Walking Among Giants

Walking Among Giants

A Painter in Paradise

A story of a Painter in the Paris in the 1920’s

Acknowledgments

Dedicated to those who struggle to find themselves, their art, and style; The mirror of your soul will always give you the truth.

To my son, Caleb, may you never take the path that leads to convenience and complacency.

To Robert Henri, an Inspiration who helped shape my views on art.

To Leonardo Di Vinci, who’s imagination and skill, fueled my youth and beyond.

Preface

This book came into conception and then reality by mere will coupled with my search for style and a sense of self. Both the artist and non-artist will benefit from the lessons throughout the pages. Aldus Huxley, termed “seeing” in 1942 in his book , “The Art of Seeing.” The Non-artist will learn the processes of how a work of Art comes into being. My character Robert Tauney, talks about academia and warns of such traps and snares for the artist. I stand by this and simply point out that academia and schematics are not a means to an end and should not completely be relied upon through the whole artistic process. I kept the word, “seeing,“ although the character would have no idea of Huxley’s phrase or concept in that substitute. The places, names of establishments, historical sights, and description of architecture and buildings are described in detail based on Internet images, researched and vivid imagery by me. The idea of this creation was to have the reader look at life through a struggling painter in the 1920’s. A painter in his mid-twenties seeks his own identity and tries to find his place in the complex social strata of the world.

The characters in this story are based on both fictional and non-fictional people that have assisted in shaping the world of art in the 1920’s. I took some artistic liberty giving characters dialog with my fictional character Robert Tauney. Attempting, in essence, to visualize what each individual might have said and in the proper tone of voice. I took Liberty not to offend or degrade a character in any fashion. I played upon their documented quarrels or trials and tribulations. The actress Camille is portrayed as a supporting role from the film Dande Pache. Camille and her Opium addiction are purely fictional. The artwork I use is my own to demonstrate the work examples used by my character in the Novel. The drug use in the novel is purely fictional by nature and I do not condone or support the use of any kind. The drugs give a stark contrast between the natural “seeing process” and artificially aided processes by one in an altered state of awareness.

Introduction

My grandfather hid his private life from his family and spoke little of it in front of us. My father would try prying into his past with without success. Each endeavor would come to a change of subject. My father passed away in 1985. His life was shrouded in mystery until a few years ago. I had inherited my Father’s estate and had to clear out the family attic and house in order to prepare for a major renovation later that year. Much to our surprise, while entering the attic we found a rather large green military chest labeled in large black bold letters, T.A.U.N.E.Y. My better half opened the chest; it was a moment of discovery, a portal of another time to my grandfather’s scattered past suddenly came to light. Sketches and paintings, neatly rolled up canvases and supplies, old dried paint tubes and photographs of friends now long gone were layered in the chest. Then hidden under this paraphernalia of history was a manuscript with a green emerald bow. I soon found the haunting memories of a tortured man. I blew off the remaining dust off from the top of the front page and watched it settle on the ground below. I opened the now yellowed pages and felt the slightly frayed edges. The cover held a dedication and to my surprise it wasn’t to my grandmother, Angela, who had passed away ten years prior. I brushed off the remaining dust and read the name, Alison Prin, “The unrequited love to my life.” I was curious about this woman he dedicated his work to. It was as if Grandfather knew that somehow a time capsule to his life would be open for all to see. I did some research on Mademoiselles Prin, scouring the internet and found tons of information on this icon of the Fallen Folle’s. I search every part of the house and attic trying to find a shred of evidence linking my Grandfather and Mademoiselles Prin. After several failed attempts I gave up searching for more clues to my Grandfather’s flavorful past. Finally, a year later, while knocking out the wall to make way for a baby's room in the attic, I came across an old shoe box he had taped and hid sometime before his death. The glue from the tape had made a permanent bond with the textured paper of the box and took some work to open. I broke the seal of the box, feeling like an archeologist opening an ancient artifact. There was a white silken hanky covering a large stack of letters dated from 1925 to 1951. I was shocked that this man who was married to my grandmother had an illicit affair on paper, until Mademoiselle Prin’s death in 1952.

“My love for you is universal and has no bounds, even after this life, it is eternal and unchanging.” Later reading further about my grandfather, I discovered his life as a painter in Paris in the 1920’s. The epic journey my grandfather had undertaken would change his life forever. Much later in his life, he was hired at a local university, where he taught the basic foundations of art. He quit his teaching job in 1945 at the university and opened a small bookstore in Summer-Brooke, Iowa. Thanks to my grandfather’s writing, a veil to another time and place has been revealed. In his writing, he provided a glimpse into a different age.

This book has a wealth of information on the painting/ “Seeing”, or what my Grandfather termed, “ Omnipresent Viewing ” processes used in art. The reader may pick up subtle clues to the Artist creation techniques and materials and colors used in the artist’s work. It is my sincere wish that the reader will not judge his actions while reading the memoir of his life. It was a different time and he was a young man exploring and escaping from the memories of the War.

Walking Among Giants

A Painter in Paradise

A Novel By Michael S. Meusch

Chapter 1

The Beginning

I left Paris in April, 1925. I was beaten, broken down, and my life much like my brush, was dipped into hidden catacombs of Paris's despair, heartache, and, loss. I left Paris as a painter who found his voice, surprisingly not with paint, but with the pen.

One voice that walked, lived, and drank at the brassieres, cafés, and a studio once inhabited by great minds and giants among men. The dust settled over my life and I'm near the end of my journey. Having finally come to some peace with my past, I write these lines down as my, ‘Piece de Resistance.’ My rich fluid words like oil and turpentine flow effortlessly through my pen, setting upon paper my life as a painter in Montparnssee, Paris. These pages are my canvas and my pen the brush, exercising the will. The sum of my work recorded in these pages where paintings lost, return to former beauty. In some cases, being conceived before the reader’s eyes. I welcome the reader to my own personal gallery; an artist exhibition of images, feelings, and experiences. As with works of art, the artist lays down his memorable impression. There are lines, which move effortlessly and appear to be floating above the canvas; timeless and un-reproducible. Others lines are hard and incongruent, yet purposeful in the work’s creation. Everything comes together as a whole complete statement. Memories sometimes conjure the image for me of the taste of soured wine, being brought about to drink willingly once again for the reader, with purpose and intent. Some parts of the story contain painful and unbearable memories and over time the bitter wine has turned to rancid vinegar. “Trials and tribulations are the ink which fuels my pen.” With this, I hope to make an indelible mark on this parchment and preserve special moments and bring back to life what was once full

of color, vibrant with life, and teeming with energy. Only clips and figures moving about on film and tarnished photos yellowed with time. The camera missed the small movements that made figures graceful and elegant. There were subtle movements of the neck and a flow in proper proportion; perfectly timed and delicately seamless. Accentuated long legs and limbs and proper lighting, which helps enhance the aroma of our lives were missing, illuminating the true creations God intended. The cars, buildings, and clothing were exploding with reds, yellows, and blues. Oh, how the Camera and film oft-skewed our perspective making not men, but machines. Untimed and out of sync with our given reality, it's my desire for the reader to walk through this Exhibition of each page and view my work hanging upon the walls of words and gaze at the metaphors and analogies that made a life. Each man has a unique story like a fingerprint, a one of a kind unique stamp upon the earth, our birth right to immortality.

Art doesn't apologize or hide its naked body from the public eye. Nor can I make apologies and changes in a single word or phrase make it more palatable for public viewing. A dear friend told me once, “Tauney, without conviction to the canvas, there can be no such thing as true painting.” I admit, I hated those utterances at first and then came to accept those words. Let me digress and start from the beginning, before the paint settled and dried onto my canvases many decades ago.

I was a student of the arts, enrolled in Academy of the Arts in New York. Classes brought about long days of sketching and recording the figure. Each passing of the hand and stroke of the brush edged me on. Seeing the figures start to have form and substance was exciting and thrilling. I was immovable for hours in the studio working with a plaster cast and occupied with elements of light, shade, cast shadow, and rim lighting. Each year that passed, my hand became more certain in skill. After nearly photographic reproduction with my art, I came to the conclusion I was merely a monkey hitting the keys of the accordion awaiting applause. I concentrated mainly on portraiture, while practicing as a student of the Academy. I found freshman girls teaming with innocence coming to me wanting their portrait for themselves, parent, or a dear loved one. The portrait business was a bothersome one and the client never seemed satisfied. My career as a portrait artist was happily a short one and when complaints were made I simply stated:

“ Madame, there is a photography studio just down the road from here. They will be happy to assist in catching your likeness, I'm a painter and I paint what I see not what you may think of yourself.”

The canvas and brush when honestly committed without pretense or judgment do not lie. If I saw an inner sadness in the sitter and emphasized their faults, which gave the picture character, the clients did not appreciate my work and honesty. Bringing about the features and faults brought balance and a sense of beauty. As a student trying to make painting my staple income, I began looking at the master's works. I have to admit in hindsight, I wish I had established my own personal style before embarking on such a daunting task. Using one’s own set style and comparing contrast to let’s say, Leonardo or Raphael, would have been a better way to go; taking bits and pieces from them, small extracted kernels of knowledge and comparing it to my style and thus improving upon it.

Enraptured and sucked in like most all young art students of the craft, I was hunting out the finest examples art had to offer; studying the sketches of Michelangelo, Raphael, and Leonardo. I first traced the lines of Leonardo’s figures from books and pictures, ripping out pages from the library and sneaking them out unnoticed. Then sneaking them back in the same way, crumpled, drawn on, and experimented with. Such succulent lines almost as a fluent language of cross hatching, shading with charcoal or chalk. Following the directions of lines and curves arcs and angles. Lost in their world or searching for perfection. I should have been building my own world of color and coherence. I would stare for countless hours trying to decipher the hidden mysteries behind the cyan, ink, and chalk. I was young and starved for a taste, and technique. The more effort in trying brought about small glimpses into my own technique and skill. Yet not one gate opened for me to peer into the infancy of vast creation. I would stare into the mass of structures and substance until my eyes burned and I had to put a wet, warm cloth over them. The next morning, I awoke in my dormitory to find my mind imposing the image of Grecian figures in elegant poses on the wall in front of me. After my short recovery, I was hooked. Suddenly the world of masters opened up!

Many artists through the centuries forewarns the artist not to fall into the trap of academia as an end to all. Bulking the figure and merely filling in-between the lines and measuring with measurement tools and other aids, or devices. Thereby reasoning your work to death. Instead of one letting the work do the drawing itself. Much like the Zen Archer. Letting the arrow fly from his hand, not by the archers will, but more of the, “thing in itself.” But it was to late and the dreadful curse of Academia had hurried itself into my veins.

The Royal society of Academia proudly gave me my diploma and stamped their self-righteous brand across my forehead. I was ready to secure the future of others giving me the ability to run about the classroom stamping their teachings on future impressionable minds. Much like a cat with tape upon its paw. Once attached, the animal will go to any lengths to remove such a thing. A thorn in my side, and yet a viable and usable tool- teaching students helped pay my own rent.

My classmates and I would always meet for drinks at, Speak Easy’s, to discuss our variety of different subjects including, Nature, Art, Impressionism, Romanticism, Post-Impressionism, and any other ‘ism’ that occurred since the conception of Art. Our minds did not even Fathom or comprehend three words that would snare me and bring me to my eventual writing of these pages. These words were conviction, convenience, and complacency. I was lost and looking for that hue infused sanctuary called, style. Schooling is not the means to end. It teaches one how to build the human figure on paper through logic, analysis, charts, diagrams, and measurements; a Golden Mean, a playground for the followers and faint-hearted. Contradictory to anyone who chooses his or her own path. Not to bash my trade, but many artists I read about eventually had to fight and struggle to just find the very tool to start with. A traverse map leading to that very question that started artist brushes in motion. Creation.

Chapter 2

Brushes for Bayonets

I eagerly enlisted for the war. I was heavily weighed down with lofty ideals, heroism and the romantic thoughts that lead many young men willingly to the doors of perdition. I decided this after a few drinks at Speak Easy, tucked away in the dark alleyways and secret entrances of the city. Friends, some nights of intellectualism and anger over the growing imperialism and alliances forming in Europe. We lads had sealed off futures and handed them over to the U.S. Armed Forces. Such stupid pride and ignorance wrapped up and served to us in an elegantly wrapped package. All my friends were shipped to different parts of Europe all for what? Duty and a sense of honor. Most of my friends never returned from the western fronts of Vermund, Chantilly, and Arar

Trench Diggers of Vermund

Our boots were soaked with grime and mud and soiled through our trousers. The rain had a smell of cool, wet, earth and freshly broken grass. She was relentless, daunting, and persistent like a nagging woman not letting up on our now beaten down and tired nerves. The bombing of artillery always pushed the men to their mental edge. The morning sky was gray, much like a typical rainy day and the air was giving off a solemn mournful feeling making it even harder to see any hope in the last months of war. “The war to end all wars,” I remember reading in the paper, back in my hometown of Summer-Brooke . Kaiser was holding steady and we were feeling like the war was turning for the best. We were pushing back their ranks with a slow and sure strategy. Private Johnny Betralakolos, Johnny Boy, as I affectionately called him, partially because his last name was so very hard to pronounce, reached reached into his pocket and grabbed his pack of Pal Malls and offered me a cigarette. The Sargent called for a break. I lit his and mine and watched him slowly take a long intentional drag. We leaned up against the wood and mud walls, peering up at the sky.

“Tauney, cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.” In some way he was telling me the brave go to face death as we were about to. I was stationed with him and had been fighting next to him ever since the whole bloody fiasco began.

“Thanks Othello, cheerful Shakespearian note of encouragement.”

He looked at his cigarette and rolled it between his fingers then he balanced the white filter with his lip.

“Hell, we will be be talking about this while playing chess with kids running about. “

“ That we will, you old Rascal! You’ll be quoting Shakespeare and they will be transporting your ass off to a cozy asylum.“

He threw out the bit of cig onto the mud. I watched it being claimed by the thick batter like mix.

“Yes.Think you'll be buying that land you hark about?”

He stopped shoveling.

“Really? I don't,” he said, “ do I?”

I threw my muck and loaded into the bucket.

“ well J.B. as much as I hate telling you this…” He smiled and leaned on the handle of my shovel, “you do.”

“You should.” Picking a good amount of mud up a cricket landed on the end of the shovel. “ Start writing.”

We both looked at the creature for a moment then Johnny flicked some dirt at it and it flew off.

“Yeah, maybe. I have a good amount of material.” Tossing his cigarette at me.

“Well Tauney, at least I'm not naming all the colors while marching.” He was grinning at me.

“ You funny man, you made your point.”

J.B. Would always get the best of me. He ran faster and fought better and was one of those people you meet where anything you can, they can do better. Unlike me, he couldn’t paint. Johnny couldn't draw a stick figure. He would have me draw funny figures in his letters for his girl, Isabelle Surbloom.

I wiped some of the mud off of my arms and looked around me. Thunder struck and rain came down. I felt my breath increase and heart race. I was sweating and couldn't speak.

Johnny saw and walk over to me.

. “Robert! “ You’re going to be ok. Remember what to do?”

I found myself in front of him with hands in fist and sweating, looking as if I had a fever that had broken.

I didn't now, but I was having panic attacks. Back then, medical doctors over looked such things.

My hands were bloody from the constant stress and friction forced upon them. I started to lose my mental stability.

“Damn rain!”

“Damn war!”

“Damn this Sargent!”

“Damn all of this shit.”

Johnny Boy worked his way back over to me.

“ Patience, hold your tongue or you'll be shoveling the shit house instead of this fine French soil.”

I had the face of a man pleading with another man who could do nothing, but only listen.

“ It’s just non stop and constant!

And when I try to sleep I hear their moaning and groans!

Man’s game of chess is a vicious demented cycle of despair, loss, and hard ache. Separated by a few joyful moments of celebration.” He looked up.

“ Yep, you've got some hope in you.” He was pressing his hand into my cheek. Quoting Shakespeare again.

“Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we might win, by fearing to attempt,” winking at me

From the distance like a lone Valkyrie, we spotted a flying symbol of hope for us. On its wing was a red round dot with a white, then blue, outer circle; cadmium blue light from the distance. It was a British fighter coasting over ahead. The pilot must of had a problem with his engine and was making an emergency landing. Bad timing and the wrong place. I sighed

My voice rose slightly.

“He’s coming in too low.”

“Bloody Hell man,”said one of the British troops.

“He’s going to make it!”

All the men were gathered around and some wanted to make bets, others bit of hope was wrapped up in that little fighter. The anti aircraft guns burst like grey puff of smoke all around the pilot.

Watching the plane sputter and fly lower near the French city. Archie, anti-aircraft, was on him and fire lit the sky like a cigarette. I saw a small ember glowing by the engine. It sputtered, whined, and slowly the ember in the distance turned to a flame, following an explosion sending the plane into a downward spiral, hitting the ground with a hollow thud! I saw the pilot try to move away from the plane and then he just went limp as the flames engulfed the smashed and shattered vehicle.

“Tauney, you always think those planes will make it.”

The whole unit was watching and I think deep down part of them died with him; a last bit of hope. We all returned to digging in silence and worked in deep thought.

The trenches were a horrible place,the closest thing for one to imagine what hell was like. There were thousands of men, wave after waves of Regiments, being sent to their deaths. This was our turn and it was an extremely odd circumstance we were sent to assist the British, French, and Belgians. We smelled of urine, body odor, and cigarettes.

Johnny Boy looked and me and kept shoveling.

“Just keep working and don't linger on it long pal.”

The Sargent screamed suddenly and broke my train of thought. He was a tall thin man with a large protruding jaw, strong eyes, and slightly sunken in cheeks. He smelled of pungent heavy cologne. I've always remembered his teeth, they were straight white and always seemed to be showing. When he yelled, it made me wake and shutter. His whole chest and lung cage moved with each breath.

“Attention!” He spoke in In a low gravel tone. “Line up and prepare for the frontal assault, fall in!”

Those words fell from his lips and impressed on my brain knowing he had given us our orders. A daisey cutter shell landed by his side and the side of three others. Within seconds a blast threw several men into the group of us and I proceeded to scramble over many other bodies to avoid the explosion. Sergeant almost had a look on his face as the shell exploded. I could see him reaching out his hand as if he was saying goodbye to his family and children. Then everything went red. My clothes, my rifle, the boots on the soldier in front of me. The force of impact made blood from my ears run and then a dull high pitch noise became stronger and larger with each passing second. We were all stunned, dazed, and bewildered. I lay there stiff and tight, hoping I wouldn’t feel German steel piercing my side. The Germans were all over us. Our platoon quickly handled the situation by killing twenty-four soldiers and capturing five. The attack was a desperate attempt to gain leverage and ultimately ended up a suicide mission for the Kruatz. These men so far away from home and watching each other die in horrible unthinkable ways.

I laid there, ears buzzing and aching with the color of red cadmium all over me, including bits of flesh. The rain strangely comforted me. Watching it cleanse the earth, my clothes, and refresh my senses. Washing the sins of the enemy away. Taking away all the blood and purging me symbolically by rains ritual it often performs. After a moment of calm, screaming could be heard. Groaning and the most uncomfortable feeling came over me. I frantically pulled myself into a ball and checked the limbs on my body. Both guilt and compassion fell over me as all my body parts were there. I tried my best to get on my feet and help out the others who weren't so lucky. Then my vision rose up to see the desolation that had just sent men like rag dolls to their deaths. The sergeant was missing a leg and arm. He was killed on impact. Poor sod, he was so excited and couldn't stop talking about seeing his wife and children. In 8 weeks he was going home and these were his final months. A squad of German planes could be seen overhead and Archie wasn’t completing the job. I fell down, I saw the men dropping around us and then the smoke dissipating. One plane crashed almost on top of us. I could feel the heat from the wreckage from over the trench walls. Johnny Boy grabbed me and picked me up and we fled the area towards safer ground. I hugged him and felt a total loss of composure. My breathing went from heavy to panicked, and then finally to tears.

The Final Assault

The sun was just peaking over the edge of the ridge of position. Another sergeant called us to line up and prepare for an assault. I prepped my bayonet like I would my brushes at the academy before, trying to convince myself it would be done with soon. The ground was wet and so were the walls of our little temporary safe haven. I looked over at my friend Johnny Boy, he was perspiring more than me. Both of us Leaned against the cool wet mud-thatched enclosure. He looked over at me and nodded. He showed a glance of confidence. He had a long neck with dark hair that one would see when traveling to Greece. His hands looked like a sculptor's hands, strong with thick muscles flexed as he gripped his rifle and inserted his bayonet. His eyes were light blue and forgiving, compassionate. He was a man I was proud to have by my side. He grinned at me and I could see the damage and wrinkles brought by war and stress at such a young age. His face turned from a smile to a grimace and he raised his head and addressed our fellow comrades in his usual Shakespearean flare.

“ True nobility is exempt from all fear. ” All the men yelled and then it was as is if God himself turn off the sound. It went quiet. Sargent Wentworth broke the silence like a knife slicing through the thick foggy air.

“Anyone”, he barked, “turning around or fleeing the battlefield will be considered AWOL and be shot on sight. “

I sneered, they don't tell us this kind of thing when signing up. The Sargent continued.

“Murphy, pointing at the map. You and Shawl take half the squad and take out those guns on the east side.

Sanders and Conner, your squad bank left and get us control of this area here. ” pointing to a provisional map. “Platoon! Ready!

Wait till a give you the order.”

We crawled and paced slowly through the mud and there were about 50 or so of us the French and British where flanking the Germans on the right. Sanders told us to hold steady and we waited.

That was one of the longest moments of my life, waiting for the next words. Would those be the last words I would hear? Uttered throughout the halls of war. In that instant, the steady hands of time slowed down almost in a suspended animated state. I saw myself in that instant hugging my girl, Emma, and her giving me goodbyes leading me to the station. Kissing my lips,cheeks, and eyelids. I felt her body next to mine, making love under rich fluid skies and April’s dogwoods and cherry blossoms. The steam pouring out from the train’s engines seemed to be almost breathing in new life. Preparing itself for the long trip ahead. We were its cargo, men with hopes and visions of futures and heroic deeds and an adventure awaiting us. We were not yet not poisoned with the sour taste of reality and disillusionment. The hands of time could no longer be held back and by their very nature burst forth. My vision of Emma, my mother, purity herself, jerked back the present moment hearing those damned words.

” Charge! ” Screamed the captain.

Climbing out of the trench almost slipping trying to find my bearing and stable footing. Being thrown into the sea of sharks and screams of terror. I placed my vision on my comprade’s back. My mind was racing and repeating, “don't fall Johnny boy, don't fall keep running. Run you bastard Run!” The mind has a funny way in hindsight to objectify reality. I saw my fellow comrades fall like dominoes all around me, a dark cloud of soldiers like a mist heading towards us. Screams, faces, bombs, the sharp, quick, sound of whizzing bullets all around me. Men bursting apart riddled with holes from rapid gunfire. Then my worst fear occurred, my beloved friend. The domino suddenly had a face, a name, and blood on his neck and sleeve were running like the small streams I grew up next to in Summer-Brooke. He dropped in an instant and I with him. My face fell in the mud and bemired my vision. With the taste of iron in my mouth mixed with sludge and body fluid. I crawled to my fallen friend. He had been pierced with a bullet through the cheek and then the bullet found its exit out of the back of his skull. I smelt gunpowder, leather, and some other sense impossible to explain and put into detail. The sounds and shells going off all around me seemed to culminate together into a symphonic movement. I had never been more terrified in my life, but there was an unmistakable musical monstrosity taking place in our closed-off universe. The machine gun fire and grenades, shelling, even the fallen, followed in a timed fashion. It was playing out before us. This was a symphony of chaos and destruction. We were its final movement.

I stayed on the ground with bullets zipping, calling my name. Other men were falling all around me; men with lives, families, and stories to be told over warm campfires and with children on their laps. Gone in an instant. As though some mighty force was randomly snuffing out their hopes, visions, and ,dreams in one wave of its deathly hand. I felt an intense punch to my chest and then a sting that manifested into full on pain. I fell to the ground, unable to breathe or speak. Now, I was that domino. The Last I remembered was the Soldier charging at me and feeling his bayonet being buried deep in my thigh. My return gesture of good will was my bayonet in his rib cage. We danced the dance of death. He then fell on top of me with the force of a fallen tree, staring me squarely in my face, as though he was telling me, “Why? All this...” I blacked out after that and only remember my senses reacting to a bright reassuring light and clean smells of cotton and alcohol. The nurse came to check on my wounds. I touched her arm.

“ Where…where am I?”

“ You've been out for three days, they moved you to a hospital south of Chantilly. ”

I looked around frantically

“Wheres’… Betralakolos. …a..Greek fellow?” I tried raising myself. The nurse with her loving eyes and warm understanding gently settled me back to my cot.

“ Rest,” she said, “you'll open that wound again and the doctors had a hard time with that leg.” She paused, “ you could have lost it.”

I felt the security of my infancy and youth returned, but only to find it fleeting as war often treats her casualties. I was honorably discharged and given a Purple Heart. My souvenir was the silver etched cane I bought for myself always to remind me of loss I endured. I would partner with it to this day.

Chapter 3

Coming Home

The train was working the tracks with steady succession. The windows had condensation and the air felt cool. The only thing I saw was the paper I had been holding onto and the letter. The letter arrived late; three weeks to be exacted. It reminded me so much of ancient Latin, but this was my crafty, melon’s way of denying the raw reality of life, which was being constantly thrown at me. I had held the letter all the way to the states. Just a hundred or more miles to go and I would start settling matters at my family's estate and for a short while, play in the gardens and streams of my youth. Reverting to a child-like state of mind, once again in the awe of nature and her works. I thought about how there was so much to do and so many things to wrestle. My soul was spent; tossed about, dragged, ripped, and then spat out and the left on the side of the road. I calmed my thoughts and reflected on my life for a bit . I then recalled a book I read. In between its thick casing and covered leather front was the diary of Vincent Van Gogh. As I recall he too was on a train from Hague to Paris. He said it best, “the more I think about it, the more I realize there is nothing more artistic than to love others.” Conviction, Van Gogh, drank a cup of that word every day. One would think he ate his paints for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Ultimately moving his finger on canvas to bring about life and color. He embodied it. I thought of his last works, The Crows, a real and profound look at nature without judgment or prejudice. He did capture nature in all its raw and exposed color, clarity, and form. I remembered reading his letters to his brother Theo. Always addressing his life through the usage and sensations of color. “The trees, Theo… I received your letter a few days ago. I've decided to take you up on your advice and come to Paris. The train ride is comfortable and I bought a bit of bread for the trip with the money I received from you. ” I continued pretending to be him for a more few lines, amusing myself.

I started laughing, but under the jovial moment I well understood the serious of color itself will make or break you. Color, arrangement, and composition all come together in a burst of the moment, either we get it or don't, it's that simple.

The condensation from my window looked so cool and comforting. I put my face to it and felt a tingling sensation on my cheek. I thought to myself, yes, it's time to get back to the basics, a recharging and renewal of the senses. I immediately took out my pencil and paper and looked through the passenger window. There were cliffs and green gullies and new life emerging outside of my little tin car heading to small destination where its inhabitants toiled for their daily bread and returned to their quiet homes. Just to get up and repeat this process again. The artist, Millet, crossed my mind. Maybe I'll move to the city, land a teaching job, and start painting again. Finally find a voice for myself and let my work blossom with newfound perspective. Yes, I pondered, as soon I got my family finances and house in order. I was glad not to attend the funeral. I hate funerals. No one really likes them. It's like saying, ‘this is the end.’ My faith told me otherwise, I would celebrate their life rather than the opposite. My thoughts on life and death continued and the train screeched and howled adjusting itself to the track. I thought and felt the strain of loss.

Oh, how I wanted to see my mother! Run to her arms like a child and feel her love for me once more, but it was impossible. I grasped the letter even tighter. Tears and sorrow were building up in my eyes. First, my father seven years ago, now my dear, blessed mother. Except for my Uncle, I was for the first time in my life, alone. “Alive, though, you made it Robert!” I said constantly to myself. With each word gaining new strength and conviction. Out of the pit of hell. All just to have the harvester of destruction grab you by the pant leg and pull you back down again. Death follows us and marks us, slowly waiting to stake his claim; befriending us and taking us to a beacon of hope and light where each of us has nestled in the back of our brains. A secure and safe place of hope for eternal life. I hoped Johnny Boy and all the other men of the war were in a good place. Finally, away from these dreaded snares that entrap us here on Earth. I thought about many deep things and the nonsensical. Ideas were racing through my mind. Many thoughts running like the train itself. I told myself, rest now, calm your nerves soon. I would be in the temporary comfort of my birthplace. I knew deep down, I had no intention of staying.

Home Again

I awoke to the sound of the train edging towards the town of Summer-Brooke. From the distance, everything was small due to perspective. Little buildings, churches, and little cars in the big vastness of green fields and meandering hills. My train was reaching its destination, and the town was now increasing in size and becoming more impressive as I returned to the life of a Baker's son’s life I once new. The school was a way for me to temporary escape from being handed down the torch of mediocrity from my parents. By some miracle, I would set myself free from the course set by my four-fathers. Rigors of a trade my ancestors had waiting for me. My window started fogging up again, and dark clouds could be seen in the distance. The wind was picking up, and the trees all swayed in unison. A storm was coming and with it an omen of things to come. Nature had beautiful symbolism about her. Ancient religions spoke of the God of old and how she tossed our planet about, which stripped her, burned, froze, and flooded her. She was a slave to them and nothing but a vehicle of destruction. If a man broke order and attempted to bring himself above his ranks, they lashed out. This in my imagination was the storm I saw, a metaphorical storm of change and uprising. I looked out the window as droplets began to form in front of my eyes.

A small figure could be made out like a silhouette, a dark stature in the distance. Lighting could be seen striking in the background of the figure. As we drew closer, the curving of the cars angled on the tracks put the specter in view. The big brimmed hat and glasses gave him away, it was my Uncle, Claude. Little did he know I was aware of my mother's passing. If only I could take away that heavy burden away from him and ease his emotion. He was given too large of a task for one man to handle. First to bury her, and then to be the messenger of the dead. I felt for him.

The train master called to the passengers from the next train car.

“ Next stop! Summer-Brooke!”

I gathered my belongings and was almost tunning out the whistles of the mighty giant and the steady sounds of the engine as we entered our final destination.

My uncle waited for me and motioned my way. Another man exited before me and a small crowd of people welcomed him home. We all deserved this sort of welcome. The war to end all wars was over. I found out the news heading home on a naval cruiser. Men were shouting and throwing their hats in the air. Somewhere saddened by the loss of a limb or and an eye. I saw their frustration almost as if I could read it upon their faces. Many men were on the way back for work and home or graves awaiting their names and slabs of heavy marble and stone to celebrate their passing from this world to the next. Men left the lonely beast releasing its steam and sweat and built themselves up for the long ride to the next town. I stepped off the train brandishing my cane and a large duffle bag. A porter carried my chest. The large man I come to know grabbed my bag from me. He sat my things on the ground and looked into my eyes and was about to deliver his reluctant news. I stopped him. To save him such burden. I held up the paper and said,

“ It’s ok, I know Uncle, I know.” He first went to shake my hand, paused for a second, and then embraced me. Almost as if I was his own. My uncle never married or had children. I was an ever defiant, prodigal son.

“I’m glad you’re home Robert!”

God we've all been praying for you.

“I just wish well…I just wish your mother lasted long enough for her to see this.”

He paused a second and like the rest of us proceeded to go on with the motions of life.

“Let's go home,” he said in a gentle and reassuring tone.

He loaded the Model T and I helped him choke and throttle the engine from the front of the car. My left hand flung the engine to a sputtering start. I climb in and we proceeded to head to my departed mother’s and Uncle’s home. My uncle lived with us and helped his sister best he could. Working on the farm of running errands or just being by her side until the very end. He was quiet for the first few moments, adjusting the car ride and went into business mode. I was out of tune with my surroundings and not used to the prevailing silence. The sound of the motorcar calmed me. Any sound to drown out the explosions in the night’s distance, gunfire, and dreadful night sweats that were my companions. My uncle half glanced at me from the driver’s seat. He spoke finally,

“ Yeah, Robert, sure glad you’re back.”

“Plenty of things to do and I could always use your help.”

The house needs mending and that old gate needs some good grease on it again.

“Do you remember that cow of Mr. Wilhoytts?

“Well she had a calf last month. She's a beautiful little calf, Robert.” I wasn't talking and he pretty much knew what I was going to say. He changed the subject.

“How long are you staying this time, Robert?” I looked out the window recognizing the stores and shops I visited regularly as a lad with my father. I didn't say much to him. I kept looking out the window. Then paused,

“ not sure Uncle.” I added,

“How was the funeral?” He paused. His shirt and hat flapped in the wind. The storm finally reached us, a few drops hitting the front window turned into a wall of water. Cascading down to the hood then onto the side window where the water from the speed of the car made elongated trails. My uncle raised his voice because the rain hit the roof of the car. He pulled the car over to the side of the road near Sheffield’s farm. The cows were huddling up and heading for shelter. This reminded me of Verdun. I saw men and old faces appear before me, bombs and machine gunfire rattling off.

“Robert! What's wrong? Are you ok?” His voice sounded if it was coming from a distant corner. Thunder stuck and I was paralyzed with fear. I was sweating and my fist were balled up and flexed. The voiced called again. “Robert! snap out of it.

“ It's ok Robert, this happened to your father when he returned. Just breathe. I'm here.”

Suddenly I found myself inside of the car and Uncle looked at me.

“ Thought we lost you there for a second. You alright son?” The rain was finished dumping its hell and fury upon us and slowly turned to a drizzle. We started off again and Claude was being his old self again.

. “ Son, you were white as a sheet!” He made a right turn at Thompson creek and continued.

“ I haven't seen a look like that since..

Well since your father when he returned from…

Well…

We both know that answer, don't we.?”

He stopped talking and changed the subject a few moments later. It was still the same as the war brought me loss and sadness. I tried my best to separate myself and be logical talking about my mother’s death.

“ The funeral, you were telling about the funeral.”

He told all the details and how my mother would have loved what the funeral home had done. My uncle kept turning his head in a constant motion between me and the road ahead. He spoke with fatherly concern.

“Robert, “I love you like a son and we're all we have now, accept for a few odds and ends relatives scattered about the countryside.”

He made a point. I was surprised we haven't had those vipers crawling out from under hidden rocks and unknown places staking their claim of my father’s bread empire.

My uncle was on a hilly road and his hands were at ten o'clock and three trying to steady the vehicle. His arm moved back and forth in small jerking motions.

“Now Robert”, he said, “you know you ran off to school and ran off to war, now you'll be running off again! When will you stop running from yourself?”

He didn't let me answer before pulling up alongside the house. “ We're home.”

He pulled on the brake and switching the car off.

The place wasn't grand or lush. It was simple and just what my parents wanted for them. I saw my beloved Betsy and ran over to kiss her snout. She licked me turning my face red and the mark from her tongue was there for the rest of the day.

“ You stink as usual, my Betsy, and nothing could smell better right now.”

Betsy let out what I could only guess was a bellow of pure joy.

The Streams of Summer-Brook

I'd spent the next three months looking for work. Writing for a faculty position at the Academy of Arts in New York. I would write a position and then just wait. The waiting was the hardest part. The longer I stayed here the more I felt my body sprouting imaginary roots in the soil and attaching itself to rocks and other vegetation. That's was what I didn't want; to settle down. There was a world out there and being in Europe, I was open to more travel and exploration. I looked around and saw that the old place was in need of major repair. My uncle was right.

The house looked like any country house. Their was a an upstairs and the layout was L-shaped and the furniture had a Jacobean style. The sofa and chairs where my Grandmothers’ from the Victorian Era. There were bookcases and all type of literature. I would go through as a boy reading the works of Keats and Shelley and Wilde. Reading, “ The Portrait of Dorian Grey”. This would fire my imagination of arts and begin a spark that soon caught hold, of the small bit on kindling with in me.

“Yes, “this house does need to love and care.”

The next day I glued, scraped, painted, chopped and greased up every inch from top to bottom. While painting the outside of the window I recalled memories. My mother would never give the proper credit when finishing a job. She would always add the work.

“ Well Robert, you could mend the fence as well.” Never did I hear “My God Robert you’ve worked so hard son. Here site down and let me fetch you some tea” No, That wasn't in her vocabulary.

She met my father working at Salisbury’s Mill in the

next town over in Pinewood. Then later that year they were married and soon after, my father inherited the family business. Tauney’s bakery, operating since 1887. Over time it went from a small bakery serving a small area and soon became a thriving industry that demanded more workers and machinery. My father used to say,

“ Good honest labor and light hearts, make the best bread.” My father enlisted at the age of twenty-five with the Marines in the Spanish-American War. When he returned a few years after his father passed and he took over the small bakery shop and from his father and listened to right investors and make right decisions. It was a good life for him. He and my mother bought into his dream of buying a farm has with 20 acres and a few cows. People's dreams are not always paved with gold or riches, but some of us pave or passions with dirt, a modest Home, and three cows. Bessie, Mildie, and Bursa. Bursa and mildie passed by the time I was ten years of age and Bessie was studded by a neighbor's bull and gave birth to my loving white tipped nose, Betsy.

Good solid earth and land and family and three beautiful cows. This was fine for my Father but not for me. My Father would take me to the Figge Art Museum in the neighboring town of Davenport . He would have his hand on my shoulders as we both strolled through each winding room. Looking at now what I consider my brothers of the brush. Goya, Reynolds, Whistler, Homer, Chase, Renior and latrec. I simply was amazed. Large canvases, bold with color and lines that spoke another language. I was on of the lucky ones reading it fluently. I remember that most about my father he was an Art lover and he understood my growing passion for the craft.

One month we took a road trip by train the Metropolitan Museum of Art . My parents let me loose as I entered the world of the Immortals. Hals, Ruebens and Van Dyke, Rembrandt, Goya ,Delacroix, Monet, Degas, Manet, Ingres and Van Gogh I was truly walking among giants. The Metropolitan Museum of Art was founded in 1870 and, but had amassed a great collection from all over Europe and the United States. After staying for five or so hours Walking and dreaming . I didn't want to leave. I felt safe and at peace. My parents dragged my away crying. That was the day. My dream was to be a painter. Not a dream of stardom or of fanfare, but one of who sets his paints to work and creates eternal feeling in the work of Art that last forever.

After showing so much excitement for the Museum and going home drawing and sketching and trying to read complicated books on the subject. My father talked with my mother and made some investments for my schooling and lodging at an early age. We weren't people of wealth, my father judged wealth where, one puts his hat and finding joy with a wife and child that he loved.

