“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. “Chéri, 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 café 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.