you. There is no way you can get hurt. Monsieur Goerg would never offer to give you an exhibition if he did not believe in you. He agrees with me that you are going to be a very important artist.'
'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.'