Allan Stein (9 page)

"Miriam. You startled me."

"God, it smells in here. I told him to eat more yogurt." She stared past my shoulder, to a dim alcove. And there where maman gazed, on a bunched pile of duvets, with a toasty heater glowing red near the bed, the boy slept. He was still dressed, his flushed face pressed into a book on which he drooled. Miriam unplugged the heater and tugged his socks and shirt off, as if this meant nothing. She threw a duvet over him and squelched the lights as we left. "Charming, isn't he?"

"Mmm."

Al
lan Stein, who had just turned ten, woke up in the cold bedroom above the church at 58 rue Madame and listened for his parents. There was nothing. Birds, a very few, sang in the small garden beneath the tall window. The sky was still black. A broom could be heard, straw raking over stone, very near. Madame Vernot kept the steps so clean. Who could tell at what hour she would begin? Allan shivered in his bed and saw that his fire was out. He reached toward the coal. If he stretched far enough, and kept one ankle pried beneath the brass rail for leverage, he could fill the stove and restart it
without leaving his bed. He had asked Sally, his mother, if the bed could be moved closer, but she said it might catch fire and must be kept where it was.

Today is November 28,1905, a very special day for Allan. He will meet his Aunt Gertrude at nine o'clock and travel across Paris to Montmartre. The painter Picasso will paint his portrait. It is a gift for his birthday, from his mother and father, who like paintings very much. Really it is a gift for themselves, like so much of what they give to Allan.

     
Allan got the fire started, then curled into his blankets and listened to the birds. They made a weak, diminished sound, a very sad bird sound. Allan felt the room grow warmer. He had not eaten much at dinner, wanting to be slim for Picasso. He might pose without clothes, Auntie Gertrude told him, and that would be an honor. Sometimes, when he ate very much, his stomach stuck out like those of the cherubs in paintings he had seen. He wanted to look like a boxer, not a cherub. Allan felt the muscles of his chest and then his ribs. He ran his hands over them, stopping to push his finger into the shallow depression of his belly button. He flexed his stomach and enjoyed the pressure against his fingertip. He raked his fingers through his hair and left them there, warm.

     
There was dim light in the sky. Today he would miss school. Paintings were not made in a moment, Sally had told him; some took a lifetime. Gertrude said Picasso did not need to see Allan to paint him. The sitting was a formality, a chance for conversation. She insisted on going with him. Picasso would be bored by a child. Under his tent of blankets, Allan pushed his closed fist hard against his stomach. Surely he and Picasso could discuss boxing.

     
The weak fire did not warm the room. Sadie Vernot knocked and said breakfast was ready. Sally and Mike were still in bed. Allan sat with Sadie in the kitchen, where the stove kept the room very hot, and Sadie served butter with bread and hot chocolate. Allan 
made an argument to get marmalade and Sadie gave it to him. Sadie talked but Allan didn't listen, and soon it was time to go.

     
Allan meets Gertrude at nine on the rue de Fleurus. She gives him a sack of coal to carry to Picasso's and fifteen centimes for the omnibus at the Place Saint-Michel. Gertrude dislikes the underground, especially on fine days. They walk through the Luxembourg Garden. The air is bright and cold. Mist hangs above the pond and Allan asks if they can see the Bouguereaus, but Gertrude says no, the galleries are closed. Allan hugs the sack of coal to his chest, watching a man sweep leaves. The boulevard is crowded and exciting. They cross without stopping and are almost hit by an automobile!

     
The omnibus is waiting. They sit outside on top. It is, Gertrude says, as poorly horsed as it is driven. The Seine is high and makes eggs from the arches of the Pont des Arts and their reflection. "Look," Allan points out. "Eggs." But Gertrude does not see it and looks past the bridge to the Louvre. A man beside them speaks English. He is a tourist and comes from Tenby, the Naples of Wales. He smells like cheese and alcohol, and Allan looks away. Gertrude says, "The Louvre, Allan. Observe its mass and carelessness."

