Chapter 30

Jean replaced the receiver and raced to the Air France departure lounge. He was at Orly Airport in exactly one hour. The taxi took him to the Hotel Intercontinental in record time. It was amazing what a hundred franc note could do.

Paul Nadon, his associate was seated in the lobby waiting patiently. He spotted Jean as he entered and joined him at the front desk. "Welcome to Paris, Monsieur. I trust you had a good flight."
"Excellent, Paul. Were you successful with the appointments?'
Jean signed in and took his key.
"Oui, Monsieur. Mr. Jaime Sabartes will see us this morning. Miss Toklas will see us after her nap at about 14:00 hrs. She asked if you could call first."
"Very good. Give me ten minutes and we can see Mr. Sabartes. Is it far from here?"
"No Monsieur. He's on the rue Boetie."
"Very well," from Jean who headed for the elevator.

A Sad-Loking Man with Pince-Nez Glasses

Jaime Sabartes was a sad-looking man with pince-nez glasses, a long face, square jaw and straight black hair falling over his tiny eyes. He wore a formally cut suit but the design was from another era. It was threadbare and shabby.
He greeted Jean with an air of indifference.
"Would you like some tea, Monsieur d'Aiguy?'
Jean accepted, arranged a notepad and said, "I understand you knew my mother."
"Yes," from the smaller man, and your grandmother too. We met in Culoz at Gertrude's, during the war. They are well, n'est ce pas ?"
"Yes, thank you," said Jean, sipping his tea." I assume you were there with Pablo Picasso."
"Yes, certainly. I often accompany Mr. Picasso. "
"But, not now," from Jean.
"No, Mr. Picasso is in the south with...a friend..."
"Mlle Gilot?"
"Yes, Mlle Gilot," he replied with a note of bitterness.
"Can you tell me exactly where I can find them," Jean inquired. "I am conducting an inquiry on behalf of certain interests in America. I wish to ask him some questions."
"That is a simple matter. You did not have to bother coming here. I would have given you the number on the telephone."
"No trouble, I assure you. I wanted to meet you. I heard my mother speak of you often."

Rose Spoke Negatively of Most People, Even Picasso

Jean refrained from indicating the tone of his mother's remarks. But Rose spoke negatively of most people, even Picasso, whom she referred to as 'that Communist painter'."
Jaime did not respond. He did smile slightly.
Jean scribbled on his pad. "Tell me," he started," do you remember who the last person was to have the Picasso portrait of Gertrude Stein?"
"I believe it was Gertrude who had it."
"And after she died?"
"I assume it would have remained with Miss Toklas."
"Ah, yes," said Jean, pausing to think." And Miss Toklas, is she still here in Paris?"
"I assume," was Jaime's only reply.

Describing the Painting

"Can you tell me anything about that painting?"
"Anything like what? It was a large portrait that Pablo gave her many years ago. I assume it's still with Miss Toklas."
"No. Actually it was donated to the New York Metropolitin Museum."
"Ahh," Sabartes pursed his lips. Picasso will be pleased to know that."
"Well, if you can provide me with his exact address I will notify him personally. I thank you for your time, and your tea. I have much to do today, as I'm certain you do."

Sabartes Writes Out an Address...

Sabartes wrote out an address in Juan Les Pins and another at Golfe Juan, near Antibes. Jean shook his hand and went out to his waiting car. Not much information, he thought, but he did have Picasso's current address.

"We must find a street in the sixth," Jean told Nadon, but I must telephone first. Miss Toklas is not well, I'm told."
They stopped at a call box and Jean dialed. After four rings, a weak female voice responded."Oui, Hello. Miss Toklas here"

"Hello, Mlle Toklas. This is Jean d'Aiguy, Rose's son, calling."
"Who? Please speak up."
"Jean d'Aiguy...Rose...D'Aiguy's son...from Culoz...Mae's grandson...Jean d'Aiguy...", he shouted.
"Mr. Daily, from the clinic, you say /"
"No, no, JEAN d'AIGUY from CULOZ...I am Rose's son," he shouted louder.

"Oh, Jean. Why didn't you say that before?'
Jean started to reply then thought best of it.
"How are you?" he said, slowly.
"I am very well, considering."
"Yes, yes. I understand. I would like to visit you."

"When?" asked Alice.
"Any time. Now, if it's convenient."
"But it's almost time for lunch. Can you pick up a few things from Fauchon?"
"Yes. Certainly. What would you like?"
"Don't worry about that. I will place an order. You will pick it up and we will have lunch together...in one hour. I will be waiting."
"No 5 rue Christine?" he asked.
"Yes. Our name is on the bell."

Realizing That Alice Had Hung Up

Jean was still thinking about the term 'our' when he realized that Alice had hung up. At Fauchon's the order for Miss Toklas was ready.
"Will you be taking care of the account?" a pretty young employee announced.

"With pleasure," Jean replied. He had no idea what he agreed to.
He stared at the itemized bill. It covered the last two months and equaled Jean's own food budget for six months. Jean removed a checkbook from his breast pocket and made out a check for 5000 francs.

"This will cover most than of what is owing," he said with a smile.
"I quite understand, Monsieur d'Aiguy," the girl smiled. "Merci."

Poor Alice, Jean thought . It had been rumored that she had fallen on hard times. This was certainly not what Gertrude had planned for her constant companion.

