Chapter 13

The day of the meeting with Gertrude and Marevna was like all others. I attended classes in the morning and went to Kissling's in the afternoon for his regular gathering. Renee took the opportunity to paint at a friend's studio.

This was a gathering of men. There was still the atmosphere of a post wedding celebration but it ended a little earlier than usual. Kissling, Pascin and I found ourselves at La Rotonde.

Drinking and Talking in the Bistros

The bistros were wonderful places to do nothing but drink and talk. The artists used these places to see friends, make contacts and exchange gossip. An artist or writer at a sidewalk cafe never considered the notion of doing 'nothing'. The exchange of information was essential to their survival. The drinks came in little white saucers and when the colorful liquids were replaced, the little dishes were stacked up. The waiter kept track.

The conversation was often heated and exhausting. That evening Renee joined us. She sat quietly, clinging on to Kissling's arm. He didn't complain as he drank and smoked with his one free arm. Pascin smoked and sketched, as usual. I sipped my beer and drank in the scene. On the street, people meandered while noisy taxi cabs, horns blazing, darted from lane to lane. There were street musicians playing accordions ready to accept a few sous in their worn berets. The takings, that night, were slim. Regulars rarely tipped.

"I hear there was no food at Picasso's little party," from Kissling.
"Oh, there was food but they had to scrounge around for it. Pablo had ordered it for the wrong day. Felix Potin, the caterer made him pay for it anyway since it was prepared in advance. It was actually delivered at noon the next day."

"No problem. Picasso has lots of money these days."
"So I hear," I replied. "How come you didn't show up?" I asked.
"We wanted to, but Renee and I just couldn't pull ourselves away."
Renee stroked the back of Kissling's neck. I understood.
We continued to drink and talk. People came and went. They all waved at Kissling, especially the girls. Renee hardly noticed and if she did, she didn't seem to care.

"Models", said Kissling. "Every country girl comes to Paris to be a model. The pretty ones and the plump ones I hire. The ugly ones I send to Picasso." But Picasso rarely, if ever, uses models," I suggested.

Picasso Doesn't Need Models

Pascin finally spoke without looking up from his sketching. "The way he paints, he doesn't need models. I'm surprised he had the party for Rousseau. Pablo is moving in a new circle these days. He has rich friends who introduce him to buyers. He has money now."
"But he dresses the same," I protested.

"Yes, like a peasant," said Pascin. "He'll never change."
Kissling sat back and drained his glass. Within seconds a mustached waiter refilled his glass. Another white saucer sat on the growing pile.
"They say a rich Russian collector bought all Picasso's work. Fifty pieces at a good price. I'm sure they will shock Moscow."

"Who could afford fifty paintings at once?" I asked.

Pascin turned to me. "His name is Serge Schukine. But it's a waste. They will be lost there among the Russians. Only Picasso will benefit. He always manages to find the rich buyers." There was a tinge of sarcasm in his voice.

The conversation continued. Pascin drank tea from a glass while he continued his sketches. The stars were clear over Paris. The dreamlike quality of the French city waved over me as I watched a fountain across the street. The jets rose and fell on foamy parabolas perpetually climbing gracefully, only to fall. It was a magical moment and I felt fortunate to have this experience. Yet, I was uneasy about something that might happen to this magic. I feared that this pleasant mood might one day end. I was happy but aware that sometimes it is harder to bear happiness than pain.

Time to Meet Marevna and Introduce Her to Gertrude

I noticed the time and bade farewell to my friends. It was time to meet Marevna and introduce her to Gertrude. We had arranged to meet where the Gardens of Luxembourg opened onto the rue de Fleurus. I walked along the boul. Mich filled with thoughts of the past week and the rendezvous ahead. I carried one of my paintings, wrapped in newspaper. I was interested to hear what Gertrude thought of it. Could it possibly interest her?

I thought back at the confused night at Picasso's party. I was encompassed by a wave of sorrow as I thought about the Douanier whose naive countenance was that of a man whose new found life in the limelight was as a man entering a dream. But that dream was not long-lived. The little customs collector, turned painter, died soon after of blood poisoning. The sometimes street musician, composer and playwright had impressed many people with his primitive eye. Among them were Picasso and Renoir.

There were only seven people at Rousseau's funeral. I was one of them. He had been a naive, eccentric butt of jokes throughout the quartier, but he saw nature as few had before him. For Rousseau it had all belonged to him.

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