     
It is 11:18 A.M. exactly. The sky is ice blue, the stones of the buildings gray. The Opera looks like a great mint hat on a box. The Grand Hotel has automobiles waiting in line by the entrance, "pretty swifty." The Welshman gets off. Picasso lives in Montmartre, Gertrude explains, because it is higher up so he can see more. Everyone else lives in Montparnasse because everyone else lives in Montparnasse. The Boulevard Haussmann is very dull, but they aren't on it for long. A commotion. The pealing bells crash as the pompiers are released from their scrubbed building to fly down the boulevard behind the combed and lathering horses.

     
"Is there a fire?" Gertrude asks. Yes, I see it there beyond the Gare Saint-Lazare, a column of smoke, a trace in the air above the 
gray roofs, snaking away from the street of its origin, above flung windows and hung laundry, spiraling from the narrow streets on the butte of Montmartre. It is thin and twists upward before disappearing like a sound in the crisp blue air. Can you see it, Gertrude? But she cannot, or she does not find it interesting. The pompiers were interesting, weren't they, Allan? With their black uniforms and rigid postures, flying into the mouth of hell? They are gone now. "Yes, now they are gone." The fire has been put out.

They walk from the Gare Saint-Lazare, and Gertrude carries the coal for a while. The rue Lepic is very steep. At 59 rue Lepic, Allan draws in chalk on the sidewalk:

I was here.
   

     
The chalk is given to him by another boy. The view down rue Tholoze is very beautiful. Allan has tired feet, but Gertrude does not like tired feet so he doesn't tell her. They stop to look at a menu.

     
The door is closed at number 13, and no one answers when they call. Allan can call very loudly. Perhaps they are early, perhaps they are late. Gertrude suggests they have a hot chocolate and wait. They go to Le Ressuscite, leaving a note for Picasso. Allan has not eaten last night or today, wanting to be slim for Picasso. Today his stomach is flat and very fetching. He asks for a glass of gas water and Auntie Gertrude has 
épinards
  with cheese and a
porc grill
é
, which she says is very good. Madame Rossi is kind to Allan and brings a creme caramel when Gertrude is in the toilet, but he tells her the doctor will not let him eat. She takes it away.

     It is 2 P.M. and Picasso is home now. He kisses Allan and Gertrude and holds her hand when they walk to his studio. It is very 
cold. Gertrude and Picasso are laughing. He thanks her for the coal. Allan's pants feel loose on his waist, and this pleases him. The studio is full of junk. Gertrude sits in a large stuffed chair, and the boy goes to stand near the stove. There are boxes set on a cloth. Picasso points there and tells Allan to undress. Gertrude asks for some tea. Allan pulls his undershirt off and becomes entangled, so that Picasso must help him. He says that Allan's belly is perfect. Allan is glad he hasn't eaten. He is undressed now. He stands near the stove and leans against a tall box for a while with his arms relaxed at his sides. Picasso touches Allan when he wants him to move or not move. His eyes are very strong, always looking. He talks to Gertrude while he works. Allan's
zizi
is standing, very much, but they don't notice. His feet are tired. After some silence, and the fire collapsing a little in the stove, Picasso asks him, "Allan, what is it that you love?" And Allan tells him, "I love horses."

♦6
  
♦

M
iriam phoned the Musée Picasso the next morning and badgered their research librarian on my behalf - to no avail. Her friend Denis had suggested trying, and Miriam made the call because my French is poor. Denis knew someone or had worked there. In any case, I would meet this Denis soon at dinner. Serge and Miriam had planned a garden party in honor of Herbert and spring and the flower beds and fine weather. Miriam hung up on the stubborn libntrian, left for work, and the house was empty.

