The Quirk (22 page)

“No, you don’t understand. Nothing on you–that is–would be fine but just because I’d love to see what kind of body goes with that head. It’s a problem of aesthetics.”

“Dear me. I don’t like to be a problem of any kind. You’re not interested in sampling my considerable charms in bed?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“It’s quite all right. Unlike Germaine, I don’t expect every man I meet to fall at my feet. I know a few are left who actually prefer women. They’re usually the ones I want. Like you?”

“What? Preferring women? Yes.”

“Are you by any chance Nicole de la Vendraye’s American?”

“Yes.”

“How divine for her. Darling Nicole. Tell her I invited you to my bed. She’ll laugh like a drain. We’ve always had the same taste in men.”

The thought of Nicole laughing like a drain about anything, let alone about men making passes at each other, struck him as so odd that he wondered if they were talking about the same girl. He missed something the prince was saying.”

“–appalling. I’d like to go to the States.”

“Would you? What for?”

“A change. Do Americans find homosexuality shocking?”

“In general, yes. I don’t.” He wished Patrice were here. He’d be fascinated by the prince. He started to mention his name to find out if they knew each other, but his habit of keeping his life compartmentalized was so ingrained by now that he thought better of it.

“I’d adore living where people knew nothing about me,” the prince explained. “If nobody knew I was queer, I wouldn’t go around acting so queer. There’s much to be said for guilty secrets. Everybody’s so
tolerant
here. That’s why we all behave so outrageously. There’s nothing to feel guilty about. Who do you suppose let Henri come tonight?”

“Henri? Who’s Henri?” Rod’s eyes were having such a feast of beauty, studying how the face was made, that he wasn’t keeping a very firm grip on the conversation.

“Henri Poncennet. One of her husbands. The chap she’s just gone off to speak to.” The effortless smile returned to the prince’s lips, sweetly modest and winning. “Your eyes are fascinating. You must let me take you and Nicole to dinner soon. Seeing you together might save me from falling in love with you.”

“Dinner would be great.” Rod supposed he ought to be cultivating the people who really counted, but the prince counted a great deal to him. “Henri Poncennet. Isn’t he one of the big guns who was put in jail after the war? Collaborating with the Nazis or something? I remember my family talking about it.”

“Exactly. Careful. Here comes the vampire.”

Germaine was with them once more. “Beauty hasn’t carried you off yet, cousin? You must be quite fanatically heterosexual. How reassuring. I gave you your chance, Beauty.”

“You may be sure I made the most of it. I like him so much that passion is slowly subsiding into undying devotion.”

“You have the most peculiar effect on people, cousin. What are we both doing with empty glasses? Shouldn’t we–?”

Germaine was interrupted by Lola who stood before them, her eyes blazing, her habitually belligerent expression monstrous with rage.

“De Bellecourt’s an ass,” she roared. “Never will I allow him in my house again. Never, do you understand? If you take my advice, Germaine, neither will you.”

“What’s he done, darling?” Germaine demanded, laughing at her stepmother’s heroic outburst.

“What’s he done? Nothing to laugh about, you silly little fool. He’s walked out because of Henri. The pompous dwarf. He said, ‘Good night, my dear countess. I’m afraid I can’t approve of your choice of guests.’ Approve of my choice! How dare he–“Be quiet, darling, be quiet,” Germaine cut in in an undertone. A look of alarm crossed her face that she replaced with a fixed smile as she glanced about her. “Do you want everybody in the place to know about it? There’ll be the most–”

“Know about it? Everybody knows about it already.” Lola continued to bellow. “If they don’t, they will in five minutes. There were a dozen people around me when that gruesome little monster–‘I cannot remain under the same roof with Henri Poncennet.’ As if I care whose roof he remains under!”

“Intolerance at last,” the prince’s indolent, very British voice said in Rod’s ear. “De Bellecourt is my hero.”

“It’s too ridiculous.” Germaine sounded as querulous as a child. “What do people expect me to do? I was married to him. I can hardly pretend I don’t know him. I must say, I don’t think it was very nice of Frédéric.”

