'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 painters. 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.'
