Authors: Gordon Merrick
He spent the rest of the day in a state that was familiar to him from the last weeks in New York, torn between defiance and dread. As evening approached he became restlessly impatient for Patrice’s return. His boy was the only person in the world he would willingly discuss the letter with, knowing anything he said would be shrewd and to the point. Nicole might see it as a defeat, a possibility Patrice would never consider.
As soon as he heard a key in the lock, his nerves unwound, and he was able to put on a welcoming smile. Patrice made a cheerful entrance, carrying a string bag distended with groceries.
“Go put your things away,” Rod said. “I’ve got something to show you.”
Patrice gave him a curious look. “Good or bad?”
“That’s what you’re supposed to tell me.” He stood in front of the fireplace holding the letter while Patrice went to the kitchen. When Patrice returned, Rod held it out to him and moved around beside him so that he could read it once more.
“Is this the way Americans talk about art? Patrice asked without lifting his eyes from the sheet of paper. “They sound as if they’re in the sausage business.”
Rod uttered a brief laugh. “They’re very dedicated to money. Do you think it means they’re going to postpone my show?”
“It seems possible. Of course, they haven’t seen the new things yet. I think that you don’t have to pay too much attention to this until they do see the works we sent.”
It was just what Rod had hoped he would say. “Thank God you’re here. I’ve had a bad day. It gave me a shock.”
Patrice looked up with a reassuring smile and rubbed his shoulder against him and handed back the letter. “We better have a drink.” He fixed them strong ones, and they settled down opposite each other. “You don’t have a contract with these people,” he said.
“Not really. Just an agreement. It was firmly understood that they’re giving me a show in the spring.”
“Yes, but if they delay, you can take your things to somebody else?”
“I could, but you don’t know how things work in New York. I’d have to go back and make contacts, and even then I probably couldn’t get anything set up before fall. I don’t have the money to wait.”
“We must think. Is it a good idea what they say about having a group show.”
“It could be, depending on the group, and if they promise to follow it up with a show of my own.”
“I think you must write them. If they sell only a few things, it would be enough for us to get through the summer. When they see the new things they will pay attention to what you want. They should be there by now. Don’t worry. It will be all right.”
“You really think it’s the best work I’ve done, don’t you?”
“Without any doubt. Everybody will think so. Your gallery’s idea to show just a few first is probably very smart. A few to put the price up and then a whole show to make you rich. You must write and tell them that’s the way to do it and ask for $1,000 so that we don’t have to worry about the summer. I sell things better if I have an investment in them.”
“You’re a smart monkey.” Rod looked at him with gratitude. His unwavering faith was wholly masculine. Girls always suspected men of being dreamers and trying to shirk their practical responsibilities. A man was supposed to be first and foremost a good provider. Nicole was bound to see that Patrice’s suggestions would further delay any serious plans for marriage. Anyway, everything was too much up in the air to bother her with it.
He drained his drink and felt all the worries of his troubled day dissolving and melting away. “I’m so damn lucky you found me. I guess I’ve said it before, but I go on being amazed by you.”
“I may amaze you more,” Patrice said with a sly smile. “A girl came into the shop yesterday. She was so pretty and looked at me as if she liked me so very much that for a second I thought I might get hard for her. Do you think I might stop being queer? I admit she was very boyish.”
They laughed, but Rod wasn’t as pleased as he thought he should be. Patrice was his. He needed him more than ever now; he needed all his love and attention.
Letters began to spread past each other over the Atlantic. Rod wrote, the gallery wrote, and Rod wrote again. But none of the letters answered any other. Gradually some order emerged from the correspondence. The difficulty turned out to be that the three partners in the gallery were at loggerheads over Rod’s new work. One didn’t like it, one did but didn’t want the partnership to break up and agreed that it might not be commercial. The third, whose name was Herbert Kappenstein, was Rod’s determined champion. Mr. Kappenstein was so determined that if Rod would go along with him and he could pick up a few other young painters to form a viable “stable,” he would consider setting up on his own. In the midst of the controversy, nobody bothered to answer Rod’s question about money.