Anything at all could fill the hours, but a small insecurity kept me from relaxing. My hosts seemed to know a great deal more about the Steins than anyone really should. lt wouldn't do to be caught in my lie, so I went to their bedroom to snoop for a few clues. In Serge's desk drawer (oak, Danish), l found a letter from the Cité Universitaire announcing Herbert's date of arrival, appended to a fax from the fag friend in history.
Vraiment génial
, he assured them. (l felt l'd been living up to it.)
Les Américains d'Am
é
rique
by Gertrude Stein had been dragged out by Serge and lay splayed open on the bedside table. Bingo.
Titre Original: The Making of Americans
. Surely I could find an American bookstore and catch up on my required reading. In the drawers I found money (some U.S., $5 and change); a dozen letters in loopy, girlish script (Serge's), stacked beside addresed, unstamped envelopes (blue, it would be nice to lick them. the paste was so even
and glossy); oils, pale yellow, amber, and almost nut-brown, in glass amphorae with stoppers and not much scent; incense cones and a blackened metal Buddha to hold them (a cone of ash in his lap now). I climbed into the bed to push my bare feet around, and the sheets were smooth and clean—Egyptian cotton—and I was impressed that the guest room sheets were as good.

The living room wasn't interesting except for the hard black piano tucked up to the wall, and I settled onto its sturdy bench. What a pleasant and peculiar light the surrounding buildings allowed into the garden, diffuse and luminous all at once. I propped open a window, and the air was fresh.

W
hen I was ten, just before we moved to the house with the possum, Louise and I lived in an apartment with an upright piano in the den. The den was our only room, except for the kitchen and bedroom, and since we did everything in it Louise gave it that exotic name. I loved our den. It had everything: a television, the piano, and a certain stuffy, overheated serenity. The heat was on continually, I think because we didn't have to pay for it. This was our only place ever with a piano, and Louise gave me lessons during the winter we lived there.

The piano was in bad shape. A dozen or so keys produced no music at all, just a dull percussive thump, while others made aggravating dissonances or simply the wrong note. I found ways to play a simple minuet by Purcell, plus some two- or three-finger chords of my own invention, and I played these over and over again until Louise made me stop. Louise played whatever she wanted (I think she was very talented but no one else ever said so), while I became fairly proficient and signed up for the third-grade "talent" show. I would play Purcell. The piece was easy and "Minuet" was such a dauntingly sophisticated title I thought I was a shoo-in to win everyone's admiration. There were no other prizes.

Louise came to the show. Some girls danced (boring), and another made her dog hold a living bird in its mouth, a parakeet, and she was a great hit. Two boys played the piano, four-handed chopsticks, which always sounds flashy but everyone knows it's easy. I'd look like Horowitz to their Liberace. I was nervous walking up to the stage, and Louise's loud applause didn't help. When I sat, though, the only thing in view was the tall brown piano and its keys and I was able to relax.

Then I began to play. Although every key I hit was exactly the right one, the sounds they produced were hideous, full of crazy chords and booming round wrong notes. Dead keys I normally rolled my wrist across, reaching for the high notes, gave out a wobbling glissando, and by the time I stopped I was completely humiliated. Polite applause, an arm around my shoulder from Louise, and then Peter Narver juggled coffee cans. That night at home, Louise laughed and apologized for not having "forethought" this hazard.

Has every childhood tale I've told been a litany of humiliation? In fact I was very happy with these disasters, as if the richness of my melancholy brought a compensatory relief—if I was sad, Louise was obliged to be happy. In the psychic economy of the family, my agony required her good cheer, or at least solicitousness. If I've always been drawn to melancholy, maybe it was to keep Louise from it. She was always kind when I was sad and went to great lengths to console me through my daily reports of disaster. And I was miserable and it was important that she think so, as it guaranteed me the delight of long tearful evenings full of attention and sympathy over dinner in the stuffy, steam-heated den—a rich and exquisite pleasure.

