Master of the Game (27 page)

“You really feel you’re there…”

“I’ve never seen a style quite like yours…”

“Now, that’s a painting!…”

“It speaks to me…”

“You couldn’t have done it any better…”

People kept arriving, and Tony wondered whether the attraction was curiosity about his paintings or the free wine and cheese. So far, not one of his paintings had sold, but the wine and cheese were being consumed rapaciously.

“Be patient,” Monsieur Goerg whispered to Tony. “They are interested. First they must get a smell of the paintings. They see one they like, they keep wandering back to it. Pretty soon they ask the price, and when they nibble,
voilà!
The hook is set!”

“Jesus! I feel like I’m on a fishing cruise,” Tony told Dominique.

Monsieur Goerg bustled up to Tony. “We’ve sold one!” he exclaimed. “The Normandy landscape. Five hundred francs.”

It was a moment that Tony would remember as long as he lived. Someone had bought a painting of his! Someone had thought enough of his work to pay money for it, to hang it in his home or office, to look at it, live with it, show it to friends. It was a small piece of immortality. It was a way of living more than one life, of being in more than one place at the same time. A successful artist was in hundreds of homes and offices and museums all over the world, bringing pleasure to thousands—sometimes millions of people. Tony felt as though he had stepped into the pantheon of Da Vinci and Michelangelo and Rembrandt.
He was no longer an amateur painter, he was a professional. Someone had paid money for his work.

Dominique hurried up to him, her eyes bright with excitement. “You’ve just sold another one, Tony.”

“Which one?” he asked eagerly.

“The floral.”

The small gallery was filled now with people and loud chatter and the clink of glasses; and suddenly a stillness came over the room. There was an undercurrent of whispers and all eyes turned to the door.

Andre d’Usseau was entering the gallery. He was in his middle fifties, taller than the average Frenchman, with a strong, leonine face and a mane of white hair. He wore a flowing inverness cape and Borsalino hat, and behind him came an entourage of hangers-on. Automatically, everyone in the room began to make way for d’Usseau. There was not one person present who did not know who he was.

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.”

“Wait there for me, darling. I’ll leave Johannesburg tomorrow and we’ll go back to New York together.”

“All right,” Tony said. He replaced the receiver and turned toward Dominique. “I’m sorry, Dominique. You picked the wrong fellow.”

Dominique said nothing. She just looked at him with eyes filled with an unspeakable sorrow.

The following afternoon at Kruger-Brent’s office on Rue Ma-tignon, Kate Blackwell was writing out a check. The man seated across the desk from her sighed. “It is a pity. Your son has talent, Mrs. Blackwell. He could have become an important painter.”

Kate stared at him coldly. “Mr. d’Usseau, there are tens of thousands of painters in the world. My son was not meant to be one of the crowd.” She passed the check across the desk. “You fulfilled your part of the bargain, I’m prepared to fulfill mine.
Kruger-Brent, Limited, will sponsor art museums in Johannesburg, London and New York. You will be in charge of selecting the paintings—with a handsome commission, of course.”

But long after d’Usseau had gone, Kate sat at her desk, filled with a deep sadness. She loved her son so much. If he ever found out…She knew the risk she had taken. But she could not stand by and let Tony throw away his inheritance. No matter what it might cost her, he had to be protected. The company had to be protected. Kate rose, feeling suddenly very tired. It was time to pick up Tony and take him home. She would help him get over this, so he could get on with what he had been born to do.

Run the company.

For the next two years, Tony Blackwell felt he was on a giant treadmill that was taking him nowhere. He was the heir apparent to an awesome conglomerate. Kruger-Brent’s empire had expanded to include paper mills, an airline, banks and a chain of hospitals. Tony learned that a name is a key that opens all doors. There are clubs and organizations and social cliques where the coin of the realm is not money or influence, but the proper name. Tony was accepted for membership in the Union Club, The Brook and The Links Club. He was catered to everywhere he went, but he felt like an imposter. He had done nothing to deserve any of it. He was in the giant shadow of his grandfather, and he felt he was constantly being measured against him. It was unfair, for there were no more mine fields to crawl over, no guards shooting at him, no sharks threatening him. The ancient tales of derring-do had nothing to do with Tony. They belonged to a past century, another time, another place, heroic acts committed by a stranger.

