Master of the Game

Dominique squeezed Tony’s hand. "He’s come!" she said. "He’s here!"

Such an honor had never befallen Monsieur Goerg before, and he was beside himself, bowing and scraping before the great man, doing everything but tugging at his forelock.

"Monsieur d’Usseau," he babbled. "What a great pleasure this is! What an honor! May I offer you some wine, some cheese?" He cursed himself for not having bought a decent wine.

"Thank you," the great man replied. "I have come to feast only my eyes. I would like to meet the artist."

Tony was too stunned to move. Dominique pushed him forward.

"Here he is," Monsieur Goerg said. "Mr. Andre d’Usseau, this is Tony Blackwell."

Tony found his voice. "How do you do, sir? I – thank you for coming."

Andre d’Usseau bowed slightly and moved toward the paintings on the walls. Everyone pushed back to give him room. He made his way slowly, looking at each painting long and carefully, then moving on to the next one. Tony tried to read his face, but he could tell nothing. D’Usseau neither frowned nor smiled. He stopped for a long time at one particular painting, a nude of Dominique, then moved on. He made a complete circle of the room, missing nothing. Tony was perspiring profusely.

When Andre d’Usseau had finished, he walked over to Tony. "I am glad I came," was all he said.

Within minutes after the famous critic had left, every painting in the gallery was sold. A great new artist was being born, and everyone wanted to be in at the birth.

"I have never seen anything like it," Monsieur Goerg exclaimed. "Andre d’Usseau came to my gallery. My gallery! All Paris will read about it tomorrow. ‘I am glad I came.’ Andre d’Usseau is not a man to waste words. This calls for champagne. Let us celebrate."

Later that night, Tony and Dominique had their own private celebration. Dominique snuggled in his arms. "I’ve slept with painters before," she said, "but never anyone as famous as you’re going to be. Tomorrow everyone in Paris will know who you are."

And Dominique was right.

At five o’clock the following morning, Tony and Dominique hurriedly got dressed and went out to get the first edition of the morning paper. It had just arrived at the kiosk. Tony snatched up the paper and turned to the art section. His review was the headline article under the by-line of Andre d’Usseau. Tony read it aloud:

"An exhibition by a young American painter, Anthony Blackwell, opened last night at the Goerg Gallery. It was a great learning experience for this critic. I have attended so many exhibitions of talented painters that I had forgotten what truly bad paintings looked like. I was forcibly reminded last night…"

Tony’s face turned ashen.

"Please don’t read any more," Dominique begged. She tried to take the paper from Tony.

"Let go!" he commanded.

He read on.

"At first I thought a joke was being perpetrated. I could not seriously believe that anyone would have the nerve to hang such amateurish paintings and dare to call them art. I searched for the tiniest glimmering of talent. Alas, there was none. They should have hung the painter instead of his paintings. I would earnestly advise that the confused Mr. Blackwell return to his real profession, which I can only assume is that of house painter."

"I can’t believe it," Dominique whispered. "I can’t believe he couldn’t see it. Oh, that bastard!" Dominique began to cry helplessly.

Tony felt as though his chest were filled with lead. He had difficulty breathing. "He saw it," he said. "And he does know, Dominique. He does know." His voice was filled with pain. "That’s what hurts so much. Christ! What a fool I was!" He started to move away.

"Where are you going, Tony?"

"I don’t know."

He wandered around the cold, dawn streets, unaware of the tears running down his face. Within a few hours, everyone in Paris would have read that review. He would be an object of ridicule. But what hurt more was that he had deluded himself. He had really believed he had a career ahead of him as a painter. At least Andre d’Usseau had saved him from that mistake. Pieces of posterity, Tony thought grimly. Pieces of shit! He walked into the first open bar and proceeded to get mindlessly drunk.

When Tony finally returned to his apartment, it was five o’clock the following morning.

Dominique was waiting for him, frantic. "Where have you been, Tony? Your mother has been trying to get in touch with you. She’s sick with worry."

"Did you read it to her?"

"Yes, she insisted. I – "

The telephone rang. Dominique looked at Tony, and picked up the receiver. "Hello? Yes, Mrs. Blackwell. He just walked in." She held the receiver out to Tony. He hesitated, then took it.

"Hello, M-mother."

Kate’s voice was filled with distress. "Tony, darling, listen to me. I can make him print a retraction. I – "

"Mother," Tony said wearily, "this isn’t a b-business transaction. This is a c-critic expressing an opinion. His opinion is that I should be h-hanged."

"Darling, I hate to have you hurt like this. I don’t think I can stand – " She broke off, unable to continue.

"It’s all right, M-mother. I’ve had my little f-fling. I tried it and it didn’t w-work. I don’t have what it t-takes. It’s as simple as that. I h-hate d’Usseau’s guts, but he’s the best g-goddamned art critic in the world, I have to g-give him that. He saved me from making a t-terrible mistake."

"Tony, I wish there was something I could say…"

"D’Usseau s-said it all. It’s b-better that I f-found it out now instead of t-ten years from now, isn’t it? I’ve got to g-get out of this town."