A
t three I showered and shaved for the boy's scheduled return from school. Surely he could direct me to a bookstore. Herbert would be dragging himself from Jimmy's guest bed (futon on a cedar frame) in
another few hours, a jet stream away, and then only to fetch a fruit smoothy and arrange his pale body by the pool, where he could sleep with a book on his lap until lunchtime. Was there really an ocean between us? And another continent? Broad grass hills, burned golden and dusty, rolled on to the next blue sea, still under a mist, doubtless, cradling Herbert and Jimmy (who didn't bother waking up until lunch) in a vivid expanse of land, pretty as a travel film that I had running continuously in some tiny back screening room of my brain. It played there even while I was busy with Paris, 3:50 P.M., and the puzzle of French dish liquid (which one was it?) for my filthy bowl and cup, plus last night's still-soaking pans. The school back home, "my school," would just now be blossoming into life. Barret cleared garbage from the door and harassed any students who had the poor judgment to arrive before seven. "Teachers only," he slurred, and spat at the kids, so it sounded like "T-shirts only," which is what they said back in mockery, walking past him through the door. So much was going on all at once. Miriam worked, but what at? Serge and Per were gone, and I supposed that meant Stéphane and I would be home alone. Life as Herbert so far was good.

The garden door opened, click-clack, and I bellied up to the sink and the pile of half-done dishes, preparing myself for the boy. Sleeves rolled up, top shirt button undone, relaxed shimmy of the back and hips for tone (whistling? no), humming an unplaceable tune. I could hear the boy bounding up the stairs. Top door,
click-clack!
Best to be casual. I clattered some dishes into the rack (still dirty, who had the time to clean them?), hoping he would sidle up and pinion me to that hip again.

"Hey, handsome, 'you know I'm a sex machine.' " It was Per.

"Oh, hello, Per." He wore bright striped bell-bottoms, one leg smeared with house paint, cinched above his hips so the cuffs wouldn't drag, plus a slinky rayon top, bright red. The sheen of the top matched his machine-tooled boots.

"James Brown. 'Sex Machine.'" He seemed as nimble as the boy. How could a seventy-two-year-old bound up the stairs so effortlessly, and in boots?

"I was just doing the dishes."

Per glanced at the crusty pots and pans skeptically. "A little."

"This is the prewash."

"Mmm." He took the metal scouring tool that I'd left hanging and cleaned the ugly pans while I rinsed and dried. "Have you been out yet to see the pretty sunshine? "

"No, just work this morning." I gestured vaguely at the table, while Per beamed into the dirty dishwater. "I have a lot of reading to do."

" L'adolescence de Monsieur Stein?"

"Yes." Three bowls, nested and wet, defied my prying and I left them upside down in the rack. "I know the name of his school, but I'm not at all sure of how to approach them."

"What is the school?"

"The
École
Alsacienne."

"It's a nice little school. You could visit this afternoon." Distant banging of the garden door, louder bang from the front, and then steps bounding up to the boy's floor. "We could walk there together."

"Mmm."

"It's a remarkable day. We'll pick up that sausage for Miriam." Stereo blast (floor-rattling volume, turned down to plain old loud) plus leaping and pounding alarmed me, but Per took no notice of it. "And that American book for Serge."

"Is that Stéphane?"

"No, Serge; he needs the crime mysteries of Ann Rule. I think they're only available in English."

"I meant downstairs." We paused. The stereo stopped, door banged, downward bounding,
click-click-click-click
, bicycle wheeled
to the door, then clatter, slam out to the garden, and bang again, away down the street.

"I think he goes to basketball now."

"Hmm." Too bad. "There is a bookstore with American books?"

"Oh, yes, one with quite a few of them. We'll go there and then walk home, past the sausage man and the École Alsacienne."

The late afternoon was mild and warm, with a breeze like a shimmering fabric and the only clouds elegant and puffed as light pastries, scattered in a broad field of blue. The last night's rain must have been partly responsible, scrubbing the air and brightening the blossoms that made such a pretty scent. Per tossed one of Miriam's old wraps over his blood-red chemise as we hurried out the door.

We walked uphill toward the Pare Montsouris, along bordered paths, to the sand-blasted brick entrance of the metro. They were still blasting. Spasmed hoses squirmed and wriggled beneath our feet. Per slipped two tickets through the mechanized gate and we went to the platform, which was dusty and littered with interesting trash: flyers, foreign candy wrappers, newspaper pages in French (interesting to me). A saxophone player, that is, a man who owned one, stood idle, reading the scraps of newsprint at his feet. The golden glowing horn hung from his neck on a string.