Tony worked twice as hard as anyone else at Kruger-Brent, Ltd. He drove himself mercilessly, trying to rid himself of memories too searing to bear. He wrote to Dominique, but his letters
were returned unopened. He telephoned Maître Cantal, but Dominique no longer modeled at the school. She had disappeared.

Tony handled his job expertly and methodically, with neither passion nor love, and if he felt a deep emptiness inside himself, no one suspected it. Not even Kate. She received weekly reports on Tony, and she was pleased with them.

“He has a natural aptitude for business,” she told Brad Rogers.

To Kate, the long hours her son worked were proof of how much he loved what he was doing. When Kate thought of how Tony had almost thrown his future away, she shuddered and was grateful she had saved him.

In 1948 the Nationalist Party was in full power in South Africa, with segregation in all public places. Migration was strictly controlled, and families were split up to suit the convenience of the government. Every black man had to carry a
bewy-shoek
, and it was more than a pass, it was a lifeline, his birth certificate, his work permit, his tax receipt. It regulated his movements and his life. There were increasing riots in South Africa, and they were ruthlessly put down by the police. From time to time, Kate read newspaper stories about sabotage and unrest, and Banda’s name was always prominently mentioned. He was still a leader in the underground, despite his age.
Of course he would fight for his people
, Kate thought.
He’s Banda
.

Kate celebrated her fifty-sixth birthday alone with Tony at the house on Fifth Avenue. She thought,
This handsome twenty-four-year-old man across the table can’t be my son. I’m too young
. And he was toasting her, “To m-my f-fantastic m-mother. Happy b-birthday!”

“You should make that to my fantastic
old
mother.”
Soon I’ll be retiring
, Kate thought,
but my son will take my place. My son!

At Kate’s insistence, Tony had moved into the mansion on Fifth Avenue.

“The place is too bloody large for me to rattle around in alone,” Kate told him. “You’ll have the whole east wing to
yourself and all the privacy you need.” It was easier for Tony to give in than to argue.

Tony and Kate had breakfast together every morning, and the topic of conversation was always Kruger-Brent, Ltd. Tony marveled that his mother could care so passionately for a faceless, soulless entity, an amorphous collection of buildings and machines and bookkeeping figures.
Where did the magic lie?
With all the myriad mysteries of the world to explore, why would anyone want to waste a lifetime accumulating wealth to pile on more wealth, gathering power that was beyond power? Tony did not understand his mother. But he loved her. And he tried to live up to what she expected of him.

The Pan American flight from Rome to New York had been uneventful. Tony liked the airline. It was pleasant and efficient. He worked on his overseas acquisitions reports from the time the plane took off, skipping dinner and ignoring the stewardesses who kept offering him drinks, pillows or whatever else might appeal to their attractive passenger.

“Thank you, miss. I’m fine.”

“If there’s
anything
at all, Mr. Blackwell…”

“Thank you.”

A middle-aged woman in the seat next to Tony was reading a fashion magazine. As she turned a page, Tony happened to glance over, and he froze. There was a picture of a model wearing a ball gown. It was Dominique. There was no question about it. There were the high, delicate cheekbones and the deep-green eyes, the luxuriant blond hair. Tony’s pulse began to race.

“Excuse me,” Tony said to his seat companion. “May I borrow that page?”

Early the following morning, Tony called the dress shop and got the name of their advertising agency. He telephoned them. “I’m trying to locate one of your models,” he told the switchboard operator. “Could you—”

“One moment, please.”

A man’s voice came on. “May I help you?”

“I saw a photograph in this month’s issue of
Vogue
. A model advertising a ball gown for the Rothman stores. Is that your account?”

“Yes.”

“Can you give me the name of your model agency?”

“That would be the Carleton Blessing Agency.” He gave Tony the telephone number.

A minute later, Tony was talking to a woman at the Blessing Agency. “I’m trying to locate one of your models,” he said. “Dominique Masson.”

“I’m sorry. It is our policy not to give out personal information.” And the line went dead.

Tony sat there, staring at the receiver. There
had
to be a way to get in touch with Dominique. He went into Brad Rogers’s office.

“Morning, Tony. Coffee?”

“No, thanks. Brad, have you heard of the Carleton Blessing Model Agency?”

“I should think so. We own it.”

“What?”