A Very Old-Looking Alice Opens the Door

(The entrance to Gertrude Stein's last Paris home at 5 rue Christine)

They found the rue Christine after some difficulty. "Give me an hour," he said to Nadon. A very old-looking Alice opened the door. Jean was not ready for the tiny, bent- over lady who greeted him. She ushered him into the salon where he placed the boxes from Fauchon's. The table was set for two and Alice began doling out the food and talking all the time. During her monologue about how Paris had changed and how difficult it was for her to stay on alone, He looked at the only painting that remained. It was a portrait of Alice done by Eugene Berman many years before. On the walls around us were lighter areas where paintings once hung.

"When I look at those marks on the wall, I can tell which painting hung where. They're like disconsolate ghosts. t is all stored in my mind's eye."

She shook her head as if deep in thought. They ate. She talked. He listened. He discovered that Allen Stein had died and it was his widow, Rubina, who had taken out an injunction against Alice and had removed the paintings.

Everything in a State of Disrepair

He noticed the horsehair chairs, now threadbare, the rugs worn to holes and the sad state of the cracking, unpainted walls. They hadn't seen a fresh coat of paint in at least fifteen years." Rubina, and the family," she explained,"arranged for me to receive four hundred dollars a month. This, he thought, was a mere pittance for a woman who was still extravagant.

Her perfumes were expensive, scarves specially designed, and hats made to order. It was common knowledge that she often entertained in luxurious restaurants and regularly made generous donations to the church. She had converted to Catholicism, she explained.
"I don't know how you manage," Jean said.
"But I do," she replied. "I no longer need the paintings. The fading shapes on the wall never let me forget what was and will be no more. I keep them all up here."

Everything Put to Memory

She pointed her crooked fingers at her temple. "They're in my memory with everything else. It is not necessary to see them any more."
Jean sighed. "Alice, it is about one of those paintings that I have come here today. "What became of the Picasso portrait of Gertrude?"
She furrowed her brow. "Everybody knows it was sent to New York. Gertrude willed it to the Met. I was here when they crated it and took it away."

"Well, you see. There is a slight problem. I have been asked to investigate the conditions under which it was shipped. Mind you, what you sent did arrive." He tried not too say too much too quickly.
"As a matter of fact that nice young lawyer from Lyons was here. We signed an affidavit," she remembered.
"We sent the one with the red x on the back of it; on the frame. The other painting was still at the Clos Poncet."
"The Clos Poncet? You mean the one in Culoz, near my chateau?"
"Yes. We were living there when Gertrude became ill..."

"I'm not following you Miss Toklas. What other painting?"
"Like I said," she replied."The copy."
"Copy," Jean exclaimed, just a little too loudly. "What copy?"
Alice smiled. "Surely you are aware, Monsieur d'Aiguy that we had one portrait here and a second in Culoz."
"You mean Picasso painted two? This is extraordinary."
"No, no. You are confused. Picasso did only one portrait of Gertrude. It was Marevna something-or-other who did the copy. Picasso knew about it. We always had one in each house. The copy was VERY good. You couldn't tell the difference. Even Pablo couldn't..."
"Then that explains the red x. That was so you'd know which was the real one."

"Exactly. Gertrude put that mark on the original when she gave it to, to... that Russian lady to copy."
"And you say the other one; the copy remains in Culoz?"
"Exactly," said Alice finally.
"And it has no red x?"
"No. None," she said finally.
Jean thought for a moment and made some notes.

Could It Have Been the One with the Red X?

"Tell me, Miss Toklas, "he began. "Is it at all possible that it was the one with the red x that was the copy and not the other way around?"
"No. Not at all. I saw Gertrude put that mark on it herself."
"And why exactly did you leave it in Culoz?" I was confused.
"Because, to be honest, it had no value at all, really. It was just something Gertrude paid a few hundred francs for many years ago. It always stayed in Culoz or Bilignin where we lived before. That's what it was made for; so we could see it without bringing the original down. It might have gotten ruined had we..."

"Then you insist that the painting in New York IS the original."
"There is no question about it. Maitre Beaude took it off the wall before the people came from the Museum. I was here. I saw him do it. Actually, as I recall, Pablo was here too. He came to say goodbye to the painting. It was not an easy thing for him to do. He was very sad. Maitre Beaude asked if a signature was necessary. Picasso said 'no'. Maitre Beaude took that to mean it was the original, and Pablo even looked for the red mark. But, in the end, it was Beaude himself who signed the papers which the young lady from New York took with her. You see, there was no signature on the painting. Pablo felt it wasn't necessary to sign it. Everybody could recognize Pablo's work."

Again Jean made notes. They finished their wine and he thanked her. "You are a great lady," Jean said. "I wish you well."
"Thank you Monsieur. And thank you for lunch. I think Fauchon is so superior than Prunier's." She extended her withered hand.
"You must visit us at the Chateau Beon one day."
"She said she'd be delighted, but she would never return to the valley where she had spent so many happy summers.

Did Anyone Else Know There Was a Copy?

As Jean gathered his things, he turned to Alice. "Tell me," he said,"who else knew that there was a copy of the portrait?"
Alice thought for a moment. "Hadley was there that night...and the lady who painted it...and Bobchen...Bobby Haas...the painter. He had introduced Marevna what's-her-name to Gertrude. Oh yes, Max Jacob. He was there too. Poor man. The Germans took him away."

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