The next step was getting into a good art school. The most prestigious art school in all of France was the Ecole des Beaux-Arts of Paris. Its standards were high, and few Americans were admitted. Tony applied for a place there. They'll never accept me, he thought. But if they do! Somehow, he had to show his mother he had made the right decision. He submitted three of his paintings and waited four weeks to hear whether he had been accepted. At the end of the fourth week, his concierge handed him a letter from the school. He was to report the following Monday.
The Ecole des Beaux-Arts was a large stone building, two stories high, with a dozen classrooms filled with students. Tony reported to the head of the school, Maitre Gessand, a towering, bitter-looking man with no neck and the thinnest lips Tony had ever seen.
"Your paintings are amateurish," he told Tony. "But they show promise. Our committee selected you more for what was not in the paintings than for what was in them. Do you understand?"
"Not exactly, maitre."
"You will, in time. I am assigning you to Maitre Cantal. He will be your teacher for the next five years—if vou last that long."
I'll last that long, Tony promised himself.
Maitre Cantal was a very short man, with a totally bald head which he covered with a purple beret. He had dark-brown eyes, a large, bulbous nose and lips like sausages. He greeted Tony with, "Americans are dilettantes, barbarians. Why are you here?"
"To learn, maitre."
Maitre Cantal grunted.
There were twenty-five pupils in the class, most of them French. Easels had been set up around the room, and Tony selected one near the window that overlooked a workingman's bistro. Scattered around the room were plaster casts of various parts of the human anatomy taken from Greek statues. Tony looked around for the model. He could see no one.
"You will begin," Maitre Cantal told the class.
"Excuse me," Tony said. "I—I didn't bring my paints with me."
"You will not need paints. You will spend the first year learning to draw properly."
The maitre pointed to the Greek statuary. "You will draw those. If it seems too simple for you, let me warn you: Before the year is over, more than half of you will be eliminated.". He warmed to his speech. "You will spend the first year learning anatomy. The second year—for those of you who pass the course—you will draw from live models, working with oils. The third year—and I assure you there will be fewer of you—you will paint with me, in my style, greatly improving on it, naturally. In the fourth and fifth years, you will find your own style, your own voice. Now let us get to work."
The class went to work.
The maitre went around the room, stopping at each easel to make criticisms or comments. When he came to the drawing Tony was working on, he said curtly, "No! That will not do. What I see is the outside of an arm. I want to see the inside. Muscles, bones, ligaments. I want to know there is blood flowing underneath. Do you know how to do that?"
"Yes, maitre. You think it, see it, feel it, and then you draw it."
When Tony was not in class, he was usually in his apartment sketching. He could have painted from dawn to dawn. Painting gave him a sense of freedom he had never known before. The simple act of sitting in front of an easel with a paintbrush in his hand made him feel godlike. He could create whole worlds with one hand. He could make a tree, a flower, a human, a universe. It was a heady experience. He had been born for this. When he was not painting, he was out on the streets of Paris exploring the fabulous city. Now it was his city, the place where his art was being born. There were two Parises, divided by the Seine into the Left Bank and the Right Bank, and they were worlds apart. The Right Bank was for the wealthy, the established. The Left Bank belonged to the students, the artists, the struggling. It was Montparnasse and the Boulevard Raspail and Saint-Germain-des-Pres. It was the Cafe Flore and Henry Miller and Elliot Paul. For Tony, it was home. He would sit for hours at the Boule Blanche or La Coupole with fellow students, discussing their arcane world.
"I understand the art director of the Guggenheim Museum is in Paris, buying up everything in sight."
"Tell him to wait for me!"
They all read the same magazines and shared them because they were expensive: Studio and Cahiers d'Art, Formes et Cou-leurs and Gazette des Beaux-Arts.
Tony had learned French at Le Rosey, and he found it easy to make friends with the other students in his class, for they all shared a common passion. They had no idea who Tony's family was, and they accepted him as one of them. Poor and struggling artists gathered at Cafe Flore and Les Deux Magots on Boulevard Saint-Germain, and ate at Le Pot d'Etian on the Rue des Canettes or at the Rue de l'Universite. None of the others had ever seen the inside of Lasserre or Maxim's.
In 1946, giants were practicing their art in Paris. From time to time, Tony caught glimpses of Pablo Picasso, and one day Tony and a friend saw Marc Chagall, a large, flamboyant man in his fifties, with a wild mop of hair just beginning to turn gray. Chagall was seated at a table across the cafe, in earnest conversation with a group of people.
"We're lucky to see him," Tony's friend whispered. "He comes to Paris very seldom. His home is at Vence, near the Mediterranean coast."
There was Max Ernst sipping an aperitif at a sidewalk cafe, and the great Alberto Giacometti walking down the Rue de Ri-voli, looking like one of his own sculptures, tall and thin and gnarled. Tony was surprised to note he was clubfooted. Tony met Hans Belmer, who was making a name for himself with erotic paintings of young girls turning into dismembered dolls. But perhaps Tony's most exciting moment came when he was introduced to Braque. The artist was cordial, but Tony was tongue-tied.
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 Mile. 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 1-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 five 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, chirie.'"
"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?"
"Out"
"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-Coeur, 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.
"I pull up my legs."
She laughed. "I would like to see that."
Fifteen minutes later, she came out of the bathroom with only a towel around her waist, her blond hair damp and curling. She had a beautiful figure, full breasts, a narrow waist and long, tapering legs. Tony had been unaware of her as a woman before. She had been merely a nude figure to be portrayed on canvas. Oddly enough, the towel changed everything. He felt a sudden rush of blood to his loins.