7 years ago I remember my mother receiving the telephone call from the Bakery plant that early May he had, had a major heart attack and he left us in 1911. He was fifty-five years of age. That was my first real loss was my father his funeral was painful and I hated God for a short time then I went on living and eventually forgave God. In hindsight, my mother wanted to be with him and was saddened by his loss. Mankind will manifest a means to get what it truly desires in both negative and positive ways. She desired to be with him; reading the books he used to read. walking the same walks that he accompanied her on. Her wish was granted and seven years later cancer was welcomed in and devoured her body slowly. She made all the financial arrangements with my uncle, taking care of my financial any future financial needs.

Summer Days in Waiting

During the long hot summer I would slip down by the streams and strip down to my bare essentials. What people in Summer-Brooke affectionately called, skinny-dipping. I liked to feel the earth between my toes and the rocks against my bare back loose and without the constraints of clothing. The cold afternoon waters had strong currents and was pushed against me. Trying it’s best to propel me to the tributaries and sinkholes that lay downstream. I was now at peace and enjoying this newfound sense of enlightened silence. The current was purging me as though being baptized in nature's holy waters. I lay there suspended for hours. Pretending to become one with the current. Becoming the water around me and picturing my currents ebbing and flowing until my journey’s end.

These became thinking sessions in the currents and streams of my youth. It was healing and seemed to lessen the sounds of destruction that played in my head at times. Everything on a subliminal Level was a sort of therapy. I left the waters edge and went to grab my clothing and under my pants found a Massasauga rattlesnake. I jumped back after the initial shock of having a snake in my presence. It had dark spotted color and a unique shaped head. It was a predator not to be tangled with. It curled itself in a tight well protect shape and waited for my next move. I calmly and slowly reach for my cane and cleared myself of striking distance. He didn't try striking me and I gently moved him way from my clothing. I wasn't in any mood to fight a snake naked. After a sigh of relief, I walked back to the house and then began chopping some wood. The ax gave me strength and reminded me of manhood and caring for home; master of his domain. My arms were pounding and my shoulders felt as if someone unlocked the hidden strength inside of my muscles. My uncle had something in his hand and gave me a half smile. He wiped his brow from the Iowa heat and then concealed his handkerchief in his back pocket.

“ Is it the university?” I asked, building my voice up through the words and at the end; a climax of excitement. He tossed it down and said without looking my way,

“ You can start over and build a life here, you and Emma. ” He walked off to finish cooking dinner. He was my inspiration for leaving SummerBrooke .He became a defense lawyer and worked in Davenport, big cases and soon became a partner. After ten years or so, he was disenchanted and came home to a life of crows and cows.  

The letter was from Emma. I dropped the ax and wiped the perspiration from my forehead. Uncle brought cold tea out and we were sitting on the porch together. I started opening the letter and he leaned over my shoulder. He was smiling from the side of his mouth.

“ Thanks for the iced tea and the mail Uncle.” I waited and he got up from his chair.

“ Ok… Ok, I see when I'm not wanted.” He walked off and could hear him put some music on in the other room. I opened the letter partly upset and partly annoyed, but mostly curious. Emma stated she would be visiting soon at the request of my nosey uncle. I put the letter down on my lap looking out at my cow, Betsy, feeding. There was a crow looking at me and reminded me of Edgar Allan Poe, that old Codger!

“ NeverMore,” I squawked at the crow and he took off cursing my name as he headed towards the big tree in the front of the house.

I pick the letter up and started reading where I had left off. Emma begged for my forgiveness. Hoping that she would have a chance to explain everything and that her love would always be for me. I dropped the letter and sat on the porch in silence. She was the nail in my coffin so to speak, and I knew if I stayed in this small town the raptors of time and old age would have their way with me. I was yearning for something bigger than myself and this whole town combined.

Emma Returns

I borrowed the motor car and headed to the train station and waited there for Emma to arrive. Seeing the pale dark smoke billowing out from over the treetops. The train headed towards me looking as if it was cutting through the fields and a small clearing towards the town. The green façade and gold framing glowed and when the sun showed it reflected its face upon it. The train was clean and new with 1400 written in gold letters. The shrieking of the breaks and movement of the wheels pushed the air around me and steam poured out as it passed me at the Summer-Brooke train station. It slowly came to a stop and the porters were preparing to receive passengers. Some Black folk got out of a separate car behind me. Their loved ones gave them warm greetings, hugs, and kisses. The war was over and many men were returning and coming home to build their lives. In the end, it didn't matter what your color was or your financial background. We all took part in something bigger than prejudice, hatred, or ignorance. I nodded and saluted one of the officers arriving off the train. We had that brief connection, like two people bonded after surviving the same disease. We broke off eye contact and his woman was rushing to his arms and he hugged his child. Those kinds of happy visions are the one small fragments of joy that the war did bring at its end. A reunion with loved ones.

I walk over and waited there, just because I had no other reason to do so. She broke things off because she was in love with another man. Now he was gone and she wanted me back. How convenient, I thought to myself. The train emptied its occupancies and finally Emma emerged from the car with a gentleman holding her bags. I tipped the man and had him put the luggage in the car. She hugged me and started crying. I couldn’t find it in my heart to greet her with same full commitment. I was hurt and frankly over her, over us. On the car ride home Emma was quiet and anxious. We both all of a sudden starting talking at the same time.

“ It's been a year and a half Emma. Why did you come? To revel in my defeated heart?” Emma countered with a flurry of excuses.

“ Robert, the affair was a huge mistake. You hadn't written for months and I thought you had been killed. Then I met Dan. He comforted me and was a friend, then we become closer and…

Well, things changed, he changed and went to work for his father at the mill.” She noticed I wasn’t listening.

“ Oh, the hell with it! Robert L. Tauney, you are the worst individual to communicate with! I'm trying to explain everything to you! ” She burst out into tears again and was sobbing and wiping her face with her blouse.

“ I love you Robert, you stubborn pig headed fool. ” I pulled over to the side of the road and handed her my hanky. I looked at her, really deep and hard, as if some hidden clue would be revealed to me about her. She was an emotional thing, with golden flax hair and big blue eyes. Her skin was white as flour and had just a tint of flesh color to it. Her cheeks had the color of a touch of vermillion with white and blended into her cheekbones nicely. She always dressed well and wore the cutest hats. This particular one had a lillie and some faux babies’ breath. It curved up just over her eye and then bent slanting downwards sharply. I pulled her close to me and felt the warmth of her lips on mine and she returned the favor.We drove to my home, she sat right next to me. Uncle greeted her and gave her a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. Then he gave her a look as if saying, see, I knew he would come to his senses. Her smile was gracious in return. I grabbed her luggage and put her things in my mother’s old bedroom. I looked around the room putting the luggage in the closet. I saw my life in that old room, poems from my high school, hung proudly in frames for all to see. Pictures of my father in his military best dress uniform. The clicking of the clock breached the silence and I could here the mechanisms moving and churning as the big hand hit the four. The old Grandfather clock bellowed and moaned and chimed out the time. It startled me and I quickly collected my thoughts as I put the luggage down and left the room. Uncle was calling me downstairs for dinner. I looked around the room trying to bring in more memories and catch on to the flashes of images before my eyes. One last look, I closed my mother's door.

While eating dinner, Claude would lead the conversation trying to get us both talking and liven the odd silence in the room.

“ So Emma how was the trip? Are the fields still beautiful with white asters and buttercups? I take it the family is fine?” Emma swallowed and responded and I played with my beans. The two were quite a pair. Probably plotting to hold me down, while Uncle chained me to the house and a preacher arrived to finish me off. Uncle spoke again trying to illicit some response by my now entertained mind.

“Robert, have some more mash potatoes and the Tauney famous biscuits.” He put more food on the plate and talked the entire time. In fact, he talked too much.

“ You know Robert, you should drop by the bakery, and they could use the help managing things down there. No rush, just consider it. Maybe even take Emma for a tour?”

He was getting nowhere fast.

“ So Robert’s been painting and fixing the old place up. Haven't you, Robert?” I was eating staring past them both. His second attempt was far more obvious.

“ Well Emma we could use some help around here, lots of things to do and a woman's touch would be just the thing.” My neck was getting red and I finally spoke.

“ Want to go for a walk Emma? The stars are gorgeous out on the farm t night. ” I grabbed Emma and before my bothersome Uncle could give me that look, I was out the door. I grabbed Emma's hand a led her to my spot where I use to lay In the hay as a child. “Look at the shooting stars.” The sky lit up like fireworks like the ones we would watch in town. As a child The stars would perform their tricks for me and I would get excited. Then I would play a game. I attempted and tried guessing when the next one was coming. “And … waiting for the right moment.

Now!”

Hoping the timing was right. The shooting star would always be a few seconds behind or ahead. Very rarely would I get it dead on. When I did, it made my whole night before bed. Emma lay down on the hay and gazed at me for a few seconds then looked at the canopy of stars above us. I was enjoying her company again.

“My father used to tell us a story about how the stars came to be. He said before there were stars in the heavens, there were ancient Gods. And one God named Claetes, he had the most beautiful cloak made from the lightand diamonds, and the cloak had the power to create all life.” I looked over and saw the spark of dreams in her eye and continued to weave my story thread by thread. I continued.

The cloak was so powerful and beautiful he would outshine all the other Gods. They were envious. The Gods came to Claetes and ask him to give magical cloak to the heavens so everyone could enjoy it.

“ I could never part with such a treasure.” He told the other Gods, he would never give up his Cloak of light and diamonds. One night the other gods talked to the Goddess of the heavens, telling her about this wonderful cloak. The jealous Gods explained that she, the heavens, would have such power all would look up and upon to her forever. Wanting this cloak for herself, The Goddess of Heaven had the God of Night slip in the Temple and steal it from the Claetes, while casting a spell of sleep upon him heaven and took it for herself. The other Gods smiled knowing that heaven would let creation and the stars free. Claetes can be seen chasing his cloak out of anguish. We call it the comet. “ I finish the story and laid back.

“And that's how we have stars, my dear.” I was starring at the sky, my arms behind my back resting on them enjoying the view. Emma thought for a moment and then pounced on me.

“ Robert that's the biggest load of crock story I've ever heard. Your father told you that. Jeez! You had me going all right.”

“ Well, he did, really!” We both started laughing. I leaned into her touching her hand. I kissed her. We kissed each other making up for lost time and renewing our bond we once had. We made love and I held her under the cloak of light and diamonds.

A few days later, the postman arrived as usual. Uncle went out to fetch the mail and noticed my letter I had been waiting for. He, in all his good intention, hid my letter from me. I was with Emma in the house. I'm sure in all his good intentions, it was the perfect opportunity to help the two lovers. He was walking inside and ran into the both of us.

“What was in the mail?” I asked. I had forgotten all about jobs and was concentrating on Emma and the farm. His little rouse was working.

“Oh, the usual,” he said with a shrug. He hid the letter on a shelf, tightly compress between the Lester bound books of Love and War and Shakespeare. We ate dinner. Uncle was telling jokes and telling us about some of his adventures as a child in Summer-Brooke with Grandfather. Afterwards, I assisted Emma in washing the dishes and tidying up in the kitchen. Soon we all retired to the family room. Uncle put a record on and gently set the needle in place. He added,

“ Just got this record from the local five and dime store.” We were listening to the gamma-phone , ‘Ain't Misbehavin’. Emma got up grabbed my hand and pretty soon we were dancing along without my reliable cane. Uncle had a look of concern on his face with his eyes on the bookshelf. Emma and I were spinning to the melody and then out of nowhere my legs gave out! I hit the bookcase and fell to the floor! A few books fell to the floor one hitting me on my temple. I looked at the book and it was titled, ‘The White Lillies on Zephyrs Hill’. It was right in front of my eyes and the envelope fell lightly landing on my chest. Emma asked if I was ok, with a shocked look on her face. Looking at my leg and then my cane. I looked at them both and then back at the letter. Uncle leaned over.

“Here let me take that for you, it's nothing let me see it.” I grabbed it from him and looked at the address hand written on top left and the middle addressed to me. I ripped the letter open and looked at my uncle with discontent.

“When did this arrive? Huh, tell me!” Emma was quiet. My uncle looked down then stood up and looked out the window. Emma was confused.

“Go ahead Robert, do what you want! You seem to do that anyway!” he said his peace and walked up stairs. Emma looked puzzled and asked out of pure curiosity.

“ What is it Robert?” She had a look of confusion about her. I opened the letter and read it out load so that my Uncle would clearly hear my defiance from the other room.

Dear Mr.Tauney

It is with great pleasure to here from you and brings me comfort that you have returned from the war with a sound mind and body. After reviewing your records and discussing the matter with the Faculty and Staff, the Board has come to the decision that you would be an excellent candidate to join the faculty here at The Artist Academy of the Arts.

I will make all plans and arrangements for your relocation and correspond with you by telephone later this week. As the president of The Artist Academy of New York, I am excited to have you aboard and welcome you.

Amos Treadle

President

I finished reading it and didn't say another word. I started packing and arranging my personal things.

Emma came up to my room and leaned on my door

“Robert you’re so damn selfish! ”

I knew in my mind if I didn't accept this opportunity to work at the college I would be stuck in Summer-Brooke, Iowa for the rest of my life. That was not going to happen to me or my painting career. I held Emma's shoulders and lightly rubbed them.

“ Emma, I have to go, men sometimes get one chance in life, a chance to open the door to great things, and this my time.” I stroked her hair lightly and gazed into her eyes. They were like a sea of blue.

“I'll call for you to come, just give me a month to get settled, ok?” She hugged me and started crying and sniffing.

“Don't you dare leave me in this God forsaken town Robert, don't you dare!” I was trying my best to re-assure her. I knew deep down she would ultimately be holding me back.

Chapter 4

The Halls of Academia

The students of the National Artist Academy were the brightest and the richest the country had to offer. Classes started promptly at 7:00am and a nude model was there for several hours. Casts of Greek and Roman art were stacked in the distance. Usually a nose, hand, or foot in plaster of Paris. It gave the students the ability to study light and shade. The constant smell of turpentine invaded the room. Oils paints especially gave off a rather addicting perfume I came to love. Each student had a white smock, easel, paints supplies, and an array of brushes. There were student about twenty students forming a half circle around the model. Her perfect figure and white skin radiated throughout the class. She was paid 10 dollars a week and was told to stay fit and keep her figure. I surveyed the room, looking at each student’s work, correcting and giving advice. Never touching their canvas or painting on top of their own work. That was sacrilege to the artists. I would always correct the stroke of the wrist and elbow.

“ Follow the arcs that nature has given you,” as I took the student’s hand and showed her the arc like motion, and then did the same with her elbow. When I saw a common problem the class all seemed to be having, I stopped them all and addressed it quickly on my own canvas.

“ Ok class, now see how in the position of the figure it's hard to tell where her legs wrap around?” I looked around the class and looked for nods of agreement. I took my brush and dipped in the turpentine and lightly made a point of the relative center to the figure, then with my brushed made an almost translucent arc around the figure in perspective.” The form is relative to the viewer. Based on perspective, the artist can find the right placement of form. Take your brush and search the form out.” I was using my brush showing them the best way possible to illustrate.

“The work will naturally tell you where to put your next stroke. Listen to your canvas and she will tell you. If you just throw on a line for the sake of things, you will spoil the form and lose coherency altogether.” I did the same to my canvas and looked around the room and saw the wonderment of youth and small lights flickering in their heads. Some had confusion on their faces. I drew a line for her hips and sent the line back under the breast with a simple and effective arc. I found other natural lines that occured. The class was forming around the work. I dipped my filbert and didn’t questioning myself. I painted her hands and hair with a quick movement. I looked back at the class.

“ If one tries to draw the hair it will fail all expectations. But like a good poem, if one hints at the form, the mind fills in the rest. Thus making hair, breast, hand or a nice well-rounded ass.” A few laughs came out as I finished my class.

After class Thomas, a senior faculty member was leaning up against the door frame. He waited for me to come to him.

“ You know”, he said,

“We are having a special guest speaker today at 5pm, Robert Henri, interested?” He lit a cigarette and awaited my response. The fact was I loved Henri’s work and his theory's on painting was fascinating. He had been teaching at the Artist Students League and recently retired. My colleague continued,

“He's doing a presentation about his newest book, The Art Spirit.” I looked and smiled rubbing my chin.

“ Interesting prospect

This could be fun. I imagine the typical lot, of faculty, will be there?”

He pushed his glasses back and put on a theatrical face. “Yes, the bearded old educated goats and faculty all prim staunchly and ready give Henri their rebuttals.” He grabbed my brush and pointed it towards me watching the model as she robed herself and passed us. Thomas paused as she passed then looked at my work squinting his eyes.

“He just got back from Paris.”

I looked up in interest.

“ Well go on,” I said waiting in anticipation.

He put the brush back and took a drag of his cigarette and blew out a plume of smoke.

“See you there at six”. Thomas was a dramatic ass. He had me hooked in his little presentation.

The Modern Spirit

I met Thomas sharply at six o'clock. We both entered the lecture Room. Staunchly looking men with fine-tuned mustaches and parted hair. Older distinguishable gentleman that at one time planted their foot firmly in the oily soil of the Academic traditionalist painting. Thomas pointed to one and gave a description. “He’s the acting president of the National Portrait Society.”

I recalled Singer Sargent having that same time-honored role as well. The hall with its low rumble of voices slowed and came to a hush. A man soon appeared at the podium giving accolades and began forming a mental picture a tapestry of woven canvases and past praises and accolades . Everyone stood and applauded as a small aging figure entered the room from backstage. Robert Henri came to the podium and waited for silence. Proceeding to tell us we are a brotherhood of artist. That it is man obligation to produce art.

"A social force that creates a stir in the world.”

He stated that all his life, he was in the search of truth. He titled his glasses and smiled, “ I’ve always shown a desire to paint the truth. The quality in a portrait painter is likely to react to my disadvantage. When society folk have their faces and figures preserved on canvas they have a strong desire to look pretty, and a man who seeks only to perpetuate the truth is likely to be out of favor with the moneyed ones." He continued for about one hour or so. He mentioned society’s role and a new generation of leaders, a way to point to truth and light the way to new and clarified forms of art. “ Look towards Paris”, he said with a sly smirk on his face, “that is where the future lies. They shall carry the torch towards arts final illumination.” A gentleman from the back row scoffed and said with sheer smugness, “You will only find sir, fops and parasites, gibberish, and nonsense, but not art.” Henri pondered this for a moment and simply said, “formam accipit quicquid est verum. Truth is truth in whatever form it takes.” Picasso and Matisse were making splashes in the art world prior. Picasso painted the groundbreaking work, Les Demoiselles d’Avignon, just 15 years ago and formed the Cubist Movement with Charles Braque in 1909. I was infatuated with the e romantic idealism of the whole thing. This was the opportunity like Monet and Manet, Degas, Daubeny, Cezanne, and Pissarro. Like the Impressionist movement, a time that would not ever be repeated.

I thought maybe this was my calling to go to Paris to find what I've been missing all my life. I quickly wrote my uncle and requested my mother's investments be sold and to invest the money and send me a monthly stipend. I was making a leap of faith, one that would change me forever. I looked at Thomas who had been my good friend since my arrival at the school and was only 5 years my senior.

“ I think I'm going to Paris.” Thomas winced at me and then said in a coy sarcastic tone,

“ well, my dear Robert, I never doubted you for one second. When do you leave?”

Chapter 5

Landing in Paradise

“Attention Mesdames et Messieurs prochain arrêt Montparnasse . s'il vous plaît colloct vos bagages avant de quitter le train.” The man's low gruff voice was music to my ears. Its baritone texture assured me this was my stop. My French was not great, but I knew enough for a glass of wine and to locate the toilets if needed. Those were two very important things to remember . The Paris metro built the number 9 and 11 extensions. Its design was art nouveau and was finished a few months ago. There was a man selling papers. I motioned to him and gave him money. The paper read, ‘Le Patriot’, in bold letters on top. He must have lost his leg in the war. I looked around cognizant of Paris’s casualties the war. More than ten million lives between America, France, Italy, Russia, England, Belgium, German, and Austria. They were all around me. A newsstand caught my attention and beautiful advertisements had people standing drawing a crowd. Commercialism was slowly entering the veins of every city in the world; Paris was no exception. I turned to look at the exit with a Noveau script that said, ‘ Metropolitian.’ The building face had two windows that bubble out and they formed like wide long eyelids on a creature. In between the long windows were beautiful carvings stretched out like an elongated shield. Steel filigree designs met in the center like a bow that tied off and draped down. The place de bastille had a new edition. It was in my opinion out of place. The monument stood to my right and cars, buses and trollies passing around it.

I had arrived and started looking around. Paris offered fresh views for my starved eyes. I wrote a fellow artist, Jean Pinceraux, who I met in a bar in Chantilly during the war. I was happy to find that he was alive and well. The armistice was signed and Paris was being its old self again. He had set up a small flat and studio in Montparnasse, He was from social means and found time to spend his father’s money's in the most creative ways. In the war, he ran the ambulances for the injured and wounded. His plan was to paint and make love, and forget the war happened.

“Il n’y a qu’un bonheur dans la vie, c’est d’aimer et d’être aimé.”

I replied in sly way, “Madame Sand, I’m guessing.”

“Yes!” Jean replied.

Jean tapped my jacket with his hand in a gentle motion.

“ You know some French and I know some English.” I replied.

“No only some George song… Here and…”He stopped me.

Jean tried to straighten his barett. He was drunk and attempting to stay balanced.

“ …An American solider…” he was stammering,

“ We are a quite a team now…mmm… American?”

“ Um, quite you’re referring to our coming to your aid…I mean the British.” I knew French self-pride got the best of them. They were defending their land. We were their guests.

“I’m just a humble painter with gun in Chantilly,” I said.

Jean’s eyes lit up. He kissed me Parisian style.

“American, I was going to knock your teeth out. Mon Ami for that little….

“Painters”, pausing, “we are a different lot.”

I sighed a sigh of vast relief.

“Oh, you’re a... Artist.” His face brightened up and there was an amber glow about him. His low tone voice changed to a brassy rich texture.

“Painter, signaling me away from my American companions, let's us chat.” He brought me to the French side of the table and handed me a dry white wine. Jean and I bonded instantly and talked all night. He was a fellow painter and new friend of mine. By morning, half the men were slumped over with hangovers awaiting them.

Jean was convincing me to go AWOL and stay with him in France.

“ A true Painter protects his own,” he said, “ we are brothers now.”

He looked at me and I held him steady.

“ What's your name painter again?”

“ It's Robert.”

He fell over on the table, passed out. The bar tender didn't flinch and kept cleaning around the men's faces. Then he lifted himself up and continued our conversation.

“ My new American Painting friend…” He pulled me close.

I leaned in and we almost bumped heads.

“ Robert, Robert, I won't forget you little comment about helping us.” He passed out.

I left the station.

Now I was here in Jean’s country. What was Paris and Montmartre like in Monet’s time of Impressionism, pointillism, Daubeny, and Pissarro? I reminded myself not to fall in the trap of style worship. Paris, the mother, and art was her children.

It is said that a man leaves behind his old heart in entering the city of Paris and is born a new one when leaving . I was ready to forget life for once and live again reborn. I was not yet 25 and felt like my life was fleeing before me. Draining away like the sand being etched away in an hourglass depositing each moment with haste into the pile wasted years below.

The first thing one sees when arriving and stepping onto Paris’s cement is the Eiffel Tower. She seems to follow you wherever you go. The streets on the right bank are the metro and the Louvre the Siene River, and the neighborhood of Monmartre I could have picked any street to go down. I Walked along the rue de Champs E'le’ysee, getting a feel of the shops and life playing out in front of me. I was amazed by the color, even in the winter, the shops seemed warm and welcoming. I found in the many years I walked through Paris streets, I always enjoyed Spring and just the cusp of Fall. Spring with its bright chestnuts and garnish of floral, like blankets covering the parks; rich, rewarding inspiration at every turn on every street. Paris seemed as if it was designed for the artist to create within her.

I found myself naturally exploring just by mere instinct. Like a child having to take its first fresh breath from leaving the womb. I summoned a cab and waited for the driver to pull over. I proceeded to stop for a moment and thought to myself. “ With this one step I leave the world of bombs, bayonets, machine guns, and the rest of the world behind.” I smiled, tossed my cane in and luggage in the motor car and proceeded to my friends flat.

“24 rue Delambre, si vous ples.”

.

One could take a cab or city bus anywhere and still enjoy carriage ride to less busy sections of the city. The Ave. de Champs E’lyee’se purposefully took you directly in front of the Place de La Concorde. I asked the driver to go around the Arc and the city to get a feel of Paris’s topography. Once we passed the Place de La Concorde, the main streets would be three main ones. I was taking notes and sketching. I was drawing a bird's eye view of the city. Ave Grand Boulevard to right and Boulevard St. Germain to the left and straight-ahead was Rue de Rivoli. The driver waited for the flow of traffic to be in his favor and turned down Boulevard St. Germain and we passed the Church St. Germain des pre’s and soon he turned on Blvd. St. Michel and passed the Palais de Luxembourg and finally turned on Blvd de Montparssnee then Boulevard Raspail to Rue de Delambre.

While I was taking my notes and getting my bearings for the city, I peered out from the cab window. The cab sped past the people talking and shopping. Men, women, and workers enjoyed their well earned breaks; cafés with people eating, drinking, reading, talking, and laughing. Thick lines of people in rows all enjoying newfound freedom away from worry and sorrow of war. A cable car trailed past us. Horses left their deposits in the streets and pissed on the cobblestone forming a steam from beneath them. A lovely woman walked with a bright floral color and hat to one side and various plumes of feathers and fur kept her warm from January’s cold. A police officer was getting his boots shined. We passed what I had to guess was the left bank of Paris. The lovely waters held boats and small crafts. Then as we hit a bump, I thought of lovely, sweet Emma. The letter she mailed me at the Academy made me upset. I was frustrated and did not want to be reminded of farms, simple people, and my place in their world of managing a company and settling in my father's shoes. The letter filled me with guilt and the spoils that departure and separation could bring. The cab suddenly backfired and put my mind back in the moment of the present. The cab passed a few small cafés Le,Dome, Le Rotunda, and The Dingo bar. At Café Le Dome, he rounded the building that bent with the street. A few more blocks down and then came to an abrupt stop.” 24 rue Delambre, mousier,”The cabby frankly stated.

I could see the slightly tilted streets and layers of buildings with a white and red awning. Two lovers walked ahead of me and there was old woman carrying her morning croissants. A dog waited for his master. A boy held on to his mother with curls and big dreams. I walked down the street, acting as one of the locals. The colors of the buildings and architecture seemed to just naturally work in a cohesive harmonic state. One could throw a coin down any street and paint a scene where it landed. American architecture is separated and is lacking what Paris just naturally has. A sense of balance and humbled nobility, with grace at her center sovereignty, is the crown placed on Paris’s head. I found the hotel with 24 written on top of the door. I entered and proceed with my best French foot forward and asked for Monsieur Pinceraux. The lady after hearing my introductions starred at me with a discerning look and said, “So an American?”

“Yes”,I quickly responded, “Monsieur Pinceraux is on the third floor, third door on the left.”

She proceeded to speak French as if testing me. “Le loyer monsuire Pinceraux est dû le vendredi et ne pas être en retard. Tell monsuire rent is due Friday and not be late again.”

I arrived at the third floor, third door on the left. In front of the door reading the words, “Pinceraux Painting Studio”. Under those words read, the bold words, Painter, claiming a right of passage to the brotherhood. I Knocked on the door and a few moments later a figure emerged. His apron was splattered with bright orange, yellows, and red paint. He smelled of cigarettes and wine. He was a bit older than I, with well-defined features mounted on a small frame. His eyes were strong, but sunken set in with purpose. Premature greying hair gave him a distinguished looked. On a table, a silver Menorah told me his faith. His clothes were baggy and well worn. His vest complimented his outfit quite well. His brown fedora made his height more appealing and his smile was warm and welcoming. He looked at me for a second then with a wide smile said,

“Robert, Mon Amis I received your telegram.” Then without pause embraced me and greeted me in typical French fashion.

Chapter 6

Caf'e Colesrie des lilas

After much discussion, some wine, bread, and cheese, I walked over to his work, stared, and shifted my eyes.

“ Jean is starring intently. This is bold, fresh, and full of color. Magnificent!”

Jean simply painted with emphasis on visible brush strokes. There was a blue vase with roses and irises, a simple apple, and a knife.

“ Thank you mom ami.” Jean became very serious and added more orange. It's my tribute to Cezanne and Raoul Dufy; simple images with bold color. I could see the spark in his eye, the painter and passion uniting and becoming one. I saw in essence, his brilliance. Jean continued, “ one is to eat the food after we consume it with our senses.” He had a few commissions he told me about as he covered his work. There was a painting sitting against the white art molding on the wall. The painting showed a bit of a dark and looked as if the blues and blacks finally cured and dried with the patient passage of time. The work was a rich contrast of deep colors that moved and worked together with a perfect harmony. There was an image of an older man with a monocle and top hat. Jean had painted a warm contrasting color for the flower in his jacket’s lapel. There was sheet music in his lap and his hands were painted with thick globs of paint. He had a jovial expression about his eyes, as if he was hiding a surprise of some kind or was about to tell the punchline of a joke. The brush strokes pulled out the wrinkles and sagging skin on the old man. Jean changed the subject.

“Well it's getting late, there is a sofa I have prepared for you. Good night, hold his hands out. Welcome Mom Ami”. I slept on the couch. The sheets smelled as if he didn't receive visitors often. I moved the sheet down by my shoulder. The window was leaking in cold air from the outside wind. I looked at the ceiling, staring into the darkness. Seeing my mind forming shapes before me. I closed my eyes and ignored the images turning slowly into uncontrolled images of my past. The war and friends went from the chaos that erupted only a short few years before. The mind must be always resolving issues even when we are awake and not conscious of its processes. Only getting glimpses of its fine operations before sleep ensues us.

The next morning, the sun made its presence through the shutters upon my face. I woke and felt refreshed, ready to take a piece of this lovely city for my own after a good filling breakfast of cheese and fruit. We were off! Jean told me he wanted me to possibly meet some people and get acquainted with the feel of the city. We grabbed our jackets to guard us against a bitterly cold wind. We left the flat and were walking for about ten minutes through tight streets and busy alleys bursting with life. We walked to the boulevard Raspail then to Boulevard de Montparssnee. We passed the local life preparing for the day and setting up signs and putting out fresh green food and sumptuous fruit and flowers. Jean Continued in his best, broken English. “This city is exploding Robert, there is an unmistakable buzz in the air. The cafés take our artist drawings like a form of currency, well the good ones.” He was building me up, and I was getting pulled in just as fast.

“The city breathes and lives and she is waking up.”

“Our beautiful queen is opening her eye from her dormant sleep and us artist are her subjects. So many things tell you, but see for yourself.” He looked out into the distance, waiting for me to follow his eyes. The dark red awning with white lettering read, Caf'e Colesrie des lilas. I remembered in the books I read a few years back about artist like Cezanne and Emil Zola that frequented the Café. I remembered that day so clearly in my mind. There were rows of seats and people arriving there as early as we were. A businessman waited for a possible appointment. A writer crouched over his work stirring his morning café. There was a man reading Le Temps newspaper. A few dandies watching streets and millionaire playboy types remarking on the fine female specimens France had to offer. Women smoking with the men, with short hair and new attitudes. Leaving behind old idealism and bringing in new forms of feminist thoughts to a modern age. One could order a coffee or soup and live there contemplating the mysteries of all things. All the while enjoying company and listening in on groundbreaking conversion. Then there were those who stood out of the crowd and the energy seemed to come off of their movements and conversation. Others just filled in spaces with false wit and pseudointellectual dribble.

Americans somehow stuck out from the crowd. It was if a mark was put upon them to be recognized. I couldn’t quite give reasons for this. I noticed and eventually made Paris my home, the ex-patriots, the ones who stayed, started to blend in French scenery quite well. Jean lit his cigarette and proceeded to offer me one.

“Maybe a bit later” I said. The truth was, I so happy breathing in fresh air without fear of being gassed. We entered the café and waited for seats. The garçon sat us next to two men. One with a mane of thick wavy hair, which stood up on the ends and he had look of intellectual defiance about him. He would look around as if analyzing his surroundings. He wore a southern gentleman’s mustache and beard and had piercing eyes as if he was not looking at something, but through it, contemplating all the masses and forms he cast his eyes upon. The other man wore glasses and an eye patch over his right eye. He had a rather harsh look on his face; as if he had just tasted something bitter and still hadn't recovered from it. His hair was slicked back and he spoke with a rich Irish accent. I was familiar with his face and work, Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man. Jean kindly ordered two coffees and basket of bread.

Great Minds Prefer Great Cafes

“Monsieur toasting his tea, Pinceraux up and about painting I assume?” The gentlemen with the soft features asked. Instantly, I recognized that strong southern slow draw and was eagerly waiting to be introduce

“Ah, monsieur Pound, it's a pleasure as well”, Jean replied. Monsieur Pound continued,

“This is my good friend and associate Monsieur Joyce”. He had a certain gleam in his eye. I waited for Jean to introduce me. Jean said something to the waiter and then said with some added flare. “This is my good friend Robert Tauney.

He's an American painter and professor of studies at the Artist Academy in New York.

“Only schooled, Midwest actually.” Touching is mustache to one side. “Fine school,” said Ezra, he continued. “I happened to meet a fellow a few months ago touring Paris and taking in the local atmosphere, the celebrated painter Robert Henri”. “Yes”, I humbly replied, Pound countered, “Yes, well, brilliant man and cleaver with the brush too. Arts root is Ancient Greek which means skill of hand, but I digress.” I acknowledge Monsuire Joyce. He sort of half smiled before speaking. For a man with such a thin stature about him, he sounded like a man who loved to admire and talk about himself, constantly as if we were all his subjects and his writing made him divine in every sense of the word. I recalled later in life reading that he regarded people who he met and helped him gain his stature. By which was mostly money and patrons. Referring to them as “ fortunate mortals ” who crossed his path. He added

“Thank you, but actually, Mademoiselle Beach will be here soon to discuss some important events surrounding my new book, Ulysses”.

He went on pontificating and we listened to him and Pound for at least an hour. Pound would come into the conversation with charming antidotes, quotes, and phrases one has never heard before. His knowledge of languages and literature were absolutely remarkable. He spoke Chinese, French, Ancient Latin, Ancient Greek, and he talk about deciphering hieroglyphics. He recited a poem or two for the group and for Joyce. Joyce had several redeeming qualities; he knew many Irish folktales and many Irish tunes, although he didn't sing for us. I found Pound the more brilliant of the two. I overheard Joyce ask for a loan from Pound and he handed him 100 hundred francs and patted his arm.

Jean pulled me aside and talked in a low tone warming his hands in one of the heaters placed outside.

“So Silvia Beach is working with Joyce on getting his novel published. She owns a bookshop and is very into new writers that have come to Paris. She believes Joyce's work is groundbreaking and has invested huge sums of money.” I looked at Joyce, always biting down on his jaw and constantly revealing his masseter muscle.

“ Jean, how do you know these things?” Jean smiled and said smugly.

“ In Paris cafes, sipping his Coffee, ears are everywhere and I happen to listen, about me, all the time mon ami. Men can learn many things they just need to learn to shut up.” I smiled.

“ Someone should listen to your advice.” We laughed and both toasted one another. Jean was about ten years older than me. He was proud of his Jewish heritage and it would always be one of the first things he’d say when meeting and having a conversation. I was blessed to have had met him and we kept in contact up until World War II. I was grateful not have run ends and put myself aside listening to Irish man again. Little did I know he was one of the men in Paris slowly growing and metamorphosing into the Giants we know today.

Pound and his Dubliner counterpart said their goodbyes and mingled once more in the crowd I met Sylvia Beach after my third coffee, I started to feel a bit intimidated. I was surrounded by people writing and sketching. The smoke was thick around me even outside. A slight wind would push the haze off to one side then the haze would gently return. I figured do as the French do, so I lit a cigarette and ordered a good carafe of white dry wine. The noise from the patio gave off a hollowed echo. Combinations of both light and airy voices and low deep timbres mixed with fast French and that of slower English draws gave an epiphany of sound combining and changing in volume and texture. Listening in on another's conversation was impossible. The other voices would wash the weaker ones out. I re-focused my attention back on Jean’s words. Jean spoke of new people arriving every day. Not just Americans, but Swedes, Spaniards, and Africans. One particular Spaniard, Picasso, was next to a woman named Gertrude Stein. Her brother was a very well known collector and Stein was an author with a few acclaimed works under her belt. Picasso looked as if he was explaining something to the woman and the lady with her. Picasso was even a celebrity back in those days as well. His works 13 years ago ,the Les Demoiselles d'Avignon, revolutionized the art world with a new form of art called, Cubism. I broke into the conversation.

“ Yes, I've read about that, it is still having a rather slow reception to the public.”

He laughed.

“ The man has seen suffering and pain. I've been to his studio and viewed his earlier work a few years before that was all blue and caught the sadness of his loss. Never the less, the man is a staple of art and has made his home here for twenty or so years. Open your mind Robert and see past the traditional sense of things.” He paused and after lighting his cigarette he continued where he’d left off. We saw Picasso pick up a pastel and start working on a few sketches. He was quick, never second guessed himself, and did not stop until the idea became a reality. Jean stirred his coffee and added a drop of cream and turned his 45 degrees and then stirred a few seconds. He took a rewarding sip for his efforts. He continued analyzing the the Bulls’ movements with the gray pastel.

“ Watch him when he draws and attacks form. He is rearranging reality, Robert. All these men are.” He rolled his cig as lunch arrived, and he reached over and emptied the carafe in into our glasses. It was flavorful, yet dry, and seem to be the drink of choice at the cafes. He continued as he was rubbing the paper of his own sketch.

“Madam Stein was so taken by him she devolved a type of literature based on the foundations of Cubism”

“ Jean, who is Madame Stein?”

He smiled and gave me run down of names and places we needed to go and be seen at. He was telling me that Montparnasse was for the impressionist. I was starting to see what Henri was talking about.

I pictured mentally all the artist movements in France over time and it seemed like Paris was one big canvas itself with shifting form and colors. Forming countless of styles and genres shifts in color and movement through time. I envisioned the Art of David, Poussin, Chardin, Boucher, Ingres, Delacroix, Monet to Manet, and shifting and changing being superimposed, one upon the other. Now the canvas was being turned upside down and the colors and forms once on her were in the process of being twisted and purposefully deformed, taking on new and wonderful shapes for the eye to contemplate.

