The future geniuses haunted the new art galleries, studying their competition. The Drouant-David Gallery was exhibiting an unknown young artist named Bernard Buffet, who had studied at the ecole des Beaux-Arts, and Soutine, Utrillo and Dufy. The students congregated at the Salon d'Automne and the Charpentier Gallery and Mlle. Roussa's Gallery on the Rue de Seine, and spent their spare time gossiping about their successful rivals.
The first time Kate saw Tony's apartment, she was stunned. She wisely made no comment, but she thought, Bloody hell! How can a son of mine live in this dreary closet? Aloud she said, "It has great charm, Tony. I don't see a refrigerator. Where do you keep your food?"
"Out on the w-windowsill."
Kate walked over to the window, opened it and selected an apple from the sill outside. "I'm not eating one of your subjects, am I?"
Tony laughed. "N-no, Mother."
Kate took a bite. "Now," she demanded, "tell me about your painting."
"There's n-not much to t-tell yet," Tony confessed. "We're just doing d-drawings this year."
"Do you like this Maitre Cantal?"
"He's m-marvelous. The important question is whether he l-likes me. Only about one-third of the class is going to m-make it to next year."
Not once did Kate mention Tony's joining the company.
Maitre Cantal was not a man to lavish praise. The biggest compliment Tony would get would be a grudging, "I suppose I've seen worse," or, "I'm almost beginning to see underneath."
At the end of the school term, Tony was among the eight advanced to the second-year class. To celebrate, Tony and the other relieved students went to a nightclub in Montmartre, got drunk and spent the night with some young English women who were on a tour of France.
When school started again, Tony began to work with oils and live models. It was like being released from kindergarten. After one year of sketching parts of anatomy, Tony felt he knew every muscle, nerve and gland in the human body. That wasn't drawing - it was copying. Now, with a paintbrush in his hand and a live model in front of him, Tony began to create. Even Maitre Cantal was impressed.
"You have the feel," he said grudgingly. "Now we must work on the technique."
There were about a dozen models who sat for classes at the school. The ones Maitre Cantal used most frequently were Carlos, a young man working his way through medical school; Annette, a short, buxom brunette with a clump of red pubic hair and an acne-scarred back; and Dominique Masson, a beautiful, young, willowy blonde with delicate cheekbones and deep-green eyes. Dominique also posed for several well-known painters. She was everyone's favorite. Every day after class the male students would gather around her, trying to make a date.
"I never mix pleasure with business," she told them. "Anyway," she teased, "it would not be fair. You have all seen what I have to offer. How do I know what you have to offer?"
And the ribald conversation would go on. But Dominique never went out with anyone at the school.
Late one afternoon when all the other students had left and Tony was finishing a painting of Dominique, she came up behind him unexpectedly. "My nose is too long."
Tony was flustered. "Oh. I'm sorry, I'll change it."
"No, no. The nose in the painting is fine. It is my nose that is too long."
Tony smiled. "I'm afraid I can't do much about that."
"A Frenchman would have said, 'Your nose is perfect, cherie.'"
"I like your nose, and I'm not French."
"Obviously. You have never asked me out. I wonder why."
Tony was taken aback. "I - I don't know. I guess it's because everyone else has, and you never go out with anybody."
Dominique smiled. "Everybody goes out with somebody. Good night."
And she was gone.
Tony noticed that whenever he stayed late, Dominique dressed and then returned to stand behind him and watched him paint.
"You are very good," she announced one afternoon. "You are going to be an important painter."
"Thank you, Dominique. I hope you're right."
"Painting is very serious to you, oui?"
"Oui."
"Would a man who is going to be an important painter like to buy me dinner?" She saw the look of surprise on his face. "I do not eat much. I must keep my figure."
Tony laughed. "Certainly. It would be a pleasure."
They ate at a bistro near Sacre-Cœur, and they discussed painters and painting. Tony was fascinated with her stories of the well-known artists for whom she posed. As they were having cafe au lait, Dominique said, "I must tell you, you are as good as any of them."
Tony was inordinately pleased, but all he said was, "I have a long way to go."
Outside the cafe, Dominique asked, "Are you going to invite me to see your apartment?"
"If you'd like to. I'm afraid it isn't much."
When they arrived, Dominique looked around the tiny, messy apartment and shook her head. "You were right. It is not much. Who takes care of you?"
"A cleaning lady comes in once a week."
"Fire her. This place is filthy. Don't you have a girl friend?"
"No."
She studied him a moment. "You're not queer?"
"No."
"Good. It would be a terrible waste. Find me a pail of water and some soap."
Dominique went to work on the apartment, cleaning and scrubbing and finally tidying up. When she had finished, she said, "That will have to do for now. My God, I need a bath."
She went into the tiny bathroom and ran water in the tub. "How do you fit yourself in this?" she called out.