CHAPTER 9

I finally got to see Gertrude that afternoon and told her about my talk with Marevna.
"You did well, Bobby," she smiled. "We will meet her before I leave for Bilignin. You will come and we will drink to the occasion."

She laughed nervously. As we walked through the Luxembourg Gertrude waved to many people.

"You seem to know everyone," I joked.
"Everyone who is anyone," she answered.
"I will introduce you as "Robert Bartlett Haas, the great Canadian painter."

When I objected to the title she replied. "In this world one has to
look out for oneself. These people know me and my taste for
good painting. If I continue to introduce you, the dealers will have people breaking down their doors to see your work. Now isn't that interesting?"
"Yes, but a little devious. I'm not a great painter. I have very few
finished works."

Something Interesting for Marevna

"You are not to argue with me. When you come with Marevna, you will bring me something interesting. I will buy it and hang it with the Picassos, Matisses and Cezannes. People will see it. I will make you famous."
"But..." I started to say.
"No buts." she reprimanded. "You will do as I say."
The subject was closed.
We sat on wooden lawn chairs, rented for a few sous, and talked about people, art, travel and, of course, writing. Gertrude was never at a loss for words. Alice crocheted quietly or fed the pigeons. I had Gertrude's undivided attention. The air was fresh as summer had not yet fully arrived. The fountain jets rose and fell. It was a magical moment under a flawless Paris sky.

Gertrude watched the water jet. "It repeats and repeats. I write under that influence. Again and again..."
I had a surging feeling of well-being. I was reminded of a friend who once said, "It is harder sometimes to bear happiness than pain."

Walking with Gertrude for the Next Hour

We walked for the next hour. I was walking with Gertrude on my arm. Alice tended to their dog, Basket's, needs. He was a spoiled poodle with a mind of his own. When Gertrude wasn't looking, Alice fed Basket chocolates.
"Have you read my book yet?" she asked.
"No," I replied sheepishly. "I've been busy painting..."
"You can never be too busy to read." she chided. "You must read and buy paintings. You must build up a collection of your own - - for the future."

She obviously had no idea how little money I had.

"I can't afford to buy paintings," I stated.
"Nonsense," she replied. "Art is not expensive. They're so easy to find. Buy small unknown pieces that appeal to you. Hang them. They will give you pleasure. Now don't give me an argument. Just do it!"

Many Teachers in Paris, but Gertrude Was Nearly Always Right

Now, as I look back on that night in Montparnasse, I realize that Gertrude was right. During my stay in Paris, I had many teachers. Some were often right but Gertrude was nearly always right.
I left my new companion at her door and walked home through the narrow and darkening streets of Montparnasse. Gertrude's remark about collecting art gave me a vision of a future surrounded a souvenir collection of my apprentice days in Paris. At that moment I was looking at life as a vision of a vision. I was looking into an uncertain future and still I smiled. I'm not certain if I was clairvoyant or naive.

(The Moulin Rouge, one of the living symbols of the Paris everyone knows)

That weekend was full of surprises. Friday I set out for Kissling's before dawn. He was seated at a small table, sipping coffee, totally composed.
"You are here early. That is good. Last night my cat died. We must have a funeral and I cannot do it alone.
"Now?" I protested.
"Yes. Gottleib can wait. Here hold the cat."

He handed me a bundle encased in a towel. I followed his instructions and held the bundle high over my head. Kissling lit two candles, and with one in each hand, he walked slowly around me chanting the mourner's prayer.
"Y'is gedal v'ys kaddash..." he moaned in a monotonous manner.
I could hardly believe what was happening. Kissling had purged the thought of the duel and his internal fears by concentrating on the burial of his beloved cat.
"...shmey d'kudshah...v'imru...amen...."

He took the bundle from my arms and went out into the back yard.
There, he had prepared a small gravesite.
He uncovered the sheet for a last look at his beloved cat. I saw a very large cat with its mouth still smeared with paint.
He showed great emotion as he began to cover the dead cat with soft sand.
"Poor little girl. The poor little thing is dead. She was fifteen years old," he offered.
"A goodly age for a cat." I responded.

"But not a good age for death. There is no good age for death. She was so beautiful, so amusing. But her curiosity and her gluttony were too great. She loved, she suffered, and she is dead. Peace be upon her soul." Tears fell from his eyes. "I wanted to send it to my friend, Ilya, as a gift."
"The dead cat?" I was astonished.
"Sure. Why not? He was very fond of her."

Fear of the Duel's Possibilities

Kissling fought back tears. He stared into space. Fear of the duel's possibilities were surfacing.

Then he added. "I couldn't save her. She ate a whole tube of paint - - cadmium yellow." He took a deep breath and wiped a tear from his eye.
"There", he sighed. "Now we can dispose of Gottleib." For the first time, he smiled nervously.

I wasn't used to seeing Kissling so serious. He was a man of laughter. His gaiety was infectious. He retrieved his fencing sword and handed me the sabers in an ornate box. Then he slammed the door and with long, determined strides he headed into rue Joseph Bara towards Parc-des-Princes. I had trouble keeping up with him for the next twenty minutes. The first light was fighting its way onto a silent Paris. I continued a few paces behind like an Arab's wife.

Despite the hour, a crowd gathered. Gottleib and Rivera waited near the bicycle path. We quickly reviewed the rules. The combatants took their pistols and cocked them. As though it had been predetermined, they both wore white shirts and black pants. They were back to back as Rivera; standing beside me began to count. There were no sounds except the duelists' steps and the crowd shying away. The adversaries showed no emotion.

"...dix-huit...dix-neuf...VINGT "

Two Shots Rang...Over the Silent Morning

I took a breath as two shots rang simultaneously over the silent morning. The two men stood facing each other with smoking pistols. They had both missed. I had the urge to cross myself. Instead, I opened the saber box. Each man reached for the flexible blades, and moved farther away. Rivera stood between the combatants holding his large walking stick at shoulder height.

Not a word was spoken. No one in the crowd moved. Rivera nodded to both men as they raised their sabers to meet each other's at the Mexican's stick. There was a short pause. Rivera dropped his stick.
With their left hands clutching their belts behind them, the adversaries assumed fighting positions, circled nervously and readied for the fight. And then it began.

Steel clanged and sparks flew into the cool morning air as the well-dressed crowd, entirely male, rested on their canes and stared transfixed as Kissling and Gottleib circled each other. A newspaper reporter taking notes as he watched in a businesslike fashion.

It was Guillaume Apollinaire, for whom the contest was a struggle between Kissling, a follower of Derain, and Gottleib, a disciple of Van Gogh. Two Polish painters and a Polish journalist saw everything in terms of who followed whom, as though it mattered.

The Struggle Grows More Furious

The struggle lasted an hour and became more furious as tempers grew. The two had to be separated forcibly, but not before Gottlieb was wounded on the chin and Kissling had blood running from the bridge of his nose. Kissling quickly dubbed his wound "the fourth separation of Poland". Gottleib and Rivera left without a word.

Kissling was euphoric. This little scar is nothing. His silky skin and beautiful face were still generally intact. "I had worse wounds when I was in the foreign legion," he shouted.

That night Kissling served red wine in his studio to celebrate his victory. Getting through the ordeal was victory itself. For months afterwards the duel was reported in the papers and magazines. My name was never mentioned.

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