While he updated me on culture and who's who in the Parisian art world, I gazed out from my present view shifting my sight on the city and there she was. She was wearing a short black frock, a big satin jacket, and her knees were candidly exposed. She dawned a silken cloch'e on her head tilted gingerly to one side and short bobbed black hair. Her eyes were dark and alluring, but as she came closer there was a rich deep color to them. She wore beads around her neck and red bright lipstick. I had felt like at that moment everything else ceased to exist and I was in front of a true Goddess of beauty. Lady Paris now had her competition. She noticed me staring and slowly raised her eyes to mine and smiled keeping her eyes fixed on mine as she slowly turned and walked away. I'll never forget that look and felt as though we were familiar entities on the same path. I interrupted Jean, “who is that girl?”

Jean looked around and said,

“I'm sorry I missed her, much like you missed my whole conversation.” He winked at me and smiled.

“Paris is a wonderfully large city to get lost in, but small enough to find you love. We’ll see her again, Robert.”

I got up from my chair and saw her black hair and moved through the line of people sitting and standing around in the cold afternoon. She was walking and a grouping of trees hid her from my view. My view was fleeting of her and I ended up running into a couple's table, tipping his café au leche onto his jacket.

“God I'm so sorry... Pardon moi monsuire et mademoiselle”

I hid my face and made it back to the table where Jean was laughing at me.

The sky was beginning to haze over. A looked over at my watch. It was 2:30, I started writing some notes down and did some sketches. My friend stopped me and smiled, “aintenant votre obtenir le coup de choses Robert!” I was settling in mentally and getting focused. The carafe of wine I was drinking to loosen my conceptual hand so to speak. I started on a young couple and like a hunter, I search out the form. The first thing I saw, I drew. The arch of her back, then the quick line from the brim of the hat. The curves were apparent. Then one of the patrons moved and changed her position. Her hand moved down and her head shifted. Now this was where imagination takes my hand and I finish the form from the mind’s eye. I shifted my sight and quickly filled in the dark contrasting area in the negative space I saw before me. Use what is necessary and disregard the rest I thought. Faces and hands were finished with quick gesture like strokes. I took a sip of wine and mentally withdrew from my paper canvas, hitting the target and the drawing started to live. I quickly and lightly sketched in the background feeling and seeing each passing moment. “Voll'a, yet another artist has arrived,” a voice said behind me. I turned and saw an Italian man with slight curls that came to his ears and then flayed out graciously. He wore a velvet jacket with a brown vest under it and a very appealing scarf that reminded me of something Oscar Wilde would wear. He said some funny words in French to Jean and they look at me and laughed. Then he patted me on the back.

“ I assume the joke is on me, my friend?” Jean laughed, “No! Mon ami, that's just your warm welcome from one painter to another. That's Monsieur Modigliani.”

I watch him walk around and meet three other men. Then he met Picasso. They stared each other down and said a few words. A few gestures and then Picasso threw his drink down and left abruptly. “Now, I replied, friends I take it?” Jean just smiled.

“Robert welcome to Montparnasse.”

The Tiger of Paris

It was now getting late and I didn't want to bother my friend and stay another night. Besides, his wife and child were arriving in a few weeks and I was wanted my own place to unwind and call home. I said my goodbyes and went on my own for a short stroll. Walking a few blocks with my trusty cane, I came across and cozy little Hotel Ecoles and proceed to inquire about a room. She handed me a key as I filled out the registry. I finished our business, thanked the lady with my best stumbling French and had to repeat myself a few times. I paid three months rent up front in advance. French hotelkeepers loved Americans because we paid and were for the most part loyal and dependable. At Ten dollars a month, 500 francs, it was a steal. I waited for the elevator porter to open the gate for me and I proceeded up to the fourth floor of my new home away from home. I was supposed to meet Jean at 8:00pm sharp at 24 Rue Delambre then to the Champs-Élysées Theatre. Jean was too kind taking me in, feeding me, and just being a friend. Tonight would be a gift on me I thought. Even though he wasn't in need of it. He had told me that, “Paris is a rich mans sport at night, and poor mans delight in the day.” I would soon come to find out what he meant and in a very non- sobering sense of the word.

“Damn!” I said to myself opening my new apartment. I’d not yet had the key in the door when I remembered.

“I have no clothes. Arrgh! Drat.” I had left them at Jeans.

I had to find a tailor or at least something that would do the job. I didn't bother waiting for the elevator; I darted quickly down the four flights of stairs. At the bottom I pause a moment and messaged my bad leg and proceed to ask for the nearest Tailor's directions. In a hurried voice, I asked”,excusez-moi madame, où est le tailleur près de nous.”

I was dressed and swell looking and absolutely exhausted. The trip was tight and crowded and for eighty dollars my room was barely large enough to breath in. The cab pulled up with the number 260 on its window shield and I proceeded to Jean’s home and studio.

We stopped in front of Jean’s place and a few moments later, he appeared. He found his seat. My friend looked me over from head to new shoes and said, “Only a few choice words,

you’re a dapper fellow young Robert, dapper.”

“Champs-Élysées theatre se vous ples”. Tapping the front of the panel separating the driver from our view. We arrived at 8:00p.m. in our tuxes with white vest and black bow ties. It was refreshing to play a role of a painter and take time off just enjoying the sites and sounds of my new surroundings. We arrived sharply and waited to be seated. It was not like any theatre I've ever walked into. Four gracious gentlemen open the door for us and the other two seemed to be directing the flow of guest into the mouth of the beast. There was a most distinct change of sound when we entered the reception. Then so many patrons of the theatre were all dressed in the latest fashions of Paris. Every graceful thing the mind could imagine and entertained, the ladies wore. From sequins to furs, to Asian dresses fashioned with French flair. Beads and brocades, soft silks and satins. Folds, pleats, and cloches with flowers and plumes. Each beautiful creature displayed their poise and stature with a crisp definition. I looked around the enormous reception area. The stairs were elegant and flowed up to a second level where drinks were being served. I followed Jean up the stairs. We were met by a gentleman in the same guise as our own. His had an added silken embroidered scarf. His hands were much older looking and matched his aged beard; his top hat was fur and silk. He wore a ring of two interlocking birds coveting a red ruby in the center. He greeted us with a very whimsical smile, as if he was about to dance or perform for us. He snapped his fingers in a most eccentric fashion. Jean said with a sort of flair, “Tauney, this my client and new found friend, monsuire Erik Satie. The portrait I showed you at the studio was his”.

Satie replied in a patient, timely tone while Jean translated.

“Yes, let me know when you’re closer to finishing, I'm looking forward to this prospect with much anticipation.” He pointed to his friend summoning for him to come closer. “Monsuire, my good a close friend monsuire Jean Cocteau.”

I broke into the discussion. I remember the painting from Jean’s studio. My painting friend had hit the mark perfectly.

“ It is indeed an honor to meet you both. I listen to you work and have your sheet music.” I offered my hand to Mr. Satie he shook it firm and fearlessly.

“Thank you, my boy. My music is wallpaper to the world. … How do you say this in English?” Satie found his wording and continued, “phrasing in music and repetition causing music to free itself. I'm not a musician, but more like a discoverer of new phrasing, timing, and connectivity.” I nodded humbly to this man. He was holding a bronze hammer, it was rough looking and not a dainty thing. Cocteau stepped in.

“This mon Sheri Mademoiselle Camille Bastien, she co-Stared in the film, ‘Dandy-Pacha’.” I turned to Camille, she performed and curtsied, lifting her hand towards the two of us. I took her hand and moved my lips to it. I smelled her perfume and it sent wild sensations through my nostrils. Her eyes were brown, however as the light came to them, they had speckles of rich gold. Her hair was maple brown with curls. Her head piece was a black plume, which traveled up the center of the back of her head and seemed stand mid air, suspended.

“Enchante , monsuire,” she paused and I repeated my name. “You can call me Tauney, I mean all my friends do.”

Jean was our translator and she replied,

“Dites à votre ami de choisir ses amis à bon escient hes jouant avec un tigre maintenant!” - Tell your friend to choose his friends wisely; he’s playing with a tiger now!

I looked to see his response and she smiled like a huntress in the night and walked off. I turned to Jean. He put a drink in my hand and chuckled.

“She said it was nice meeting you as well.” We both laughed. Then the lights went dim and flashed back on again. Jean Cocteau said something quick in French to his friend and spoke English for me,

“ you've better get settled, Arabian Nights is about to get under way.”

They said there goodbyes and we headed to our seats. On the way I told Jean, “my friend, I do know what tiger is in French.” He put his arm around me and said and sarcastic manner,

”Then you had better watch out!”

We found our seats in the gorgeous theatre. The walls were a rich red with brilliant highlights in gold. There were three seating sections. We were on the very top section to the left. Leading to the roof was a dome with soft palettes of light blues and adorned with a Bacchanal type festival around it. Over our heads at the apex of the dome was a very big and bright light with white glass and a gold rose design in the center. The lights lowered from their stately glow, then ever so gradually, the stage started to show from a dim and misty set where the scene began.

The conductor tapped the pew and the orchestra started with melodic tunes. Sweet violins blended with cellos and violas. There was a soft timpani and a glissando from the harp. The music was building slowly and then the heroine appeared. She moved with the grace of a swan at the waking of t dawn.

The ballet was brilliant. The character’s costumes, Arabian garb, were fitted in proper proportion for dance. I quickly surveyed the landscape of rich color plumes and trousers. Radiance of reds and hidden patterns emerged as each movement took place. Beads, jewels, pearls, belts, straps, arm bracelets, pendants, fringe, and lace all glimmered with pops of color and pure Art Nouveau with accents of what would later be called, Art Deco. Rich feathers from peacocks laced in gold trim adorned females, exposing their soft white breasts in a caressing and dignified manner. The females were nothing but grace and alluring beauty. The stage was richly set with thoughts of color and composition. A layering in the set design gave the impression of a glorious, rich, and lustful period of time. The character’s movements were perfectly timed leaving even the most critical patron simply dazzled and amazed. Large masses of pillows placed in the room added to the magnificence of the scene. Green long billowing fabrics hung from the ceiling with large lanterns and adorned decorations throughout the stage.

I found myself still exhausted from the long voyage to this strange and wonderful land. I was forcing myself to stay awake and not embarrass myself, but nature took over and I fell asleep.

The next thing I remembered was Jean hitting me on the shoulder, “how was your sleep? This was the opening night. I hope, my friend, your dreams were better then this wonderful Production.” He then pointed at some girls laughing at me and saying something in French. They were high pitch laughs and made me want to taste more of what Paris had to offer. We walked down to the bar at intermission where my tigress was waiting for me.

“ So, American, how was the first half?” I smiled and looked away for moment.

“You speak English! Ok this is just applesauce! Just rich applesauce.”

She smiled, holding her drink. She was so sexy.

“I’m sure you’re going to let me in on what you loved the most.” ”

“ What?” She looked and waited slightly lifting her chin, exposing her sternocleidomastoid, which came down in a lovely “v” shap at the nape of her neck.

I put my hand to my face and laughed tossing my head back in a playful fashion.

“Ok…for the five francs It was, let's say was rather intriguing production.” She laughed.

“Well Monsieur, I'm hoping to see you after the show to get a full report,” she added.

“We’re all meeting at La Dome after this. I would love for you to join us. Cocteau is quite the host.”

“That sounds fine, we'll meet you there.”

Her eyes left mine, she turned and disappeared in the crowded room faster than first appearing before me. Jean Cocteau had a female friend with him. He signaled me over.

“Our Paris would not be complete without Madame Gertrude Stien. “

“It's indeed my pleasure Mrs. Stien, I'm from the states as well.” She paused,sort of looked me over, then offered her hand.

“I've heard about you from the other Jean, your Jean, not my Jean, at the Café, Closerie de Lilas.” She was a charismatic woman and charming, but also the kind of woman who gauged the words you present her with and puts together a portrait of you in her mind. She had a short and large frame with deep eyes and weak jaw. One sort of just noticed not just one thing about her, but her demeanor as a whole. She had a pronounced head and a look about her, as if she was always listening intently.

“ Yes it's a mouthful to pronounce for being new at this language. Miss Stien, it’s nice to meet your acquaintance.” She dressed an authoress in a red, Chinese dress, with a yellow dragon traveling up the side.

“How are you boys enjoying the show? The French have way of always taking things to the next level.”

I turned to my friend and spoke with perfect unfailing French. I nodded

“One word Miss Stein, pure Delacroix.” She half smile and took me by the arm. “So you've come to Paris to find something have you?” She was like a soothsayer reading me as I had predicted.

“ Yes, I'm a painter”, I replied.

“Yes,” she stated firmly, “Jean told me. You artists from the states are coming in droves. Paris is a beacon calling all lost men to its shores.” She continued looking at my cane.

“A little gift from the Kaiser.”

“Yeah, lot of men paid dearly, you’re lucky to be alive. What do you paint?” She was blunt and to the point. At that moment I didn't really know what to say. I had just finished my training before volunteering myself for the war effort. I didn't want to seem like an idiot wandering through Paris with no purpose. I answered,“ figurative and some still life.”

“Working on a new style, I've been thinking a lot about it. “

“That’s inventive of you. Drop by with Jean and we'll take a look at your work. Of course, I'm more partial to the new movements in Paris nowadays.” She drew closer, “as long as a work has conviction, it is true art. Welcome to Paris and may this city fulfill your dreams and ambitions. ” She leaned over my way and said something I’ll never forget.

“Artists come here to find their art and inspiration, but most end up finding themselves peering at the bottom of a bottle instead.” She patted me on shoulder and her lady friend joined her. They mingled, walking in the opposite direction. Jean gave me the most enduring smile and said, “In the words of Miss Stien, welcome to the lost generation, Tauney.” He ordered a drink or two more and then said with a gleam in is eye,

“ how you Americans say, now let the party begin.”

I looked around and everyone was pouring out of the facility and heading to their shiny cars and with bright metal, ornate chrome, and rich lifestyles. In one instant, the painters hated the rich, yet they were the lifeblood that carried the artist’s name and dispersed his works amongst the galleries and private collectors of the world; much like a parasite. It was a terrible state of red tape and artistic bureaucracy one had to contend with.

Our cab pulled up and we were off to meet my new acquaintances. Gertrude was one smart cookie. She had seen the rise and fall of many men taken by the incoming tides of alcohol and drugs. It was a double-edged sword. Alcohol provided the ferry ride to other side, but you had to pay the toll. No one gets a free ride. I had a sense and feeling that a tidal wave of epic proportions was coming our way. An uprising of champagne, wine, opium, absinthe, and tragedy all building up and leaving a wake of destruction and broken lives in its path. Many of my friends would be sucked away by its powerful currents. Things may have been different for me if I had stayed in that famed city. Made different choices than that of youthful stupidity. The auction houses might have been bidding on my works. Maybe my art would be in a nice museum in Paris somewhere instead of the few small museums and local galleries. Maybe if tragedy hadn't befallen me who knows, I would have lived and painted in Paris all my life. Hindsight is well, you know, the phrase. But, that was the hypocrite in me. I was more than willing and ready to dip my foot in those kinds of proverbial waters. We all were.

Our cab passed a trolley or two. We were moving steadily to our destination. I held my cane and put some weight upon it. I rested my chin on its silver etched handle. I was looking at the cab as I stood up against a wall and felt the vibration of the cab under my buttocks.

Jean had the driver take some roads through alleys less traveled. He wanted to drop by his studio for a moment.

The town seemed to be quiet this time of night and transformed itself into a timeless state again through the back streets and alleys. After we stopped at his studio, we headed back into the night. After we cleared the small streets and Jean gave the drive instructions, we headed toward the heart of town. There was a dark flap used in those days that block the light, pollution form other the cars, and dust from the busy streets.

Jean said, “there is one problem with you being new to Paris. You haven't looked at her at night.” He removed the drape from the car window and I peered out into mysticism of light and wander.

Paris came alive with lights glowing like embers burning and signs lit up the night sky. All the night spots and joints where cars and people enjoying their Evening seemed to turn on a switch from day to the night.

“ Jean, promise me you won't do that again. No more back streets and dark allies.”

He sat back stroking his beard.

“You came out in dark and I, Jean your friend, brought you to the light.”

“Your little plan?”

“You needed a proper welcome.”

I asked about Satie and his bronze hammer. Jean gave a pensive smile.

“ The man is eccentric and has his own rhythm he follows. He carries the hammer for protection. He eats spoiled fruit and follows the strangest customs. Sometimes genius is often misunderstood”

Jean was very good at changing the subject without offending anyone.

“ I told your new Tigress you wanted to dance with her.”

I looked at Jean. Paused for a moment then started laughing. Either from pure nervousness or the overwhelming sense I was in a state of sensory overload. Jean almost two sheets to the wind, blew it off with a wave and burst out laughing, “ous ne pouvez pas la danse pouvez-vous”

“No! I can't dance. Can you teach me? I'll be the laughing stock of Paris, my tigress will be done with me!” Bellowing out the last phrases, trying to catch my breath. Jean could not breathe either. He patted my leg and said with a serious look in his eye.

“I have some serious news for you then, mon ami.” He paused, “I can't dance.” Hitting the side of the cab he was gasping for air. He barked out with a contagious roar.

“ Maybe, your tigress can't either.” My smile went from a sublime madness to a serious contemplative look. I looked out of the cab and then at my leg. The joke was on me.

The cab came to an abrupt stop and we exited the vehicle. We entered club, ‘Le Dome’, and could hear the mass of voices and the clinging of glasses was getting stronger and more coherent with every step. We were seated to the left of the band. The song, “That's my baby,” was coming to a strong close. Everyone cleared the dance floor and a gentleman approached the small make-shift stage. He introduced with a fluid brocade of words the star of the show Suzy Beryll and the crowd went wild. The band gave a drum roll and the clarinet glared and snarled. It was a French tune. She was topless with round, lush, and cylinder shaped breasts. She had soft carrara white skin like marble. I tried smelling the air to get a drift of her scent, but the smoke hung over the dance floor like fog. Her black hair with finger-let curls made its curvature around the side of her face and hid one eye from plain view. She had flapper beads and stockings that stopped at her knees and a hair pin design jutting up to from the back of her head like a cute doves tail. Each time she moved it brought new blood flow to me, I was enjoying this arousing sensation. A waiter tapped me on the shoulder and Jean said some quick French words and then nodded and disappeared. Jean pointed to the inflow of new people and began to summon a group over to us and prepare the table and chairs.

“ champagne,” he nodded.

I gave him the gentleman’s nod back. Almost as if saying, thanks for thinking ahead.

I looked over and touched my hair to see if had kept neat and preened. I was sitting with Camille, Jean Cocteau, and another male friend. She made eye contact and they made their way over to the tables. I immediately rose, greeted them, and properly pushed her chair in. Again smelling her well-groomed hair at a distance. She used her eyes with alluring purpose. Each expression was overdone, but in an energetic childlike way. She put a cigarette holder to her lips and looked at me out of the side of her eyes. After giving her a flame, she looked at me.

“So?”

I was taken back for a moment then remembered what I had promised her and said cunningly.

“ It was a bit dramatic, full of flair, color, and sound. I loved it.” She offered me a cigarette out of etiquette, then laughed.

“Tauney, you Americans are not used to the breasts of women in public, no?” I pointed my finger at her and waved my hand in circular motion.

“ Now you mentioned it, I couldn't take my eyes off of them.” She tilted her head back and laughed. Her cigarette holder was at the perfect angle between her fingers.

“I knew It, Jean!” You lost!” Slapping her hands together and laughing.

“ Victory! I win.”

“ Drinks are on you, my love.” Cocteau rolled his eyes, whispered a few words to the waiter and then he scurried off to the bar. He turned before leaving and beamed sarcastically,

“ American painters are clueless of what to do with breasts if they are not in a studio or under their sheets!” The Tigress put her hand under the table one my thigh. She stared at me then looked away.

Her silvery sounding voice was pleasing. If she would have tried singing in front of me it would have been enchanting, almost sublime. She had alluring magical sense. She could surprise you at any given moment.

She played with her ear lobe fixing her earring.

“Here, let me.” .

“ Merci, Robert.

” I think she was well aware she had a lovely voice and a hypnotic accent to American men. She used it like a well-trained marksman.

“ So, why have you come to this lovely city? Travel? Adventure?” She looked at me and then turned her head away from me still speaking.

“Romance, or purely for pleasure?” She gave me a once over.

I adjusted my bow tie. Playing wit the rim of my glass.

“ Catching as many shows I can.”

“ I figured the more breasts I can take in, the better.”

She looked at me with sarcastic scowl.

“Touche, Robert.”

“Look Mon Ami, I was only having fun.”

“ Do I look offended?” I was displaying a coy debauched smile.

“ You didn't ask me,” she glanced back at me.

“ Ask you what?”

I smiled sharing my cigarette with her.

“ Why I'm really here.” She sipped her champagne.

“ Ok, Robert, why then are you really here.” She leaned in to me. I took her drink and took a sip.

“ I'm a painter and hunter.” She grinned. Showing her brilliant teeth.

“ Oui, Painter yes I see, hunter I don't get… You.”

I gave her drink back. The band kicked off another Cole Porter song.

“ I heard Paris is full of Tigers.” I winked and started laughing.

She leered back and licked the glass of her champagne in a subtle manner.

“ mmm, sounds like a rather interesting safari.” She took a puff from her holder.

“ Could be, let say, very, dangerous.”

I moved close to her and then pulled back. My arm on resting on the booth beside her.

“ How's that?”

“ Rumor has it, this tiger of Paris can be rather hard to catch.”

“ If you corner he,r she’ll put up a fight.” She rested her head on her hand exposing her shoulder.

“You ready for a fight, Robert?” She moved very close to me. I could smell her and then she turned away. Seeing some friends she excused herself and was chatting with some people. She soon returned to the table.

“Painter? Let's drink!” She signaled the waiter over and said some words in her native vernacular. He nodded.

“ What did you tell him?” A devilish smile came from her.

“What else, Robert”

“ My Favorite drink.”

“ I have a secret to tell you.”

She leaned over and her tongue was almost touching my ear as she whispered.

“ I may help you in Taming this Tiger your after.”

“ Tiger’s milk!”

Absinthe Minded

The waiter brought back four wide mouth glasses of green liquid and set them among the four of us. The dancer finished her last set with gyrations of the hips and a bow. She Left the stage to applauds and loud drunken, obnoxious laughs, and then whistles. Camille took my glass and while talking in French, like second nature kind of way, prepared my drink. “Voll’a mon ami. How you say in English, cheers?” She was messaging my leg then moving her hand slowly with purpose. Everyone drank and I soon followed. She smiled.

“ Tauney, this is my milk poured from the Tigress’ breast.” She saw I was confused and laughed.

“ Relax, it’s Absinthe.”

“ It's wormwood , happy hunting.”

She handed me green liquid and I looked at everyone around the table. Jean made a French toast and at the end I added

“ Bottoms up!” It tasted like sweet liquorish with Anise added.

I finished my drink and smiled, gazing in her eyes. The group ordered another round and I was starting to notice more people there with us and their expressions and a sort of feeling like I knew them better than I did a moment before. As if it was ok for my eyes to gaze upon each one of their faces and explore the curvature of their clothes and bodies. My painter friend patted my back and gave me a quick rub.

“My friend, I'm so glad you’re here in Paris. I was telling Camille here that you wanted to dance with her.”

He looked at me as if to continue our conversation in the car, laughing vigorously. I felt the music change rhythm and my ears warming up. I bantered back in slurred tone.

“ She doesn't know I can't dance, you great ass!” He laughed and slapped me on the shoulder.

“ She does now.”

We started laughing and I couldn't breathe, I was laughing so hard. Camille looked at me seriously and her eyes looked pale. It was though the music had faded out then she squeezed harder on my upper thigh. She whispered in my ear in French, “Tiger tiger brûlant soins lumineux à la lumière morining ?” “William Blake”, I smiled. She puledl me onto the dance floor.

“ Tauney your friend has told me your little joke in the car.” She held my arm leading me where the others were cutting a rug. She squeezed my arm and said, “just follow my lead.”

After the dance my head was buzzing. We sat down. More Absinthe was waiting for me. I was so hungry and ordered a bread and cheese plate. I turned to Camille and got close, as if I was going to kiss her, then moved away teasing her. She seemed to like it. She would reach over me and let me catch glimpses her breast. She was a master of the game ‘push and pull.’

“I know you’re an American boy, I know what you like.”

I put my arm around her and she moved in closer to me.

“Salute”, she handed me my drink. I instantly was reminded of Degas and his portrait of the Absinthe drinker. “Salute! Hail Degas,” I said drinking the green, sweet, pungent potion. My painting friend overheard this and said some words in his own tongue and we all cheered. Cocteau now had a group to the left of him and was not paying us much attention. He turned his head and lifted his glass.

“ The old masters are making way for the new!” And held his glass to the ceiling. I finished my drink in one bold toss.

After my third or fourth glass of this nectar, I loosened my bowtie and fell into the moment. I became an observer from another time and was watching the scene take place from a different point of view. Detachment felt safe and I was just there floating in a sea of deep and tranquil bliss. The buzzing ceased, everything lightly vibrated, and had a faint glow or blur to it. I looked over and Tigress was staring at me. We embraced and kissed. She leaned her head on mine and lit another cigarette. She said,

“Tauney, you’re a rather odd man.”

“Whys that?”

“Most men would have made plans with me by now. I was thinking Closerie de Lillas for lunch.” I held back and was shocked at first that a woman asking me out. That's my job. She took the wind out of me, but I responded.

“Yes, my tigress that sounds delightful.”

.

Chapter 4

Yellow Chrome

I fell asleep in my tuxedo. My breath smelled of ashes and sour wine. I looked over and Camille was sleeping so soundly. Jean was on a floor and thankfully, no others were there with us. I checked my bill fold and stretched a bit. I was surprised I had no money. I was sure I had 100 francs for the night. I put the billfold down and held Camille in my arms. She nuzzled into me. I examined her nose and how it curved back and up at the tip. Her cheek completed a line just above her lips. Her makeup was still in place from the night of frivolity. I looked at my watch, it was 10:30 am. I nudge Camille and she said some rude things in French and rolled over. Morning is a wonderful time for one’s personality and their true grit to come to the surface. In my opinion, one can see the raw and unbridled nature of man with the greeting of a new days light.

I leaned over to Jean. He had my black fedora covering his face. He was on his back. I thought he was about to snore, but then would take a deep breath in and hold the count for few seconds and repeat the process. I tapped him a few times and he finally sat straight up took the hat from his face and smiled.

“ Did we have a good night last night?” I hushed him from getting too loud and pointed to the flapper joy, toy in my bed. He stretched and laid on his side starring at me.

“Jean, I had enough money to last a week last night, did I give it to you?”

“No mon Amis, you paid the bill last night for Cocteau and all his friends and paid for the drinks at the other two places as well.”

“ We went to other places last night?”

“Yes my friend, you were the toast of the town last night.”

I put my hands over my face and sat on the bed.

“Oh, I must have been completely ossified.”

I washed my face, cleaned up, and left a note for Camille to meet us at the Closerie de Liilas café when she awoke.

We arrived at 11:00am and ordered two café espressos. Jean proceeded with ritualized movements to turn the handle of the saucer 45 degrees to the right and used a drop of cream and a small bit of sugar and then stirred for five seconds or so. Me on the other hand, poured a good helping of cream and three strong doses of sugar. I stirred the brew with vigor and after finishing looked up and saw Jean, with a look of absolute disgust.

“You Americans destroy good French coffee.”

I goldenly sneered, tilted my glass at him and said,”bon appetite.” He looked away into his newly formed sketch that was appearing before our eyes. I was amusing myself with humorous thoughts of coffee rebellions and movements like the ones in art. Jean kept drawing and getting more into the movements of his wrist and elbow, swirling in arc like fashions. I chuckled out loud while conjuring mental clouds of Jean leading the right turn saucer movement. The art form of coffee and the way coffee should be consumed. Jean Pinceraux, the 45 degrees right turn and one drop of cream, lightly stir for five seconds. I looked at the café smiling. I got up and had to use the restroom.

I was walking back to the table and saw my mystery lady. She was talking to a friend applying powder to her face. Then while in deep conversation, she applied her lip-stick, they kissed each other and departed. I sat at the bar from the inside watching her. Her bob, straight, rebellious, black hair and well defined bangs, pointed to her chin. Her nose seemed to match perfectly in the direction of her bangs. She was reaching into her purse to possibly grab something of interest. Then out of nowhere a group of people came up from the street to her. She seemed to be a most gracious host to their needs. They soon left and she found herself alone and looking around smoking a cigarette.

I stopped and slicked my deep brown hair back taking note of my breath. I was preparing to rise from my seat when gentlemen to the left of me asked for a cigarette. Annoyed, I took out my box and presented him one. He held it to his lips and I offered the light. He thanked me in a British, bronzed voice. I smiled and turned back to my present destination only to find her pulling another Houdini. The gentlemen then ask me,

“You don't happen to know English do you, old boy?” I looked again at the empty chair and saw my Tigress sitting out there in the same spot as my mystery lady. I turned back trying not to be rude. Giving him my attention. He had glasses and thick well-groomed hair, a nicely set jaw, and seemed about my age. His movements were twisted and offset in the most proper manner. His tweed jacket and vest set off the British attire spot on and his soured expression did all the same. He had an approachable feel about him. He stuck his hand out as if waiting to accept mine, “Aldus Huxley,” then waiting for my response; I grab his hand in-return and gave proper introductions. He coughed a moment then cleared his throat.

“ Just off a train a few hours ago and taking in the Paris scenery. Bloody-hell, there’s not any good English pubs in all of Paris.”

I responded, “you just need to go to the Dingo American Bar. Their draught choices may hit the spot. A good pint of lager perhaps.”

He laughed, “no, just enough to clean the out the ol’e pipes.” He looked for his glasses from one pocket to another, then located them.

“ I haven’t seen many Brits in Paris. It's only my second day here.” He was writing some notes while listening to me.

“ You know after this war Robert… we will have what I plan to call, A Brave New World.”

I thought about what he said.

“ This is the war that will end all wars.” He looked up and finished his beer signaling for his tab.

“ No, my friend, this world will always see war and desolation. Maybe this world is another planet’s hell.”

“ Cheers,” he took his drink back and started writing again. I was looking at him in deep concentration.

“Are you a writer?” He turned to face me.

“ Yes I am Robert, why do you ask?” He continued,

“ I've been fortunate enough to have my first works published it’s called, Yellow Chrome.” He, excited in his British way, told me a little about the book. I promised to purchase the work at the Shakespeare's book shop. He said he would have to have a look at the place. I asked if I he would sign it if we both crossed paths again. Said he would be delighted. We shook hands and I bought his beer. I did happened to run into him and he did sign it and I have it on my bookshelf today.

Courage of Clairvoyance

I finally joined Camille outside and sat down. There were three rows full of people drinking and having light meals and talking and chattering about. It wasn't like you had music coming from a speaker to calm the merging sounds from all around you. I hated the clinging of knives and forks cutting into Chinaware. Camille found her perfect position amongst the growing crowds.

“My Tauney, how you say, hotsie totsie?” Then gave me a wink. That kind of very deliberate wink where your mouth opens a bit to either side of your face. Contrived, but sweet just the same. She put her hand on mine.

“So we both saw morning together as for-told by William Blake.” I was about to say something to assure her purity, but she stopped me.

“ I'm not that type of girl, Tauney, I told you we would see morning together, but not what you were thinking”. I ran my hands through my hair and then looked up into her brown eyes.

“ Was it?” I shot back at her

“ Well you've had a good hunt, last night I mean.”

“ Yes, it was a daunting chase.” She sipped her coffee.

“ The tiger of Paris has fallen.” I went to toast her.

She scratched my hand in a playful manor.

“ Watch it American! She may turn on you and strike.” We both started laughing. My head was pounding.

“Oh here sweetie”

I took it.

“ Goodies, that should do it.” I poured in my mouth and I felt the powder traveling up in the sinuses. She put hers in her water and drank it down.

“ Let's order.”

“ What's good here?”

She took the menu and ran her delicious finger down the list reading off the French names. The waiter came and she ordered the lamb for us both.

We ordered a carafe of wine and were enjoying the day.

“ Did you sleep well...or good?”

She lit her self a cigarette and I watch the smoke trail off to the street.

“ No, you were drunk and couldn't keep your hands away.”

“ Oh, I see.”

“It’s ok. Soon as we got to your flat, you passed out.”

She waited for my response. I felt embarrassed. She laughed and put her hands on mine.

“ I told you I had some bite in me.”

I looked puzzled.

“ You were a total gentleman,” she winked.

An older woman stopped walking from the ramparts and slowly looked at me and then came across to the both of us. I was in conversation and about to kiss Camilla when interrupted again. “I'm Madame Halda. She handed me a white Lilly. I was told to come to you.”

I looked at Camilla with a look of suspicion, but she smiled and played along, giving interests to the blabbering of an old lady. I gave her the flower.

She grabbed my hand and turned my palm over and stared into my eyes. Then released my hand after a second and gently laid it on the table. She proceeded to Camille’s and did the same. After a second, she put Camille’s hand on mine and spoke. Camille translated for me. “ Dear child, you feel as if you know one another and yet have only met?” Camilla eyes softened and widened, her lips opened slightly. The old woman had bad eyes, as if one had glossed them over with white paint and it left a fogginess in the center of the pupil. She gestured with her hands and spoke in a very confident and provoking manner. She added,

“ Yes, this is because you have been acquaintances at another time in another life.” She paused, swallowed and then reached her hands out caressing each of ours. Then, these words came from her wise and haunting lips.

“But the one you just missed is your past love calling you back again!” She then looked concerned at Tigress and tried to comfort her with her hands.

“ Child, your path in life will come to a crossroads. You will have to make the right choices and make changes soon, please be careful my sweet angel.”

She released our hands and slowly backed away and merged with the busy morning street. We both fell in that moment of awkward silence. I gave her a slight smile and said,

“bread?” Holding the basket towards her. She looked in the direction of the woman and then the world of denial hit us both square in the face. She tore piece off. Then starred gauging my eyes. Finally, she had a look that most men recognize. Almost as if saying, we were going to talk about this later.

“Blabbering old fool,” I said. She put her finger to my lips.

“No! Tauney, she is a gifted woman and what she tells you is for your ears alone.” She wiped a tear from her eye.

Our lamb arrived and soon we had forgotten the whole affair.

Modigliani Moves On

There was a loud knock at my apartment door. It was Jean branding a bottle of wine. I opened the door. He was distraught and weeping, “telle tragédie nous a arrive.” I helped sit him down on bed.

“Modi was taken to the Hospital yesterday coughing blood with high fever. He was pronounced dead last night.”

"Paris has lost a precious gem today"

The jewel of Montparnasse.

We soon heard from the brasserie that his love Jean had tossed herself from a fifth story window. Metaphorically falling backwards into her lover arms. I’m sure Modi was there to catch her and lead her to the crystal light forms that await us all.

Only a few close friends attended the funeral. I didn't attempt to go. I don't go to funerals. People go for sorrow and I was not adding anymore to my life. My friend Jean went and told me of the somber affair. His love of his life was buried lying next to him embraced forever. Walking around that day as if a piece of the city was lost and all one could do is think about it and ponder all loses in ones life. The war, family, and friends of Montparnasse.

The Closerie de lilas was quiet and people mentioned his name and there was Chaim Soutine mourning and paying tribute to his fallen comrade. Picasso wasn't sketching. He was sitting watching and drinking. A few days later, people went on with their lives. The Arguments and laughter all returned much like the flowers of spring. You have to. Less you be dragged down by sadness and longing to join the past. Within in a week, the place was buzzing and artist filled cafes and Paris went on. We all did.

Chapter 6

The Painting Studio

It was the beginning of February and March soon lay ahead of us. There were the last blitzs of cold flurries and I was anxiously waiting to see Paris relieving her first spring to me. Chestnuts and blossoms with ornate filigree of design; nature paints with her awakened palettes of color. The parks would be full of people and new lovers kissing in the parks and holding one another on benches surrounded by colorful rich markets, flower booths, and the smell of good bread. Jean told me of a few studios that where available for rent in the laying areas. I found the perfect place by Jean’s studio a few blocks down. It was literally three blocks away and down from Rue 21 de Delambre at Hotel Ecololes. There was a convenience about Paris, shopping was easy and one could simply walk in either direction upon leaving the hotel and find all the comforts and vises needed. What I needed was paint and all the Painters went to Sennlier, at 3 Quai Voltaire. It's green facade with gold letters still supplies artist and aspiring students to this day.As soon as I entered the store, I shook out the morning cold. I walked into a wall of color with paints and tubes of raw powder to make your own oil colors. Some artists prefer this method. Making the consistency more buttery or slick. I was like a kid in a candy store. I purchased Cadmium Red, Cadmium Red Light, Prussian Blue, Pthalo Blue, Cerulean Blue, Cadmium Yellow, Cadmium Yellow Light, Cadmium Orange Med, Emerald Green, Yellow Ochre, Black, Titanium, and Lead White. I also purchased a roll of linen canvas, rabbit glue, a stretcher, primer, and ordered an easel to be delivered the next day. I had a smock and a palette. My brushes included flats, brights, rounds, and filberts of different sizes and widths. I also had various oils and varnishes. My supplies cost 200 francs and the easel was another 100. It was good, sturdy quality. Made from strong birch wood solids. My next task was to build a level stage for the models to sit on for posing. Fabrics for backgrounds and Lillie and other varieties were added for the final touch to beautifying my own place. I had a few pads of paper, pencils, and a bottle of ink. I'd spent more on supplies than I would have spent in a month. I found the perfect model a few days later, tall with a good physic. She had nice curves and a pretty face. She cost me 15 francs a session. I'd decided to pay her 20 francs to keep her loyalty towards me and not model for other painters. I wasn't the type that enjoyed seeing other painters with my model featured on their works, knowing that the model would work for anyone for money. Whores and models were much the same in the fact that they went where the money was. I was hoping to pay her and have her be loyal to me. She agreed in very broken French and we met that next day.

The Model

Angelina arrived at the studio the next day at the time we agreed upon. I supplied a changing screen to be professional as possible. I had a few ideas I wanted to work on first, but after seeing her fine form, I took a different approach. She spoke virtually no English and a few small words or phrases in French. She was originally from Cuba. Her body was slightly bronze and her skin glistened when the morning light hit her breast. She had no modesty, which I liked and would perform any pose. Because of her limited language skills, I had to act out each pose and she would imitate my actions. Eventually she knew what I liked as an artist, and conversation on that matter was no longer needed. I was relieved to find that out. I certainly looked silly posing as a woman on stage for her.

She laid on a mass of pillows, hand against her chin, and body facing my direction. The top leg bent out and hung just over the other. Her hair was up and pinned at the top, leaving a few loose locks to trail down her cheeks and landed on her shoulders. The nape of her neck was hollowed out and the clavicle ran gracefully into her shoulder, like Cupid’s bow with a thin vale of silk laid upon it. Her stomach just barely hit at a spherical form beneath her silky flesh. Her breasts were held and suspended and arched upward a bit like that of a sleek turned up nose. While posing, she never looked at my eyes; always adjusting herself when gravity moved her in an un-natural inclination downward.

