Master of the Game

"You’re wrong, mon cher."

Tony arrived home late the next afternoon to find that Dominique was not alone. Anton Goerg, a thin man with an enormous potbelly and protuberant hazel eyes, was with her. He was the owner and proprietor of the Goerg Gallery, a modest gallery on the Rue Dauphine. Tony’s paintings were spread around the room.

"What’s going on?" Tony asked.

"What’s going on, monsieur," Anton Goerg exclaimed, "is that I think your work is brilliant." He clapped Tony on the back. "I would be honored to give you a showing in my gallery."

Tony looked over at Dominique, and she was beaming at him.

"I – I don’t know what to say."

"You have already said it," Goerg replied. "On these canvases."

Tony and Dominique stayed up half the night discussing it.

"I don’t feel I’m ready. The critics will crucify me."

"You’re wrong, cheri. This is perfect for you. It is a small gallery. Only the local people will come and judge you. There is no way you can get hurt. Monsieur Goerg would never offer to give you an exhibition if he did not believe in you. He agrees with me that you are going to be a very important artist."

"All right," Tony finally said. "Who knows? I might even sell a painting."

The cable read: ARRIVING PARIS SATURDAY. PLEASE JOIN ME FOR DINNER. LOVE, MOTHER.

Tony’s first thought as he watched his mother walk into the studio was, What a handsome woman she is. She was in her mid-fifties, hair untinted, with white strands laced through the black. There was a charged vitality about her. Tony had once asked her why she had not remarried. She had answered quietly, "Only two men were ever important in my life. Your father and you."

Now, standing in the little apartment in Paris, facing his mother, Tony said, "It’s g-good to see you, M-mother."

"Tony, you look absolutely wonderful! The beard is new." She laughed and ran her fingers through it. "You look like a young Abe Lincoln." Her eyes swept the small apartment. "Thank God, you’ve gotten a good cleaning woman. It looks like a different place."

Kate walked over to the easel, where Tony had been working on a painting, and she stopped and stared at it for a long time. He stood there, nervously awaiting his mother’s reaction.

When Kate spoke, her voice was very soft. "It’s brilliant, Tony. Really brilliant." There was no effort to conceal the pride she felt. She could not be deceived about art, and there was a fierce exultation in her that her son was so talented.

She turned to face him. "Let me see more!"

They spent the next two hours going through his stack of paintings. Kate discussed each one in great detail. There was no condescension in her voice. She had failed in her attempt to control his life, and Tony admired her for taking her defeat so gracefully.

Kate said, "I’ll arrange for a showing. I know a few dealers who – "

"Thanks, M-mother, but you d-don’t have to. I’m having a showing next F-friday. A g-gallery is giving me an exhibition."

Kate threw her arms around Tony. "That’s wonderful! Which gallery?"

"The G-goerg Gallery."

"I don’t believe I know it."

"It’s s-small, but I’m not ready for Hammer or W-wildenstein yet."

She pointed to the painting of Dominique under the tree. "You’re wrong, Tony. I think this – "

There was the sound of the front door opening. "I’m horny, cheri. Take off your – " Dominique saw Kate. "Oh, merde! I’m sorry. I – I didn’t know you had company, Tony."

There was a moment of frozen silence.

"Dominique, this is my m-mother. M-mother, may I present D-dominique Masson."

The two women stood there, studying each other.

"How do you do, Mrs. Blackwell."

Kate said, "I’ve been admiring my son’s portrait of you." The rest was left unspoken.

There was another awkward silence.

"Did Tony tell you he’s going to have an exhibition, Mrs. Blackwell?"

"Yes, he did. It’s wonderful news."

"Can you s-stay for it, Mother?"

"I’d give anything to be able to be there, but I have a board meeting the day after tomorrow in Johannesburg and there’s no way I can miss it. I wish I’d known about it sooner, I’d have rearranged my schedule."

"It’s all r-right," Tony said. "I understand." Tony was nervous that his mother might say more about the company in front of Dominique, but Kate’s mind was on the paintings.

"It’s important for the right people to see your exhibition."

"Who are the right people, Mrs. Blackwell?"

Kate turned to Dominique. "Opinion-makers, critics. Someone like Andre d’Usseau – he should be there."

Andre d’Usseau was the most respected art critic in France. He was a ferocious lion guarding the temple of art, and a single review from him could make or break an artist overnight. D’Usseau was invited to the opening of every exhibition, but he attended only the major ones. Gallery owners and artists trembled, waiting for his reviews to appear. He was a master of the bon mot, and his quips flew around Paris on poisoned wings. Andre d’Usseau was the most hated man in Parisian art circles, and the most respected. His mordant wit and savage criticism were tolerated because of his expertise.

Tony turned to Dominique. "That’s a m-mother for you." Then to Kate, "Andre d’Usseau doesn’t g-go to little galleries."

"Oh, Tony, he must come. He can make you famous overnight."

"Or b-break me."

"Don’t you believe in yourself?" Kate was watching her son.

"Of course he does," Dominique said. "But we couldn’t dare hope that Monsieur d’Usseau would come."