CHAPTER 6

Le Dome was a favorite hangout on the celebrated Blvd St Michel, or 'Boul Mich' as most locals called it.

La Rotonde, across the street served well for other most of the 'artistes,' while many of the great names spent their time arguing at Le Closerie Des Lilas a few blocks east.

Where the Serious Eaters Frolicked

Of course, the serious eaters, the Russian émigrés and wealthy set, frolicked at the roomier Coupole. For me and my often penniless friends, the place to be was Le Select. The patroness was known simply as Mme Select, and she ran a 'tight ship.'

But we respected her and she showed softness to those of us who paid our tabs and conducted ourselves as she thought we should. Mme Select could be tough when necessary, and called the 'gendarmes' from time to time to quell a potential argument among the unruly, crazy Americans. Over the months of my Paris sojourn, I saw every would-be artist, famous painter or writer, every poet, con- artist, charlatan, fraud, mountebank, free loader, cheat, liar or professional pretender.

(Le Select was defintely the place to be among Paris restaurants, especially if you were often penniless)

Its difficult now, looking back, to remember the regulars at Le Select as anything but chums; people to drink with or discuss the issues of the day. But now as I remember them, I rekindle the euphoric sensation of knowing that I was once surrounded by Titans who were to create such great art and literature.

They came from all over Europe and America. Paris drew Japanese impressionists, Rumanian and Swiss Dadaists in the post war years. e e cummings was there, arguing with Ezra Pound or John Dos Passos for hours over a single phrase of poetry. Dos Passos had already written a best seller. I saw Hemingway only once.

His wife was probably at home with the baby. Ernest came in with Robert McAlmon, who, they said, was planning to go into publishing. Would-be writers gathered around McAlmon like pilgrims at a turkey dinner.

A Handsome Woman Sat Silently...

A handsome woman sat silently listening to them. I learned she was Kay Boyle, another aspiring author who was encouraged by McAlmon. Someone told me that McAlmon had given her some money so she could leave her husband. I met Kay again years later at Gertrude's and at the Crosby's. She was with a new husband, the artist Lawrence Vail, a good friend of Hart Crane who I once met at a Crosby soirée. Harry wanted to help Kay. They were good friends.

One afternoon, Picasso came in with his strange entourage. Fernande, who was living with him at the time, sat alone, reading American comics while Picasso and his crew flitted from table to table. I remember seeing Picasso's poet friend Max Jacob, in a checkered suit and large cravat, clowning, as usual. Max and Andre Salmon talked to Guillaume Apollinaire and Marie Laurencin at a nearby table. Jean Cocteau and Picasso talked on the sidewalk.

They had been friends for some time and were about to leave for Rome, where they would collaborate with Massine, Satie, and Serge Diaghilev's Russian Ballet in a musical extravaganza called "Parade". Then Cocteau waved at someone and strode off with a flair. Picasso looked our way and spotted Jules Pascin and Moise Kissling who I was seated with. Jules and Moise were good friends who helped me with my painting. Kissling and I chatted about cars- - his obsession. I learned, that day, that Pascin had spent the war years in America.

"I lived in Manhattan," he reported. "But I visited Cuba and Florida. It was too cold in New York and too hot in Florida. In New York they have magnificent parks, but I still prefer Paris."

"Pascin here is an American citizen," said an admiring Kissling. "He's a Bulgarian, German, Austrian, American and Frenchman. He can't make up his mind."

Pascin Sat with His Head Bent Over

Under the table lay Kissling's dog, Kouski. Pascin, in his usual manner, sat with his head bent over sheets of newsprint. His head was close to the table. He sketched on the paper with slender hands and pointed fingers doing one drawing after another. He added color with coffee grounds or cigarette ashes. When he used watercolors, he thinned them with seltzer water.

He threw the rejected drawings under the table and the mess around him grew with time. I think they tolerated me because of the check from home that arrived punctually each month. Picasso came over with a cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. He wore black, striped trousers, a short jacket and weathered sandals, his red tie and cap made him look like a circus character. His black eyes shone with an extraordinary brilliance.

"Pascin, my friend," he hollered in a gruff accented southern voice. His black eyes flashed. "Where have you been hiding, my friend? You're usually at Le Dome. "
"I've been hiding from you," Pascin replied sarcastically, without looking up.
Picasso's eyes opened even wider. "From me!" he exclaimed. Why would you hide from a man who loves you?"