I called for her to break. I brought out a good French wine, cheese, and bread. She put her robe on and tied her gown at the waist. She finally spoke after a few days of work, “mi nombre es Angelina.” I looked up after hearing her angelic voice, smiled, and gestured at my chest. Saying slowly, “ I’m Robert.” Smiling back. She smiled and ripped her bread in half and she almost began swallowing it. I put more bread out and filled her glass offering it to her and she tilted her head back taking the cup almost as in agreement to drink with me. The model, and the woman had finally accepted me.

After the break, I lit a cigarette and sat back and contemplated her gentle curves. A new canvas to one side white blank and terrifying and as if challenging the first line. This is the blank page for writers and the Tabla Rossa for thinkers and all craftsmen. Some painters would grey out the canvas before hand to seem less intimidating and daunting. I rubbed my eyes and shifted my position to her from around the room. I took a swig of wine and pick up my pencil and pad and started to work out composition and gesture. Everything rushed before me, like a ghostly apparition of mental doubt. Questions like, who are you Really? You belong back in Summer-Brooke? Why have you come to Paris? You can't paint, you’ve forgotten! The mind is full of doubt before the first stroke. Then I took the tip of my brush and just touched the burnt sienna paint after just barley pinching the paint tube. My aim had found its mark and the demons of doubt and ego soon fell silent. Each stroke deliberately and naturally provided me a footpath to follow.

Pushing the paint to the canvas, feeling each stroke and movement of the wrist. Waiting for the next direction to be given. Painting is about waiting. Cezzanne would sit and stare at his canvas and then add a stroke, like a game of chess between him and his work. On the other hand, he wrote to his wife telling her she was an apple. It's my guess he saw her as one of his subjects to paint and she was merely there as a backdrop for his work.

After roughing in the form, I began to add color and figure out skin tones. A good amount of white with vermillion red and a touch of yellow ochre, and cerelaen Blue. Working the colors together and get the right mix. Adding those what I saw in her silky bronzed body. Working on the hair just as general mass and next massing in the background and just hinting at form. Like that of a poet giving you alliteration and a warm symbolism of meaning and never telling the reader what's truly going on. Taking burnt Siena and my filbert brush, I stepped back and waited searching the form and for the signal to strike. The balance of color and lines felt right and seemed to flow naturally on the canvas. It was hinted with gesture fast strikes on the canvas peering into from waiting for them to surface at the brim of my mind. I saw what I was looking for in the work. I made a bottle and a flower that appeared from impression brought about from the gestures on the canvas. Then after establishing all the forms. I intersected the lines. Making some very apparent and other more like the supporting character’s to a plot. Finding the heart of the work so to speak time fled away and I was working in total focus of the moment. Taking the tubes of paint and applied large squirts of color. I walked back and took a sip of wine. The cigarette was on the edge of the window had burned down and I was only able to just finish it. I Continued making wide strokes. Letting the paint just natural move over her hips and around her breast then up dividing the neck from and the negative space in between. Then Angelina shifted her weight and I saw we were near break time. I felt time had returned and the natural pace of the world had caught up with me. I looked at my watch. Angela had been posing for a hour straight. I laid my brush down. I looked at it, questioning if anything looked contrived or forced. I saw nothing, but the work needed something. I was thinking the model gets a break, but the painter never does. I kept thinking about the work. I pulled myself away from the work. Covering the work with a velvet sheet. Saying goodbye was the hardest and breaking away was like the addict clearing himself from his addiction.

Angelina moved from her position and stretched her body and a gave a sigh. She looked at me and half smiled. I always fed her wine and cheese. She would always left the studio with a full belly. This was the only income she was receiving and was not aloud to work at a normal job. She came here looking to find work as a model and eventually desired to become an actress. Her father owned a cigar shop in downtown Cuba. She came here on the little money he gave her. He kissed her on the forehead and told her he would send what he could for his, pequeño ángel. She came to Paris and lived on the small amount of money she had and then was working under the table of Paris for a few months now.

Twenty minutes passed and she resumed her pose. I removed the sheet and peered at my work, small flaws appeared and finally made themselves known. I took my mirror out and open the studio door. I pretended to walk in the door and not look at my work. Then as passing the canvas, I would look with the mirror and not directly at the work. I was missing something. I took three Calla Lilie and lay it by her, making an effort not to disturb her fury embankment. She understood and looked out of the side of her eye in acknowledgment. I greyed down some white and blue and inserted the flower on the canvas of her flower so to speak. “There,” I said, “balanced finally.”

After the session, she left and returned and by the third week I had at least 5 good works done and it was looking like a was starting to get a general theme going. She was the best model I've ever had and at times, I felt myself fight urges just to sit there and gawk at her beauty for lust sake. I knew that caused frustration and would take me from my true goal. I wanted these painting to reflect truth, but did not wish to offend her. That's how I used to paint, but didn't. I came to Paris to draw Dainty babes and give halos around their heads and fig leaves about their genitals. I came for truth. I realized the work I was doing was worthless and not show worthy. I sat down and poured more wine.

There is much silence in the world of the studio. If one could hear the mind working, it would play the symphony I heard at the ballet the other night. I looked and was frustrated five failures, I front of me hanging around the room. As soon as I said that I saw true form and the illusion was lifted from my eyes and I saw how they truly were. That's the other side of the coin when using omnipresent vision “seeing. “ I called it quits for the night. I threw Angelina the robe and hid my frustration. She ate and was quiet, but emphasizing her lips as she took each bite and played with her hair, changing it from side to side, using her hand. Her robe was slightly open as for me to see into her partially wrapped beauty. She could tell I was bothered and taken by thought.

She walked around looking at the work and then played with her robe.

“I like them Robert.” Such an innocent compliment brought me out of my own thoughts.

“Thanks. It's not what I'm striving for, at least I'm painting every day. Well it's late.” I pointed to the sun going down outside and she nodded.

I gave her money and she looked at me and took her payment gently and with great care. Her face had a sincere gentle look about her and her eyes had a desire in them. She shifted her weight and came closer to me and stalled for a moment and then release contact from my hand taking the money. She then turned her eyes slowly as if giving me ample time to respond. I was getting clear signals of her intentions and the voice inside my head was saying to me. “Cardinal rule of painting we don't sleep with our models!” Of course as a professional, I had a responsibility and duty to art and all the morals it upheld. I cast the thought out of my mind as quickly as it came.

I stopped her at the door and she backed up against the wall of the studio. She looked deep in my soul then leaned her neck back as if giving my giving permission and releasing control to me. I smelled her neck and planted my arms against the wall on both sides of her shoulders. She moved her head so her lips skimmed over my own. I could feel her warmth and openness to me. She breathed in and out until her breath and heart picked up pace merging with my own. She then took my hands and her own above the wall and interlock them opening her robe almost naturally. I kept moving my breath and lips down from the middle of her arm following a path the lead me through her armpit and to her lips. We interlocked and soon our bodies were touching and finally became one. She dropped herself to the floor and I followed not breaking our union I embraced her pulling her closer into me. She slowly moved away from me. Then removed her garments and exposed both her inner and outer beauty to me. Giving herself completely and totally to the moment. I saw her soul and was much more than a model. She was a Lover.

Chapter 7

The Surprise Date

I put on my best suit, slicking my hair back with palmate. This was a new fashion for me and I wanted to look my best. I was meeting Camilla at the E’oden cinema. I checked my tie and buffed my shoes. I looked in the mirror, having a bit of growth on my face, I Filled the blue basin half full with water,lathered up my face up and took out my razor. Within seconds, I cut the living shit out of my neck.

“Damn!” I took an old cloth and stopped the bleeding while running down the stairs holding my neck. The hotel clerk called my name, “ Monsiur Tauney, youve une lettre qui vient d'arriver.”

“Merci”, I took the letter and put it away for later in my jacket. I was pacing down the street and through some shortcuts I learned the first few weeks of being in Paris. I would take the alley and from there I could take a cab and pick up Camille as planed at our last meeting place. I noticed how the streets naturally narrowed and winded from a distance. As I was picking up my steps, a few men were standing and talking, so I hurried past them when they formed a half circle around me, blocking my exit. One of the men smelled of labor, sweat, and grime. He had an aggressive posture as if he was about to catch and imagery sack of seed. The others were dirty and smelled of cigarettes and coffee. The leader had a growl to his voice. When he spoke his neck seemed to move with his mouth. He appeared to be barking at me in his language of comfort, “désolé de vous interrompre votre promenade dans Paris mais donnez-nous votre facture pli et à pied une respiration.”

I backed up and remembered my training from college boxing and the military. One of the men muttered something and then came at me with a very telegraphed blow. I countered it and moved into his space and felt my fist breaking his nose and in slow motion. Again, the dance of death as I did only a few years ago. Blood spewed from his body and over my knuckles. He fell back into a cart and the other two men had the stupidity and mere ignorance to both come at me trying to tackle me and try making me loose my footing. I sparred and used my cane in one man’s throat and then with a sweeping force drove the cane in the back of his head. He fell to the ground and did not move. The third ruffian finally landed his target across my jaw busting my lip. I raised both of my fists in a boxing position and he tried his best to copy my actions. Coming at me with wide punches. I countered and blocked his attempts and broke his nose and ended with a good few blows to his solar plexus. His gang of merry men ran off scurrying. I yelled, “that will teach you to mess with a U.S. soldier of the 31st division!” I gained my composer and use my hanky to clean my throbbing lip. I walked to Rue de Montparnsee and decided to catch a cab.

While in the Cab, I brushed myself off and calmed my nerves. I reached in my suit pocket and pulled out the letter. It was from Summer-brooke, Iowa from a Miss Emma Bradshaw. I wandered how she found me. My uncle must have told her. He’d be the only one who knew my whereabouts. That was just to have him send me my money every month from my inheritance. He was the only reason I could afford being in Paris. I immediately opened the letter.

My Darling,

My last letter was sent to you in a time of haste and regret. I feared our last meeting. I decided to hold some life changing information from you, but this was not right and I regret this action so. When you left I was distraught and confused. I had your child inside of me, but didn't want to tell you as to worry you with your new career. After you left me in that God forsaken town I moved away to have the baby in a quiet area where no wandering eyes or ears would know who I was or were I came from. My plan was have your Uncle send me funds and for me to have our child, and eventually become a family again. There will and never be anyone in my life accept you Robert. Contact me as soon you get this so we can plan my arrival to Paris with your two year old son.

Love,

Emma

The cab pulled up and stopped. I quickly hid the contents of the letter and opened the cab door for my Tigress. She stepped in and seated herself. She went to kiss my cheek and noticed the now redness on my face and lip getting larger by the minute

“oh mon dieu , saint Christ ce qui a vous arriver? qui a fait cela aussi vous.” I stopped her hand trying to caress my face. I saw her genuine care for me in her eyes. I was too shaken up by both events. For starters, news of being a father and the other issue was my little celebration party in alleys off Rue de Delumbre.

“ It’s fine,” I said trying to reassure her.

“Just an altercation with the locals that's all.” She took my handkerchief and wet it with her saliva and pressed it against my wounds.

“ How could they do this to you? Are you sure you are well?” I patted her hand and told the driver, “Theatre Ode’on si vous ples!” The driver took us through Rue de Rennes and then Rue de Vaugirard, Rue Corneille, and finally ending at our destination. March was alive and winter was shaking off it’s Spring blanket. Everywhere before us people looked like a new energy had emerged and to me, my painting seemed refreshed and renewed.

.

We arrived shortly and there was a crowd forming in front of the Cinema Ode’on. The outside was a white exterior with red accents. The lure of Hollywood had hit Paris in those days and the building resembles that architecture of the time. Inside was beautiful walls painted in Egyptian rival. Large fanned out mirrors were strategically placed and touches of Art Deco flourish through out the room. A red carpet that extended throughout the building and two entrances to the same showing room. I purchased too tickets and followed the crowd down the aisle to find our seats. Camille plotted and scouted out our seating arrangements stopped us towards the back row. She excused us through the packed seats and we found our places just in time. I felt like a sardine in a can, all lined up in a row. There was no concept our personal space in the cinema. Eventually, this grand meeting for the black and white world of motion would become a theatre for porn and swank. A sickness would come over many small theaters in Paris and they would lay in a dormant sleep until they were once again restored to the rightful heirs not long so ago.

The man came to the front of the stage. He had a thin mustache and tales and a tux on. Camille translated for me the best she could. With her hand holding my arm she whispered in my ear, which I found very pleasing and stimulating, “Monsieur et Mademoiselles the Eoden is proud to present to you. Paramount pictures presents, The Unmarried, with accompanying on piano score played by humphry Madon’e.” The pianist and violinist bowed and took refuge behind his piano waiting to follow the first line of the script. The audience clapped and the lights dimmed.

Needles to say, after the showing I came to understand why the American youth termed the cinema as a ‘Pet Stand.’ As we left, she was holding my arm and passing other lovers on the busy streets. She looked and said with a conniving, very big grin, “Tauney, darling, I really want you to listen! I know you’re with that Model, all Paris models are tramps, and I'm fine with that, really. Tauney you are an artist, and you exercise your freedoms as you must-” I stopped her mid sentence.

“How do you know about Angelina?” She hushed me.

“Tauney, just save your, how you say? My Tauney, for me my love, ok! That's all fine, ok!” Placing her finger on my nose she added, “I'm a good girl remember?” She was walking backwards and pulling my arms as she retreated in a shy, demure way. She was stunning with a blue frock matching, shoes, and taffeta corn blue cloch’e with a rich blue ribbon that wrapped around her head and was neatly tied and cascaded down to her shoulder. She held my attention then she nodded holding her hat as one of Paris’ Spring winds tried to confiscate it from her. She hailed a Cab and told me she wanted something very special. All the girls were getting this object of desire. I tried to enquirer, but she was tight lipped and humming some catchy French tune.

We pulled up to a monstrous building, Le Bon March’e. She told its history opening seven years ago. It contained a woman's dream of clothing, shoes, and well, you name it. Every man going into the stores with a lady on their arm was silently panicking inside. I was no exception. She squealed and took out a waded piece of paper from her handbag. I rolled my eyes as she branded my vision with the must have scent of Paris. Released that day, Chanel No5. She roused me in, like a real lamb. We stood in line for what seemed like and hour, then at the cashiers I bought two bottles telling her the other bottle was for my aunt in Summer-Brooke. She dabbed the bottle on her wrist and behind her soft ears, squealed again and we were off. One can only try to describe a fragrance, failing miserably in the process. One has to have the intimate experience of smelling Mrs. Number 5. Too much can spoil the air and my Tigress was the master of proper proportion. On that day, a nosey little cub she was at that.

I dropped her off at her flat and gave her a kiss on the cheek at the cab and drove off. Camille and I would be together for a only a short time and my stay in Paris would become more twisted and skewed each day. Turning me slowly into the art I was trying to depict. Paris is after all, what you make it.

The next day I was back at work, waking at 6 am and preparing for a new day. Paris would always bring you fresh coffee, bread, and cheese. I cut into my cheese and poured my coffee. I opened my window to catch some of the fresh morning air from the city. I had a small fire and was sitting in my satin tufted chair. I propped my feet up and watched a bird come and greet me. A cool breeze offered the promise of Spring and orchard of blooms Nasturtiums, Daffodils, Iris, and Poenies, like a crown of flowers for her royal lady, Paris. I was loving this very moment of my life and welcomed the song birds and the French conversations coming from the street below. There was a knock on the door and Angelina was leaning on the frame of the door looking succulent and beautiful. She had some luggage and a distraught look about her.

“I, stay here! Need place, stay here!“ She started crying.

I put my arms around her and took her bags in. She sat on my bed with her head down on my pillow and she was still crying. I sat behind her rubbing her shoulders in a caring, concerned fashion. I didn't ask her or probe while she was here now with me. My own situation had me in deep thought already. She hugged me and we were kissing and she would bring me into her world again and again. I arose, took a new canvas, loaded my brush, and stared intently at my new living mate. I would still pay her, I thought. If I paint her, I'll pay her! I stopped for a moment, took out the bottle of perfume and held it out toward her breast. Her eyes widened and that glaze of softness came over them. She started crying and hugged me,scattering kisses on my cheeks and lips. She wanted more and painting her, gave me an increase in my vitality. I held 20 francs and after she dabbed her neck, looked at me with a foul disgust. “Robert,

I am not a whore.” She started dressing and getting her things ready to leave. I put my hand on her thigh and said softly,

“I’m sorry, I'm sorry.” She paused her packing and looked at me, as if she was trying to give me a second chance.

“ This is for modeling, 20 francs, remember?”

She dried her eyes and threw down her luggage. I kissed her bronze breast and nipples. I could feel her stomach move in and out and my body. She held me in her arms like the caring and conscious creature she was. I moved down to her belly and held my head there and worried the future was setting in. Emma was coming in three weeks with my child of two years. How did one woman become three? It was an almost paralyzing event in that instant. That moment of reading the letter played back in my head. Angela was rubbing my head expecting more from me. I continued all the while, thinking plotting my best chest moves to cure the oncoming play of action heading my way.

We dressed and I took her out and we ate and drank and she feasted on blackened salmon with white sauce and corn peppers. We went back to my place and we made love and enjoyed each other company. I brought out some fruit and cheese and good Pinot Grigio. Holding the fruit over her head like one feeds a Roman Emperor. She took each grape, laughing and clicking her teeth in a playful way. The sun was now up and I was happy to have my mistress, but was saddened that no progress was made in the studio other than a thorough anatomy lesson.

.

Chapter 8

The Opium Tiger

Picture a man standing still and a landscape of setting suns, nightly moons, and florid stars all rotating the course from night to day, week to month, year to decades, and decades to millennia, until the pendulum takes our traveler through a blurring of fashions, hair styles of each period, buildings form, and breakdown around him. He is still the essence of man in which is constant and points to our infinite immortality. The essence of human beings is the constant. In effect, man’s mind imposing itself around a constant. Ever changing and building upon itself, like a numbers exponentially growing shifting and changing.

I continued talking, lying next to Camille, her breast exposed and a far off haze above her head. “Oui, darling,” she leaned her body over like a cat drinking at a stream and took another drag from the ox blood colored pipe. The smoke floated from her lips, as if it were alive making itself known to me. It had purpose and meaning. She handed me the long Asian beast. I breathed in filling my lungs with the fumes of hypnotic contentment. The smoke would beacon me to release, and I would obey its command. Camilla was speaking almost slow and deliberate, “Très bon point mon amour, mes pensées flottent vers, vous que nous parlons. mesning Je suis d'accord .” I understood when she said her thoughts were floating to me. I understood her completely and acted as if I was trying to motion slowly, attempting to catch her thoughts with my hands and sending them back. We both started laughing in what seemed like a lower octave. She felt good to me. I could feel her, taste her, and each touch of her was exciting and invigorating. I kissed her lips. Sliding off of them.

“We should do this again, don't you think darling.” She looked up very slowly and said,

“No! Tauney, No! My love, do you want to know why, my dear?” She paused for a second.

“We will keep coming here like our friends, Tauney! “I agreed flights of fancies going off in my head and a world of ideas being laid before me.”

“Yes my Tiger of the lilies and better spring,” she answered. Her eyes rolling back in her head and her hands sort of floated around making smooth, slow even circles.

“I'm showing the possibilities of why we shouldn't come here, that is, that is ... why we came.” I waited a moment then laughed. It was a long drawn out slow laugh. “Then, my dear, we should definitely come again and be reminded of why we shouldn't be coming here in the first place.” Just then a lady seemed to float in, smiling at me, lighting our pipes, and fixing my pillow. She touched my thigh,smiled, and touched Camille as well. I looked at my Tigress and felt her purr from behind me. She hit me with some force. “She wants to sleep with us! Do you like her?” I looked at her and felt her rubbing my chest. “I’d rather taste your lips, ” I slurred slowly back. She rubbed my back.

“ I wouldn’t mind at all, my love. I want that as well.” I was getting my logic back slowly and reasoning was setting in. I signaled the lady to remove our pipes and I payed her in what seem like a slow fashion. She reminded me of a woman who in that state of consciousness became a snake and was slowly sucking the life out of her clientele. It was common for prostitution to occur at the Opium dens in those days and a man could have all his pleasures fulfilled at his whim. I looked at my watch; it was 6pm. Camille and I had lost six hours in the calm, calculations of our minds. She was coming about herself as well. I moved slowly at first and when I was finally on my feet, I felt as if I would just simply float about. I helped my Tigress up.

“Your wonderful, my Tauney.” She touched my cheek as we held each other as we left the establishment.

We walked through Paris as if we owned it. Everything was alive and dancing. The last of Spring’s flowers had come into my view. I touched them. They had a vibration to them as though we had a temporary key to unlock the universe and witness the energy in all things. The lamps looked like a Van Gogh work with a thick umbra and glow around every light in Paris. I felt I wanted to touch everything and feel it's sensation and its heat or coolness. Everything became objects that vibrated and breathed. The streets and pavers we walked on moved in and out in calm rhythmic patterns. Everything was acceptable and agreeable. Everything was paintable and one could easily see the routes and paths to excellent form and form within form. Forms hiding form within itself; I thought about that while Camille leaned on my shoulder and walked next to my side. Then does one see only that kind of thing in an influenced mindset. let's say a painter trains his eyes to see that way without artificial aid. Such a contrast would drive him to madness. Camilla squeezed my hand and whispered, “hush”. I smiled and we walked to my apartment. As we walked I thought to myself that I wasn’t talking before to her. I fell silent in deep thought.

I unlocked the door and she glided in through the entrance. I took her heels off and put them by the door. She plopped on the bed and was removing her clothes and then she lay on the bed. I rushed over to grab my pencil and paper and saw her not as a woman laying on the bed, but almost as if she was a nice piece of fruit or some grouping of carrots. I started sketching she was smiling and said, “I'm honored Tauney.” I told her she was a carrot and not a woman at all. She laughed getting what I was saying. Camille just understood me that way. She looked at me and peered into my direction as though trying to figure me out.

“Make love to me,” she said. I put down the paper and tried to erase the idea of her being a carrot out of my mind. Sitting by her side I had a look of understanding and leaned in to kiss her lips. I said softly and assuringly, “are you ok about being on Opium? I mean, are you in your right sense?”. She whispered,

“ réel , est réel et ici est là et cette fois ce momemt , le moment est venu.” Real is real and here is here and this time this moment, the time is right. I caressed her and used my fingers continuing down her cheek until my hand reached the nape of her neck.

We awoke with the sun hitting our eyes. We were asleep for 12 hours or so. She, like an angel, lay next to me and I moved my arm so she could cuddle my chest. I thought of the strange journeys that lead us to this moment. As if the Garden of Eden was open to us and God had temporarily laid down the fiery swords that guarded the entrance. Morning came and Eden closed off, showing us to the streets and a stark, rank contrast to reality. Kicking us out and once again raising the cross swords of fire. The only way back was through the opium dens of Paris. As I was getting ready, I watched Camille sleep and was like a cat coming off her catnip.

I pondered the sensations and what I experienced and what I felt. Wanting to go back again to experience those sensations all the while knowing it was just a big illusion. There was no Garden of Eden and hope of ever getting back there was lost. All there ever was, was an Opium den, a pipe, and a bridge that landed you in a field of poppies never to return. I was well aware of both sides.

I headed to the café. It was the last of spring and the plants and plumes on green sprigs now were fleeting and changing their appearance. I was supposed to have lunch with my Camille, my confidant. I saw in the distance a few artist and Jean Pincreaux leaving the Café. I was trying to wave them down, but they already had disappeared among the shops and people passing. I stopped at one of the flower mongers and bought a bouquet of mixed flowers and colors. Reds, yellows, and purples. “Perfection,” I stated. I headed a few streets closer to the café. I saw two large trees that cooled the siting inhabitants under them. There was the bull himself, Pablo Picasso, waving his hand around as if almost becoming a human canvas. Describing another grand feat in the works to a dealer, getting them excited about the future prospects. Thus, increasing the works value as he was giving great detail in his native tongue. He was of medium stature, built well with a shorter midsection. He was smoking and the smoke filled the air and I watched it dissipated far above him. His eyes were powerful and his stare was even more intense. Sometimes I wandered if that was one of his defense mechanism or if he bullied children at an early age. His hair was dark and came down to just above his eye and in a sharp arch. As I came closer, I recognized the woman's back of hair in which she had pinned up in a bun. The ears and neck, which I had kissed many times. It was Angelina. I hurried each of my paces as I neared them both. I could hear the fast paced rhythms of her language. Now free and fluent like a bird set free among it's own kind. I sat down some distance away as to spy and intently listen. I tipped my hat in a lower fashion and picked a spot where the foliage blocked their view from me. A waiter came behind me and made me jump. I ordered some coffee and a small appetizer. I had nothing against the man I was spying on. He was a genius and very productive and proficient at his craft. His works were already calling for a good price. Gertrude Stein and her brother were advising him and purchasing many of his works. Then Pablo touched her hand and was rubbing her arm. A very strong French female voice came from behind me. “ Vous et e American?” I turned to find it was the girl who I met eyes with my first day in Monteparssee. The black hair and expressive eyes high arched brows and made up lips of the fashion of the day. I put my hand out and she smirked holding my shoulders and spoke in a lovely voice, “plaisir de vous rencontrer acquintance , mon nom est Alice Prin”. This was fate in motion. I introduced myself and ask if she knew any English. She used her hand and balanced it in a back and fourth motion. Then saying, with a smile that held nothing from the world, “a bit.” I was about to excuse myself because my thoughts were on a different task. She held my arm and said, “business first, then pleasure.” I smiled and sat down all the while keeping my eyes glued to the minotaur seated with my model. Alice looked in the direction of me and Angelina and said, “I see are you busy, it was a pleasure, goodbye Monsieur.” I jerked around and had a frantic look on my face and responded.

“Please, Mademoiselle sit and let us talk.” There’s something about her as if we had done this all before. Perhaps, the old gypsy was right and we could have had past lives and lovers we cross paths with again in different lives. We talked for a long time best we could, considering the communication gap. I was quickly becoming engulfed by her eyes and saturated by her alluring smile. We became good friends and eventually even more through letters and constant communication.. I always knew her as Alice. She would soon dawn a different mask to Paris, My Alice of Montparnasse.

I looked over and saw Angelina had left and Picasso was now immersed in his work. I was compelled to learn of their conversation and was slowly separating myself from her to prepare for the emanate confrontation that was about to begin.

I rushed to my studio. My face heating up with each thought of my present situation. Anger made my focus set and all other things fade from view. It inevitably gave me a headache and I would have to shut the blinds and cover my eyes from any curious light. I arrived at my studio. Angelina was moving and cleaning things up around the flat. She greeted me with hugs and kisses. She took the cane and the flowers from my hands and took off my shoes and then my socks.

I felt horrible and my guilt came to the front quickly. I was glad she met me with so much care then she smiled while continuing her chores with a hum and on her lips. She had a pretty voice. When she bathed I would move my ear to the edge of the closed door and listen with a most eager intent.

She gave me a pencil and paper. She smiled, kissed my head, and said in almost a sense of innocence, “ usted debe aprender a dibujar como Picasso.” I knew only word that stood out from the sea ambiguity, one word, Picasso. I threw the pad across the room in a rage. I held her shoulders and grabbed her hair. “Why were you with Picasso today!” I threw her on the make shift bed. I held up money in front of her tear-drenched eyes. “ You model for Picasso? Answer Me.” Her face went to total anger. “Yes, she screamed.” I put my jacket on and yelled back. “Well he can have you!” She ran towards me with rage. “yes! He pays well.”

“Fine,” I said while almost loosing my voice. She softened her eyes in desperation. “I tell him no! Ok? I tell him no!” She slammed the door and locked it behind her. I mounted my face in the in the corner of the door stroking the wood with my hand and being empathic now. I was about to console her and speak. I heard her wailing and crying with what seemed like her face embedded in the pillow. Retreating from the flat, I slowly turned and sat on the stairs, pondering the loose paint chips on the wall. It was going to be a long night.

American Dingo

I met Chamile on my turf, we were at the Dingo bar having a few beers and I was frustrated, which was apparent in my body language.

Her smile made my weary mind rest for the moment. She was a breath that brought piece to my heart. I hugged her and she tried to kiss me. I turned away and told her I had something on my mind, Camille.

“My model, we had a fight. She was going to model for Picasso.” I looked at her as a friend in that moment and she was strong enough to play the part for my sake. She listened to what I had to say. At the end I was holding her hand and almost in tears form the frustration I had put myself through. She squeezed my hand in a playful way.

“So we are both your lovers, and one day we are together then you leave her and let her go on her way, no? Because now you see what it is like? Even for Picasso there is always a price to pay. Now come and walk, no?” I kissed her and she held my hand as we walked and shared some stories. She was an actress trying to make it in the silent film industry. She was in a few short films, but never saw her dreams. Then she did Dande- pacha, a supporting role. I asked her, how she got the role. She smiled and pressed her fingers against my lips. “Oui,” then she quoted William Blake in French. “la route à travers l'excès mène au palais de la sagesse. The road to excess leads to the palace of wisdom. She went to an opium house for a few days before shooting the film. She was one of the first method actors.

“What was that like?”

“Bon, but one has to be careful. Many people cannot control themselves and end becoming regular visitors.” I wondered as we were talking how she was so intelligent and had all the right things to say. She told me in the process of reaching our destination that she always goes to the library and reads Voltaire, Balzak, Shakespeare, and many more. I mention the diaries of Vincent VanGogh, and some others. She stopped by a pole and swung herself around yet kept her feet on the ground. “Oh, Tauney, im ne suis pas un peintre,” we reach our destination.

She brought me into this Asian area of town and knocked on a door. A small Asian man opened the doo rand smiled very widely.” In broken French with Chinese undertones, he welcomed us. There was an unmistakable smell throughout the rooms. Everything, literally everything had a strong oriental flair. There were large lamps hanging from the ceilings and Chinese silk screens on the walls. There was a dragon sculpture and sumi paintings in the halls. The man said something to Camille in French and she pointed and he smiled very widely again. “Dui”. She grabbed my hand and pulled me in his direction. I touched the small of her back.

“So you too are old friends?”

She partially laughed, “I come here with certain friends once or so a month.”

“ Ok,” I said, “but make sure you’re not Shang hi-ed and wake up in China.”

“Always avec mon ami Robert.”

He showed us to a private room.

“See it's ours as long as we want!” The room had a raised platform and pillows to lay on and had a feeling of something Monet would have painted in his early years with his Japanese Kimonos. She lay down and patted the pillows next to her. A few moments later, a woman came in. She was beautiful and very thin. She was laughing and being the most gracious host. After a few words she brought a tray with a red looking peace pipe. I was waiting for an Indian chief to appear, but was sadly mistaken. For this was a peace on a much grander scale. It was a very ritualistic the process. Like with the Absinth, my Tigress prepared it for me and she took it to her lips. I waited and watch her eyes slowly go back into her head. She handed me the pipe. I nervously, but slowly took the breath of fire, as it burned my lungs being breathed in much deeper and longer. I inhaled in the fire, but breathed out a serpent. One that with pleasure wrapped itself around her victims; giving immense pleasure and taking away our worries and pain. While all the while, sucking the very life force from us like a python in slow steady patient timing. Strangling its victims through dependence and lack of willpower. She enslaved many artists and painters in the Opium dens of despair. Great giants of the age appeared almost lifeless laying about the pillows and red rich and gold silk tapestry; slaves of convenience and complacency.

I noticed Camille’s eyes rolling back in her head and she wasn't there with me at that moment. My Tigress’s mind was elsewhere and she was exploring the ancient jungles of her thoughts. I barely could speak it felt too good. I was saying to her mentally, “have a safe journey”, she returned to me in a few moments and smiled and as if she was saying, “see I knew you would love it here.”

I curled up next to her and watched the ceiling breathing coming lower towards the both of us then expanding backwards. I thought how this would l be back on the farm in the steams and water I used to lay in. In that moment, I felt the air around me move and change like the current of the streams of my youth. I lay there acting as if I was swimming and floating with my hands slightly suspended as if the air was holding my body up. Camille looked over and starting laughing at me. I had disappeared like I noticed she had done earlier as well. I smelled colors and tasted the sound. Not literally, but figuratively, almost as if my senses changed positions for a brief second in time. Camille just nodded as if saying, “I know my love I'm right there with you as well feeling the same thing.”

Chapter 9

The Other Side of Paris

The change of season and spring once again welcomed us with birds and her inhabitants waking up once more from a winter sleep. The year was 1923. I had been in Paris a year and so many things had changed. I changed. Father Time had healed my leg and now my cane only held up my memories in a corner of my studio in Montparsanee. My frequency of visits at the Musee De Orse’e and the treasures and spoils of her contents kept me busy and always on the move. I’m not one of those artist that loyally sets my canvas up to paint the pictures of the dead. No, I’m not a caretaker. More of a hunter, who looks for the hidden lines that hide in the forest of paint, canvas and a history of men who gave their lives for the art and brotherhood of mankind.

I studied, Delacroix, Jericho, Monet, Degas, Daumier, and Van Gogh. I was there at least two days a week at that time, I would walk among Giants; taking in their timeless teachings. The Masters of the Le Louvre were always willing to give and teach and I was a good listener. I developed a study theory of almost Kanji like symbols of form. Taking note of these symbols. I could use them as sort of a short cut to getting to where I wanted to be on paper. It is easy to become a copyist and lose ones self to another painters grand design. All the while forgetting your own. Camille would sometimes travel along on the weekends wandering through the t museum’s great halls. It’s a good practice to remember that people who are not artist don't wish to hear theories on each artist, and how each painted their work. People are rather annoyed by the brothers of light and color. We are a fickle race of men and woman. Mighty Knights and defender of the arts, whose shield is a canvas and our brushes, our swords, and our horses are drugs, alcohol, and whoring. How proud mother art must be! If we lived in Greece and art was a Goddess, she would have offerings of paints, Lenin, and brushes and incents of Opium and Cannabis forever burning. She would have wine and absinthe at her feet. Fortunately, she is a muse that sneaks in the night whispering elegance in our ear. The Muse of Inspiration I was seeking and if one cannot not find it in the Musee Orsee or the Louvre of Paris. Than one cannot find it anywhere.

I was meeting Camille and her friends at la Moulin Rouge. I had it easy here in France. Prohibition had its tight grip around America’s throat still and showed no signs of letting go. Paris was a loving, opened armed woman who took in anyone with money. Americans couldn't work while living in Paris due to stricter immigration laws. I on the other hand, a painter friend of mine was taking money under the table for illustrations. He did this through an associate of his. They would discuss the details and I would bring the sketches in and that was the best they could hope for. I was painting for an exhibit at an upcoming art show. Tonight was a celebration. It was to the date one year I met Camille with the colorful Erik Satie.

I saw Camille wearing a white frock with fringes and a long white scarf wrapped around her neck, and hung low on her back almost touching her well form buttocks I came to know very well. Her hair had changed; it was darker and shorter and came out to two wispy points at her cheeks. She looked like a freed woman from the confines of her once longer hair. I chuckled and thought to myself, “if women get any freer and feel any more liberated, then every woman in Paris would be bald.”

“ Tauney, darling over here!” I was much better at my French at this point and spoke and greeted may Tigress with all the French flair. She kissed my lips and held my cheeks.

“How was your studies at the museum today?”

“Very good”, I said then changed the subject.

“ I'm in the mood to have my lady and I just absolutely smashed on this special night.”

” Me and my hotsie totsie toasting the town.” I finished my sentence with an elegant yet cheeky pose of me toasting the Eiffel Tower.

We headed for our first destination of the night, Le Moulin Rouge. The outside had a stream of lights around the upper roof of the building and on the wind mills lighted up the

82, BOULEVARD DE CLICHY As we walked in I pictured where Toulouse Lautrec would have placed himself, visits from Degas in a darkened corner sketching the night away. The Garçon sat us down and we didn't waste anytime. We ordered Two Monkey glands. A Lovely drink made with orange juice, absinthe raspberry, grenadine, and gin. We had one and then another. The band was big and bold and bright and played some Cole Porter songs. The place was getting crowded and the host of the show introduced the Harford girls. Camille was waiting for some friends to meet us. A gentleman, Luis Manchee, and another gentleman. Luis was a wafer of a man, but taller with a black hair and a razor thin mustache that came down at hard angles on his face. His friend had a gentle smile and motioned with his hands in a feminine manner. The three musketeers were in deep lively banter and so I removed myself and walked the room. We had missed the burlesque show. I imagined legs up in the air and dresses revealing their welcomed petty coats to the hopeful patrons of the evening. A voice from behind me scent shivers up my spine. It was Kiki. “Paris has a way of finding people and bringing them together. Does she not?” A statement in her silky black beautiful dress and painted on lips done up in tight crisp fashion, which gave her a smile, and the warmth and kindness of a saint. My thoughts of course at first seeing her were not of a saintly or divine nature. We sat down and she told me about her life. She was a model from an early age, and had worked with many artists. Her mother pleaded with to give this kind behavior up. Her body oozed of Venus De Milo. Her eyes gave me so much peace and the first thing that came to my mouth seeing her was, “I have to know you!” She smiled and lead me to a table of friends and brothers of the pen and brush. There was Man Ray, a Japanese looking fella that had the hair of one of the three stooges, which I saw 12 years later. I carried on with a small bit of trivial conversation. I saw that Alice and Man- Ray were indeed a couple and excused myself and returned to my table. While Camille was talking to her friends, I looked across the floor at Alice. She was talking and having conversation with the other artists. To be the objective viewer from the distance is a beautiful thing. The spectator gets the ideal view. On one hand he gets to witness life in action. Sometimes being right in the moment one misses the view of the whole of all things. The other side of this is being the one on the outside you would do anything to cross this glass containment and touch her and feel the one we are unmistakably drawn too. She was like a soft, comfortable dream, but wide-awake. Camille interrupted my thoughts with loud laughter. I rubbed her arm and nodded to the group as if I was in tune with conversation. Recessed back to the comforting images of my mind and slowly turned back to Alice. I was not in lust or saw her as a muse much like I saw Angelina. Who probably went with Picasso and is finished being such. No this was an inner pull and desire deeper than flesh and comforting like a memory from beginning of time. Reason destroys the ladder that allows us spiritual fulfillment. This inner thirst needed to be re- quenched. I lit a cigarette and pondered why I was having the connection; this calling of my soul to what seemed like a familiar shore. As though she was like a beach and waters that kept me at peace in the night. I felt someone grab my arm.

“ My darling don't even think of it, she’s a tramp that's climbed from the bed of men, now to the stages of Paris.” Camille had a glass of champagne in her hand and handed to me. She then told me about how she was a model for painters and artist at the age of 14 and her mother called her a French whore and walked out of her life. Leaving her to fend for herself.