“It’s under the umbrella of one of our subsidiaries.”

“When did we acquire it?”

“A couple of years ago. Just about the time you joined the company. What’s your interest in it?”

“I’m trying to locate one of their models. She’s an old friend.”

“No problem. I’ll call and—”

“Never mind. I’ll do it. Thanks, Brad.”

A feeling of warm anticipation was building up inside Tony.

Late that afternoon, Tony went uptown to the offices of the Carleton Blessing Agency and gave his name. Sixty seconds later, he was seated in the office of the president, a Mr. Tilton.

“This is certainly an honor, Mr. Blackwell. I hope there’s no problem. Our profits for the last quarter—”

“No problem. I’m interested in one of your models. Dominique Masson.”

Tilton’s face lighted up. “She’s turned out to be one of our very best. Your mother has a good eye.”

Tony thought he had misunderstood him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your mother personally requested that we engage Dominique. It was part of our deal when Kruger-Brent, Limited, took us over. It’s all in our file, if you’d care to—”

“No.” Tony could make no sense of what he was hearing.
Why would his mother—
? “May I have Dominique’s address, please?”

“Certainly, Mr. Blackwell. She’s doing a layout in Vermont today, but she should be back”—he glanced at a schedule on his desk—”tomorrow afternoon.”

Tony was waiting outside Dominique’s apartment building when a black sedan pulled up and Dominique stepped out. With her was a large, athletic-looking man carrying Dominique’s suitcase. Dominique stopped dead when she saw Tony.

“Tony! My God! What—what are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Some other time, buddy,” the athlete said. “We have a busy afternoon.”

Tony did not even look at him. “Tell your friend to go away.”

“Hey! Who the hell do you think—?”

Dominique turned to the man. “Please go, Ben. I’ll call you this evening.”

He hesitated a moment, then shrugged. “Okay.” He glared at Tony, got back in the car and roared off.

Dominique turned to Tony. “You’d better come inside.”

The apartment was a large duplex with white rugs and drapes and modern furniture. It must have cost a fortune.

“You’re doing well,” Tony said.

“Yes. I’ve been lucky.” Dominique’s fingers were picking nervously at her blouse. “Would you like a drink?”

“No, thanks. I tried to get in touch with you after I left Paris.”

“I moved.”

“To America?”

“Yes”.

“How did you get a job with the Carleton Blessing Agency?”

“I—I answered a newspaper advertisement,” she said lamely.

“When did you first meet my mother, Dominique?”

“I—at your apartment in Paris. Remember? We—”

“No more games,” Tony said. He felt a wild rage building in him. “It’s over. I’ve never hit a woman in my life, but if you tell me one more lie, I promise you your face won’t be fit to photograph.”

Dominique started to speak, but the fury in Tony’s eyes stopped her.

“I’ll ask you once more. When did you first meet my mother?”

This time there was no hesitation. “When you were accepted at École des Beaux-Arts. Your mother arranged for me to model there.”

He felt sick to his stomach. He forced himself to go on. “So I could meet you?”

“Yes, I—”

“And she paid you to become my mistress, to pretend to love me?”

“Yes. It was just after the war—it was terrible. I had no money. Don’t you see? But Tony, believe me, I cared. I really cared—”

“Just answer my questions.” The savagery in his voice frightened her. This was a stranger before her, a man capable of untold violence.

“What was the point of it?”

“Your mother wanted me to keep an eye on you.”

He thought of Dominique’s tenderness and her lovemaking—bought and paid for, courtesy of his mother—and he was sick with shame. All along, he had been his mother’s puppet, controlled, manipulated. His mother had never given a damn about him. He was not her son. He was her crown prince, her heir apparent. All that mattered to her was the company. He took one
last look at Dominique, then turned and stumbled out. She looked after him, her eyes blinded by tears, and she thought,
I didn’t lie about loving you, Tony. I didn’t lie about that
.

Kate was in the library when Tony walked in, very drunk.

“I t-talked to D-dominique,” he said. “You t-two m-must have had a w-wonderful time 1-laughing at me behind my back.”

Kate felt a quick sense of alarm. “Tony—”

“From now on I want you to s-stay out of my p-personal l-life. Do you hear me?” And he turned and staggered out of the room.

Kate watched him go, and she was suddenly filled with a terrible sense of foreboding.