The Quirk (19 page)

Rod was grateful for the lighthearted note, but he couldn’t sustain it. “One at a time for God’s sake,” he protested with inappropriate intensity. “I’ve got to find some money, monkey. “What’re we going to do?”

“Wait until we get a final answer from New York.”

“What about that François character? Don’t you think I should talk to him just to find out what he has to offer?”

“No,
chéri,
” Patrice said decisively. “He frightens me. It would be nice to have double your money but not so nice to have none at all. It’s a big gamble. And dangerous, I think.”

“I’m sure you’re right, but the way things are now, having none at all wouldn’t make much difference.” One possibility stricken from his list. When he thought seriously of writing to his parents, everything in him balked. The list was canceled.

“Don’t worry,” Patrice reassured him. “I’m your guardian angel, remember. There are still many pictures. People buy pictures here. We will wait.”

Rod ended by sending an ultimatum to Mr. Kappenstein pointing out that if he didn’t receive an immediate advance on his work, he would have to make other arrangements. A question of survival.

Seeing Nicole almost daily, he felt her beginning to occupy areas of himself that had been reserved for Patrice. That was as it should be, as it must be ultimately, but he hoped it wouldn’t mean losing his boy quite yet. Patrice remained a buffer against unleashed, unmanageable passion. If he surrendered to Nicole–body and soul–as everything in him was straining to do, the tranquility they had carefully nurtured would be lost, all his defenses against a misbegotten world would crumble. He glimpsed havoc and prayed for Patrice’s patience and understanding.

Before there had been time for a reply from Mr. Kappenstein, Rod received final word from the gallery. The partners had decided that they all needed time to cool off. If they were to undertake the expense of a show for such controversial work, they must feel sure that they had given it every advantage of preparation and exploitation. It was in Rod’s interest not to rush it. When the second shipment arrived, they would go into the matter again with some expert outside opinion. It was still possible that the one firmly negative vote would be turned in Rod’s favor. Whatever the outcome, they all agreed that the fall was a more favorable time for a show of this nature. Meanwhile, he was free to go elsewhere if he wished.

Rod stood in the entrance of the hotel and read through the letter several times trying to give it the optimistic interpretation that Patrice always managed. This wasn’t failure. They still wanted to see the second lot. The negative partner was apparently wavering. Great. He was still as solidly architectonic as ever. He might be less so after five or six months of starvation. He shoved the letter into his pocket and went to the
tabac
and called Nicole to share the news that had hitherto been reserved for Patrice. Before he had finished his report on the letter, he could hear the anger mounting in his voice. Would she think he was angry at her? Patrice understood his anger. “I’m fed up with all of them acting as if I could wait indefinitely,” he explained, trying to keep calm. “At least we know the show’s off or not. Jesus.”

“My poor darling. It’s terrible for you to have all these worries at the same time. I wish you would let me have my share of the responsibility.”

“Short of arranging a show for me, I don’t see what you can do about it. Just tell me I’m the painter you love most in the world and help me to stay sane. I’m beginning to wonder if I shouldn’t hold back some of the things and try selling them here. I’m going to talk to Patrice ab–” He bit off the word, and his mind whirled while he tried to force himself to say something, anything, so that she wouldn’t notice the abrupt silence. “What was I saying? Oh, yes, you know–the guy who’s letting me use his place. He knows quite a lot about the art market. As a matter of fact, he’ been suggesting that I move in with him and save on the hotel expenses. Every little bit helps. I may decide to take him up on it.”

“Yes, well–” It was Nicole’s turn to fall silent.

“Are you there?”

“Yes, darling. I was thinking that perhaps we make things needlessly difficult for ourselves, but we haven’t invented the housing shortage. If only we could find a place where you could work, I could be your housekeeper. Will I see you this evening?”

“Of course, if you’re not getting sick of my nerves.”

“You have the right to your nerves. I don’t want to be the one to make them worse.”

“Silly darling. Actually, I don’t really mind the damn letter. One less thing to wonder about. When I hear from my friend Kappenstein, we’ll know exactly where we stand.” He hung up and breathed a sign of relief. Patrice had finally been brought into the picture. In a few days he could tell her he’d moved. No more secrets.

He found her thoughtful that evening. Several times he caught her giving herself a little shake to bring her attention back to him, as if her mind were miles away. It happened for the third or fourth time when he was wondering ironically if they should lay the baby on Lola’s doorstep as a tribute to her skill as a matchmaker. With an obvious effort to play along with him, she asked if he wanted to go to the old lady’s next party.

“That’s right. There’s another one coming up any day now, isn’t there? I forgot to answer the invitation. How dreadful. I’ll probably be dropped from her list. Think of the savings in flowers.”

“Be careful. If we ever get married, she can be counted on for a handsome present.”

“I’ll run right home and send her my regrets. That should keep me in good standing.”

He stayed the night, but when they parted it was understood that they wouldn’t see each other for a day or two. Nicole had some sort of family gathering that evening, other engagements the following day.

Mr. Kappenstein’s letter arrived promptly two days after the gallery’s. A chill ran through Rod as he read it, and there was an odd numbness in his hands so that he couldn’t feel the paper he was holding. It was brief and straightforward. As there was every reason to believe that his partners were moving closer to his viewpoint, it would be to Rod’s benefit to wait until they could all get together and give him a real push. There was no doubt that the new work would put him way out in front of the field. If things didn’t turn out as Mr. Kappenstein expected, he would be eager to reopen the discussion of alternatives. He didn’t think it would be ethical to act independently at this time.