“ This Kiki is a product of creation of her lover Manray.” She scoffed and added, rolling her eyes.

“His newest artistic endeavor. Tauney, stick to the jungles and tigers you’re used to.” We toasted and I saw in her eyes that she thought she had made her point.

“ Drink mon ami we are going to a very special place.” I finished my drink and asked where were we going. She said laughing, “we are going to stroke the under-belly of Paris.” Her Friends were looking at each other smiled and then toasted the group.

Chapter 9

The Underbelly of Paris

My head was swimming and yet we drank more champagne. We finished our drinks. I paid the bill and looked up only to find my Alice vanished in the air of Paris once again. As we exited the red barn, I turned back to capture the moment of the place in my mind. Being actually there verses imagining being there. Disillusionment set in. I forgave Camille quickly for her comments about Alice. Soon we were laughing at bad jokes and old cliché’s. Incongruity is the king of comedy.

Camille was on my lap and the men were in sitting infront of us . The soft gentle one, just barely touching the coat sleeve of his friend. Camille had that look on her face as if holding a punch line to a joke. She accidentally poured Champagne on my suit by missing my mouth entirely. Finally this promiscuous potion found it’s way on my paints between her frock. We both felt its tingle and warmth. She leaned into my ear and whispered,“Don’t worry Tauney, I will clean that for you later.” Then she bit my ear and started singing some infamous French song.

The cab stopped at our destination and we all exited trying to gain our composer while almost falling out of the vehicle. Camille held on to me laughing. After a moment, we gained back our composure all together. I slicked my hair back and straightened my collar and we entered Le Monicle. It was a club not too fancy with dancing and a nice atmosphere. The waiter sat us down, and the two men with us sat close to each other on the other side of us. Camille called the waiter and asked for a round of Absinthe and gave a brand she was partial to, Per don fils. A Tango was starting to be played and the guests all began taking their places on the floor to begin the tangoing ceremonies. The place was blue tiled archway and a small bar located on the left side of the room the booths had mirrored walls and gave the effect of more space. Camille spoke in English to me.

“Darling, enjoying your self?” I looked up and was making circles with my finger on the glass in front of me.

“ Sure, it's a nice place, a real nice place.” Then she held my arm and said, “really that is good, just wanted to be sure you are, um… comfortable.” Camille’s friend was saying something to the other and then said,

“Please excuse us.” She squeeze my arm as the two men started dancing the tango together cheek to cheek. I looked at the two and then looked at Camille. She started laughing.

“ See I told you, you were in for a treat tonight.” I almost stood up out of my chair, as if someone was playing a practical joke on me. Camille very calmly grabbed my hand and calmly sat me back down. Our drinks came. She prepared mine and was talking, “calm down my Tauney, this is what Paris hides in the night. You will see this nowhere else in the world. Love is Love. And Paris is about love, openness, and acceptance. Tauney it's been all around you from the moment you arrived in Paris. One has to just open their eyes.”

I looked around surveying the area and notice dthe men with the women were not men at all. They were women with short hair wearing men's clothes. I took a deep breath and took my glass and swallowed it down. Camille looked at me, “I wanted to take you here my love, so you could see what really goes on here in the city of lights. Paris is a beacon calling all those and not judging them.” She looked at me, “do you understand Tauney?” It all started to make sense I looked around again and it was being pieced together like a puzzle before me.

“ You mean to tell me at the theatre Miss Stein and her lady friend…”

“Yes,” Camille said in non-surprised tone of voice.

“You mean… Alice Tolken?”

“yes,” she stated flatly, “go on mon Ami.” I continued, “and at la Dos Maggots afterwards, Jean Cocteau and his friend?” She pointed at my nose, “bingo as you Americans say.” I looked around again and started laughing. Not in Million years in Sommer-Brooke would I ever think... I put my hands to my face and rubbed them against my eyes. I looked back at her and she was starting to smile, but also I saw in her eyes a hint of fear that she would lose me to blind hatred and prejudice. Then I looked at Camille and my eye became wider. The Uncle? I thought about it. He wasn't married and when he was in Davenport as a lawyer he was with someone, but never brought up his or her name after retuning.

“ I need another drink”, I said. After she poured the drink, I looked long and deep into her eyes and toasted her glass. I gave her a shrug and a toasted the dance of forbidden lovers.

“ When in Rome, when in Rome.”

Camille had a look of relief and pulled her chair next to mine. I had passed her test and her charms and seduction became ever more apparent. She touched the curve of my chin. She always seem to make me feel at home no matter were we were. I looked around and couples were embracing and the women/men were wearing monocles and taking pictures. The band was playing an American tune and I asked Camille to dance. It was a beautiful site to behold: Camille, her two friends, and the rest of the ladies enjoying the atmosphere accepting one another completely. She looked into my eyes.

“How about we go out to the country for the weekend? You can bring you paints, and I'll show more of my France.” I pondered her proposal and answered,

“just promise me Camille, no more underbelly of Paris and no more surprises.” She came back with a whimsical smile,

“Ok I promise.”

Chapter 10

The Gift

I awoke in my apartment. My was head spinning and the buzzing of trumpets and flashes were sounds my brain, trying to recall and in bits and pieces play out in my head. As if ones thoughts need to be a steady coherent state to function. Reason being the guide leading us from a chaos and disarray. I heard my trusty clock click and moving from hand and crossing over the threshold of 12:00 pm. Then like a streak of lightning awaiting its mate, the thunder. The chimes went off as though striking the inner foundations of my skull. Bong! Bong! Bong! Then again. I covered my head under my pillow and heard an obnoxious groan and pleading in French for the horrible deep pounding to stop. Muttering to myself, “that dreadful noise all of Paris can hear that.” The twelfth gong of the chimes left the room as before, quiet and serene. Camille could sleep all day if she so desired. I, on the other hand, preferred to rise with the sun and prepare my day out in advance. She was like a cat and moved about her environment with that confidence that all cats possess. I slapped her butt, she shrieked,

“Get up!”

She cursed me in French and I kissed her cheek.

“ Fine suit yourself, I'll be at my studio; drop by later. Maybe Dinner?”

I arrived at the studio. My place was clean and Angelina was sleeping in the bed.

“ Wake up, earn your keep.” She saw me and smiled and prepared to hug me. I stopped her and pointed to the stage.

“How is the Spaniard?” I asked dryly. She huffed and got undressed I posed her and set the angle of her face. I put a wine bottle and some glass arranged in front of the natural forming “v” of a woman. She huffed.

“ I don't care particularly. I need a model and you’re living at my studio, so that makes us even.” She kept her face in the position that I set it and spoke defiantly.

“ We no sleep together. He pay, I model, I leave.” I didn't respond. Be like an apple, I thought to myself.

I was just getting into the work then there was a knock at the door. I was surprised as the door opened it let in the light of some familiar faces. It was Jean my painting friend and he had with him Chagall and Soutine. Jean replied with a grin,

“ three Jews bearing wine and welcoming the new painter of Paris.” I shook their hands. I noticed Angelina was putting her robe back on. I snapped at her,

“where are you going?” She sat back down trying to remember her position. Soutine saw her and told me,

“ that is the wrong pose for her.” He then came over to her and like a sculpture working with clay, he gave her grace of limbs and neck and her pose was perfect and balanced and blessed.

I handed him the brush and he took some bread and cheese sat back and then proceeded to paint. Soutine and Jean all joined in. I supplied materials and only the sound of their thoughts and movement of pencils and brushes could be heard. The warm welcome turned into a gathering of artist and the mission was a serious one. It’s a game of chess and we didn't just sit around and idol chat, like the artist of today. It was a serious thing. Each stroke meant all was at stake. Painting is a serious affair. Much like that of a sergeant. Each stroke of the brush brings life and a wrong one was like cutting a main artery to the art itself. We all worked and drank silently. Poor Angelina was stuck for a good hour and then another. Finally Soutine turned his canvas around and he was finished. He poured me a glass of wine and said in usual flair, “your canvas, your paints, my gift”. Jean smiled as they all left. The room was smokey and there was a mess to be cleaned, but my heart at the time knew I was walking among giants and time would reveal to all their true stature. I have the painting to this day and keep it above my desk. Soutine would eventually put into a coffin and snuck out of Paris from the Germans. Ill and dying that was his burial and foreseen and untimely death. Jean was taken to a camp and never seen again. His works were never seen because the Germans confiscated his dealer’s painting treasures. Chagall would flee to the United States and be spared.

The Ox Blood Affair

I caught a cab to Camille’s. When I arrived she packed a lunch and preparing for our little short escapade in the French countryside. She greeted me in her typical normal fashion. She smiled and kissed my cheek.

“Robert you’re actually starting to look French , I like .” She tugged on my scarf. I held out my hands in a sort of gesture, stating Voll’a.

“ Yes, Monsieur Tauney is wearing the latest in French fashion. A lovely gentlemen’s brown jacket. Matching pants, and a lovely white, blue opened collared shirt.” I continued to act as a spokesman on a runway. “And his finishing touches, a lovely red scarf.” I finished my silky impromptu and she came towards me and was rubbing my chest. “ Robert you’re so daft and dapper”. She was wrapping up her packing job and asked to retrieve items from the closet for her. I went over and grabbed a belt and shoes. Camille was talking from another room.

“Just leave it on the bed.” Her accent was so much apparent and even more pleasing from the distance. Her room was decorated with pinkish walls and floral patterns danced with the light on the curtains. Her dresser was dark wood and in director’e Regent style. Beads hung in rows overlapping each other and then finding there way in wide looping arcs. A chair sat next to the window dressed in fabrics of satin and trim. Tufted from and with Cherry arms of a lion. There was a lived in feel to this place. A feeling as one left these few things for a child they loved. I spoke to her across the room.

“lovely place, but it's doesn't remind me of you at all.” She was still occupied In the other room. Shuffling papers around as if she was looking for something. Her voice was a little stressed.

“ Very perceptive Sherlock Holmes. Yes my grandmother left it to me in her will.” I sat on the satin beast looking out the window. I looked down through the window to the street below.

“ What of your parents, it's not my business to pry. “ She responded a little softer in her tone and I saw her face peeking around the corner.

“ Sorry, we’ve never discussed anything about your private life at all.” She returned to the other room.

“ My parents were killed by Germans five years ago while teaching in Stuttgart. Yes! I'm German and French.” She continued, obviously from the sound of her moving things around in the bathroom, she was doing her make up and fixing her well- groomed façade.

“My father was German and my mother from the Arles region, but my grandmother moved here twenty years ago.” I put a butt of the cigarette in my mouth. Responding to her story of tragedy out of the side of my mouth.

“ So that's why the English is so good?” I felt the heat from the matched warm my well-trimmed, newly formed mustache. She hollered, “please Robert, take the luggage down stairs and wait for me , will you darling!” I closed the window and threw my cig out the window watching the ember of the end spark and spread its contents as it bounced of the buildings. Slowly landing on the street below. A man looked up trying to hone in on my location. Then cursed at me and walked off. Camille looked up,

“dear, the luggage?”

We were on the train from Paris Gare de Lyon to Lyon Part Dieu, then a train from Lyon Part Dieu straight to Meximieux-Perouges by Motor Car. Then on to the little small village of Domfront. I knew something more about his train guest she was hiding something from me.

“Can we continue our conversation where we left off Camille?” She fixed her blouse.

“ Ahh, yes how do I know English? Robert? Ahh… thats right?” she hugged me. “Tauney, you’re like looking through a piece of glass, so transparent.” I was annoyed at the statement, who wants to be figured out and I hated when she said that to me.

“My parents, God rest their souls, they had a nanny and she taught me English until I was about twelve years of age.” I added

“ So your fluent in German as well.” She scoffed and huffed.

“You’re,how you say?, inquisitive, Robert” That was my cue to shut up, stop prying, and enjoy the ride.

The cab pulled up to Chateaux Domfront. I helped Camille from the cab; she was hugging me from behind.

“ Isn't this wonderful?” She said with an excited tone in her voice. The streets were cobbled and zig zaged up a slight incline where they merged from my point of view. The buildings were flat faced with windows covered on cream white to soft tan stucco and mortar. Dark larger wood slats came up every so many feet. Hills surrounded us to one side. A gradually rocky ascent took us high over the city and we walked the grounds and explored the halls and structures still standing in the path of the twentieth century. She was exploring with me and pulled me in The no entrance sign and she open were dress to me. I kissed her and she was liking the chance of maybe being discovered. We secretly made love in one of the coves in the castle.

The city held a Catholic Cathedral to the far end. We walked and listened to mass and the walls to center were painted in constantinian style. The Glorious Lamb of God mounted of two slabs of wood painted and displayed in font of us. I was looking at the color. Repeating what I read while studying the period of art. “blue Lake, cinnabar red, yellow lake, lead white and black. Fresh fresco applied then the color added and finally for the gold leafing technique. Red lake dry and add leafing. Meticulous and time consuming,” I said out-load catching myself. Camille called me out.

“ Figuring the technique are we Robert?”

“ Just enjoy yourself.” I held her hand.

“This is the best trip I've had in a long time.”

Night was drawing her black vail once more over the land and Apollo’s team of horses were charging towards the west. The night slowly hid the last shades of colors from our view. Purples and a watercolor of Vermillion and finally the last of the suns gold rays disappeared. The hotel was quaint. We registered for our room. “Mr and Mrs Tauney pour vous inscrire s'il vous plait.” Camille winked at me and I tried to hold my smile and laughter inside, feeling like a schoolboy again. The Bell hop grabbed our luggage and ascended to the third floor facing the once Standing castle standing above the city. The hotel room had a tapestry of a two horses and a Lilie on it. The room had a very Renascence theme to it. She filled the bath up and dis- robbing and I could here her entering the water and splashing around. She was talking from the other room.

“Darling, can you get the blue dress from my luggage and put it on the bed?” I found the luggage and was able to open the suitcase when she raised her tone at me

“ Pardon moi, I shall do it when I finished bathing.” She paused “Tauney, it is fine.” It was too late I saw what she was hiding. A long pipe that fit snuggly in her luggage. I recognized its shape and color. I had seen it before and remembered the smell when I sniffed it's now burned off contents. Opium! She called my name a bit more serious.

”Robert! Did you here me?” I walked in the bath and sank lower in the now frothy tube. I looked at her sternly and held up the object in front of her.

“Did our little Chinese friend from the opium den of delights give you a new toy?”I saw the look in her eye then she looked at me and said quite frankly turning away from me.

“That is for us. A special occasion. A treat Robert, no more.” I held the pipe and smelled its alluring fumes.

“ Really? Seems to me this treat of yours is becoming a full blown appetite, Camille? Maybe a breakfast, lunch, and dinner thing now? You promised!” I set the pipe down and came over to her soaking in the bath. I pulled her out with my arms and looked her over. She was thin and pale. My guess was she hadn't eaten in a few days. The snake of convenience and complacency had a hold of her and tiger was now victim to the opium venom and strangling her ever so slowly.

“I'm going out for a walk.” I released her and she splashed hard coming down saying my name. “Tauney? Wait!” I was out the door and headed for the closest bar.

I was there a few hours and kept the bartender quite active and busy serving me drinks. I was going to catch a train back to France the next day. I had it with her half-truths. I thought she was no more like the rest of Paris for that matter. I finished my drinks and headed back to my room. The hotel clerk stopped me halfway up the stairs. “Monsuire Tauney. Telegram por Vous.”

“ merci.” I took the paper and with curiosity read the first lines.

Emma has arrived in Montparsanee. Stop. I put her in your room. Stop. You may want to get here as soon as possible. Stop. Your friend, Jean Pinceraux. Stop.

I slammed the paper down how could she do this. Like a ghost haunting me, reminding me of my past. I launched upstairs and open the door only to find that familiar smell and smoke that like the sirens calling sailors to the jagged rocks and to their deaths. So Camille was that siren for me.

“ She was lying on the bed and the window was open. She was muttering the words. “ I need you here with me, don't leave me. I want you here with me. Come to me my love.” Holding the pipe out to me.

“Come.”

Slightly exposing her breast to me, luring me into her web. I took the pipe and inhaled its sweet perfume and let out a breath of relief. She held her hand out and I reach out to grab it. She pulled me to her breast and I lay with the back of my head against her stomach and my now calm face looked at the ceiling. She was stroking my hair as if to say, “now you understand my Robert. Now you understand.”

After a few hours, I gained my senses and looked upon her paled and glowing skin and radiant hair. “ Now Robert youv'e open your eyes.” I looked deep into her brown golden eyes.

“ How many other visitors to that certain part of the city. She smiled a good part of Montparsnee, many painters and poets authors and politicians.” My head was still, swimming in the garden of delights

“Oh, ok,” she slowly got up and rubbed my shoulders.

“Tauney when we met I saw potential in you. The way you see life. You have potential to be a great painter. Sometimes we just need the right fuel to set our sales in the right direction.I talked to Stein about you. She wants to see some of your works. If it goes well you will have you own show and be the Toast of Paris.”

“ How could you? I'm not ready, leave yourself out of these matters of men!” She gave me names of those ensnared in the venom of the snake of charms and delights. People I knew and had become friends with and all under the influence of Opium. Paris and Montparsnee started showing its second face to me. One of a lost generation running from itself and hiding under the veil of illusion and seeking the refuge of delights. She handed me the pipe again and off and on we were there another day. I was slowly getting swallowed into her world. I swore to her no more. We were packing and preparing for our ride back to the city. I leaned on the sofa and cracked my knuckles. When went for a weekend and excursion and all we saw was the inside of a French Hotel for three days.

“I Will not live the life like this any more. I will not do this and live my life dreaming and floating in the mist. Life is breath feeling and action upon ones feet.” She looked at me as though I threw a ratchet in her finely tuned warped sense of reality. Then it flashed before and once again as before the puzzle was finishing it's grand creation. Putting all the missing pieces of the shattered puzzle together. It made more sense than ever. Why she was always with select friends and was particular on her comments and played in the shadows of other men. It was always about the opium from the beginning. Then I remembered her calling me from the other room in her Paris flat. Her makeup counter and her noises she was making. Cutting up cocaine. Always leaving for a second and always being late and thinning down. Camille was running and Tigress was only chasing her own tale in denial of what was to come. She was way deeper than most being slowly drowned by the incoming waves of deceit and addiction. She needed a pawn for her court of fools. I was a fool from the beginning, an opium den mate.

A Fallen Tiger in a Paris

I told Camille exactly how I felt on the train ride back to Paris. I was silent and angered. She looked out the window and didn't speak. I saw I had crushed her and given her the pill of bitter truth and she was in too much of denial to swallow it down.

We arrived at six pm, she took a bag from me and headed up to her apartment. I followed her in. She threw her bags down.

“Damn it, Robert listen to me. Yes you’re right! But my darling, I care about you and can't handle you leaving me.” I kept my destination for the door. “Please! Robert my darling, give me a chance to change things.” I was on the top of the stairs turning to speak to her and bid her farewell and give leave her completely. When she went to hug me and caught me off guard. I lost my footing and like a slow procession of events, I heard myself moaning at the bottom of two flights of stairs. Last I heard was a culmination of blurred voices and Camille screaming like a distance echo soon to fade from sight, sound, and perception.

I awoke three days later with a blurred vision and pain like a messenger returning to remind me once more I was alive. Seeing blonde hair and those blue eyes I remembered from years ago. It was Emma and she had a wet cloth over my head. Jean pinceraux was there running down the stairs to phone a doctor. Camille came to the door. I recognized her beautiful French accent from the distance. Emma covered my eyes and said, “don't worry Robert, I’ll make sure she never hurts you again.” I wanted to take back everything I said as a rush of memories returned like an avalanche where each word I spoke to her was just a devastating. My head pounded and prevented me from speaking to them both. I was helpless and only able to listen and not move. I was in a frozen state of hell. Emma closed the door. I could barely make out their voices.

“Listen, you French bothersome harlot! Robert has a son now and he asked me to tell you to stay out of his life!” Camille cursed her in French and then in English in a loud flared tone. “How dare you call me a whore. Robert has told me your nothing more than a bothersome thorn in his side.” She continued, “if you think I'm going to leave without talking to him you have lost your mind!” Then Emma peaked in making sure I was out again. “I'm warning you, whore! Come close to this flat again! Or come between me my fiancee.”

“ I won't have you screw everything up. DO YOU HEAR ME?” They both paused. Camille broke the silence.

“Fiancee? How is this possible?” Emma had her cornered like a bull targeting its victim.

“Yes! He wrote to me, only last month. We are engaged to be married in June!” Camille tried looking past Emma through the door trying to get a glimpse of me. Camille said defiantly,

“Let him say it! Let me see him!” Emma backed up slowly and opened the door with sly look upon her face knowing I wasn’t able to talk. Camille walked over and leaned by my side and removed my moistened cloth from my eyes.

“ Robert. It’s me, my love, Camille. Can you hear me darling? Robert I need you to answer me. Do you never want to see me again? I'm so, so sorry Robert. This is my entire fault. Please Tauney tell me isn’t true.” I was unable to answer her plea. She held my limp hand and put it to her cheek. Emma walked over, she had a letter in her hand. “ Here's the letter if you wish to read it.” Camille looked at me and whispered in my ear.

“Si notre amour est réel que la vérité va trouver un moyennce If our love is real than truth will find a way. She squeezed my hand and dried her eyes and left closing the door behind her.

Emma closed the door and looked delighted with the outcome. She covered my eyes once more and stroked my hair.

“ That's one down and one to go.” Then she started humming and playing with Cedric. I crawled back to the recesses of my thoughts in torture; only to show my tears as my only sign of external suffering. There are no real words to describe being trapped in a body that cannot move or is totally incapacitated. It was helpless and horrifying.

A week later I was up and about. The doctor said I was recovering nicely, but ordered plenty of rest and return to using my cane permanently. Retired once leaning in the corner alone and abandoned. We were reluctant companions once again. Emma brought me tea and biscuits. I wanted a full recovery and then I would address the issues with Emma, find Camille, and set all matters right again. Part of me couldn't turn her out of my home with our son. That was the one thing holding me back. The child was innocent in his matter. I'm not a cruel person or man without remorse for my actions. Emma said we made love on the night of my departure to New York. That was over two years ago. Something wasn't adding up in my head. Still, at the moment I loved Cedric like a father should love his son. I brought him to brasserie with me and all the painters were playing with him and he flirting with them.

Jean Pinceraux walked up with a middle-aged fellow. He looked at me with a concerned kind heart facial expression.

“ Mon ami, you look like crap!” Laughing with him and my son following suite as a form of Flattery and imitation. As well I so new at this, remembered how my father did to me. He was kind, but firm and playful, but always meant what he said. I was trying my best to follow in his footsteps and doing a horrible job, considering I had no idea the lad even existed before a few months ago. I had much catching up to do. I looked at Jean and inquired about Camille.

“Have you seen her Jean? I need to get a message across to her. You have to help me find her! I can help her Jean! There has to be hope.” Jean took his hat off and was looking at the label and the stitching around the inside.

“Look my friend, she is out of your life and let it be now. “

“Look,” I said grabbing the sleeves of his jacket, there are things I said that have to set right. Things I said that offended her and damaged our friendship. I have to tell her or it will forever damn my soul!” I was pleading with him. My tight grip becoming firmer, showing the seriousness and desperate yearning in my now troubled heart. Jean loosened my grip and put his hat back on in a slightly tilted fashion.

“ Okay, mon ami, okay”. He thought for a moment then he jotted down some notes on a piece of sketch paper

I will have her meet you at your studio. Listen my friend, do not say a word about this to your thorn!” We lovingly referred to her behind her back with good reason. He had told me while recovering from my fall that she had an air about her. He said she was writing to my uncle in Iowa. Her goal, Jean told me, was to get you out of Paris and back home to Summer-Brooke.

“Meet her this Sunday at noon.” I will contact her and let her know your intentions.” He shook my hand. This man was truly my friend. I loved him greatly for all his actions and deeds were of a man with just cause.

What Robert Henri Called, “ A true painter who seeks truth”.

Night came to Montparnsee once again. I kissed my son and tucked him in his makeshift bed. He yawned and said, “night Papa.”

I prepared for bed and entered the warm sheets and slowly separating my thoughts and my worries and started to drift asleep. Emma was nestled up to me and I pushed myself to the edge of the bed away from her. Sleep took me soon and I entered my dreams a dark mist. The mist opened up and I saw curtains with dancing flowers and pink walls with floral trim and a chair wrapped in fabric of satin and trim. I found myself in this place. The legs of the chair gave off a deep growl as if telling me not to sit in it and saw the cigarette fall ever so slowly like when I first dropped it weeks ago out the windows at Camille’s . The embers sparking again as it made its descent. The room became darker and the growls were ever more menacing. I wanted to get out of this place. A place that was calm at one time and kind to me with its comforting chair and massaging voice of Camille’s now was cold dark and empty. Then from the distance in the other room I heard a drip. Just one clean sound that resonated from Camille’s pipes. Coming from the other room. On the dresser was a note to Camille from Jean laying there waiting to tell her of our meeting. I frantically tried picking up the letter, but my hands seemed to form a vapor and my grip passed right through it. I noticed a serpent’s tail moving into the bathroom its scales a red color I was all too familiar with. Water was running from the bathroom and into the room where I was standing. I ran to the exit and the sound was deafening and the legs of the chair growled, moaned, and snarled at me. As though I was meant to see this sliver of time prepared for me. I walked back over to bathroom door, it was shut now. I reached my hand out with uncertainty and sheer fear. As if a prophecy was taking shape and specters edged me on. I was standing in the water and finally I found the courage to grab the brass inlet handles and gave it a good turn. The water on the floor turned red. The vibration of the room were humming and felt of cold and sadness. I open the door and the darkness went away. Floating like an angel in white and flowers in about her face and interlocked with her hair. The waters suspended over her and she floated in the deep with the look of peace and a haunting angelic apparition. I dashed into the water and tried to retrieve her lifeless body. She vanished and I was in her place trapped in the water. The water formed to blood all around me and I had a horrible feeling I wasn't alone. I slowly turned and noticed a huge snake hovering over my helpless body. It breathed out fumes of a familiar scent. It was the opium snake I talked about so many times in my thoughts. Its skin was red and the impression and reliefs lost, souls trying to break free from its scales that held them at bay. I saw faces I knew. Now the snake had broken free of is smoke like from and manifested itself and was alive and breathing, hissing and calling my name. I looked into its eyes and felt the hypnotic trance it had on me in the opium dens of Paris. It spoke,

”Robert, come to me. Come here and be with me.” It hissed a low and deceiving gentle tone.

” I want you here. I need you here.” I remembered those words at that moment the words of Camille beaconing me to the pipe once more out of pity and loneliness. I tried to get away, but I couldn’t move and I was in the water like Camille and the snake pulled back and struck me several times. It released it potent drug into me body numbing my senses as I helplessly sank to the bottom of the tub. I awoke!

I sat up trying to catch my breath and a familiar hand was touching me and that familiar voice comforted me it was my Tigress. “My Tauney had a nightmare.” I leaned back so thankful this whole affair with Emma was over. My falling down the stairs was all a horrible dream. Brought about by my subconscious. I leaned back and felt her breast against my arm. She was cold and wet now and water was pouring from the bed. She was holding me tighter and tighter and then whispered in my ear. “Si notre amour est réel que la vérité va trouver un moyennce!” If our love is real than truth will find a way!

“ I'm sorry, my Tauney!” I woke up breathing and panting for air and my body was covered In sweat. Looking around the room and hearing the familiar clock ticking and churning to one and chiming out its ominous tune as usual. I got a glass of water and peered into the mirror. Camille had change me, Paris had changed me. I wasn’t the same man anymore. This whole damn affaire had twisted me like one of Picasso’s pictures. I also knew Camille wasn't safe. I had to find her soon.

The next day I awoke and looked at my watch, it was Sunday. I waved everything off as bad dream. I stopped at a café. Jean was there. He waved me down.

“Just the man I wanted to see! Your Camille has the letter I set it beneath her door.” He added, “the maid told me she always slides important parcels under the door.” I bought Jean a glass of wine and drank almost the whole bottle. I hadn't had a flavor upon my lips except tea for a good two weeks now. I was free of the thorn for today looking at prospects for a better future. Jean broke some bread off and dipped it into his glass.

“So you will marry her then?”

I thought about and pictured us together maybe even in America with my son and more children.

“ Yeah, I think so.”

“If she'll have me.” After all she would be a good a loyal woman and I would be willing to give up the rest of the female race for her.”

”Yeah, it would be nice” Jean raised his glass

“Well here is to the bride and groom. Mazel Tov!”

I bid my farewells and hurried to my new bride. Many things went through my mind. Like telling Angelina she would have to find lodging elsewhere and I would help her find work if needed. What would I tell Emma? I had my son’s image on my conscious ever since she arrived. I thought and was more determined than ever. After all she lied about me asking to marry her and who knows what else she is lying about. I bit my lip and increased pressure. She lied to protect herself and child. Emma was in fact so delusional she believed we were engaged. My pace quickened and mind was focused only on Camille. Then I thought of Alice, and I stopped and looked as if I was a madman the street acting out a scene when there I was no stage and no actors and the audience was Paris. Ok. So I thought to myself, the whole notion of soul mates was all in my head. There is no way I've known this woman in a past life. This woman I met her and seen only a few times in passing. Then I thought of what the mystic told, me. Really? Robert, I thought laughing to myself. Other lifetimes and soul mates. I blew off all the prospects of Alice and headed towards my studio. Along the way, I bought a big bouquet of Lilies, the largest I could find. I arrived and one of the innkeppers met me in the hall. She was dressed in black and had a sad mournful look on her face. I spoke in French, “I'm sorry for your loss.” She looked and said

“She passed before her time was upon this cursed earth. She drowned!”

I waited, and she told me she drowned while swimming up north and they had the funeral outside of Paris. Turned to walk away and letting out a sigh of relief. I sat in my chair and waited. I lit a cigarette and lightly sketched the outlines of her face from memory. I looked up at the clock. It was 12:30. I figured something was keeping her, and she was always running late like that. One o'clock and still no sign or word. I opened my window in hopes of seeing her walking up from the street. Two o'clock a man was running up the tilted streets, I recognized him. It was Jean.

“ Thank god I found you! Quickly, there's been an accident at Camille’s, hurry!”

My heart was pounding and with each step, my worries pace-end. I met up, with Jean he had hailed a cab and we headed towards Camille’s apartment. We arrived and the police were there. Seeing them sent panic all through my inner core. I felt as if the air was forced out of me. We headed up the stairs, a man with a trench coat and hat blocked my entrance.

“That's my Fiancée in there!” There was no translation needed for those words. There were a few police officers on the stairs and a man standing in front of the door. He was blocking People from coming in. Each step made my heart pound even more. I tried to pass him he held me back.

“ No! Please let me in. That's my girlfriend in there!”

I was so panicked my mind couldn't translate any language at the time. He opens the door and said,

“I’m very sorry monsiure.”

She was on the bed, her body in white clothes and her skin looked pale. Her mouth was slightly open and her face was like a ghostly angel frozen for all time. I jumped onto the bed and screamed!

“In Gods mercy no! No! No’ not my Tigress No!”

I held her lifeless form and like the dream, the bed with water and her breast against my arm. I kissed her and was pulled away by Jean and the authorities. I sat in the satin chair, crying and wailing like the lion in my dream. After several minutes, I got composure of myself and stood and turned around. Her body now covered and gone forever. I looked on her dresser and saw the letter like in my dream unopened and crisp and unread. I looked in the bathroom and saw the snake; her red opium pipe and water on the floor and flowers in the tub. She was now my Ophelia and her haunting memory I wake to see sometimes even to this day. Seeing her floating in the water. Every detail frozen in my mind. If only I listened to my omens and ran to her arms. Pomp and circumstance and reason.

“Damn reason to hell!”

I had only chance and God presented it with a terrifying mask of fear. If only I took those precious moments and removed the cloak finding only the fear. A harmless creature that stands behind symbols. And thereby becomes a terrifying form. The fates tried to prevent the events from occurring.

A few days later, the funeral took place. Only a handful of people showed and this silver screen actress ended her life in emery coincidence like her character on screen. The only thing by her side at the end was a red pipe and flowers. The police were not ruling any suspicions or suicide. The Inspector would contact me and get any information the helped the investigation. He gave me a concerning tone before leaving the room. “Monsuire, make sure you stay in Paris until the police figure this out.” He then stared into my eyes for a second, almost looking for a sign of any deception. Then he put his hand on my shoulder and walked out the room. I made all the arrangements for her burial. Finally, I could face death and attend her funeral. I owed it to her. She was to have hopefully been my wife. I felt guilt suddenly of not going to the other funerals in my life. Missing my mother’s and other people dear to me. I will not paint a picture for you of that day. That is a place for the griever and comforter.

The jungles of Paris lost its tiger fallen by the serpent and I will always miss her. She was my confidant, my friend, my lover, and my Tigress.

Chapter 11

Emma's Trial

The fumes from my cigar wafted throughout the studio. I had my favorite wine and flowers. Beatrice was the model and I'm sure each puff nauseated her a bit more each time. She was petite and had tan skin. I walk over and smelled her. Then putting her back in position, I proceed to adjust my light and sit there waiting for the muse that left me when Camille left this world. I drank more and became angrier. I set the wine down and saw the end of the bottle while looking at the model. “How fucking poetic!” I murmured . The Hell with them all! I put the first few slashes of paint down. Each time I touched the canvas, I was reminded of the tub and floating Camille. I took another big gulp. Demons of ego finally got a hold of me. Taunting me and telling I'm worthless. A hack! A has been! I was gettimg more and more agrivated. And finally the imaging and the ego got the best of me. It won. I threw the bottle and it smashed into wall on the other side of the room. The model jump up out of fear. I threw my canvas and breathed in more of the misery I’d been subjecting myself too. Beatrice was dressed when I came to my senses. I looked at her and handed her money. I had a pleading look to my face. “I don't know what came over me. Pardon Moi.” She saw she was safe and moved towards me. “Ses monsieur ok nombreux peintres font la même chose im habituer. jusqu'à la semaine prochaine . Au Revoir.” Basically telling me all the painters had tantrums at times. I opened the shutters and saw the town was alive and moving like blood in my veins. Keeping her royal Majesty, Paris, well and fed. I started to know Paris better she was proper and good to her citizens, but at night she whored herself to drunken stupors and Harlots and laid with a snake. This town had been eaten its charms corrupting the city. Cocaine like snow falling on here streets. Absinthe replaced her rivers and flesh became her clubs and cafés. I opened the shutters and screamed to inhabitants below. “Take me you wretched snake! Take me I'm yours! Do what you will with me!”

My loss become my all and the things I swore off to Camille were becoming my close friends. Camille was right all along, she did the best she could. Pain gave her the only remedy; escape. I was running from Summer-Brook. Now I was running from my pain and I was angry that Gertrude Stein pegged me perfectly at our first meeting, and her words came to fruition. “Fuck omens, fuck the fates.” I went to the dos maggots and drank some Per-Don absinthe. I poured the green liquid over my green sugar cube in the wide rim glass and let it dissolve in the liquid. I stirred the witch’s brew and swallowed it down. Then I drank some more and then another. I was so upset and hated my life and the vacancy and void now apparent. I ordered another. I was in the chair for hours and the Jazz started playing and I was buzzing and things became two and then one again. I walked over to the bar and cursed Paris and the whores and even the opium. I was thrown out. I went to make peace with the opium snake. She wanted me and I was ready to go to Camille. The Chinese gentleman opened the door and I leered and he took me in. I was around a different lot a night and woman of the night and other bottom feeding creatures. The Chinese gentleman asked if I needed company. I nodded and he brought the tray to me and I leaned over and inhaled as hard as I could.

The pain left and a beautiful woman was taking money from me and I fell back with her and I heard that bastard laughing at me. I passed out.

I remember stumbling out a few hours later and woke up sleeping on a marble slab. Fresh flowers, I smelled fresh flowers and the sun peaking over the rooftops. I felt for my billfold and found only empty pockets and a buzzing in my head. The cold stone slab felt good and comforting on my face body. I rolled over and look it up in the sky. The sun was almost overhead. I got my bearings. The stone was fresh and no dirt had accumulated on it. I slowly pulled myself up and noticed the name on the slab. Camille Bastien. I wept and mourned for an hour or so. I must of stumbled out of the bar, that night looking for comfort and the only place I could find it was there at her grave sight. I dried my eyes, sat up, and thanked her for her comfort and safety. I could have been beaten or even worse.

I walked for at least thirty minutes until I reached my flat and dragged myself up the stairs. Cedric ,my son ,was playing in the middle of the floor. Emma was at the desk reporting to my uncle as a good spy should report to her master. She turned to me

“Damnit Robert! Where have you been? You haven't been home for days! Robert! I demand an answer this instant. Don't ignore me Robert! Out with one of your friends whoring around again?” She walked over to me.

“You wreak of wine and filth.”

I took my shoes off and climbed into bed. Covering my head to drown out the nagging and annoying sound coming from across the room. Then that prickly thorn said something that lit a spark into me and made me clear headed and focused again. Under her breath she said,

“Well at least that French whore actress is out of ours lives for good.” I threw the pillow to the side of the room. Mentally, I remembered while in a state of agony unable to move or speak, Emma threatening Camille outside the closed door. I saw a chain of events open up before me. Emma drowned Camille. I shot up from the bed and grabbed her by the throat and threw on to the bed. Cedric was crying and Emma was first in shock, and then in tears. I held her down shaking her.

“ You, dirty, lying, little conniving, bitch! Tell me, what was it like taking the life of a precious woman? A woman I loved and cared for and shared my bed with?” Emma was screaming now and sobbing.

“How did it feel drowning her, holding her down, and sucking the life out of her body? You’re a scornful thorn in my side. You’re a menace to my life and curse to all things artistic! The only reason I allow you here is because of my son. Answerme God Dammit! Why did you kill my Camille?”

I grabbed her and filled the sink up and put her face to the bowl in front of me. Emma screamed, “Robert! Have you lost your mind? I swear in God’s name I didn't kill her, I swear! Please Robert don't!” She was shrieking and crying.

“I'm sorry Robert! God I'm so sorry.” I hovered over her. She kept shrieking and whaling, heaving with her breath and huffing out half sentences. I threw her to the bed. She hid her face while crying uncontrollably. Then screamed.

“I'm sorry Robert, Cedric is not your son!” I backed off and held Cedric trying to calm him down and myself from killing her. I have to admit it would have felt good drowning her, but things went too far and she pushed me over the edge.