Dominique was watching him. "Would you like to make love to me?"
"Very much."
She slowly removed the towel. "Show me."
Tony had never known a woman like Dominique. She gave him everything and asked for nothing. She came over almost every evening to cook for Tony. When they went out to dinner, Dominique insisted on going to inexpensive bistros or sandwich bars. "You must save your money," she scolded him. "It is very difficult even for a good artist to get started. And you are good, cheri."
They went to Les Halles in the small hours of the morning and had onion soup at Pied de Cochon. They went to the Musee Carnavalet and out-of-the-way places where tourists did not go, like Cimetiere Pere-Lachaise—the final resting place of Oscar Wilde, Frederic Chopin, Honore de Balzac and Marcel Proust. They visited the catacombs and spent a lazy holiday week going down the Seine on a barge owned by a friend of Dominique's.
Dominique was a delight to be with. She had a quixotic sense of humor, and whenever Tony was depressed, she would laugh him out of it. She seemed to know everyone in Paris, and she took Tony to interesting parties where he met some of the most prominent figures of the day, like the poet Paul Eluard, and Andre Breton, in charge of the prestigious Galerie Maeght.
Dominique was a source of constant encouragement. "You are going to be better than all of them, cheri. Believe me. I know."
If Tony was in the mood to paint at night, Dominique would cheerfully pose for him, even though she had been working all day. God, I'm lucky, Tony thought. This was the first time he had been sure someone loved him for what he was, not who he was, and it was a feeling he cherished. Tony was afraid to tell Dominique he was the heir to one of the world's largest fortunes, afraid she would change, afraid they would lose what they had. But for her birthday Tony could not resist buying her a Russian lynx coat.
"It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life!" Dominique swirled the coat around her and danced around the room. She stopped in the middle of a spin. "Where did it come from? Tony, where did you get the money to buy this coat?"
He was ready for her. "It's hot—stolen. I bought it from a little man outside the Rodin Museum. He was anxious to get rid of it. It didn't cost me much more than a good cloth coat would cost at Au Printemps."
Dominique stared at him a moment, then burst out laughing. "I'll wear it even if we both go to prison!"
Then she threw her arms around Tony and started to cry. "Oh, Tony, you idiot. You darling, fantastic idiot."
It was well worth the lie, Tony decided.
One night Dominique suggested to Tony that he move in with her. Between working at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts and modeling for some of the better-known artists in Paris, Dominique was able to rent a large, modern apartment on Rue Pretres-Saint Severin. "You should not be living in a place like this, Tony. It is dreadful. Live with me, and you will not have to pay any rent. I can do your laundry, cook for you and—"
"No, Dominique. Thank you."
"But why?"
How could he explain? In the beginning he might have told her he was rich, but now it was too late. She would feel he had been making a fool of her. So he said, "It would be like living off you. You've already given me too much."
"Then I'm giving up my apartment and moving in here. I want to be with you."
She moved in the following day.
There was a wonderful, easy intimacy between them. They spent weekends in the country and stopped at little hostels where Tony would set up his easel and paint landscapes, and when they got hungry Dominique would spread out a picnic lunch she had prepared and they would eat in a meadow. Afterward, they made long, sweet love. Tony had never been so completely happy.
His work was progressing beautifully. One morning Maitre Cantal held up one of Tony's paintings and said to the class, "Look at that body. You can see it breathing."
Tony could hardly wait to tell Dominique that night. "You know how I got the breathing just right? I hold the model in my arms every night."
Dominique laughed in excitement and then grew serious. "Tony, I do not think you need three more years of school. You are ready now. Everyone at the school sees that, even Cantal."
Tony's fear was that he was not good enough, that he was just another p
ainter, that his work would be lost in the flood of pictures turned out by thousands of artists all over the world every day. He could not bear the thought of it. Winning is what's important, Tony. Remember that.
Sometimes when Tony finished a painting he would be filled with a sense of elation and think, / have talent I really kmve talent. At other times he would look at his work and think, I'm a bloody amateur.
With Dominique's encouragement, Tony was gaining more and more confidence in his work. He had finished almost two dozen paintings on his own. Landscapes, still fifes. There was a painting of Dominique lying nude under a tree, the sun dappling her body. A man's jacket and shirt were in the foreground, and the viewer knew the woman awaited her lover.
When Dominique saw the painting, she cried, "You must have an exhibition!"
"You're mad, Dominique! I'm not ready."
"You're wrong, mon cher."
Tony arrived home late the next afternoon to find that Dominique was not alone. Anton Goerg, a thin man with an enormous potbelly and protuberant hazel eyes, was with her. He was the owner and proprietor of the Goerg Gallery, a modest gallery on the Rue Dauphine. Tony's paintings were spread around the room.
"What's going on?" Tony asked.
"What's going on, monsieur," Anton Goerg exclaimed, "is that I think your work is brilliant." He clapped Tony on the back. "I would be honored to give you a showing in my gallery."
Tony looked over at Dominique, and she was beaming at him. "I—I don't know what to say."
"You have already said it," Goerg replied. "On these canvases."
Tony and Dominique stayed up half the night discussing it.
"I don't feel I'm ready. The critics will crucify me."
"You're wrong, cheri. This is perfect for you. It is a small gallery. Only the local people will come and judge 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."
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