"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."
"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.