“Robert what was I to do? I had nowhere else to go. People talk in our small town. And with an illegitimate son, I would be labeled a tramp!” She was letting out moans and using the blanket as a wipe. “ After you left, I met a young man who worked Summers in Summer-Brooke and traveled to another town in Spring-“ I stopped her as said, “The Mill?” She nodded. She blew her nose and contemplated her next words and then continued.

“You were off to teaching and you left me in that God forsaken town Robert. You left me! How could you do that to me? I felt abandoned and left behind. “Thomas was caring and helped me in so many ways. We made love before he left and he promised to return and he vanished in thin air on me like all men in my life. Like you did, Robert.”

“My Uncle?” She nodded, “I was pregnant, I had nowhere else to go! He took me in. As I was closer to giving birth, he told people that you were my husband and coming to bring me to Paris.” She started crying and hiding her face and her hands gripped the fabric of the sheets.

“Your Uncle told me you were never to know, ever!” She cleaned up her face and was at the edge of the bed. She paused and looked at the wall in a dead stare. “I found Camille’s address form your bill fold and proceeded to go to her apartment. The door must have been left open from the maid earlier that day. I swear in heavens name; I went there only to scare her from not coming back in our new life we had.” I looked at her and I saw she was not all there mentally.

“ I swear Robert. She was in the bathroom and the door was shut. I shut her flat of her door Cedric was with me: I found a brown envelope address to her, slipped it under the door. I picked it up and opened it. It was from Jean telling her to meet you at 12:00 pm. I was distraught and confused and so I place the letter where she wouldn't see it. God! Robert I had no idea she was going to kill herself I swear!” She started crying again. “I heard the water running and smelled something burning and then I heard her saying your name and the sound of water splashing out of the tub. I grabbed Cedric and we left.” I ran to her and got in her face screaming.

“Enough! You could have saved her! You could have opened that door and told her the truth! “

“You could have… helped kill her and pay dearly for this, mark my words!” I started crying,“so close, for two lovers to unite yet so near for it all to fall apart.”

I gathered my things and tossed 100 dollars on the bed.

“I will care for the child financially until the time he is able to care for himself. As for you, you have until next week to pack your bags and sail out on the next boat to America or I'll tell your little story to the French police.”

I walked over to Cedric and hugged him and kissed his forehead and left. I never saw him or Emma again.

Chapter 12

The Queen of Montparnasse

The cafes in Spring rich with floral blossoms, falling from tress that sprinkled their essence on the ground as though pedals of color were falling, from the pockets of the painters of Paris. Closerie des Lilies was my home and huddle now. I felt like this was the churning spot of ideas and Paris was the new Renaissance. Modigliani being Raphael Sanzio and Picasso being Michelangelo. Now, men like Miro, Leger, Rivera, and Rosseau were regulars and it was delightful to peak over these giants of men's shoulders to see what was brewing in their minds. These mortal men carried with immortal ideals. The rivalry was as strong as the community of brotherly love and acceptance. Fights over art was a normal scene. Arguments over form and function. Dadaism verses new bold modern art of Miro and the road to new ways of seeing was all the norm. Especially at night when the mothers milk of Montparnasse was being consumed, Absinthe.

A man came running in the Café and people all gathered around him. “Erik Satie Is dead!” The place became quiet. Then people were morning and crying for such a man of eccentric intellect. A gentleman went to the piano and played his compositions. I toasted the air and bid him farewell. Then a voice I haven't heard for some time was behind me. I turned and Alice was standing over me. “We will miss him, he was truly a wonderful, creative, and lively spirit who humbly lit up any café or atmosphere he entered into.” she paused and looked into my saddened eyes, “I heard about your lover, I'm sorry for you.” I was speechless she took my hat off and straighten my tie. “ You look very bad Robert.” I nodded, I haven't seen this woman in a year and it was if time stood still and my feeling for her came back in an instant. Looking in her eyes, I could see forever and they had a familiar depth to them. As if I had swam in her ocular oceans before and there was happiness and sadness there as well. I felt her pain and longing for something Paris could not offer the both of us. It was beyond words and enhanced my feeling ten fold. I answered, “I've had a bad run of Paris.” She put my hat back on my head and went to her friends and then returned. “We are going to meet tonight at Le Select, you should come. You will feel like a new man.” I knew she was with the photographer Man-Ray for many years, but I just had to be near her. The connection was so strong and apparent for me. It was Taboo. A game of chess and she was soon to be crowned Queen and the rest of us her Pawns. She was the Queen of Montparasnee.

“What are you writing may I ask?” She looked over my shoulder, but more in front of me.

“Just words, with no real meaning.”

I was a painter, not a writer like Hemingway over there crouched in his corner booth sipping on Jameson. Gertrude introduced us a few months back he's a down to earth man with a fire in his heart to write the truth. I thought of him as a lion literally. I look at her and smiled. A beaten down smile as if One were saying, (I'm still kicking and breathing).

“ Yes I will be there,” she said in coy fashion.

“ I'm performing, but will be done around 10:00.” She leaned down to my ear and said, “it's time for you to live again Robert. “Vous êtes toujours là,” she smiled and backed away as cherry blossoms fell from the trees forming a halo around her dark silken hair.

“ Avioure, Robert Tauney.”

She turned and was talking with the other people and blended into the crowd. I found it the perfect time to make my exit and with a new renewed hope and newfound energy I walked to my studio and whistling and humming. I was being reborn before my very eyes. I was almost up the stairs and smelled a scent that was familiar and alluring. I opened the door. The long brown hair and bronzed skin it was Angelina. Its been a year and she showed up on my doorstep almost as if the Gods continued the game they’d left off playing a year ago. Her French was much better and she spoke more fluently than our first meeting.

“Hello Robert, I hope you not mind, Hotel clerk let me in.” I was stunned at first, but then gave her a proper French welcome and set food and wine down for her. She was evicted and had no where else to go. She told me that she heard from Jean and Picasso. I had been badly injured and came to check up on me. Emma gave her the same warm welcome as she did Camille. She looked lovely and smelled of lilacs and apples. She bit into the cheese triggering memories of her modeling in my studio and our making love. She was no longer the forbidden fruit and in time she might welcome me to taste of her again. We chatted in French for hours. Drinking and smoking. Her language skills brought about a sense of a woman with a character and humor I never knew. I offered for her to stay, not at the studio, but my apartment located a few minutes away. I grabbed her luggage and led her to my humble abode. I couldn’t handle the thought of having Angelina on the streets. Prostitution was common for those in desperate situations offering lodging and food to their victims. She went to making a home and back to her normal happy humming and as I left I could hear her sobbing and crying. Either from happiness or her sheer bad luck, who really knows. I walked down the stairs thinking of Le Select and of course, Alice.

My life was being renewed with new hope and love again and my thoughts strived to regain their once lofty visions that brought me to the great city. I was finding myself writing small notes and lyrical poems to keep my mood. Sometimes I would revert and write lines like these below.

April 27,

I came to France to find myself and to truly breathe. Paris is like a dominant woman. She gives her muses to artists seeking her inspiration, but the price was high and she always comes to collect on her debt. I found myself, within time with a collar around my neck and her leading me through the streets occasionally feeding me table scraps of inspiration. Leading me along, like her dog. I loved Paris in the Spring. I found myself writing of her and I. The plays and dramas that unfolded before-us on the daily streets of the shops and café’s and river that adorned her city.”

Robert Tauney

I started writing just to write and was writing to heal and I wrote to relieve the pain. My pen was like my brush and my paper, the canvas. Each scene I described became portraits in actions. Words became archetypes that form foundations to build structures upon. I was writing poetry and using the advice of Ernest Hemingway’s. Ideas of each page is like a sketch. The pages became as real as any painting. Symbology becoming color and metaphor the form and the verb line. My words on the page were opening slowly the world of the substance of clarity and coherence. I hadn't written anything for a decade and it as if one opened the floodgates and the words like a deluge came upon my soul. I was becoming happy again and the chain that bound me to Camille’s tomb had let me free. Once a mind confined to a room, a chair, and a tub. Now found myself among flowers, birds, and light that gave way to streets and cafes and people with content and happy faces. Truly the scales of discontent were pealed away and I was restored and made a new.

A Love Unrequited

I walked a along the left bank and the book sellers and flower mongers and peddlers were going about the daily affairs and managing there post awaiting dusk to arrive. Magazine booths were all over Paris. One could find a number of and newspapers and magazine, Le temps, Time magazine, Readers Digest and Godey’s Lady’s Book all for a drop of a nickel. I stopped and browsed the current selection. A gentleman was acting much as I was curious about newest magazines. He said with a regal sort of pride. “Now you see that is art in action. I looked in his direction and saw the advertisement. There was a man holding a bag of flour and smiling pointing to the bag. “The words flour de Lilies”. He was awaiting a response as if he had some personal investment in it. I grabbed the ad and looked over it.

“ First off, the composition is unbalance and the color is off. You need something bold and colorful and tribute to France and fine art. This is dribble.” I turned to walk away and he stopped me.

“You can do better Monsieur?” I took a piece of paper from my pocket and drew a woman carrying lilies and put the flour company's name in the upper middle and in bold letters. “Here this is what you want!” I gave him the paper and proceeded to make my exit. He stopped me again.

“Here is my information drop by my office and we'll talk.” He gave me the paper back then tipped his hat and walked away feeding the pigeons and enjoying his evening as the rest of the city was seeming to do.

I checked my watched and looked up at the new lit city. Like a host of fire flies hovering and glowing off and on. The thought of Van Gogh’s Starry night. Which seem to impose itself upon the city, like the universe in the distance of bright, glowing planets and constellations with buildings in between them and people moved out an about in a heavenly play and an audience much larger than ourselves. Laughing out loud and said,

“ I forgive mon Paris, Je suis pardon moi.”I finally came to a truce between the sovereign lady of France, Camille, and most importantly, myself.

Changed and dressed and ready for and evening on the town. I felt 25 again and returning to the vigor of my once, vibrant youth. Now recharged with future promise of work in art advertisement. At least the gentleman seem to liked my ideas or was so offended he’ll have his goons waiting for me when arriving tomorrow.

I decided to walk and enjoy the night. My Van Gogh mental masterpiece was still fresh at the edge of my mind. Paris was lit up with signs and billboards. Unicorns and bottles of champagne tipped over and lighted legs lifted and lowered. Running streaming red, blue, and yellow blinded the senses. The Arc de Triumph from the top. Explosions of light and displays the eyes became slightly overwhelmed. Literally everything, literally everything. This was a glorified French rendition of forty second street . Then the lights would repeat the whole scene of again like a skipping record. I saw LE Rotunda, on the right side bank on the seine. Limos and crisp suits, perfumed frocks with furs, pearls, and curls. I passed the entrance with what looked like a pack of jackals performing on a deep red carpet leading to the entrance way. Two large lamps shot their glaring beam into the air of above. This was the place to be seen and to others to take note. There was a bit of arrogance in the air as I passed by the feeling of racing jackals trying to out do one another. The end result both ending up in a ditch, drunk, and delusional winding up in a French café planning for their criminal acts for the next night. There were two worlds for the cafes. During the day, lunch and wine crowds of people on the side walk sitting and talking. At night these cafés turned into virtual nightclubs and the best jazzbands could be heard.

Paris offered Black jazz bands, le Hot Jazz. Black men could come with a trade and be rewarded for it . Without the fear of reprisal of attack or the prejudice and the men who carry the brand of hypocrite upon them. For a moment in time, peace in their turbulent life was given even just for a night in Gay Paris. A few blocks down the road was Le select . It was the club that Kiki and her compatriots would frequent. The same fan fare as le select and le berges. Le Rotunda and Le dome . This town was at first like Starry Night imposed upon a city. It became a like an wild orgy of light and decadent trimming of color dripped from the street lamps and auras shimmering around all the city lights. The natives were coming out to worship the pagan God Bacchus once more. Leaving there offerings of vermouth, brandy, and champagne in the Temple were jazz blared and never seemed to cease; Jazz was the a like a lion roaring in the Garden of delights. In return, The bacchanalian spirit would come upon them and grant them the blithe-rated bliss and wild fortification they sought after. I waited in line and it seemed as if I was the only one just by myself. Everyone traveled in large groups. Everyone and everything was a statement of pure Rococo. I smelled the woman in front of me and took in her scent. Savoring glimpses of her white porcelain skin. A man passed me a bottle of champagne.

“Is this your first Rodeo at La Select? Never seen coloreds play before accept in New Orleans, should be interesting.” I took the champagne and drank some nodding at the gentleman . He hollered a very American, “Whoopee! Girls is this it?”

“ Robert Tauney I've Been in Montparnasee for three years now.” They both where hotsie totsie blonds with thin penciled in brows that made perfect curves and gave them a pleasant happiness about them.

“ I'm Thelma Blackwood and this is my cousin, Claudete Templeton”

“Not the Templetons of Templeton and Schuster?”

She looked surprised and then her eyes slightly turned on to me. “Well that's not me, that’s my father. Patsey we got us an American gentlemen.” From their voices I would say they were from the eastern coast, maybe New Jersey area.

“Patsey Dasdale at your service”. This guy, I heard about. He made more money on the stock market in one year than most people made in their lifetimes; three times over. He had dark parted hair to one side and one might mistake him for Al Capone. I read about him in Le Patriot paper. He had thick stubby fingers and he smoked an obnoxious smelling cigar. He was carrying a rattle and when he shook his hand it would go round and round annoying everyone around him. He was just like a big cigar smoking, champagne drinking child. The matradee signaled and let Patsey in. he girls trailed in behind them. They looked at him and he looked at me and waved his hand to come in past the crowd. I followed. I was hanging with elite now and I figured I would ride on their coat tails for while before meeting Kiki. They signaled me to the bar. “ Robert I have some business to attend to. Keep my cousins happy,ok chum?” Then he told the bar tenders.

“Anything they want on my tab.” He winked and pointed his fingers at me, smiled, and puffed his cigar. He met a few gentleman and they all walked through some large wooden doors. “Martinis all around,” she yelled and streamers were thrown into the air and pops of champagne bottles could be heard like gun fire throughout the now crowded club. The bartender tapped the bar with his glass like a well time dance all four, then five were making a sort of tribal dance with

martini shakers. Like they had practiced or performed so many times it was as natural as breathing to them. The girls were clapping and cheering. Boom pa boom pa… Duda la Dee da, was playing and everyone was heading to the floor grabbing their partner. Claudet handed me my drink. “So, this place is having a Bastille party…”

“ When?” I asked as I tipped my cigarette in the ash tray and toasted the ladies clinging my glass against theres. She looked at her cousin.

“ Bastille day! Oh you’re a ham, Robert.” Toasting me back and looking at each other as if they where plotting something.

“ It's a Congo theme. Oh Robert, say you'll come. Me and my cousin just arrived a few weeks ago and you’re the first ex patriot we’ve met.”

“ It's Tauney ladies, you can call me Tauney. I'm touched by that, but why may I ask do you think I'm a ex patriot?” Claudet and her cousin toasted me and few others around them. Then a tango like song came on and the girls both squealed. They each ordered a Jameson and grabbed my hand. She was almost yelling in the crowd as we were passing through clouds of smoke in the room hovering above us. Explaining to me what the excitement was all about. Everyone seemed to know except me. We were following a line in a pass of people. People were crammed together while other were forming a line around a circle, and a girl got up on table and was dancing to the Latin tango jazzy sound coming from the orchestra.

“ Watch us zTaun.” And band hit a bum, bum, pa, sound . Someone would give the girl a drink pretty soon after a good five or so boom boom pa’s. The girl fell off the table and some young aristocrats were in charge of catching her. Claudet leaned over to me. “The whole idea is to make it through the song and not fall off the table. It's a tradition here.” We went back to the bar and Claudet pulled white powder out of her purse and with her small pinky nail, snorted the powder. She took some more and directed her finger at me.

“Do you want me to put your finger in my nose?” She laughed.

“Its coke, silly.” She then directed her finger to her cousin, who snorted it in the same fashion. And then brushed their noses off and sniffed a few times. She cheers to me and the group behind them.

“ I have plenty if you want some doll.” I remembered the snake I battled the whole a year or so ago and Camille.

“ This will do just fine,” I said while tilting my glasses up in the air and taking back my Jameson shot.

“Robert, save some of that for me” I recognized her voice and her Rhythmic mid tones. I turned and those eyes pulled me in. I smiled as the alcohol was producing a slow feeling, the room was shifting and noises were blending together forming a larger harmony within my ear. It was Alice. I kissed both of her cheeks. Not trying to be French or follow the customs, only to have a chance to touch her with my lips. It was purely selfish motivation.

“May I introduce Kiki of Montparsanee.” She did a curtsey and kissed the girls. They laughed and they offered her a drink.

“Robert, its Alice. Kiki is my stage name.”

“absinthe and you Robert, what are you having?” Smiling at me as if she knew the answer. She sat at the bar.

“ How was the show tonight?”

She sighed and put her long holder to her mouth and gave me the signal to light it.

“I just finished a set an hour ago, but Robert, I looked for you and did not see you ”

“I ran into some upper crust and they took me in.”

She looked over and they both were like lionesses striking posses and giving their best Louise Brooks imitation holding their cig holder between their fingers. The holders hung down at a precise angle that gave them the look they were going for. When I looked at them they both gave off a laughing smile.

“Oh, I see, well how you say in English, cheers!”

I was getting some skill at drinking the wormwood and not being swayed so easily by its charms. I had built a tolerance.

One girl look interested. “What’s this wonderful brew?” Her eyes were getting wider. Me and Alice laughed. She said something in French to me and we laughed. I leaned in because of the loud music and translated for them.

“ She said this is not something for American girls of your caliber, stick to your liquor. “ They gave fake smiles and held my place at the bar.

I looked into her eyes and started to tear up. I couldn't take it anymore. I had to know; I had to open Pandora's box that once the soothsayer spoke of to me and Camille.

I took her empty glass and put it in the bar. I touched her arm.

“ Alice, do you believe...I mean do think its possible to meet some the first time and feel you've known them forever?”

“Please tell me when I see you, it's like my world is being shifted; every once of it, into your eyes. It's like I've known you even though we only met briefly.” The two girls faded from my view.

“Yes my dear Robert, I feel the same. Maybe in another time and place, but I have a lover and he is good to me and I him.” I felt her hands in mine. “So tell me why I feel like you’re in my heart and the sadness I feel when we walk away from each other. Do you feel that with your photographer? Just answer me, Alice.” I had tightened my grip and realized letting go.

“Robert, you’re making me uncomfortable!”

“ Then tell me you do not feel one ounce of love for me. Tell me you don't think about the pull to each other as we speak now?” I looked into her eyes and was if I was being drawn closer and closer to her face.

“Yes my darling, I feel it. I don't know you, but I've found myself being pulled to you. Is that what you want to hear, Robert?” Her face softened and she was slowly closing her eyes and coming closer to me.

An American’s voice pulled me out of our natural decent towards one another.

“How are my little cousins doing?” She backed away and forced her eyes from me and walked off. I smelled his obnoxious cigar and prepared for the rattling to occur behind me, but did not hear anything.

“Lets get a table”, and he summoned a garçon. I interrupted him telling the waiter in French.

“Une table pour trois près de la ochestra s'il vous plaît . He nodded at me and puffed. I figured if we were by the band I wouldn't have to hear him. And then I could just nod, yes, when he spoke.

A few hours passed and three bottles became empty. Claudet and I danced many times and over a stretch of time as if looking at my watch; and each number contained a picture or a film upon each hour. One would see well-dressed men and woman with honed social skill sets parading around. Then my watch would reveal a slow venom of deprevidy, frivolity,denial, and the deep need for escape setting in. The sheer contrast was funny and I starting laughing. Claudet had reached in her purse about five other times and that with her drinking was becoming loud and obnoxious like her little pug of a cousin sitting next to me. I got up and tried leaving and to make my escape.

“Well I'll be right back.” Making my exit. Pushing through the crowd. A lady was walking around half naked and poured champagne on her dress and hysterically started laughing. It was a streamer and popping of bottles and a woman standing on table toasting to their new wealth. Many people laughing and clicking of China became and overwhelming mess; a cornucopia of lust and decadence.

I found Alice and her group. She looked at me and waved a big hello She was plastered and came up to me hanging all over me. “Robert, my friend, we have looked all over for you. Come with us now.” She said in a slightly loosed tongued phrasing.

“Hold on missy, he’s coming with me.” I felt someone pulling me away.

Kiki grabbed Man Ray’s arm and said, “fine, fine take him.” she came up to me and gave me that look again.

“ Have fun Robert with your baronesses, I see they have plans for you.”

“ I will be la dome till morning, my dear, we should talk about tonight.” She kissed me on the cheek and everyone else in the group gave that nod of, “nice to see you.” She added

“A girl knows these type of things, Robert.”

“Enjoy them.“

She smiled and they were off. She was hugging people and waving good-bye. Everyone loved her and her entourage followed her. I felt a warm hand pull me again and take me to the dance floor.

“ I was looking for you, mister,” pointing at me and grabbing my tie taking me to the dance floor. She put my hands on her tight, firm ass. Dancing with me and laughing and working her eyes. She motioned and her cousin came up to dance and joined in our movements. They looked at each other, kissed, and laughed.

She licked my ear and said, “you didn't really think she was my cousin, did you? “I smiled.

“ I really don't care. I don't care about anything right now.“

“ Whoopee!” Screamed the obnoxious, cigar smoking child.

I felt myself being pulled in by the succulent, decadence dance around me. Backing away from the three, Camille was like my imaginary patron saint in spirit. Trying to right her wrongs nudging me away from temptation by symbolically giving images of our being together. Maybe more a ghost than a saint.

“ Ladies goodnight”, pulling off a gentleman’s bow Claudete moaned and put her hands cupped between her knees and slightly bent over.

“At least let my driver take you home.” She walked me out, kissed her friend, and signaled her driver. We waited a few moments for the car in front of him to pull away. He pulled up and the driver opened the door. We both stumbled out to her car. She stepped in and I followed. Her leg was exposed and I could see the space between her frock and her knee-high stocking. She took a mirror and gazed into it looking and primping herself. She was a confident cutie and by the look of things, Daddy got her everything she wanted and the rest she wanted she’d figured out for herself. I climb into to her 1924 Heine-Veloxe. Chrome filled and gold around the rim of every important and unimportant part as well. I fell into the cherry colored leather seat. Her driver waited for instructions. She took out a cigarette and held it to her lips. I was playing with my lighter; a nasty habit of mine and proceeded to lite her butt. She, like a spoiled and inconsiderate woman, took in a long drag and blew out the air. Taking her time as if she owned time itself.

“I hate my life Tauney and my friends…Driver! Paris Ritz.”

She just looked out the window into Paris’ fiery glowing lights shining all around us. I saw what money did to those who had everything at the finger tips were suffering and had a mechanism for self tourtière built inside of them. That set off when their wildest fantasies were fulfilled and every desire tasted and Savoyard. I saw fear in her in the car on the ride home. It was a sobering reminder she was where she started. Just her, her thoughts, and her growing desire to be something God had intended her to be. The rich hated being alone and must of hated silence as well I pondered.

I was her distraction, her coke, and her nightly or weekly charm around her neck. I was there to kill the silence that I thought maybe haunted her and she was running from. I wasn't much different from her. I'd been running as well and never made one place a home for long. I imagined looking at image of one and not recognizing the face in the mirror, eventually it drives any one back into seeking and filling one’s deep, primal appetites from mere frustration. It was a viscous, never ending cycle. She looked over and caught her self. Realizing her entertainment of the evening was being ignored.

“You love that girl at the bar don't you? I can see it in your eyes.” Do you want her here instead of me?” Then in her liquor filled mind she changed the subject on me before I could answer.

“Well Robert, all my friends use me and if I had no money they would never know I existed. I have lots of money, gobs of it, and more from where that came from.”

“ What do you do Robert?”

“You know I'm-“

“ I like you Robert. Your Fresh and new and you wouldn't judge me Robert would you? I mean if you just met me and I was say, shining the brass in the lobby of the hotel Ritz, you would say hi. Right?”

Finally she waited for a response. “ I mean you’re a pretty girl and well… You have some sense about you…”

She left me with not much to say. Choosing my words carefully not trying to mention any aspect of money in the conversation was very difficult. I thumbed my cigarette and threw it on the street as we moved steadily through the the Latin Quarter and a few minutes later passed Montmartre. I had a feeling this was a usual game since she arrived two weeks ago. Her driver was following his standard routine. I tapped the window of the 12 volt sweet humming vehicle.

“ 12 Delumar street,” she nodded and he changed direction. She stopped me from talking again.

“How about one of those nice, small café’s just us, sitting and have a wonderful conversation? Your choice.”

“It's late; I had a lovely time. Tell your … Well, your friends maybe a coffee sometime. My treat” She looked at me and raised her skirt so I might see the goods of fruitful divination. I Smiled and gently put my hand on hers and lowered her skirt then lightly patted her leg. “Good night Claudet,” as we made our final turn, she puffed on her cigarette and didn't look at me. I wasn't going to put her in the position of making her get her way. Which would have lead to her feeling used. Well, she had some issues and I wasn't going to be the one waking up next to her in the morning. Being privy to watching the whole sequence of events unfolding again. I was different now. Camille changed me. I’d finally matured.

The driver stopped I went to kiss her cheek, she pulled away steering back out the window like a child who didn't get her way. I got out of the car and watched her drive off down the streets of Montparnasse.

.

Chapter 12

The Morning Joust

The morning brought a soft breeze funneled by the city buildings, like a Siphon. Bringing a cool wash of wind through my open window and blowing against my face. The letter left for me was carried from the table and landed across my midsection. I look at the piece of paper. Angelina had written the letter in her native language. No need to translate. The meaning was clear enough.

Thanks for your kind generosity I’m living now at a friend’s place. Made your house for you. Signed, Angelina

I balled the letter up and threw it against the walls of my apartment. She was stubborn as ever. If she wasn't careful, she would end in the sweat heaving brothels of the underworld of pornography and prostitution. I would have to ask around keep my eyes open for her or find a way to send her assistance. I looked up at the ceiling and took a deep breath to clear my thoughts. I got dressed and took a long look in the mirror. Mirrors, how many times in this life will a man really look at himself good and long and ponder his own existence? I was out the door headed for the studio and the golden opportunity for actual real paying work. I headed downstairs. The bellhop stopped me. “Monsieur il y a une voiture à moteur en dehors d'attente pour vous.” I said thanks and looked outside of my small hotel /inn, where a familiar car was waiting on the curb for me. I recognized the gold and chrome and red interior with the convertible top open for me. “Shit!” I tried lowering my hat and getting around the vehicle. A man quickly got out and opened car the door for me. “Monsieur , si vous plaît Mlle Templeton est waithing pour vous à l'hôtel Ritz Paris.” My God what in the world is...

I got in and there was champagne and a letter from Claudete.

Robert,

I was simply a fool last night, I had the liberty of having Jacque my driver wait for you, he was instructed to telephone me and let me know, when you will be here. See you soon lots to chat about.

Tah Tah,

Claudete

P.S I've seen you found the 1906 Don Parion. I hope you enjoy it.

I tapped on the window again and ask to drop by my studio so I could get some sketches and some ideas I put together for my meeting later in the afternoon. He nodded and we were on our way.

The needle in the sky told me we were at the right place. Place de vendum, a recognizable footprint in Paris’s soil. There were two large archways surrounding the entrance. Intricate Ironwork coming from both sides arriving gracefully in the middle, joined and revealing the name, Paris Ritz. I walked under the awnings and through the entrance. I was taken back by the immense size of the lobby. It's was a round shape lobby with two adjacent staircases cascading up to a rotunda then broke away from one another and met on opposite sides of the room. There was an entranceway accent table and a Louis the sixteenth vase holding luxurious flowers and sweet blossoms of various species with greenery. Which fanned out displaying beautiful reds, golds, blues, and violets. The blue and white vase set the statement of the place perfectly. If you can't afford to stay here then, we don't want you! I smiled and laughed at my humor. My eyes glanced up the tray ceilings. Then they naturally followed a path of six huge imposing Corinthian columns where the tops were guilded with gold and etched to perfection. My eyes followed the natural movement of the architecture sliding down gracefully the columns to focus on the reception desk and a few gentlemen working with customers.

“Mademoiselle, Templeton si vous plet.” He spoke English and asked me in a pinched off, deep nasal tone of voice, “and may I ask who is calling upon her?”

“Robert Tauney, she is expecting me for brunch. ”

He looked me over. I guess I was supposed to stand there and let him examine me in an interrogating fashion. As one would examine a horse. Then he rang a bell and a porter came and took me to her. She was out on the verandah and having tea with Thelma Blackwood, her estranged cousin. The porter led me across the marble pavers and the presence of the two ladies enjoying the morning Paris air. Thelma was in the process of finishing her story.

“ …everyone, darling was looking at her. She was done that I can't see bel-”

Claudet looked up and beamed with happiness.

“ Ahh, Robert Bonjour, please have a seat.” She leaned over waiting for some return of proper French etiquette.

“ Bonjour Mademoiselle, il est en effet un plaisir de vous rencontrer ici sur une belle Paris matin.” She clapped for her performing monkey and offered me a seat.

“Wonderful, what a gentleman. You remember Thelma from last night?” I wanted to say,“please continue kissing from last night while at sit here.” I resisted. I was looking around for the chubby little pug with the cigar running around the Ritz with his rattle screaming, “Whoopee!”I didn't see him either.

“ Well, we're glad you could come and join us,” Claudet said.

“Robert I felt just awful about last night, and you know I didn't sleep a wink because of it! I feel, well just dreadful.” The waiter poured my tea and I changed the subject as I was known to do from time to time.

“Oh don't even think of it. I was glad for the ride. I'm close to my destination, and the driver took me to grab a few things from my studio.” I added, “nice Fellow, the driver.”

They looked at me and tilted their heads; their fake smiles became wider at both ends.

Thelma sat her spoon down from mixing cream and sugar in her morning coffee.

“Oh! Claudet, get your pocket book out we have an American artist with us.”

Claudet stopped drinking halfway and her eyes had first the look of surprise then turned to genuine interest. Finishing her sip she lowered her cup.

“ Tauney, I knew you were hiding something from me last night.”

“well, it's fascinating meeting a real artist in France, you will have to take us to your studio, I imagine it's full of nude paintings and drawings in scandalous poses, Montparnasse area of Paris?” Thelma smiled.

“ So exciting, all those wretched starving artists and they gather like flies around the least bit of money that enters around them.”

I moved from my chair changing my posture. It was obvious Claudet saw my facial expression change. Claudet chimed in, “ I find it fascinating and I think it's a fine way to let's say, make a splash in the world.”

She put the napkin to her mouth.

“I'm sure your painting will be fascinating to view.”

“ If you excuse me, I have to powder my nose. Hold that thought; I cannot wait to hear the rest of your story, Robert.”

I arose from my chair and waited for her to leave. I sat back down and was looking at the gardens. Pristine and sculpted trees that come up like circular bulbs. A White Carrara marble statue suspended in the archway of the wall above the gardens. The creamy white flesh of the marble glistened from the morning sun. Just now peeking over the walls of the Hotel. I looked over at Thelma she was staring at me and sipping her Coffee. With a mischievous smile. I half grinned and sipped my tea back. She put her teacup on the saucer.

“ Robert, may I ask you something?”

I was finally finding the perfect opportunity to try my muffin. Then Thelma spoke to me.

“ You may like the it.”

She shifted her position and blew her smoke from the side of her mouth.

“ No, I wanted to ask you, did it please you last night, us together, kissing?”

I pretended that I wasn't playing that scene before me when I saw them this morning.

“ That, little show,” I responded.” She leaned in.

“ Yes, it was for you, Robert.”

She was leaning on her hands and looking directly into my eyes.

“ She and I have, well, an agreement.”

I crossed my legs and tilted my head.

“ What, what sort of arrangement?”

She slowly shifted her weight, extending her leg.

I felt her foot between my legs, massaging me.

“I was thinking about you last night. Robert I talked to Claudi. Oh, that's my nickname for her. She likes you.”

“I see, how may I ask, does this involve your foot playing Beethoven’s 5th symphony on my crotch?” She laughed.

“Robert not to worry. If you're concerned about losing your deep pockets, she’ll buy all your paintings from you if that's your concern.”

Thelma assumed she could buy anyone at any price.

“Hell, I will too. Claudet is very well off; she’ll never have a worry. The fact is everybody uses her in one way or the other.”

She’s used to it, trust me. She pays for everything and always has, it's just her way. Our friendship is open to everything. If you catch my drift, we share. She tastes the appetizer and then naturally lets me sink my teeth into it as well. It's what we've always done.”

Thelma was playing with a strawberry and rubbing it around her muffin slowly in circles. She bit her lip causing me to notice her vermilion red lipstick.

“I’m sure once you tried both dishes you.’ll come back to mine for seconds.” She had the timing of a cat. She put the fruit down and sipped her coffee.

“ Think about it. Room 421. Glad we could have this little chat, Robert.”

She removed her foot and presented another teasing smirk. Claudet soon came back oblivious to her friend's actions and comments. Her hands were to touching her hips then she sat down. I remembered our conversation in the car and her deep-seated fears and worries she presented to me. The artist was coming out of me. That side that awakens and like a beast strikes. Thinking nothing, of consequences or actions.

Claudet continued where she left off, nibbling on her muffin and cheese. Thelma had her eyes on me smiling as if she had her prize at hand. She was wagering that her beauty and charm would afford her a token painter to add to her memoirs and a lipstick mark on the wall above her headboard. I started to see how she constantly she took advantage of her friend's kindness and naivety. I was disgusted.

Claudet quetioned me with a sweet tone and said.

“ Robert, when are we going?”

My mind was in two places at the same time. One with toes trying to play the flute and charm the snake, and the other was trying to be civil with Claudet.

“ Go?”

She poured a bit more sugar in her tea and mixed it with a dash of milk.

“ Yes, did you forget?”

“ Your studio Robert where did your mind go off to? You’re such a ham.”

I finally remembered and played with my collar and then my sleeve.

“ Yes, it's in Montparnasse. A beautiful part of Paris. You ladies were at Select club last night.”

“ Oh, how quaint,” said Thelma

I continued.

“ Artists come from all over are the world. These men striving to be the giants of the coming century. Picasso, Miro, Chagall, and Modigliani.

Claudete clapped, “Bravo!”

“Picasso, yes my father's friend has one in his study. Cost him, 30,000 francs.”

I nodded to Claudet. Thelma put her cigarette in the ashtray and the waiter came by with mimosas. She and Claudet took one and offered me one as well.

“ Champagne for dinner, lunch, and now breakfast. What will our generation think up next?”

Thelma toasted us and her insults were becoming sharp like a dagger.

“I'm sorry,” she said, “one finds more painters in slums and depravity nowadays.” Her pink taffeta dress swaying in the breeze. I noticed the veranda now had a type of scattered lighting from the rising sun. Touching the ground in beautiful patterns. It looked as if Renior himself transported the scene onto his canvas. I saw more people were being seated around us. I could smell eggs and bacon in the distance.

A fly landed on her muffin. She watched it and the swatted it with her napkin. Then brush it off the table.

She looked as if she enjoyed every moment of the control she felt.

She leaned back in her chair.

“ There are more painters in Montparnasse than roaches in Paris. Just like that fly, they’ll all be here with their hands out wanting our patronage. Money!” she smiled at me, “isn’t that right, Robert.”

She was expecting me to go along with her and agree. Thereby playing into her arms like a puppet.

That set me off, I was livid and had absolute enough of her shit. She waited for me to cower, lowering my stature and demoralizing myself, my art,my substance as a painter. I shot back.

“Present company included?”

She leered at me, “Claudet missed our little conversation.”

Claudet perked up. Thelma’s head leaned forward. The shape of her eyes became arched and angered.

“What's that Robert? While you were powdering your nose, your friend was in the process of trying to seduce me.”

She slammed her knife down on the table.

“ Thelma was just in the process of putting her foot up my crotch and trying to play me like and instrument.”

“Why I never, ” she retorted, her face becoming flustered, “I've never been so insulted in my life!”

Her face like that of a child caught red-handed. She turned from a beautiful porcelain doll into a woman lacking in all appeal. Poor Claudet was caught in the middle of the crossfire and shocked. Thelma enraged.

“ Let me tell-“

I interrupted. “ No, let me tell you something. There are artists here, men pushing the brink of creation and on the cusp of revolutionary changes in the world of art. I eat and drink with these noble creatures. Forces that will ultimately change owhat we think of, as art. And no pompous ass child with her daddy's money is ever going to make a sizable dent in this world buying it or displaying it.”

Claudet’s eyes were wide open, and her mouth dropped slightly.

Thelma stood up throwing her napkin on the table.

“How dare you!”

I stood as well meeting her challenge.

“You rich will be simply no more than keepers and one of the many hands that pass genius’s work through time preserving it. You are unwilling slaves to your own amusement. We are mortals meant for mediocrity, but modern art is immortal, and not one Goddamn dime of yours will change that.”

I finished and set down my cane against the table. She looked like she'd had never been told that kind of thing in her life. Claudet was totally silent and looking around at the people staring at us from different tables. Then after glancing back a few times, they went back to whatever they were doing before. Like the rich do scoffing and commenting. Fuck them and their purse strings. I could hear the quintet playing Mozart in the adjacent dining area.

Thelma got up and was preparing to leave us. Then she turned and looked at the both of us and I saw her remove her metaphorical mask relieving her true nature.

“How dare you, you, you ruffian two-bit hack of painter, insult me in front of my friend like that! Claudet this is outrageous! Are you going to stand for this? He's insulting my reputation. Aren't you going to defend my honor-“

Claudet apparently was used to Thelma’s snake charming abilities, but had enough.

“ Oh, Thelma, take your medicine. You always take my men from me. You’re a friend and I love you, but you’re nothing but a floozie and a drunk.”

“Kisses darling we'll speak about this later.” I gave her a fake cordial smile.

I looked over at Claudet and grabbed her and violently took her into my arms and kissed her. A long kiss to demonstrate my defiance for her scheming friend.

“Claudet and I are spending the rest of the day together alone aren't we?” Thelma huffed off and bumped the table next to us sending the drink smashing to the floor. Claudet looked at me and was blushing and embarrassed. I let her go and all she said was, “maybe I should go back to that powder room! What happened Robert?”

“Well are we on for today?” She looked around the room and held her hat a nodded, “yes, absolutely.”

“ I’m sorry to do that to your friend. Thelma just really pulled my chords and tried manipulate me into doing her bidding and offend my trade and craft.”

Claudet backed away and crossed her hands. I could hear Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik on the piano.

“ You were a bit harsh on her. She wants what she can’t have. When we were children, I would have cake, and she would want to have mine thinking it would taste better.The grass is always greener for Thelma; it always has been for her. Listen I'll go talk to her, I'll meet you at the bar.” She put her hands on my shoulder, and I felt her move away from me, and her hand naturally slid away and back down to her side.

