out on a massive bender with Francis last night that went from drinks at the Hôtel des Saints-Pères, where he’s staying, to champagne and oysters at the Dôme, then later pigs’ trotters and Burgundy in the fin-de-siècle splendour of Bofinger (I’m beginning to sound like one of the ‘Around Paris’ pieces I write for Réalités) and on through several bars round the Bastille. Francis constantly amazes me by the ease with which he seems to walk through walls into completely different spaces and situations. At one point in the early hours it looked as if everything had closed and then he lurched round a corner off the rue de la Roquette and there was a dingy Arab café with its lights still on. I didn’t like the look of it, or of the tough-looking men listening to a guttural, broken song coming from a transistor radio.
‘Well, this is my life,’ Francis said, as we drank cognac from a sticky bottle hidden at the back of the counter. ‘From bar to bar, person to person.’
‘Are you sure you want to stay, Francis?’ I asked timidly. One of the men had started swaying his hips to the music and was grinning over at us. His front teeth were silver-coloured and caught the dim overhead light.
‘I do want to stay,’ Francis said very clearly. ‘After all, I might just meet someone I could talk to,’ he added archly, smiling back at the grim-faced men.
I wasn’t so drunk that I didn’t realize it was time for me to bow out. We seemed to have come a long way from the fi
rst glittering glasses of champagne to these dregs of the night. But then, I thought as I began walking back to my bed-sit and stopped on the Pont des Arts to watch dawn creep up over the Seine, that’s exactly what Francis wanted: the dregs.
Francis Bacon in Your Blood Page 13