Per narrated the fleeting journey with views through the gaps between buildings, until the saxophonist reached our car and his bellow drowned everyone out. The train plummeted into darkness for two stations and we got off.

The great trees and black iron gates of the Luxembourg Garden were visible across a boulevard at the lip of the station. "I went to the gardens my first day," I said. "Before coming to your house." Car exhaust filled the air and the paths of the garden were packed with people, sprawled on pale-green chairs or strolling coatless. Per took my hand and led me directly through traffic, seven lanes of it,
if this disorderly sprawl could be measured in lanes, on an unhurried and divinely blind straight-line stroll to the street corner. We walked along, opposite the park, for awhile. Per never released my hand, but squeezed it lightly. People passing noticed but Per did not, and I marveled at how dry and soft his palm felt. Probably they thought he was my father (my father, the bearded Danish Sly Stone in furs).

The bookstore was small and crowded with books. A charming Frenchwoman bustled toward the door, cooing. She kissed Per, maneuvering delicately past the fur trim, then fetched tea from a back broom closet into which computers, a desk, and two employees had been stuffed. I was given tea too, plus an introductory handshake and terrific respect when I asked Madame if they carried Gertrude Stein's
The Making of Americans
. Actually, she beamed her frank admiration directly at Per. He'd brought in a good dog. My refined tastes were evidence, first and foremost, of his.

Herbert is a great book snob, making a fuss over bindings and years and keeping most of his books from me because of their rarity. I just like to read, often in the tub, and this kind of thing horrifies him. He offered hundreds of dollars to keep me from reading my copy of Doughty's
Arabia Deserta
that way, which was embarrassing since it only cost $50 and I simply wanted to read it. In the end I just gave it to him in exchange for a newer, more compact copy. Now the original sits in a glass case in his apartment, unread. Admittedly, his books are beautiful. I can think of no more relaxing and pleasant decoration than walls and walls of books. They provide a barrier while also functioning as portals into other worlds. A wall of books is like a mass, a crowd, with its thousands of faces blending into one field of color. Each speck is so rich and individual, once you peer in closely enough, but it's just as easy, and pleasant, to draw away and admire their anonymity.

"Oh, Gertrude Stein, but of course we carry everything we can of her, she is a giant, an absolute giant, how could we not? But
The Making of Americans
, this is very difficult, very hard to get." Everyone was sad for a moment, and I sipped my tea. "Of course you want the unabridged edition."

"Yes, naturally." Had it been abridged? "However, the abridged would be fine." (In fact
Cliff Notes
would have been better.) I tried offering my flexibility as a second coin to buy her affection. "Why, the abridged edition wouldn't bother me in the least." Madame's smile disappeared with this crass admission and she shuddered (again at Per), turning to the shelves to find the filthy little abridged edition that tried to pass itself off as literature. My stock was plummeting like a stone to earth. "I mean, if that's all your shop is able to carry." Madame perked a little, looking back at me. "There must be other shops, but Per told me this was the best." I sipped the tea with distaste.

Madame rallied. "Well, you can't imagine how hard this book is to find. If it is available at all, we are the shop that would have it, Monsieur Per is absolutely correct about that, if you'll just wait a moment for me." Per tossed his eyebrows and smiled nervously as Madame disappeared into the closet.

"It's good you didn't settle for the abridged," he whispered. "She likes a challenge." There was shouting. A mewling, defensive man tried getting words in edgewise while Madame riddled him with stray fire. French sentences machine-gunned, with a few pauses for reloading. At one point she peeked out the door, smiled sweetly at us, then pulled it shut and had at him again. Per and I browsed new American editions near the empty front desk, cupping our warm tea mugs, enjoying their steam beside stacks of gargantuan best-sellers in their shiny brash jackets spiraling up from a low table, topped by propped cards extolling their virtues. A narrow stairway led to a balcony with more books and a man, who could be seen sleeping,
in a chair with a coat on his lap. I strolled to the window and couldn't make out the weather, the street was so deeply shadowed. Madame emerged from the back, smug, triumphant, holding a book.