People were staring at me as I got up and walked through the outside veranda to the bar area. I saw a familiar face and one I haven't seen before. Hemingway was smiling at me. He raised his glass and toasted me putting his cigar in the ashtray. “cheers! We witnessed the whole thing.” I walked to the bar and sat a few chairs down from the two. Earnest scoffed,“I couldn't have done it better myself.” He paused a minute and took a sip of his Jameson.

“Oh, Tauney,” This a good friend of mine, meet F. Scott Fitzgerald.” Fitzgerald was a tall, good looking man with a gentle and genuine smile. He was dressed well and his hair parted in the middle in a most prominent fashion. It gave him a sense of regality and statement. You meet very few people in life that have a certain air about them Fitzgerald and Hemingway were out of the ordinary and colossal. The energy about them vibrated the room. A lion and stallion sitting next to each other surveying the landscape of liquor at the bar in front of them. Masters of lyric and prose. The future consummation of literature itself. I shook both of their hands. Fitzgerald gave a laughed, “ sometimes the elite need a good kick in the brazier.” I toasted them back and reached into my pocket and Gave Hemingway a piece of paper. He looked at the paper then looked at me.

“I’ve been dabbling in poetry can you look at this and give me your opinion?” Hemingway peered at the work and pondered then raising an eyebrow, “it's crap, absolute junk.”

I was shocked, but knew of his famous honest approach to writing. “Tauney, write about what you know, this is dreaming and stuff of poets that long have met death. Write your story, your truth, then it will shine above all things.” He gave the writing back and I thanked him for his honesty. He winked at me and continued his story of Spain and running from the Bulls with Don Passos.

Claudet came down and met me. I introduced the group to her. She was taken back by Fitzgerald as he was starting to move closer, Zelda walked into to the bar, and he saw her and backed down retiring to his neutral position. She was a classy looking lady with a flair for the eccentric and slightly obsessive over her husband, Scott.

I grabbed Claudet and tilted my hat to both of them and escorted her to a day out in Paris in style. Her Chauffeur,

picked us up. Claudet stayed in the car while I met with James Chapeau. Advertising company off the left bank. He liked my idea and drew up, a contract for work and illustration. I accepted his offer we shook hands and sealed the deal. I was first to submit drawings and compositions, and then my pay was 3,000 francs, 60 dollars at the time completion. I left and returned to the car with Claudet waiting for me. I surprised her by appearing in the window from the side of the motorcar.

“I got my first job in Paris. Of course, it’s under the table, but it's work!” I almost felt like acting like the pug with cigar yelling, but I refrained. Claudet smiled and put her hand out helping me retain my balance while getting in the car. I sat down and was beaming.

“Robert, I'm so happy for you, are you selling your art as well?”

That was a loaded question. Artists paint until they find a theme. They strive to build a body of work. We don't carry canvases from door to door and sell them. Art does not conform to the color scheme of you home. Or call you back to make a touch up because the buyer doesn't like something about the work. Art’s excepted in its true unadulterated form. Not be changed, fixed, or manipulated. The artist is totally accepted and given freedom to express himself without conforming to others will impose upon him. Art is about showing the extension of the artist will. Plain and simple

She was waiting for an answer. I ignored her completely.

“This will be placed on billboards all over the city.” She wouldn't stop with her inquisitive natural curiosity.

“How much will they pay you, If you don't mind me asking?” I figured the calculations in my head.

“ Three thousand francs and another when I'm finished.”

She thought for a moment then smiled as she reached into her purse.

“Here Robert, here is six thousand francs, I have more at the hotel. If you need the money Robert, I'm not offended, darling.”

I looked into her eyes and seeing genuine care for me and lack of having the knowledge of making a living. I bit my lip and took her hand and put the money back in the purse.

“ That's awfully sweet of you, but it's about the principle of the matter. I'm in no need of your money. Do you understand what I am trying to say?”

She looked up into the sky and was scanning the buildings around her. Her eyes lit up and then she got my meaning.

“You want to show that you're getting the work in Paris as an artist, but you don't need the money?” She touched my sleeve. “I think I understand Robert. You’re one odd fellow.” She had a map of Paris lying on the console of the back seat. I grabbed it and opened the map getting my bearings

“ Ok, the Tauney Tour guide of the century is underway. Folks, please keep your hands and feet in the vehicle at all times.”

She laughed and grabbed it out of my hand and put the map away. I was surprised by her actions and presented her with a look of confusion and curiosity.

“ No, I want the Paris that you see every day. Your streets, your friends, your art. Show me your Paris.”

She flattered me, but I felt like she was getting the short end of the stick.

I compromised and took her to the Musee Orse'e. She walked the halls and let me pontificate to her on all the artists and their lives, their styles, their techniques uses, and processes of painting. She took it all in, every last word. Like a starved sponge. I was walking past a Claude Monet and without thinking said, “Monet.” She looked at me.

“Why do artists just say the famous artist’s last name?

I thought about her question and responded.

“I call you Claudet, because why?” She snapped back excitingly.

“Because it's my name, silly. Because you know me now, I guess.” She was touching and playing with my jacket arm sleeve.

“Yes, we know each other, and its is the same in art. These are my brothers in the crusade of creation.” I stood up and opened my arms wide so she could see the bigger picture and my grasp symbolically taking it all in. “ The brotherhood of painters, rich poor, and dead or alive. Famous or unknown all share in the same bond. We are the co-creators that God has summoned us to do works upon this earth. An artist will have within him a deep and natural urge to create. All men and woman are equal in the eyes of Art. All have a say, and all have the God given licensee to produce and create great art. Claudete, This is my family and Monet, Renoir, Cezanne, and Degas are in essence, my brothers. Camille, Claudet, Berthe, and Morisot are my sisters, and the canvas is our home.” I finished and a man at the Monet scoffed and walked off, “that's absolute rubbish, artist!” We were laughing, and I grabbed her hand, and we ran off in another section of the museum. Her hat came off and fell to the floor. I reached down to grab it she did the same. Running into each other I gave it to her, and I held her shoulders and pulled her towards me. I brushed her cheek and kissed her. Claudet’s body went limp and she gave me control of her. It was a long passionate kiss, and my emotions invested in every moment. She made me feel like I did before the war. Innocent, I liked that about her. We separated slowly and she grabbed my hand. We walked by passing Degas, and I was secretly paying homage, but not uttering a word.

“ Robert as you know, Bastille Day is tomorrow. The Paris Ritz Hotel is having a masquerade party. I was wondering if you’d like to come?” I went to speak, and she stopped me. “On one condition.” I looked at her trying to find her angle, “umm… Ok, what's that?” She lookup and pursed her lips.

“ I want to go to your studio and I want you to paint me nude.” She had a devilish grin. “Then you have to promise me you will destroy it. I've always wanted that feeling of being painted. The catch is I'm a woman with a reputation, and I can't have anyone seeing that.” She waited.

“I don't think you realize what you're asking of me?”

“ Well, do we have a deal brother of the Brotherhood?” I sat down and thought for a minute. Claudet was like her father and had no idea. He had done well planting the seed in her, using games of leverage and opportunity.

“ Ok you got a deal” she squealed.

“But I keep the sketches?”

She extended her hand, and I wished it were her foot instead like Thelma did earlier that morning.

The Imposter

We arrived at my studio after picking up some good French wine and croissants. I led Claudet up the stairs to my studio and blocked her from entering my door. I looked at her and gazed at her pouty red lips and gray eyes.

“ I will treat you, as a common model. I will not baby you or give you sympathy, do you understand me?”

She swallowed, agreed, and nodded enjoying the pleasure of the release. I opened the door, and she walked peered in looking to hoping to find something with her eyes. I had 20 good paintings 36x24 and some I felt I hit the mark and others I didn't. Artist are very hard on themselves. I had several nudes of Angelina with simple titles. Girl lying next to flower, I had a portrait of Camille holding a Calle Lillie. I painted that from the sketch of her and I at my flat. As I showed her, I was explaining to her difficult things. Trying to put into a thesis of ideas and concepts into everyday words about painting. She looked but said nothing. She walked and paced slowly studying each one. I sat down, and she looked and touched the work. She was curious, reading things I wasn't even aware of about myself. She was totally quiet. I made as little noise as possible opening the wine pouring into glasses for each of us. My goal was to paint her and capture her essence on canvas. I think she realized the seriousness of the paintings she looked at me and removed her clothes and she transformed in front of my eyes. Claudet was now a woman and shed her old immature skin of a girl. Emerging as the glorious beautiful creature she was.

She lay down on the bed and naturally fell into a sublime position her head resting comfortably on her hand and laying to one side facing me. I placed three Calle lilies on her, and she was peering out into space. Almost a statement of her life. Maybe our lives as a human race. Searching for a sacred self. Walking next to her, I turned her face towards me. She was gazing past me and was in a perfect position to begin. I set my wine down and prepared my canvas and set it on my easel. Then with a filbert and burnt umber and burnt Siena, I began to block in the shapes. I was alive and could smell everything around me and felt as if my thoughts could penetrate through the walls of my 20x10 studio. I was one, and in the absolute moment. I felt each line. I wanted a continuous arc that accentuated the form. Simple and to the point. The arch of the breast one line, the neck the hair. Her hips were made with one arc. The most important part of catching the pose is how the lines interconnect and join. I thought of the Kanji notes from the Musee Orse'e. It was very clear and the work directed me, and I was a faithful student wanting my reward in return for my devotion. A brilliant work of art

I stepped back and shifted my vision, getting a feel of the whole figure. I saw the prominent lines and I attacked. Striking like a Japanese swordsman hitting my mark. Blood did not flow from the strikes, but her essence of her soul revealed to me. She was mine, and I owned her now completely and totally. I stood back shifting my vision again and adding color. Mixing color only until it felt right and the applied it to the canvas in blocks of form. I blocked in the hair and the hips, and breast I use a pinch of white on my skin tone loaded brush. I emphasized the lines that most apparently showed her form. When one hits the right chord in music, it fills in the rest naturally. That is how it is with painting. As I stood back, it was gracious and beautiful. Her curves and subtle shape became more realized. I was making love to her with my brushes and painted and the climax was a peek into her soul upon my woven linen. I stepped back. My senses on fire. I could hear every little thing happening both inside and outside of my four-wall studio. It was if I shifted into an omnipresent state of mind. I was truly alive and perfectly receptive. I stepped back blocking In the background and now applying paint from the tube. As if all the training the world doesn't matter anymore and one just has the feeling for the whole thing. I worked fast and tried to finish. I knew this state of mind would never last, and my thoughts would readjust. I finished the eyes just hinting at the form. I breathed in the smell of the paints and the air. The omnipresent feeling was leaving and so it faded back into my studio, with a nude woman, and a painter trying to complete a work of art.

She spoke, “why flowers on the girls Robert?” She pulled me out of my concentration.

“ Excuse me.”

I had to clear my voice, I felt altered. I looked at the time it had been two hours and like so many times while painting, I lost track of the time. Claudet was almost shaking from her pose. I stopped and told her to dress and take a break

“We’re almost done.”

I gave her wine, and we broke bread together and shared a cigarette.

“Why the flowers on me Robert?

She probed again. I've never really ever thought about it before no one ever asked.

“ It just seem to work for me.”

She leaned back in her chair. Finished her wine and resumed her pose. She was a confident, deep, and thoughtful woman. I thought of our connection. I probed into Claudet’s psyche.

“ Have you ever wondered about multiple lives?”

“Maybe you lived in a different time or place?” She looked and rolled her eyes a bit.

“Robert what are talking about?”

“Are you playing with me?”

“ Listen, I live, shop, travel, and party a little here and there who has time to think about those kinds of things?” She straightened herself.

“Speaking of, which after we burn this painting. We can discuss a proper outfit to wear for the Bastille Masquerade.”

“I'm going to talk to my father this week to front the money for your first Gallery Exhibition!” She waited and anticipated the look on my face. I didn't respond, I just looked into the blank space of my wall only hearing her say, “destroy your picture.” It was the best I had ever done, and I had to change my mind on its destiny. I turned the painting around and gazed at her. “Volla! And this will be the triumph of the whole exhibition!” She looked at it and walked up to act as if she was about to touch it, but remembered the canvas was wet. She had a tear in the side of her eye. I had caught the girl who hates the silence when the parties over. A somber girl peering out the window of her fathers’ car. I had done the one thing she did not expect. I caught a glimpse of her soul. She gave that look of ‘how could you do this to me?’ She came over to me and put her hand on my cheek starring into my eyes. I saw something there that was sad and lonely and didn't want to awaken.

“ It's absolutely me Robert, and that's the reason you are going to destroy it. Robert, you promised and gave your word.” I looked at the work and realized it was an intimate and passionate moment with the brush about to be sent to ashes. As if it became alive through my hands onto the canvas. Wanting to live.

“Let's be reasonable Claudet, please?”

I saw the bitchy rich side of her finally emerging. The side that she eventually got what she wanted at any cost. Her friend Thelma had sold her soul and wore her desires on her sleeve. I feared Claudet would soon follow the same course of action.

“I'm not having all of Paris see me in the nude!” She looked again at the work. My father would disown me. Robert…”

I was sitting down saddened by the execution order that was about to unfold. She put her hands on my back.

“Yes, it's beautiful, and the skin tones come alive with paint, but Robert I didn't bargain for this.”

She pointed at the hint of sadness in the paintings image.

“ You were supposed to make me beautiful, sexual, and playful not this.”

I snapped back feeling like I was in one of those heated discussions at the Cafes with Picasso and Modi and so many others.

“ Art tells the truth, plain and simple. There are no lies no faking.Your silver spoon set in your mouth has been stained and tarnished, it’s who you are.”

I got into her face. She saw that my eyes were passionate and honest.

“You’re beautiful, graceful, and fun. I've seen what you are and I'm not shocked or judging you,” I said.

Her eyes closed and rolled back and then rested where they began.

“Robert, I'm me, you’re talking crazy, here, have some wine.”

“You look tired,” I continued trying to get my point across to her.

“ you're like a fragile flower, you hide yourself.” Continuing,

“covering yourself with champagne and Coke. Settings upon in pearls and denial.” I used my hands to illustrate, “slowly crushing the flowers outer shell and destroying its foundation.”

She started tearing up grabbing the painting.

“You presumptuous bastard! How could you?” She was covering herself.

“How dare you judge me!”

I took it back from her, she had paint on here hands and arms. She put head down and started sobbing.

“ What did expect from me. Lies and embellishments?” I held the painting close to her now crying face.

“ Like all the wealthy before you and after.Come to have themselves glorified in the image of their own liking.” Pausing letting my point sink in.

“ And every time the artist, like a prophet, whispers in their ear what they never suspected to hear.”

I put the painting back on the easel and made her look it.

“ Look at who you are Claudete! I paint the truth! And that my dear, in facing it may set you free.”

I took a gulp of wine and sat in the other chair. Swirling the red wine glass with my wrist. Claudete dried her eyes and looked at the work. She walked to the window then turned around.

“ This is your trade and craft? To make women feel helpless at the own sight of themselves?”

She stood up and stood in front of me, making me look up into gray sad eyes.

“ How do like me now, Robert? Did I meet all your expectations?” She turned and looked out the window like in the car that night.

“Now you know the little girl whose father abused her. The little girl whose mother sent her from school to school and from country to country.” She walked over to me

Leaning over my chair and put her face close to mine.

“ The girl who in the painting had to beg for attention and pay her way into everything I ever wanted.” A stream of a tear rolled down the side of her cheek. She walked back toward the window with a blank, solum stare. “ The girl who dreamed of becoming a writer and her father laughing, saying, “Your proper place is to marry and not think of such matters.”

Her hands were stroking the window and continued.

“ The girl who found a sanctuary in hiding with booze obnoxious friends and yes, Cocaine.” Paused for a second. “Wandering aimlessly in search pleasure; the only thing that hides the pain.”

She turned and wiped her face. In the process smearing painted on her cheek then shoulders. I moved towards her and positioned myself behind her and with my cheek re-directed the viewing towards the painting.

“ Yes, That little girl is so beautiful and real. That's who you are.”

I turned her towards a cheval mirror and put my hands on hers holding the small mound of her belly.

“ Can she come out and say Hi for Robert?” She smiled a small smile and saw that I accepted her completely. She made a small crying laugh. She turned to me and I saw who she was. She let me see her true from and all of her problems, fears, and insecurities, and it was beautiful to me. She removed her clothes once more and sat in my lap. I gently kissed her cheeks and neck with a timid and a soft approach. She looked into my eyes as if saying, “do you accept me, Robert, really?” I removed her panties and picked her up. I laid her gently of the bed. She breathed out a deep long sigh. I smell her breath and the warmth of her skin was invigorating to me. She embraced me and I her and after the sheets settled and the passion had simmered down we slept until early morning.

The Naked Truth

Morning brought the birds of Monteparssee to my window. I was in the habit of laying seed and bits of bread on my ledge. Blue Tit, Starlings, and Nuthatch would greet me with song waking for a productive morning. Claudet rubbed my chest and sank into my arms.

“ Robert how simply wonderful, look at them!” They were all eating and actually behaving quite nicely. At other times the Starlings would fight off the other birds and them chase away the Nuthatchs. I would watch and think the birds comparing them to men as a human race fight and claiming our territory and we were no better. With of our technology and communication, philosophy, and even art. Like the birds, we were no better. I would laugh at the birds and enjoy them comparing them to foolish men. Such a silly race we are. I was thinking as my girl was exploring my body trying to wake dormant parts not yet rising. She achieved her goal and was kissing my neck. Singing my name in a playful manner. “Robert…?”

I smelled her hair and its waves that pressed upon my shoulder. I rubbed her shoulder.

“ I thought you would like the birds. I have names for them.” She laughed.

“ Really, tell me their names?”

“See the starling there, that's Kemi. There the large one is Fe’me, she's a Nuthtach, and …that's Roro.”

She laughed

“You’re so silly Robert. Pet birds, really!” She was continuing her playful teasing thus giving rise to new thoughts and ambitions. Claudet, in all her beauty fun playful girlish and real. Probably for the first time in her life and I was hoping she felt free and alive. She straddled me. Her small, but supple firm breasts were now suspended above me.

“Let's have a marvelous brunch.” She said smiling

“Better yet I'll sleep in and you go and get us some food and the market. Please? My Robby Roberto”

I thought, spoken like a true woman. I kissed her and she was rubbing my back.

“Now get wine, more bread , and some good cheese. Nothing too sharp. Oh, and some fruit. Maybe some apples. Thank you! Darling, hurry back.”

I finished putting my shirt and jacket on, but no tie. It was morning and I was hoping that nobody would see me. I felt naked. I headed down the stairs and heard her shut the door and say her famous,

“ Tah, Tah, darling, hurry back now.”

The markets were where one could see daily life in action. Everyone came to the market, I passed her car and the Jacque was sleeping in the back seat. Poor fellow Claudet had forgotten to tell him to go back the hotel last night. I tapped the glass and startled him. Claudet is sorry Jacques, she said “here's two francs get breakfast and some rest. I'll take her home. He nodded and rubbed his eyes and started the engine and disappeared through the tight small streets and avenues of Montparsanee. I retraced my footsteps to tell Claudet of Jacques and her forgetfulness and me giving him the day off. I said my normal good morning to the front desk. “oh monsieur un télégraphe est arrivé pour vous de Thomas Braant .”

“ merci beau coup” I grabbed the letter and was whistling and about to read its contents when I arrive to my studio and smelled something burning. I panicked trying to find my keys thinking I had left a cigarette on the counter. I burst in finding Claudet siting naked on the floor hovering over her portrait. She had poured turpentine on the face of the painting and had set the canvas a blaze. Before I could get to her the flames had eaten away the image and was melting the paint and letting off fumes and darkened and now un-recognizable. I was too late; the fire claimed it's victim and the revealed to me that the figure was just paint and the canvas was just canvas. I threw her across the room.

“ You little bitch! What in the fuck have you done. Have you gone fucking mad. ”

I tried to take a sheet and dampen out the flame. She screamed and scratched me.

“Robert! Let it burn dammit Robert let it burn!.”

She let go and was begging and pleading with me.

“ I can't look at it, you want too much from me Robert please! I beg you Robert, please!”

I let the canvas burn and took hold of the bottle and through the green glass against the wall.

“ The hell with it, Claudet! I hope you’re fucking happy now” I came at her and she covered her head. “Was this your plan the whole time? To whore out my talents getting my affections, and then use me’ like the rest of your fucking gold digging followers? I told you, art will always give you the truth and will never apologize for its truth. Never!” I screamed and was preparing to walk out as I turned and saw a group of people staring at a Claudet naked and crying on the floor with the burning painting. I felt like the small studio was crashing down on me. And Claudet's worst fears came to realization. She was back up against the wall and people we're watching her and she was in her true state of mind and the flowers had fallen from the stage resting by her side and she had paint on her hips and arms and hands. It was as if she became the very thing she burned. She had become a painting. My work was in some way metaphorically living through her. Calming the onlookers concerns as watched my work of art burn to ashes. I sat down and finished my glass of morning wine and watched the birds return to feeding. Claudet was crying and trying to muffle the sound. Hiding her face from me. The painting somehow had taken its revenge on her and she was damaged enough from the indecent. I picked her up gently and wiped off the paint from her body face and hands. “ Please forgiv-“. I held her stroking her hair. “ shhhhh.., it's ok... It's over now, I forgive you my darling.”

She sniffed and gained her composure again. “ Do you still like what you see? I mean when you look at me Robert. Am I all you expected?”

I kissed her forehead and took a long deep sigh.

“Were you expecting anything more than what art would bring to you and place before you?” She starred at me trying to coax some, emotion other than the point I was trying to get across to her.

“ I thought painting and drawing were about light and happy things and beauty and aesthetics. Not about a spirit or force that reveals who we really are. Robert its’ too much for me to take.”

I lit a cigarette and offered it to her.

“Claudet, welcome to the world of being a painter.” I took the butt from her and looked out the window.

“Sure, small local galleries are full of dead colorless works. One can walk into fine restaurants and see pretty pictures without substance. Giving all detail, perspective, form, light and shade, but the cost to truly to see is high and will always leave a dissatisfied taste in one’s mouth until it points to truth.”

She walked up and had me hold her in her arms and looked at my work.

“ Then you are truly a great painter and I see you love and accept me and forgiven me just as you do your work. I shall never see things the same again with art. I don't know if I should thank you or slap you.”

I brushed her hair back with my hands

“Let's get out of this cell,”

Even painters have to get away and forget themselves, if only for a few moments.

Chapter 13

The Mirage of Masquerade

I was waiting for Claudet's car to arrive. To hear it's purring engine and sleek shiny metal, catching the reflection of a blood orange dusk hovering over the city. It was as if someone cut open the ski and instead of rain it was this deep orange and pinkish hue. I was with Claudet for a few days. She became attracted to my honesty and look on life. I was taken by her shear willpower to get things done. She would be a powerful businesswoman one day. I was attracted to strong women. She only showed her true self to me and removed her social mask in the privacy of our being together. I think she was thankful, but wondered if a part of her hated me for what I did to her. She received the greatest gift one could receive from the muses. That very few of us want to see or have knowledge of its existence. She saw who she really was and after the disillusionment set in; there was within her a simple peace of acceptance.

I was at Hotel Paris Ritz In Claudet’s room.

“So here's the dress I'm wearing, it's a Channel black cocktail dress.” Thelma was holding her cigar holder and looking at her friend modeling the dress.

“ Well darling, Robert’s in for a treat. As much as I dislike him, I envy him. You look absolutely stunning!” Claudet was fidgeting with a long ostrich feather in her hair.

“Oh that's water under the bridge, Thelma. besides Robert is a man in love and all men in love become like puppy dogs to their new masters. I'll have him doing whatever I want. Maybe even he’ll marry me?”

Thelma fastened the clip to her hair. “Really Claudet, there are so many men out in Paris with status and opportunity. Why would want to marry a man like Robert?”

Claudet was standing in front of a full-length mirror making slight adjustments to her outfit.

“Robert and I were off to rough start, but now we see eye to eye. When I'm with him, I can let my hair down so to speak.” As she was playing with the waves in her short hair, she questioned, “hat or no hat?” Thelma looked her over, “no hat.”

Jacque dropped me off. Tip top in tales and a white tie and vest. I followed the line to the garçon checking names on a list. I looked around and there were men dressed like cannibals and witch doctors. Doctor Livingston would have had a sigh of relief seeing sadly dressed imposters with painting on their faces. One gent smiled and tapped me with his make shift spear, “Oinga Boinga.” It was a funny way of saying please move forward. I moved and was eventually facing the Garçon’s desk.

“Robert Tauney, guest of Mademoiselle Templeton.” The attendant looked at the list, “Monsuire Tauney, Tauney.. Ahh, oui, Mousier through the entrance on the left follow the crowd ... Next please”

I followed the crowd through the wide Rococo style doors. The grand entrance gave way towards a huge ballroom displaying the same architecture, but larger grander. At the end of the end of the large dance hall was a stage. A large orchestra and their conductor. The was a white shield with the letters in corn silk blue (L G) In Edwardian script. I was early and the crowds were being seated, the attendant sat me near the entrance covered the tables with confetti, and the ceilings were lined with steamers. I was feeling sorry for the men on ladders that had to pull this all together properly. Sore shoulders and a feminine constitution directing the arrangements for the festivities that lay ahead. There had to be at least twenty to thirty waiters and twenty water boys and maybe ten bartenders. The dance floor had a very large stage that looked like a column that was trimmed down to a stub and a cage was placed on top. There were two life-size paper machete elephants. Adorned with faux jewelry and beads and the large flaps for ears were leather and painted to perfection. Zebra carpets placed on the floor before these large 20-foot creatures. There were tiki torches and masks on the walls throughout. I smiled and lit a cigarette. There were plants, palm trees, and live parrots resting in the trees with cages set in between them. The food was attempting to be exotic, luckily most was edible. The buffet was a smorgasbord of every type delicacy Imaginable. With servers at each end carving the meats like brisket, pig, and cows tongue. I wasn't hungry and couldn’t eat after I finished painting. It seems when one opens all his heightened senses to color and line texture and the Artist process. Nothing satisfies the urges and only rest. Not food, not drink, not sex, not drugs. I repeat nothing it's a feeling as if your brain and eyesight just need a stimulation break. After a night’s sleep, the hunger and urges and desired all start again and the cycle of man’s wants and desires is reactivated. I was just coming off a natural painter’s high and I was slowly gaining my appetite’s back.

I surveyed the room and dancers in exotic costumes. I took their places around the cages and trees. There was a drum roll and then another then a very hammed out edition on the congos. A gentleman came to the front of the stage. “Ladies and Gentlemen, Hotel Paris Ritz welcomes you to our luxurious hotel for this wonderful and most memorial event. A big warm welcome to the hotel Ritz, Lars Gramm and his orchestra.” We clapped and toasted one another and they torched up the tiki torches and dimmed the lights and the dancing began. A woman dressed in white silks like an angel climbed into the cage and was moving and undulating and kept perfect time with the beat. I had never whiteness anything like it nor I ever would again. All we need now is touch of alcohol and a dash of hedonism and we have ourselves a little party. I chuckled out loud. July 14, 1924 Bastille day and a day the fates would once again come to shake the cage of my world and rattle its contents once more. That's is, my contents. The fragile world I was building again would crash down for the another time. For now I was sipping on some champagne compliments of my Heiress, Claudet Templeton. She told me she would be wearing a black dress and carrying and ostrich fan. And of course, a black harlequin mask. I saw her and \a pug Dasdale and of my arch nemesis, Thelma Blackwood.

“Well, this a lovely sight for these sore eyes. Ladies. Claudet you are a breathtaking vision.” Thelma jumped in. “ She should be, we've been looking for a dress all week. She does look like a true work of art.” I looked at Thelma with her swan frock and wraps of pearls and a white cloche hat with the brim sexily position over her left eyebrow. “ Stunning and radiant Thelma. Have seen this lucky guy in a while with these two girls hello, pug-, I... mean Dasdale. Good to see o’l boy.” We shook hands.

“Fine seeing you as well. I have gifts from the Orient.” Opening his cigarette case marked with the letters etched in what I thought was solid gold, PD. He brought out a tightly rolled up cigarette.

“ It’s affectionately called ‘grass; in the States. He took it and rolled the exotic cigarette with his finger and smelled it and offered it to Claudet.

“Oh Patsey, you always get the best! You’re such a doll.” She handed it back to the Pug who lit it and took a long, slow drag. He breathed out a plume of bellowing air.

“This is real jazz hot palace, huh Claudet?” I barely understood what the idiot was saying.

Claudet took the cig and took her turn and passed it to me. I declined and Thelma took it and Claudet started coughing. Waving her hands over her nose and patted her chest. I handed her a glass of water.

“Really Robert,” Thelma Interjected, “relax and enjoy yourself, it's Bastille day. Don't be such a Codger!” I toasted everyone to change the subject.

“Besides I heard all artist get their inspiration from Grass, Opium, and hashish, isn't that right Tauney?”

She continued and I continued to hold my tongue and bite my lip.

“You forgot Absinthe, love.” I smiled coyly and raised my glass.

I was in between the two ladies and turned to Thelma. She was finishing her drag, blowing the smoke in my face. She laughed. “Breathe deep and relax Robert.”

“Listen Thelma, I wanted to apologize about what happen on the veranda the other day. I was a bit on the aggressive side with you. I'm trying to ask for you for your forgiveness.” Thelma finished her drink had me light her cigarette. She tilted her holder down and looked at the crowd of people.

“ I talked to the head waiter and he said there would be over 1,000 people tonight. Isn't that just wild.” She turned to me looking as she was waiting to say more but just said,

“ try to behave and I'll give you my answer later, let's dance shall we?” By this point I was able to make it through at least two songs with my old war injuries. I was becoming an old hat in the art of dance. Well that is, a simple waltz.

I took Thelma on the dance floor and she was indeed like a swan. Her dress transformed her in a sort of metamorphosis, with her masquerade mask covering her eyes; The shape of her lips and chin really looked like her friend, Claudet. One being the evil twin. I had no doubt in my mind who that one was. I promise Claudet I would be on my best behavior with her friend tonight.

She held my hand and waist. She was wearing channel no 5. It reminded me of Camille. I closed my eyes and pictured her dancing with me. I was almost lost in the moment until she spoke.

“ So Claudet-“

“Yes what about Claudet.”

“ Do you love her?”

“ Are you always this blunt and coarse with people?” I said with fake look on my face.

“ I'm feeling on the spot here!”

We turned our first corner of the long dance floor. It was getting very packed and one could hear a mix and blending of conversations.

“ Robert, I'm a woman you likes to taste the flavors of life.” She smiled. The Feathers in her mask brushed up against her cheek. I was concentrating on looking into her eyes through her mask. Sometimes a hint of light would capture her brown eyes.

“I'm a type of girl who when she wants something and is denied it gives her even more fuel” I looked at her and we where passing the Pug and Claudet.

“ Save a dance for me, darling.” Waving at me. She was high as Felix the cat in Macy's day parade.

“Look at her Robert, she’s oblivious to everything around her. If she can't drink it or smoke it or put it up her nose then she has no interest. Secretly Robert, have you ever thought about us? Pressed against me like we are in this very moment?”

I backed away, but she pulled me towards her fleshy mound hidden under silks, lace, and sequins.

She was a master of her craft. Seduction, beauty, and manipulation. I wasn't the first man I'm sure, and not the first who's fallen to a woman's seduction and charm. I believed his name was Adam and Eve’s incarnate was standing before me.

I spun her and dipped her back at the end of the waltz.

“Darling as much as I admire your beauty, charm, and seductive nature, I’ll have to decline.”

She straightened her outfit and glared at me through her façade.

“You had your last chance, Robert. She clinched her fist with her arms down to her side and her palms raised slightly. You’re absolutely impossible!”

We both walked back and the chess game ensued.

“Well how was it kiddos?” We both looked up from being seated. Both answering in unison, “how was what?”

One of the waiters brought a champagne bottle; he tuned the bottle for all to see the label, Dom Perignon, 1885.

Patsey said in his sarcastic tone, “a special treat for Bastille day. There better not be one drop spilled of this. It cost me 200 dollars.” Then he did his usual shout. Coming from a man who could have a fighting chance at actually being able to purchase the Hotel Paris Ritz, he was incredibly conscious of every penny. I thought Claudet would buy a bum off the street food shelter and clothes and to add, give him money for the next day. She and gives and offers her money freely. Other men of wealth want to hold and keep and tighten off the fountain from dropping for someone else's benefit. I held Claudet’s hand and was enjoying her company. Thelma was still steering at me out of the side of her eye. I could tell she was steaming under that mask of hers.

The dance party entered into the twilight of everyone's decadent descent. The drinks of the evening were champagne, cocktails, and absinthe. I walked to just get up and stretch my legs for a spell. There was the total disregard for privacy and one would think the liquor would be enough to calm the inner fire of lost souls and keep them at bay. As I saw from Claudet, Thelma, and Camille had the appetite of a soul in pain; which increases the emptiness and one starts to hunger faith or flesh. The division in the road is apparent. Most head toward dark clubs, nightlife, drinking ,and over indulgence. This was Just my opinion, my observation on the cycles and patterns of life. Claudet was always running and so was Camille. It was a game of synchronicity and I was ready to call it quits. One problem: I was trapped as well, in turbulent cycle and trying to break free like the rest of them. I loved as 11:30 rolled around. There were men carrying woman, parading around them around nude and in return delighting the lesser Gods. I must have been the only man not dressed in some primal attire. There were a few, a small band of us refusing to wear the cloak of conformity. The woman in cages lowered from the ceiling and exposed their nude attire. Sweat on everyone and the women sexily dressed dripping from the Paris summer drought. It had been three weeks since we had a really strong rain. Everyone was here trying to evoke the primal recesses of the Earth for Good wet shower. Well at least they had the Tribal dress down.

I was blinded by confetti constantly and women in this state of mind were aggressive creatures on the prowl. One woman poured champagne on her breast and men where licking it off. As I went deep into the crowd and giving booze and offered things freely. One woman was nude dancing in a huddle dripping with sweat and laughing and threw her glass hitting some poor gent.

I walk back to the table and Claudet hugged me and was intoxicated and her lips were warm and tasted of my menthols.

Claudet’s purse ritual was becoming more and more apparent. However she stopped offering me after the third time. Half of the night Claudet was sticking her fingers up Thelma's nose as well. It became an amusing game to watch to refined woman playing with each other's noses.

I felt women kissed more than usual. They were not frequenting the Monicle Club, but it was a fun vice and was available for them at their leisure. Paris was open and had no such problems with that kind of light behavior. At first I thought it was just the French, but soon realized it was everyone. Paris was centuries ahead evolving into a sexually lenient society. Camille had even told me there were strictly gay areas to live and function and contribute to the fabric of France.

The real music started. Two more 1885 bottles later. The place was live and and we used to say, “Le hot.” The dance floor In July was even hotter. A few stars came to perform. Louis Armstrong played a few sets. Josephine Baker the bronze Aphrodite dance sang a few songs. Now the night was finished and the clock was slowly etching away at morning. Even though the temperature outside dropped 20* degrees. I would have to occasionally walk out to the veranda and cool off.

“Its definitely a hot summer.”

“Hey Camille?”

“how's about cool off for a spell. I feel all dried up and could use a spritzer. “

“Hey! Where is your so called cousin? I haven't seen her for a least an hour?”

The horns where blaring and she had mouth close to me ear.

Claudet was rubbing my arm:

“She probably found that millionaire, aristocratic bore where we wre talking about at lunch. She's fine Robert.”

I was preparing to get up and she tugged my arm.

“ That's fine darling I'll be here.”

I touched her button nose and peered in her mask she was coming down and sipping on champagne. Patsey was telling his college stories and had a crowd around him. Always the life of the party.

Claudet leaned over to me and waited for me to reciprocate.

. “ I think we should have a serious talk.”

“ concerning?”

I held her hand and touched her hair.

“Maybe after we sober up, darling.”

Pulling me closer, “about Thelma. She's a good friend despite what I say about her. She wishes us the best.”

I kissed her cheek and she rubbed her Leg against my own as I moved away. I had heard her. What she was implying. It was very apparent. The words, ‘US’ and’ Happy’ played in my mind while I was walking towards the exit towards the outside Veranda. There was an open bar there and about thirty or so people standing around. One of those cool summer relieving breezes went across my face and gave me a break from the Paris’s heat spell.

I felt a warm hand embrace me from behind.

I went to speak and she put her finger on my mouth. “Claudet-“

I got her meaning and she grabbed me by my bow tie and redirected my direction.

” Well this is a fun game. Are we pretending?” She smiled as the Porter let us on board. I said, “third floor please.”

The elevator opened and she dragged me to the door. I went to kiss her and she held my arms away, as if she wanted to continue the balls festivities in the privacy of her hotel room. She then pushed me on the king plush mattress. She laughed and took two scarfs and tied me to the bed.

“Now darling this is a bit to going to far.”

She finished the last knot and walked away. She whispered I have a surprise. She soon returned and presented herself with absinthe and two flasks.

“ Well, I'm very impressed Claudet.”

She knew I loved a good 10-year-old perdon fils. Slightly bitter from age and potency with a touch of anise for flavor. She poured the glass and put the green matching colored sugar cubes. As they dissolved and blended and broke apart. Then with the absinthe spoon mixer, she mixed the heavenly concoction. She disappeared behind the dressing screen. Then she took a lamp as for me to see her shadowed silhouette.

This wasn't the rich girl I had encountered a week or so ago. This was a bold and direct woman not at all like Claudet. I thought of Alice and pictured her there behind the screen for second and then slapped myself mentally and tried to get back into Claudet’s swaying and posing behind little screen. All I could say was, “ nice Darling,” not to spoil the moment. The curved of her breast, and her hips accentuated her body. She removed her clothing, dropping her black Chanel dress to the floor. Her fan of ostrich feathers she paraded and gave me flashes of her invigorating delights. She then turned the light off and came over and hovered over me and we were waist to waist . Taking her finger and dipping it into the green liquid. She worked it around my lips and lifted my head and helped me drink it down. I was her slave and for a moment, I lost all feeling for connections, soul mates, and what not. We existed in one mind and one space together. I was shifting my vision and I was “Seeing “ again. She lay on top of me and we both were satisfied. Soon the muses left us to sleep.

I woke to the sound of the door being unlocked. Thinking some group forgot their way and went to the wrong room. The door opened and the light came on. It was Claudet. I jumped up and looked beside me it was Claudet. Claudet I, I thought…

Claudet’s face went from shocked to rage.

“ You! How could you do this? Answer me”.

The figure rose up and her breast looked different and she slowly took her mask away.

“ This is not, not what it looks like. I swear Claudet!”