"It's my work I'm hiding. The last time you came to my studio you stole an idea I was working on. That wouldn't have been so bad, but you ended up doing a better job than I could ever do. You are a thief."

Picasso gestured to the waiter for a Pernod.

"Don't fret my friend. I steal from everybody. That's where I get my ideas. It's what you do when you copy paintings at the Louvre. All you Russian gangsters do it. But you are right. I come like a thief in the dark. I steal. That's what painters do. But forget all that. Have a drink. Lighten up. Come to my studio. Steal from me."

"Garcon," he called, "Pernod for my friends."

Pascin didn't look up, nor did he stop sketching and while he sketched, he made witty and sarcastic observations.

"I copy in order to eat, to survive. For me it's a commission."
"Come on, Pascin," Picasso chided. "Show a little warmth. Put aside your silly little drawings."

Pascin leaned closer to his work.

Picasso Asks for Kissling's Help

"And you Kissling," Picasso continued. "You're a sensible man. Talk to him."

"It's no use," said Kissling. "Young Robert here and myself, we drink tea and talk. Pascin just sketches and reads his newspaper. There's no changing him." He turned to me. "Do you know our young friend?" he asked Picasso. "He's a protégé of mine." This title came as a surprise.

Picasso extended a nicotine-stained hand. "Hola!" he exclaimed. "I am happy to meet you."

(Behind the gate, one of Picasso's studios at 7 rue des Grands Augustins in Paris)

I extended my hand and half stood up. Picasso roared with laughter.
"He is well-mannered, your young friend. He stands up. We don't see that much any more. I like it, but it is not necessary.

From this moment on I am planning to steal you from Kissling and his silent friend here and make you a protégé of mine." He put his arm around me. "Actually," he said," you do well to follow these two. They can teach you something."
I smiled, not knowing what to say. Gertrude came to mind.

"I met a friend of yours, recently. She showed me a portrait you did of her in gold tones. It was marvelous."

"Aha," Picasso roared. "You must mean Gertrude. This young man moves in important circles. He's a protégé of Kissling, and the mysterious Jules Pascin. A friend, no less, of Miss Gertrude Stein, seated at the Select with Picasso. And so young..."

"I only recently met her," I said, almost apologetically. "I met her just once."

"And what did you think of her, my young friend?"

I Knew He Was Gertrude's Friend

I hesitated. I knew he was Gertrude's friend, and I knew about her collection of Picasso's paintings. "I liked her," I answered, "but I was a little overwhelmed by her frankness. She is a very determined person."

"Ah, yes", he laughed. "But she can be a good friend for you. Did you meet the Miss Toklas with tiny feet and the eyes of a gypsy?"

"Yes, Miss Toklas was there. She served me tea and cookies."
Pablo laughed again. "Yes, she always feeds you well. There are often such good little sandwiches, too." Then, more pensively, he added," but it's not for little sandwiches that we go to Gertrude's."

He turned back to Kissling. "He will go far, your young friend here, with Gertrude Stein as a sponsor."

"Oh," I interrupted. "She's not my sponsor. She's never seen my work. I have no sponsor. She's just someone I met once." I didn't want to tell Picasso why I had been summoned to Gertrude's.

"Well," replied Picasso. "You can meet her again if you like. I'm having a big party for Rousseau at my place on Saturday. Gertrude will be there. You can come too. Come with Kissling. You can even bring Pascin if you like. But first you'll have to pull him away from his sketching."

We All Laughed, But Pascin...

We all laughed, but Pascin lowered his head closer to his drawing. "I'm working," he said dryly." I'm working on an idea."

"Maybe that's the way they do things in Bulgaria, but I can't do that," Picasso offered, as he sipped his drink and lit another cigarette. "I have a general idea, but I can't work it out in advance. For me it has to emerge, to change as I go. Even the colors change. Only during the times I used just blue or rose, did I know the color in advance. It was a discipline to use only one color. Then I went through a period when I used anything but that color. It's a good discipline."

Then he added, less seriously. "So, it is settled. You will all come to my party for Rousseau. He's a great painter. We must pay homage to his talent. It will be a banquet that no one will ever forget. Saturday at the Bateau Lavoire, at seven o'clock." He rose and drained his glass, and walked away. I watched him for a while as he talked with his friends in his usual animated fashion, -- always the Spaniard.