“Very nice! It’s an outrage. If anybody else wants to go, let him. And good riddance! I’ll invite whomever I like to my house. What’s the matter with people? They shouldn’t go on thinking about the last war. They should be getting ready for the next one. Even you Americans know that much.”

The last was directed at Rod. He could think of nothing to say. He felt as if he had been rudely awakened from a peaceful dream. The carefully preserved fabric of ease and security was about to disintegrate like a mummy exposed to the air. He heard the piano banging away relentlessly, the tinkle of decorative laughter, the pop of a champagne cork. It was febrile and without gaiety. He was practically sober again.

“It’s the Russians,” Lola proclaimed disjointedly. “We should have fought them instead of the Germans.”

“You do talk the most ridiculous nonsense, Lola,” somebody said in an even voice. Lola’s face sagged, and then she brayed with unexpected laughter. Rod turned and found a stranger at his side, of medium height, compact, with an unhumorous face that was hard and lean and with close-cropped graying hair that fit his head like a cap.

“Now Gérard, don’t
you
get started,” Germaine broke in.

“Oh, let him rave.” Lola squared her shoulders aggressively. “Everybody knows he’s a Communist.”

“Do they? How very odd of them,” the man called Gérard said. His voice was curiously cold and penetrating, and it reminded Rod of something he had heard before.

“A Communist or a crackpot. It’s all the same. Why don’t
you
leave? There must be somebody here you don’t approve of.”

Gérard shrugged and smiled cooly. “My dear Lola, I haven’t worried about being compromised by association for years.”

“My film star is looking lost. I’d better go,” the prince said. Rod turned to him and took the card that was offered him. “Keep that in case I can solve any problems of aesthetics. I’ll call Nicole.” They shook hands. To Rod’s sobered eyes the prince was still a phenomenon, but he hoped he hadn’t made a fool of himself by carrying on about his beauty. He wondered what Nicole would have to say about him.

Germaine took advantage of the moment to ease Lola back into the party. “There, darling. Do go along. You don’t want to stand here all night carrying on about politics. Go talk to people. Treat the whole think as a joke. That’s much the best way.” She gave the old woman an affectionate little push and turned back to Rod and the stranger. They eyed each other with the uncertainty of people in formal circumstances who haven’t been formally introduced.

“Gérard, I don’t think you’ve met Rod MacIntyre. This is Gérard Thillier, cousin. One of the people I was telling you about. Rod is a very fine painter.”

The two men shook hands. Rod’s was held for what seemed to him a beat longer than necessary. “You’re a friend of the prince?” Thillier asked.

“Hardly. We just met.”

“I see. You looked very striking together. A study in contrasts as it were. You’re a painter, eh. And an American? American painters interest me.” Thillier’s self-confidence was so pronounced that he made it sound as if interesting him was the basic foundation of art.

“In what way?” Rod had been jolted into a premature hangover and was feeling edgy and out of touch with his surroundings. How many days had he been here?

“Oh, the obvious. The greatest industrial nation in the world with no traditional ties to the past or any particular culture. Will you be a liberating force or will you simply industrialize creativity? There appears to be an alarming trend toward the latter.”

“You’re right. It’s something to fight. That’s why I’m here. I mean, it might look as if I’m running away, but I’m just giving myself some time. I’ll be going back soon enough.”

“Yes. Paris is rather passé as a cradle of the arts.”

Rod looked at him with sharpened interest. He was the first Frenchman he’d encountered who seemed ready to admit that Paris wasn’t the unique source from which all culture flowed. It was a strange face, closed and hard, yet hints around the eyes and mouth suggested that some things might make him laugh–like watching a baby being drawn and quartered. His body looked dangerous, crouched, ready to spring, but the intelligence in his face warned of more cerebral power. Tentacles. He made Rod uneasy and defensive. “Paris isn’t really the point. There were too many distractions in New York. I wanted to be some place where I could just work.”

“This is an odd place to find you if that was what you wanted.”