Thelma straddled over me and leaned over and looked me in the eyes and then nibbled on my ear and whispered like a seductive betraying woman.

“ Now, I forgive you Robert.”

She smiled slowly got up and looked at Claudet and said,

“He's all yours now love.” Kissing her lips and turning to me

“Your painter is highly over rated.”

“See you two at lunch.”

She grabbed her clothes and walked out naked and few early morning partiers saw and cheered as she went to her room a few doors down.

“Get out Robert, get out NOW!”

I loosened my scarfs from the bedpost, I looked up and she even put the lipstick mark on the wall by the head board. Cold hearted bitch had planned this, the whole time. And I fell for it.

The silent treatment. Her disappearing act and tying me up so I couldn't move, I was the stuffed pig , planned, primed, and a lovely apple in my mouth in the form of Thelma. I put my shoes on and grabbed my jacket. She was starring out the window and had reverted to her old protected persona.

I passed her and turned at the door.

“quaestionis veritas apparebit vobis omnia”

Question everything and the truth will be revealed to you. I

Turned to leave and shut the door behind me. She didn't cry or throw anything, just dead silence. I buttoned my shirt and re-tied my bow. I headed back down and arranged my hair in the lobby mirror and went back to into the party. I was getting inebriated once more and just wanted to shut out the pain. I met a girl. One of the dancers in the cage. She was taking a break and I offered her a drink. She did and she danced with me. I woke up somewhere in a café. An officer was telling me I couldn't loiter and had to move on. I made it back to my flat and crashed until nightfall.

Chapter 14

A Rose Colored Mask

I sent several bouquets of flowers. Lilies and Roses and tulips. She was fond of those. Not a reply; nothing. I figured I would have to go down there and flush her out myself. I thought maybe through that worm of a friend of hers. The idea hit me like a flash. I wrote her a note explaining everything in detail. I gave explicit instructions to the flower delivery driver. Then went to the chocolatier and gave instructions as well. Going back to the flat, I waited. For three days I waited. Hardly eating and make wadded up balls of paper hit the trash can and watching my birds jousting it out again brought me peace.

Finally, I gave up. I washed my face in the basin and dried with my towel lightly. I headed down to see if my good friend wrote me again of the latest news from NYC. Stepping across the street, I saw the most expensive car in Paris. It was Claudet. I fixed my hair slicking it back. The streets busy and I ambled across to the curb. I saw the beige convertible from the back \ recognized the blonde short hair. I ran to window. “Darling!” Her eyes were brown and she had a cloche of blue on with three folds in the design. She had a blue frock and shoes to match.

“ Were you expecting me to wear a mask this time?”

“Thelma? Where's Claudet,”

“Patience get in!” I didn't trust her one bit. As I crawled in I watched her. Making sure she didn't hit me over the head with a large blunt object.

“I've come to apologize to you.” She started tearing up and took out a hanky from her bag. “ I thought… I thought… you were just a game to her. A fun toy like her college days.”

She was running through boys and had no desire but to use them and play with their minds.” I was sitting there listening wanting to slap her, but I held in the urge.

“Claudet is my best friend and she learned these things from me! I as we always did with each other out on the town she pulls them in with her innocence, and I of course spit them out when I'm finish.”

I butted in, “You mean to fucking tell me this whole trip was a fucking game using innocent people? You sick, demented bitch!”

She started to cry and it was a real cry of shame and heartbreak. She was caught as pawn in her whole little game. Moving men like chess pieces. Thinking herself as a queen, but all the time never looking up and realizing she was pawn herself. Her queen and kings were now called karma.

“ I thought no one was really getting hurt, and she was please, I was pleased and we pleased each other in the process.

Oh God what have I done!” She put her head on my shoulder and I held her and slowly held her tighter. Not from love or lust,but from a human spirit loving her unconditional and whole.

She was talking in the curve of my sleeve and slowly rose up wiping her tears.

“ I planned the whole thing Robert. I was jealous and I hated you rejecting me. So several hours before Claudet showed me her dress and was excited and felt she was falling for you.” She blew her nose and wiped her eyes. Then Looking down again out shame and regret.

“ I was so jealous of you and her and losing my friend for good over you. I hated you Robert, hated! I pegged you at the Veranda at the Hotel and then I've never had someone say those things to me before. She was getting ready for the Ball and I slipped out with Jaques and bought and fitted the same outfit to a tea. Even the same cologne.”

“ I Thought it smelled different though on you when we were outside?” She nodded. Holding the hanky to her lips and turned to me with a half smile.

“ Do you have any idea how hard it is to remove the smell of Channel No 5 from a girls body?” She returned to the same mournful face.

“I met you and brought you up to her apartment. I had told the clerk at the main desk I was her. He gave me an extra key.

Well the rest is history, Robert”

“So you've won, now what?” I was trying to get out of the car. She pulled me back in and gave a sultry look in my eyes.

“ That night Robert,I broke a friend’s heart and… At the same time I fell in love. Oh I'm so confused Robert.” She started crying and I looked over and Jacques was rolling his French eyes as if saying, “women.”

She held on to me and I backed away.

“Tell me Robert, that you didn't feel one thing that night?”

I had felt a passion beyond words, but I was thinking all that time it was Claudet.

“You’re sadly mistaken my dear, my love and affection was for Claudet and your hatred is all you could afford that night. I don't love you and frankly, my dear, never will. Your heart is black and spiteful and your money, and greed has turned you into a ugly mess of a woman.”

I grabbed my cane and she was holding me back.

“ No Robert wait! I can change I can be what you want me to be. I need you!” She dropped her hanky and I told the driver to take her home.

“Utterly bull headed, conniving, vindictive woman a snake and wicked individual.” I stepped on the hanky she left in the road and proceeded to catch a cab for the Hotel Ritz.

After arriving the clerk called her telephone there was no answer. I walked and took the elevator to the third floor. Room 324 putting my ear to the door. I heard what sounded like Claudet crying, but what sounded like another somber muffled cry. I opened the door. Thlema was thrashing on the bed and Claudet was over her with her hands about her throat.

Dashing in I knocked Claudet off to one side of the bed. Her body hit hard and she knocked a vase over with her right foot. Causing it to smash and blue and white glass about the room. Thelma was gasping for air and trying to catch her breath. Myself was so shock out of this outcome I just stood there motionless and silent as an audience watching a play. Claudet came at her again with a piece of the broken vase. I caught her and held her as she dropped the shard of China with a razor sharp edge. Her eyes where red and she had a deep and longing for revenge. For Claudet used her and laughed behind her back all these years. She was fed up and couldn't deal with her anymore.

“Robert, let me finish.” She screamed a terrifying deep scream that I hadn’t heard since the war. “ Finish… The… Cold… Hearted...Bitch! “ Holding her arms out, I shook her violently.

“ Goddamnt! Claudet snap out of if!” I slapped her with back of my hand and she landed against a Chippendale chair and spilling the bouquet of Calle Lillies upon her body. She sat and deeply cried and finally realized what she almost had done.

Thelma was wailing as well, after she was through coughing and hacking and holding on to her neck. She was chanting and wailing and gasping.

“ Please don't! I love you Claudet… You’re… My…. Friend….”

I sat there and watch the two of them face the one game piece on the board they never dreamed of facing. Reality!

“ I loved you like my own sister and cared for you, but you took…And took… You are the most selfish, immature woman I've ever known.” Claudet stood up and cleaned her dress and walk over by my side.

“ Get out of my sight!”

Thelma, even after being half strangled to death begged for forgiveness.

“ Please, Claudet, please! You’re all I have I have no one I have nothing without you!” Wailing and begging!

I walked over to Thelma and she was on her side and her arm hanging down off of the bed. I leaned over and gently turned her over and looked in her brown, now, docile eyes.

“ I forgive you now Thelma.” I kissed her cheek. I didn't have the cruelty in me to give her the smile she did to me. I gave a somber, look of pure pity.

She covered her face and screamed.

“ I Told her… The truth… Not… For … for her… But..”

She came closer to my lips.

“ For you… I'm so sorry Robert. I'm so, so sorry”

I went back over to Claudet and patted her and hugged her and grabbed a Lillie and threw it on the bed at Thelma’s feet and walked out.

Chapter 15

An Intimate Day

Le café Pur was the place she said to meet her. The note she slipped under my apartment door, the neatness of the handwriting and signature was signed with some swirls with the A and the N was whipped out with a long tail. It was Alice.

I was going through the Paper, Le Temps. The front page of the paper read 12 years to the date of the sinking of the Titanic. I finish the story of tragedy and my coffee was black and enjoyed the mutilation of it on a daily basis. I love watching the French watch me pour the sugar in and dump heaping of cream and loudly stir clicking the sides of my saucer and produce a daft sneer as I toasted the patrons around me. This was a daily ritual for me and was my form of modern art with the Roasted bean of Columbia.

“Robert, how can you drink such a thing?” She had a look of repulsion on her face. I smiled and hugged her and held her shoulders.

“I'm so glad to see you, may I ask, why… The letter?” She sat down and ordered an un café express. She brushed her hair with the edge of her fingers. Guiding her dark hair to brush up against the smooth indentation of cheek. I watched her lips as she was pensive on what to say next. She played with the napkin then held her café express up to her face hiding her lips from my sight.

“ Robert those few weeks ago at Le Select. I thought you were a mad man. A nice looking mad man, but crazy all the Same.” I sipped on my bad rendition of British tea.

“What about now?”

She swirled her coffee and seemed to search deeper within the reaches of her being.

“Robert, me and ManRay had a huge fight. I've had some issues, but he is now done with us. Not everything is, as it seems here.” I put down my cup spilling my cup onto my dish.

“ Paron moi… Sil vous ples” she noticed the mess as I using my cloth napkin as she watched pensively. I was about to speak and she broke the silence first.

“Robert I don't know why I'm telling you this.” She was looking past me; I could tell she was contemplating weather to tell me something or not.

“I had a dream and in that dream a man wearing white robes opened a door for me to walk through.” I leaned in and intent on every word she spoke. She had no lipstick on and no usual crisp angles in bright red color.

“ Robert I saw through that door. And walk through it. The light turned into a vapored mist, and I saw us together.” She put her hand on mine.

“I saw the two of us together…Robert, “I don't know how to say this but it seems in the dream…. or vision …It looked like a different area of time and us…and… Before that and then the door shut.” She waited for me as she lit a cigarette and for a response.

“ We were lovers I'm certain of it! See I'm crazy coming here and telling you this. I'll leave now” I grabbed her arm and prevented her from getting up.

“ Alice maybe that's why we feel so drawn towards on another? It's all adding up for us.”

“First seeing you in the café four years ago and seeing you all at the times of my life when I was in a transition.” I continued, “The old Gypsy she said to Camille and me and she was…”

I felt my self-starting to cry. I mean not cry, but a cleansing for spiritual cry from long ago and deep down. The places where our normal Ego doesn’t go. Past the subconscious and past words or concepts to link a meaning. For a brief moment time once again paused the passing of its hands for just a brief moment for two very old souls on a crossed path uniting once again. For a brief moment we were back at La select and turning the next page of our lives together. We both recognized each other in fell into each other arms.

“I don't know why I want to hold you and never leave your side!”

Our souls were one again and she embraced me not knowing why or how, but just enjoyed the moment with me.

“ Oh, Robert hold me and kiss me before I remember again.”

I kissed her, and a breeze blew in across our faces and we were both suspended in a state of liquid happiness none as I've ever felt. It was a reunion of two souls she felt like and old familiar, loving embrace to my body. And like the walk with Camille after the leaving the Opium den. I saw her energy and felt her vibration and she mine. As if words had no meaning in the state of mind and two universal, timeless bodies gently and purposefully collided. I held her tight, and she was deeply crying and Father Time threw us back into out normal lives and our addictions and our love affairs and again to question the very reason she wrote a letter to me and placed in under my door.

She looked down slightly embarrassed and was still coming out of the moment. I grabbed her hand we walked and didn't say a word. Calmly paralyzed by what went on only a few minutes ago.

I led her to a market, and I bought some nice wine and cheese, crackers, and fruit. She was still in her daze, and I took full advantage of the situation.

“I called a cab and the driver drove us to Parc Monceau. She held my hand, and we made camp there for the day. The columns of the classical colonnade blossomed with summer variety of French perennials. And rich green foliage. The perfect place to plant the sow the seeds of a valued forgotten love. I found a beautiful place where other lovers and children were playing, enjoying the day.

Alice looked up and squeezed my hand.

“Robert, I wish we could just live in this moment forever. It's like all my problems and worries are just gone. I held her close and was playing with her hat she removed.

“ Let's not have reason kill our better enjoyment.” She nodded and caressed me and played with some flowers we picked on the way to the park.

She told me of her childhood and her life and hardships and addictions. When she finished, I told her my story and even of the war.

“So now we are both officially crazy”, I laughed, and she followed with the same emotion.

“No, my dear life has so many mysteries and so many doors. We just seem to open the same one at the same time.”

“ I wondered what I looked like or you? Was a good looking man-“ she smiled looking at their flower tying the stem into knots.

“Or woman and I your strong, passionate lover. “ She had a point, but we both laughed. It turned slowly to dusk, and an orange hue was in the air all around us.

“ It is getting late, Robert I've never felt this close in all my life with someone in such a short time. Tomorrow is my gift to you meet me at Le Purr Tomorrow at noon, ok?” I dropped her off, and she kissed my hand.

“ Somehow Robert, I believe wherever we go the other will eventually be there.” I drove off and waited the next day. One the way I was playing things over I'm my head and just not getting anywhere. The kiss, the day out. I've known this woman all of 8 hours and I feel like literally nothing I've ever felt before in my life.

The next day I waited for the same table at her same spot and 12 turned into one and into 2:30. I left never to return to that place or the third table to the left of entrance. I was probably much like her and let reason be my guide. Talking myself out of it and counting the steps that occurred on that day.

“

Chapter 16

The Cleansing Rain

Mid August and the birds flocked to my window. My flat was warm, but a few seemed to cool down the place where my desk was located and if you were lucky a nice wind would calm your wits from the heat outside. I had studies from Memory of Alice and I posted them on my wall. I received letters from my friend Thomas and my Uncle, but not one from Alice. It was confirmed in my mind and those past two weeks I found any one that could read my hands or to tell, prophesies or read my

fortune. I did find one woman who was honest and real her advice.

“ Trust your heart young man, trust in your heart.” Two francs in all of France such open advice. Yet she could just say those words to anyone and make a fortune.

I walked to my studio wiping the sweat off my neck and brow. I needed some water and a fictional bucket of snow. Many of the now established ex patriots all would go to the beach in Nice and swim to battle the heat and it was starting to sound like a good idea. I walked by picking up my favorite paper and walked a good 20 minutes to the Dingo American Bar.

Walk into the pub about a half-mile or so. Walking in I saw a few painters I've met while a month or so in passing. It was Tzar and Dali sitting around having a few glasses of wine and deep conversation. I listened in.

“ The only difference between a madman and me is that I am not mad,” said Salvador Dali.

Then he went into this pose and did not move. Then smiled drinking his wine, nodded and he and Tzar left.

He was an odd fellow and his works always amazed me. I saw him again 1977 he was at a restaurant in St. Petersburg, Florida with his other associates. Older and still with slim drawn our expression. Undeniably him, though. He smiled and did like a Howdy kind of wave and nodded at Angela. Then proceeded to be emerged with his friends in conversation. The Group all had paper bags like hats on their heads. The waitress said they always come here and to exact table every Monday. They continue to meet until this day.

I ordered a tall beer enjoying my paper. I couldn’t believe what I was reading. I turned the paper over in disbelief. I slowly turned it over and read the headlines. It was Thelma. She had fallen from her fourth-floor balcony and was without any clothes. The Report said she was intoxicated and fallen from her patio last night around 3 am. The police were now claiming it was an accidental death.

I couldn't read it anymore. I knew the rest; I was with her, and no matter how much I denied the fact, we made love. It was hard seeing someone young you were intimate with, die so early in life and so tragically.

I left the cafe and headed for home. The streets in the distance gave off a blurred aura from the heat released from the streets paver’s. I traced my vision up the left bank and over the bridge seeing deep blue-grey clouds coming from, the east. The distance sound of thunder and the wind picking up. The downdraft I thought I would have about 10 minutes before the rain came down upon the water-starved city. My calculations were off and I the few droplets hitting my jacket and hat pretty soon had me completely drenched. It became completely dark and lightning and thunder. I was hurrying to my apartment watching the countless people were running to grab even the slightest bit of shelter. I made to my flat and the clerk at the front desk called me over.

“Paron monsieur tauney il y a une dame que je laisse dans votre chambre . elle a dit qu'il était urgent!” A woman waiting for me, urgent huh? I knew who it was and she finally had come to her senses to resolve our ancient and deep seeded issue.

I worked my key then stopped. Fixed my wetsuit and my hair.

I walk in my home.

“Alice my dear-“

“Hello, my dearest, Tauney. I hope you don't mind the attendant letting me in like this?”

I took my hat off and held it to my lower midsection.

“ I'm sorry about Thelma? You didn't you know…”

She looked offended at first and then… no, absolutely not!”

She was back to her refined and regal state, pushing her friend's death down deep and using her vices again to keep the pain at bay.

I offered her a drink and as I was pouring her a glass of wine, she started crying and hid her face in the pillow on the bed. So many crying faces on that pillow, I thought of Camille, Angelina, and Emma and now Claudet. Coming to my home and using the pillow of tears was becoming a ritual. I watched the rain and thunder and opened the storm shutters letting the droplets hit the window seal and puddle up on the large painted cement slab right under my shutters. The water would pool up, and finally allowed the water to be free going down from rooftop to the gutter to the street below. I lit a cigarette and poise not looking at her, and she was slowly coming to her senses.”

“Tauney, say something this is all too real for me I need you to say just something.”

My cloud of smoke hovered in the flat for a moment until a back draft of air pulled the plume of smoke outside to be inhaled by the rain. I was about to say something and large bolts of lightning danced in the sky and a hollow boom seem to shake the tchotchkes on the wall.

“Robert I found the notes In the chocolate and In the Bouquet of lilies you sent me. Thelma came to my room and told me that you coaxed her there and made love to her. I asked her why she was wearing the same outfit as I?” When she grabbed her clothes and paraded back to her room. Then she kissed me on my mouth, and I went into a state of rage and threw her on the bed and was choking her…

“I couldn't control,myself. Claudet had the look of shame on her face and regret. I and all my hurt from childhood and abuse she put me through was at that point focused on her neck.” I jumped back at her verbally.

“Thelma told me she was coming back to your place to tell you everything, and she lied even at the very instant of telling me she loves me?” I sat down feeling the droplets firing off from the outside spritzing my chin.

“Robert, there's more, the police recovered. I don't know how to tell, you this ….” She paused to tighten the grip on her hanky.

“ The Lillie you gave her the one you threw at her feet when you left that night.”

I dropped my cigarette and news slowly, sank into my skin It all made sense to me Thelma had so much hate for me, she sent me a note from the grave. A personal note no one would read except me. She took her life. I fell to my knees, “Thelma what have you done?”

I started breathing heavily and leaned over trying to prevent from vomiting all over my self.

Claudet walked over to me, and we cried together.

“Is there ever not a ghost of regret riding on the heels of fortune and pleasure.”

I took her in my arms.

“It’s not case of where her flesh and yours will not smell the same and feel the same as the same velvet flower. She has cast herself between you and me. The mask she wore that night, eternally bound us together forever. Her last act of revenge. What a hateful and terrible soul.”

Claudet covered her face and hid from me. I pulled her hands away. I looked at her. I slammed the storm shutters closed and the desk was wet and the floor.

“ What final part did we play in her parody of pain?” I asked.

Claudet covered her face with her hands again.

“No more, I can not bare it anymore!” Sobbing.

“ You, Bastard, isn’t this enough of you precious damned truth?”

I touched her to comfort her, she pulled away from me. Then after a moment she grabbed my hand, and we held each other.

The rain was coming down in sheets heavy bands washed and cleansed Paris of here past. Truth for me a Claudet was coming as well and washing the muck and mire of deception away forever.

I looked at her. She reached into her purse and took out a piece of paper and gave it to me. I took the folded paper.

“She wrote two letters, one for me and the other for you” Said Claudet.

“I leave you now with that and if you find it in your heart to forgive me, I'll be waiting.”

She walked to the doorway and opened the door. The light from the hallway cast a shadow, and she had an erie look of Thelma as if that woman was here in some form or in some way with us, seeing the outcome. Giving me the same look as night after whispering in my ear, Claudet stared at me for a while awaiting a response then turned and walked out.

I set the letter on the table. I must have stared at it for an hour. I went to open it and, only saw the first word in handwriting on the letter.

I took my cigarette and let it singe the paper and catching the heat transferring it to an ember glowing and finally a blaze. The last thing burning and the last thing I saw was that one word. Robert. I gently layed the letter in the garbage as Thelma would layed into her shroud of earth, I spoke my last words to her.

“ I forgive you Thelma.” The sound of Thunder ripped throughout the room.

Weeks later, walking down Rue de Montparnasse. I stood before a poster attached to a wall of ads. There was a woman carrying flowers and the ad said Flour de lilies the flour of France. She was full of color, and I stood there admiring the work. In the far left corner bared the name Tauney. I started laughing my work was finally all over Paris not in galleries and art dealers but advertisements and billboards.

My advertisement was a success all over town. The small shops and all showed my Greek figured woman with the writing flour de Lillies. She was full of color straight from the tube, very little mixing. The ad still came out well, but the color and printing at the time were a bit limited. They used my label for the next ten years. Then one day while grocery shopping I noticed the label on the box had changed. After that then a few years later the company under went bankruptsy.

Claudet and I became close friends again. She had told me I had changed her life that day at the studio. We were lovers for a short time. She had offered me a one-man exhibit and made all the arrangements. She told me this was a chance of a lifetime. While making final preparations and my one man show was set for that following month. She even procured me an agent. I was in the process of finishing the last of the works. Wrapping them for transport for a show in both New York and Paris. Two weeks later Claudet was out drinking, and Jacques was blindsided by a drunk driver and Claudet was instantly killed. Jacques was hospitalized for several weeks.

The Offering

I was an absolute mess of a man. I went and got shit faced at Closerie de la Lilias. I was sitting at the bar. Reviewing my life, I had lost so many lovers and friends and I felt as if life was ending for me. I just seemed to decline after the loss of Camille, and the fates and Paris herself seemed to be both pushings against every action I exerted. I thought long, deep, and hard. Reflecting on Camilla, Thelma, and now Claudet. I felt partly responsible for what happened to Angelina as well. Everything felt like a millstone around my neck. All I needed now was a good river, and the pain would all be gone. So I decided to end the chaos once and for all. The snake was about to claim another victim. I would see my Camille again. I was in so much pain and felt as if this town, depression, loss and defeat were all standing upon my chest. I couldn't take the pressure anymore. I pondered back on my life. The sheer frustration of my calamity. I finished my last drink and staggered back to my studio. I had written a note and placed it on the door of my studio so that they would find the body. I took my belt from my pants and wrapped it around my neck. I stood on a chair and fastened the belt buckle on the other side of the door and closed it behind me. I looked around my studio. Heard the clock and it seemed to stand out in a room that was deathly quiet. It was fitting end, my last moments being able to shift into the omnipresent state of mind once more before my death. I saw my feet standing on the edge of my chair.

All of a sudden color and everything became alive again, and I felt a warm presence around me. Comfort, and acceptance. To describe a warm feeling as if I became a child again and felt a vast deep love beyond comprehension or words. I started to just let all the pain out and suffering out like a faucet at full release standing there with a belt around my neck. Something grabbed my attention. I saw the portrait of Camille staring at me. In her hand, she had painted a Lilly and her at that moment in my thoughts; she seemed to be offering me the flower. I understood what she was saying finally. She was telling me to live!

I got down slowly and lay on the floor several hours. Sobbing and crying. Claudet's death sent me down a spiral that finally ended with a belt around my neck. I was so close to almost being able to touch my dreams; I longed for since childhood. The final crushing blow was like the car that took sweet Claudet.

Taking the paintings each one and carefully unwrapping them and lining them up and going through each one. I kept Camille’s and Soutine’s and few others. I removed each one from the frames and rolled them up neatly and stacked them one another and was meticulous and it took me several hours, and I made it a labor of love. I took my brushes and made a nice pile next to the canvases and then added my paint and paper. Everything was in its proper place. Nice and tidy and ready.

I lit my cigarette and peered at my work. I took a sip of wine. I could hear the cars driving down in the streets below, and a draft of wind came through and calmed my nerves. I was at peace, and my life spared. I said my goodbyes. I smiled.

“Thank you, Tigress my sweet Camille.” I was crying.

“ I give you my offering in return for sparing my life. My work.”

I poured turpentine on all the rolled canvas in the fireplace. I took a good long drag on my cigarette. I shifted my sight and threw my cigarette in the fireplace. I came to Paris and gave my heart, soul, and life to art. In the end, Camille's portrait. She somehow came through the work and gave me a reason to live. My sacrifice for my life was a fair trade. At least that was my thought at the time. I was in so much pain, on not in my right mind at the time. Claudet had finally gotten her way again. I watched the nudes burning and I felt free. The Paris and New York show were burning in front of me. It was such a twisted view of reality I had truly become like one of Picasso’s twisted paintings.

I looked in the mirror and did not know the face I saw anymore. Lines on my face were ever more apparent an I had lost weight. I was in the process of taking Camille’s in the bathtube. All that was needed was the water and flowers to complete my transformation. I was burned out the inspiration had left my painting eaten up by drinking, whoring and night terrors. In which by that time having undergone so much tragedy. The variety of apparitions that stood before me at night. When suddenly waking from sleep. Thelma is holding a flower, or Claudet standing in my door. In my present years, Alice waited by my bedside patiently smiling. Camille always had a kind look on her face and after the initial shock I realized, maybe she was watching after me as a confidant and Friend she was. Beaconing to change direction in my present course of action or join the shadows that wished to embrace me. I didn't care? About living or seeing the end of the bottle as Stien so elegantly put. I tried painting again, but I just didn't care about paints or colors or how lines interacted. Art was dead to me. Jean and Madame Stien dropped by my studio, and she wanted to see my work. She looked at my new work finally at the request of Jean and told her famous lines to me. She peered long and hard, and she looked around my studio seen bottles of wine and cigarettes all over the place. She had a sad expression “ Tauney, you burned everything?” I answered

“ Yes, from the Exhibition. It was a hard choice.”

“Everything was tainted and filled with memories and pain.”

She walked over to me with compassion, but not hold back any punches.

“Art doesn't hide the truth.”

It hit me like the Bronze Hammer of Satie.

All my preaching about truth and to Claudet. Now I was in denial of my self. I started weeping and wiping tears away.

“Tauney without conviction to the canvas there is no such thing as true painting.”

She was right I had lost my conviction and seeing become a process from artificial spirits and absinthe. I felt broken and spit out as I did after the War. My Uncle was right all along. I was running from myself and chasing my tail like Tigress. Paris had claimed another victim and I bowed my head humbly and backed down.

Chapter 17

The Forced hand

Spring for some means new hope and for some the meaning is new life and birth. I was living a Montparnasse being reborn as well. I had painted another twenty works and ship them off to small local galleries at my Uncle’s request. He wrote to me finally forgiving me of Emma and the whole ordeal. He thought having a painter from Paris would do me well for my reputation in the states. They were all nudes of my model Beatrice. I felt as if a part of my life was not yet complete. I remembered Claudet and the conversation at the Veranda. Then my experience at the bar. After the advice of Hemingway and Fitzgerald, the answer was in front of me the whole time. “ Write what you know,” said Ernest Hemingway, I remembered writing poetry and short essays, and it was if breathing to me. I sat at a café ordered a coffee, and I started writing. I just literally started putting down words and the words had meaning and form and structures for the mind to build. I wrote and wrote. Art had transferred the pain of all my loss in into metaphors analogies on paper you see before you. The canvas was merely a cocoon for even a more lovely and truthful creature waiting inside. The pen once on a paper released the ink of my mind, and it flowed like the River Nile. I wrote about everything. A new muse called me. One of writing and I didn't stop. I was writing about the war and Emma and Paris. All things seemed to come together, and my writing was like a river that branched into, tributaries and springs. I wrote of Summer-Brooke and simpler days when I felt the warmth of childhood and pureness of my being. Back laying in the springs and currents of my youth. The reliable current always pushing against me. Like the, “art spirit” pushes against the tides of conformity. The current was my first taste of escaping and dreaming. I wrote about my mother. I felt that she was part of my world and that son I cut myself off from her. I was no longer running from myself or the world. I used my pen facing the world head on for a change. No longer running from death or my fears I carried all my life. I wrote of simple humbler things. I wrote of a painter who came to Paris find his dreams. Those dreams, like vases and each one broke from tragedy loss or heartache. A new part of me was set free and ancient fears now released. I wrote for a solid month and when I finished I took it to whom else, Gertrude Stein. She read it, and gave it back to me. Bought me a drink and said. “ You have to tell this story it has tons of conviction and truth.”

She laid the manuscript down touched my shoulder and walked off. I never spoke to her again.

I took my novel with me and lived with it. Drank with it and slept looking upon the metaphorical paintings penned on paper, the exhibition, and gallery of my life and my work. Gertrude arranged an appointment by pure chance on the exact day of Camille’s and I my meeting one another at the Ballet. Tomorrow at 9:15, I am Westhall Publishing Company. I didn't sleep or eat for three days and had no intention until that manuscript left my sight. I started to hate it as I watched it almost moaning and scratching at me. I almost set it a flame and hurled it into the streets of Paris in the middle of the night.

I awoke myself a good quick French whore’s bath. Ready to embark on a journey of a different kind. One with a pen. I took a cab to our meeting place, and the receptionist sat me in an office with plaques and books of past printed paperbacks. On the walls were famous men and women of the gilded pen. One painting struck me odd, and it brought back memories when I was a fresh face in Paris and time, and fine wrinkles hadn't set in. A meeting with a new friend and fellow painter. I remembered the discussion we had about an author that now sat before me. She had a look in her eye and as if she was whispering through the painting to me as the publisher came in to greet me. I couldn't hear him. She was calling me, and I her famous quote, ”Art pour le de Art saké est une Phrase vide. Art pour l’amour le vrai, Art pour le bien et le beau, c’est la foi, pour que je suis à la recherche.” Art For Art's Sake Is An Empty Phrase. Art For The Sake Of The True, Art For The Sake Of The Good And The Beautiful, That Is The Faith I Am Searching For.

I stood up and bowed a very courtly bow to Mrs. George Sands portrait. I told the gentleman, “Thank you for the opportunity and please thank Miss. Stien for this meeting.” I looked back at the picture and looked into her eyes and made my decision.

He was about to speak, “thank you, Madame Sands.” I left.

“Who are you talking to? Madame Sands?”

I turned to the gentleman and smiled and repeated the poem I recited that night with Camille.

Tyger Tyger burning bright,

In the forests of the night:

What immortal hand or eye,

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?- William Blake

“Good day Sir!” I tipped my hat to him and walking away from the publishers, I understood my old friend Johnny Boy’s preference for Shakespeare.

I left the publishing house and was at peace for the first time in my life. I had passed the last test of the Spirit and my demons finally lay to rest. The demons of pride, longing, and desire. I was becoming what I was running from in the first place. A boy from Summer-Brooke, Iowa with a white tipped cow name Betsy, whom he loved. Mediocrity didn't seem so bad, I felt like I didn't need to try to change the world. Or hold any object on a pedestal. My love of God shortly returned and my faith with it. I hadn't the urge to for alcohol and most of all I started recognizing that face in the mirror again. I was starting to like him.

The Reunion

Walking home from the Bourse, I saw a familiar girl with a bronze body and short hair and a new rebellious attitude about her. I watched her from a dark corner and followed her home from Rue St -Denis in the la Hallas district, a historically known spot in Paris for prostitution. My motives purely were honorable, just to make sure of her safety and well being. I had an obligation to her in that way. Jean was unable to find her. My suspicions were correct; she had been taken by the low lifes and the scum of Paris. She was into prostitution.

I saw Angelina. I approached her at a café off the Beaten path of Paris. She was not eating well and looked thin and pale. I had the waiter bring her favorite dish, baked blackened salmon and a half carafe of France's finest wine. I was about to make my entrance. I watched as the waiter brought her dinner. She was confused and looked at the menu.

“ No! I did not order this. I can't afford this. Take it back, Please!”

The waiter pointed me at the bar and I a gave her a humbled look and removed my hat. I walked over to her table. She kept her eyes on me showing no emotion.

“It's what you loved the last time I took you to dinner.”

She turned slowly and catching my face she started to smile and gave into the other side.

“ So, now what? You need your model back?” I’m not a model anymore Tauney. I'm different now. ” I knew her body was now claimed by men that walked the streets at night looking for fun.

“ I give them pleasure and well… I'm good at it.”

She was justifying her life and actions to me.

“I'm mean I not go back to ask for help? I live with a girl, she wanted me to meet friends. She told me I would make good money.” She put her head down and started tearing up.

“I had no idea she was prostitute and that we would smoke Opium. I want to go back, but I can’t leave.” I gave her a napkin and stroked her cheek.

I saw the suffering within her. I've learned and also was slowly beaten into submission by sadness and knew the mark it left well by now. I saw how it claimed many faces around me and was easily recognizable in her.

“ Why you come? To get your whore, model back?”

I looked at her, poured her wine, and ordered her a dessert. I lit her cigarette. She was wearing a very tempting outfit with black knee-highs. She had lowered to arouse the senses. Her dress was a black frock, which spilt in the middle and groupings of red fringe down the sides. She still smelled of lilacs and apples. I'm sure the men who escorted her enjoyed smelling her neck when.I cleared that thought from my head.

“ Oh, Angelina what am I going, to do with you? No, you silly, foolish, hard headed little girl, I'm going buy you!”

She looked at me, and I handed her 2500 francs. She started laughing. As I fed her fish, she started to cry. I held her, and I comforted her. Her hardheaded pride always got the best of her and it lead her to the brink of demoralization. She told me her story, and all that happened. She was introduced to drugs and they slowly pulled her mind in the web of deception where her body followed. A few days later, I located her pimp, threw him on a table, broke his nose, and stuck 5000 francs in his mouth. Two other associates met me and almost got the best of me. Thanks to my cane and a wine carafe in the room, I was able to leave unscathed. Angelina was finally free. I cleaned her up and offered her shelter and soon she was humming and cleaning my flat again making a home for herself. I was starting to forget about everyone and concentrating on painting and enjoying myself just to be alive and welcomed the affections of Angelina, who I eventually called Angela either through habit or mistake. Eventually, the name stuck.

The letter

I was saying my goodbyes at the Cafe Closerie de Lilias. Jean held a small party for me. A few friends I had met on the way or through some conversations with Jean were there; just a backdrop of faces that would eventually end up in the black and white pictures of the history of Montparnasse. Jean spoke raising his glass of wine.

“My friends it's a sad day for most of us. Our good friend Robert is sailing back the United States, never to return.” He paused a moment.

“ The bastard is also taking with him, one of France's finest models, but never the less… ” The crowd laughed and I could hear whistles of applause coming from the back.

“I’d like to make a toast to our friend and fellow painter, Robert Tauney. May your voyage and life be filled with blessings.” We all toasted, drank, and we all broke up and went to the room a few handshakes a pat on the back and maybe a tip of the hat. Such gracious gestures for this failed painter of Paris. I sat down and Jean watched me.

“What will I do without my friend? Do you need anything? Money or-“

“No, my good friend,” I responded. “ I was hoping just to see someone before I leave tomorrow.”

Jean nodded and took his hat off. The skies were graying a bit to the east.

“Have you said your farewells to...” He didn't want to say her name.

“ To Camille?”

“ If I do then I'll be buried soon enough beside her. Camille would want me to live and, well that's that.”

Jean reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope.

“ Robert, Alice came by before you arrived she told me that this letter is for you and you should only open it when you arrive in the states. If not, it would be even more difficult for you both.” I took the letter and was tearing up. He put his hand on mine and we smoked our last cigarette together. That was the last time I saw Jean. Funny, I thought he was the one who had been given the task to give Camille the letter and to meet me at the studio. Alice gave him the same instructions. Except Alice brought me a letter of life. We shook hands and I hugged him. I was walking out and looked in the corner for my ever hunched over a friend. With a Jameson by his stack of papers and the man helped redeem me through my writing. He wasn't there this one time. I wanted to tell him thank-you.

After arriving in the states, April 1925, she finally wrote to me in 1926, and we wrote to one another every month. We decided to keep our affair discreet and at a distance. Our correspondence grew into friendship. The Paper was my vehicle in which I traveled to her, and my exchange of notes was our symbolic love making. Age did not give blemishes to parchment, and she was eternal and ageless in her poems and letters. She regretted not coming to meet me the next day at La Purr. I forgave her and many things and sweet things that did bind and sealed our connection. She asked to put me in her memoirs I told her,

“I've had Enough of Paris and the Hell with all of them.”

She was used to my sensible nature by then and adhered to my wishes.

I remember Claudet asking me about the lilies. I had never thought of it before. I had them around me the whole time in the worst times when I needed them. They weren't just flowers that I adorned my studio and my models. They were Lilies, Calla Lilies. It hit me like a storm. In some way, it was a symbolic gesture from my mother. She was watching me and letting me know she was by my side. She was there with Camille, Claudete, and Thelma too. Maybe the Lillie was not a final letter to me from Thelma’s death, but a reminder and symbol of eternal life after death. My mother was watching with love and showering flowers about my path keeping me from harms way. Her name was Lillie.

She was my soul mate and lover through letters, poetry, and thought. We were both were separated by oceans. Distance did not cease the comfort of our hearts. It is true there were many lovers for Alice and I still loved my Angelina, my Parisian model from Cuba. We never talked about it after that and the picture of the Angela by Soutine eventually over time just became an accessory on the wall. Each object we had from Montparnasse became an object of memory. Either of love or loss. We were living in a museum of memory. Picasso gave a few sketches to my bronze model, and they shared a few moments I'm sure. The loss of Alice in 1952 tore me to the core. I was a changed man after that month. So badly I wanted to fly to her grave and lay upon it as I did Camille's. My heart close and next to hers. The grave was no longer a place of fear of the end, a result of all things coming to end. It was a place of transformation of future gatherings of light and forgiveness, and requited love. Death is not a chain that binds us to a chamber of earth; but frees the most hidden unseen part embedded within us. Freeing one immortal bliss and godliness. Removing the scales of ego and unleashing us from unwanted habit. As disease eats away at this mortal form, I no longer rely on its function for movement and grasp at the last morsels of consciousness. My mind is set on the gate of light to open and her heavenly host of friends, companions, and family to greet me. Finally taking me to my Queen Of Montparnasse.

THE END