A heavy weight fell on Rod’s chest. There was a hollow ache in the pit of his stomach. Not a word about money, not even an offer of a loan. His arms and legs felt stiff. He could no longer focus on the blurred paper. He managed to get to the café next door and ordered a beer without hearing his voice. He swallowed half of it in one gulp and closed his eyes and felt things loosening up a bit. He had said glibly that it was better to know exactly where he stood. He stood exactly nowhere. He would have to agree to the abortion now, but killing the baby wouldn’t put money in his pocket. Time was up. The good provider was a flop. He finished the beer in a second gulp and ordered another. It had an effect. His mind began to slide around the hopeless aspects of his predicament. Things had a way of looking up when they were at their blackest. He could get through another couple of months of hard work before giving up. He’d have a serious talk with Patrice about selling here. He might yet pull off a miracle of some sort.

When he finished his third beer, his mind seemed to have suspended operation and he thought he could talk to Nicole without shouting with rage and frustration. He went to the
tabac
and dialed her number and listened to it ring. After a moment he realized that it wasn’t going to be answered. He hung up and recovered the token and dialed again, a reasonable precaution with the French telephone, again without result.

Probably just as well. By evening the first impact of this final blow would have worn off and he might even be able to make light of it for her sake. It was the least he could do considering the decision that was being forced on them.

He went through the day with a knot of fear tightening around his heart. He had more or less known the baby would have to go, but now even his being able to stay in Paris was threatened. What was going to become of them? There was no getting around it–in another couple of months he would have to go.

The thought made his hands tremble so violently that he couldn’t apply paint to canvas. He stood with his head resting against the ledge of the skylight while the future solidified into an unbearable burden in his mind. Alone in New York–or sitting out the summer in Connecticut. Nicole and Patrice living their lives without him. He saw it so vividly that tears sprang to his eyes and a sob broke from his chest.

He couldn’t stand it. What had become of the splendid grip he had thought he had on life? He was helpless. His only hope was to take Nicole to New York and get a job and marry her. How long would they survive with all the joy and happiness ground out of them by the drudgery he had so recently escaped? He had been edgy enough here; she would quickly find him unbearable. He dashed tears from his eyes and pressed his head between his hands, trying to relieve the pressure that threatened to split it.

Patrice wouldn’t let him go. That thought and the fact that it was barely conceivable to him that he might find himself completely penniless helped to steady him. Work. He had to use the little time that remained for work.

Later he went out to try Nicole again. When the line had buzzed twice, he was struck with a certain knowledge that she wasn’t there. He held the instrument to his ear while a premonition took possession of his mind. She was doing it. She had taken the responsibility upon herself. She would no longer be pregnant when he saw her next. He fumbled the instrument back onto the hook and stood in front of it and kneaded his forehead with tense fingers. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. She knew these were crucial days when a word from New York could change all their prospects. It would have to be done, but deciding on it together would be, in some strange reversal of nature, a manifestation of parenthood, a function of their union. She knew this. Action on her own would reduce him to no more than a lover. Impossible. Premonitions were simply a reflection of one’s worst fears, and he had been a prey to fear all day.

When Rod got home Patrice was there. Patrice had been keeping irregular hours recently, and Rod never knew when to expect him. Rod gave him a distracted smile. “I hoped you’d turn up. I’ve got something to show you.”

“Don’t tell me. I know even without reading your palm.” They had shared so much bad news that they could joke about it. “Mr. Kappenstein isn’t going to give you any money.”

Rod bowed in tribute. “Spoken like a true clairvoyant His letter’s sort of interesting.” He handed it over.

Patrice burst into laughter as he read it. “You sound like a horse,
chéri.
Isn’t that what being out in front of the field means? No matter. He knows a good horse when he sees one. It’s obvious what we must do. We will pick out four of the pictures, and I will sell them. You will be very angry when I tell you how much, but nobody here will admit that an American can paint. They might have more value if I say a horse did them.”

As usual Patrice made everything a bit brighter. “Can you get enough so that I don’t have to worry about leaving? That’s what’s been driving me crazy all afternoon.”

“You must never worry about that,” Patrice said, immediately serious and authoritative. “I know a few collectors. I think I can get maybe $500 for four.”

“But that’s crazy. I can make $1,000 with that François character.”

“Perhaps, but this is not a gamble. When you’ve finished the 25 you must have for the show, then you can do a few more to sell here. Anyway, when all the pictures are there and a date is set, they will surely give you a little advance.”

“But don’t you realize that sending the next lot will cost almost all I have left.”

Patrice remained unperturbed. “I make what married men with children are supposed to be able to live on. I don’t see how they can live on it, but perhaps we must find out.”

“Now you’re talking about keeping me,” Rod protested distractedly.

“You’re supposed not to think like that anymore. A few months maybe. We can do anything, but you mustn’t consider leaving.”

He was a rock on which Rod could rest. He wished he was sure Nicole wasn’t going to be home this evening so that he could ask Patrice to stay with him. “Shall we have a drink? Are you going out?”

“I will meet friends. You aren’t going to Nicole?”

“I can’t reach her. She was sort of absentminded yesterday. I remember she said she had things she had to do today. She’ll probably be there later.

“This is rather important news.”

“Yeah. We’re going to have to go ahead with the abortion now. There’s nothing more to wait for.”

Patrice’s expression became grave. He took a step closer to Rod. “I’m sorry. I would do anything I could. I joke about you funny Americans, but I don’t joke about this.”

“I know. There’s nothing anybody can do about it. The baby would be arriving just about the time I
might
be having a show. The timing’s all wrong. It’s infuriating for a few months to make a difference. I guess we should try not to take it too seriously. It was an accident. There’ll be plenty of babies when the time comes.”

“Yes, that’s the way you must think. I know it isn’t easy for you.”