“Well–”

“I’m thinking of taking him under my wing,” Germaine cut in with the air of an acknowledged patroness. “He’s shown in New York. Don’t you think we should arrange an exhibition for him here?” She included Rod. “Gérard controls three very important galleries,” she explained.

“Only one is wholly mine,” Thillier corrected her. “Perhaps I should see his work.”

“Naturally.” She swept on imperiously. “Why not tomorrow? I could go with you. Let’s make a date.”

“Some of my best things are in New York,” Rod objected, trying to retain some possession of his work. Germaine had caught him off guard. What had become of the sexual string?

“That doesn’t make any difference,” she said flatly. “Anybody can tell you’ve got something.”

“An unknown American? To do it right would cost a great deal of money,” Thillier pointed out.

“I told you I’m considering taking him under my wing. Go see his pictures, and then we’ll talk business.”

“I’m always happy to find new painters at no cost to me.” Thillier withdrew a slim notebook and a gold pen from an inside pocket. “Rod MacIntyre,” he said writing. “And the address?” Without thinking, Rod gave him Patrice’s. The pen was arrested. Thillier stood motionless for a moment, looking down at what he’d written. Then he flipped pages and pulled out a card. “On second thought I’d prefer for you to come to me. The atmosphere of a painter’s studio is often wrong. Bring one picture. If a man can paint one good picture, he can paint dozens. You seem to be collecting cards this evening.”

There was a hard glint in Thillier’s eyes that seemed to probe secrets. Rod blushed as he took the card. “Thanks. I’m working very hard these days. I won’t call you until I feel like a break.” It was the least he could to to establish his role in the deal. Germaine made him almost irrelevant. She knew he “had something” without a glance at his work. Quick and simple. You knew somebody with a gallery. You told him to arrange an exhibition. You paid. In a month he’d be famous. So much for struggle and heartbreak. He waited for some exhilaration to kindle in him but felt nothing. Germaine and Thillier were getting ready to pull strings, manipulate an event. It had nothing to do with art. Maybe when he told Patrice about it …

“Choose your own time,” Thillier was saying. “And I don’t think we’ll invite your female admirer. We’ll be able to talk freely.”

“Don’t forget where the money’s coming from,” Germaine snapped unnecessarily.”

“I’m sure you won’t let me.” Thillier gave her a little bow. “Now, if my departure won’t be interpreted as a political gesture, I must go.” He raised Germaine’s hand to within a few inches of his face, nodded to Rod, and left. Rod was almost sorry to see him go. He was a troubling personality, but he wasn’t intimidated by Germaine. The thumping of the piano was nerve-racking. The cacophony of voices was beginning to deafen him. He was depressingly aware of his own dull sobriety.

Germaine sighed and ran the back of her hand across her forehead and smoothed her hair at the side and attempted a note of brisk satisfaction. “There you are, cousin. I told you it was all a question of knowing the right people.”

“I thought nothing would happen until you were my mistress.”

“I’m told disinterested acts are good for the soul. Anyway, I had to carry on so people would forget about Henri. What a bore. I’m quite sober.”

“Me too. I suppose we could start all over again,” Rod suggested halfheartedly. “Thanks for plugging me. Maybe you should see what I do before you go any further.”

“Heavens, darling, what good would that do? I haven’t liked a painter since Fragonard.”

“Jesus Christ,” he exploded. How insulting can you get? You want to prove you can make me or break me regardless of what I have to offer? Quite a few people think I’m important Damned important. That means more to me than being put on show for some creepy gallery owner.” He was eager again to slap her, to humiliate her in whatever way would hurt her most, but she looked up at him with a shy and undeniably beguiling smile.

“Poor cousin darling. I’ve upset you. I’m sorry, but why pretend to be something I’m not? I know my world. I know how to use people. You have no idea what an introduction to Thillier, backed by money, would mean to a young French painter.”

Backed by money. Sex offered the only battlefield where he might defeat her. “I’m getting out of here,” he muttered. “You can tell Thillier not to be surprised if he doesn’t hear from me.”