Ezra Pound Discusses Revolutionary News from Russia

At other tables, waiters, artists, writers, models, and poets, debated the issue of the day. I overheard Ezra Pound discussing the revolutionary news from Russia with a man who looked remarkably like Leon Trotsky, who often frequented these bistros. A third man at the table complained, "It's all too intellectual for me," he sighed.

Pound stood up, raised his glass, and shouted, "Intellectuals of the world unite. You have nothing to lose but your brains."

Kissling winked at me. "The intellectuals are working overtime tonight." Then he leaned over and asked, "So, would you like to go to Pablo's little party?"
"Sure," I replied. Why not? I'm sure it will be interesting."
"And different too. Pablo's friends are a rowdy bunch of pranksters. You'll have to watch out for them."
"What do you mean?" I asked.

He smiled mysteriously. "That depends. Apollinaire will certainly be there so Marie Laurencin won't be far behind. Max Jacob, who's talking to Picasso now, is the most dangerous. He's a prankster-poet and a joker. It's an odd combination. You can expect anything from him. Andre Salmon, Pablo's other poet friend, drinks too much. And, of course Gertrude and Alice will hold court."

"Yes, I'd like to go. It has to be interesting, and the food will be good, I'm sure. We can go together. I'm not familiar with Montmartre."

Pascin didn't look up but continued drawing and throwing the rejects on the floor. Kissling sat back. "I'm not certain that I will be able to go", he announced. But if I do go, we will go together."

Pascin frowned silently.

"Why wouldn't you go?" I asked. "You just suggested that it was a good idea. I thought you were anxious to be there."

A Duel Is a Question of Honor

"Yes," he replied pursing his lips. He looked around to see if anyone was within earshot. Then he whispered, "It's a question of honor."
"What is?" I was puzzled.
"The duel I'm fighting. My duel. Surely you heard of my duel."
I hadn't, and it showed in my face. "Are you serious?"
"One doesn't joke about a question of honor." he said.
"But with whom are you dueling, and why?"

I had never known anybody who had fought a duel. Kissling moved even closer. Pascin ignored us. He, no doubt, knew the details already.

"It's with Gottlieb," he whispered.

"Gottlieb," I exclaimed, almost too loudly. "But he's your friend from home. You studied together in Crakow. You live in the same building and always talk so highly of him. I just don't understand how a thing like this could happen."
"Yes, that's all true but, like I said, it's a matter of honor."

"Honor? But you can get killed! "I said, incredulously.
"No," he replied. "It's with swords. People don't usually get killed dueling with swords. But there's always the chance, I suppose. That's why I'm not sure I can go to Picasso's party."
"When is it?" I asked.
"Very, early this Friday, near the bicycle racing path at the Parc-des Princes at the Porte de St Cloud..., at dawn. Perhaps you'd like to come."
How odd to be invited to a friend's duel. "Of course I'll come."
"I have an idea" he whispered. "Perhaps you can help. There is a certain job that has to be done."

I hesitated. "Well, I suppose I could help if you need me. But first I must know why this matter of honor can't be settled in another way."
"Never mind all that", he said, waving a hand. You act as my second. I'll explain what has to can be my second but its dangerous work. If the pistol shots don't kill you the flying blades might."

A Question about Diego Rivera, the Painter

"Pistols?" I asked. I thought you said swords."
"Swords, after the initial shots. If the shot doesn't do the trick, we go at it for an hour with swords. The first thing you'll have to do is meet with Gottlieb's second. You know Diego Rivera, the painter?"

"Sure, I know him well." He was Morevna's lover and was at her next- door flat often. I also knew that he and Gottlieb were friends."
"Then it's settled," he replied. "You will act as my second, and Rivera will act for Gottlieb. But you must meet with Diego as soon as possible. There's not much time."

Unlike Pascin, I felt the enormity of Kissling's situation. Pascin chose to turn his back on what he called "decadent behavior". All I knew about duels was what I had read in History books. It all sounded so romantic and far away. But his true life drama could cost a man his life. Yes, I truly felt the enormity of the situation. I was happy to be home in the quiet of my modest flat, away from the hubbub of the drinkers at Le Select.

Kissling's instructions rang in my ears. "Go and see Rivera as soon as you can. And be there at dawn on Friday, at the Parc-des-Princes, at the Port St Cloud. It's a matter of honor.

What had I gotten myself into? Perhaps one of them would back down. Maybe nobody would be killed. All at once the Rousseau banquet at Picasso's held little interest for me.''

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