Patrice read the letters with glee. “You see,
chéri?
Only the really good ones make violent feelings. If it were here, there would be fistfights in the streets, and you would be a celebrity overnight. If those people had any sense, they would show your work even if they hate it.”
Only the fact that there was still hope made it possible for Rod to forget from time to time that almost another month had passed, his money had further dwindled, and he didn’t know where more was coming from. The threat of being back where he had started, with money once more the dominating factor of life, drove him to great distraction.
He admitted to Nicole that he was having trouble getting a firm date for his show, but he did his best to make light of it. If they were going to have a lifetime together worrying about the rent, he didn’t see any point in starting before it was necessary. It turned out that she had a problem too.
“I have an announcement,” she said when they were seated at the table in the dining area she had cleverly created in a corner of her entrance hall. Big-leafed plants turned the place into a tropical bower. The table bore a handsome display of silver and china and glass. He paused between spoonfuls of soup and looked at her for a clue to what was coming. She looked her most serene, exquisite in candlelight. “I thought of dropping it gaily into the conversation with drinks, but it might have seemed frivolous. I think now, before you’ve eaten enough to spoil your digestion. I’m pregnant.”
“You’re
what?
” He let out a whoop of joy before she could repeat the word and was on his feet and crouched down beside her, his arms around her, his head pressed to the fine wool that covered her breasts. “Oh, darling. How fabulous,” he crooned.
She stroked his hair. “But do you understand?”
Enceinte.
Pregnant. Is that the right word?”
He looked up with misted eyes. “It’s the perfect word.”
She laughed gently. “Dearest friend. How adorable of you to take it like this. I hope you will be equally happy in a year or two if it happens again.”
“Don’t worry. We can make it an annual event. I want to take you to bed and find out about you all over again, little mother.” She filled the universe; there was no room for anybody else. Nobody had so completely possessed all his senses and thoughts and emotions.
She touched his face with her fingertips. “You are so very sweet. Perhaps I chose the wrong time for my announcement after all. Do you want to miss quite a good dinner?”
“No, but only because you took the trouble to cook it. I’m afraid I won’t notice whether it’s good or bad.” He drew her to him, and they kissed tenderly. He straightened and resumed his seat. Their eyes met. He sprang up again and leaned over her, and they kissed more ardently. He sat and gazed at his soup with a bemused smile. “My goodness. I’m a father.”
“Yes. It’s lovely knowing it and feeling it there, but we mustn’t let it stay very long.”
“What do you mean?”
“I must have been careless. It’s hard to remember everything when we’re making love. This will be–what do you call it–a preview performance.”
“I see. You mean an abortion?” He was still riding a wave of such dizzying delight that the word made no dent on his consciousness.
“Of course. There’s no worry about that.”
“Wait a minute,” he said as he reached for her hand across the table. “Don’t start being sensible too soon. How long is it safe to wait?”
“Oh, of course, the sooner the better, but there’s no big hurry. If I arrange it in the next few weeks, it will be all right.”
“Have you thought of not getting rid of it, not having an abortion?”
“Oh, my darling, if we’re going to talk about that, I’d better change the plates.” She gathered them up and left him.
His sense of the world turning around two people who had become one was so vivid and extraordinary that he was incapable of forcing his mind into practical channels. He drifted in a daze of ecstatic completion–as if he were taking part in his own birth–until Nicole returned and served more food that he didn’t bother to identify. “I think we should talk about having the baby,” he said.
“Oh, dearest, I would love to, but how can we?”
“Well, I guess it wouldn’t be fair to have a bastard, so maybe we’ll have to get married.”
“But we can’t afford to get married. We know that. We certainly can’t afford to have a baby.”
“How much does having a baby cost? I’ve told you, if the show comes off in a month or two, there should be plenty of money for the time being. A couple of months of uncertainty doesn’t seem much to pay for the kid’s life. You have some money, don’t you?
“So little. I’ve had some family things that I sell, but they’re almost all gone. The rest is a tiny income that nobody could live on. In the States I would have gone to work long ago, but here a girl earns so little that it’s been easy to put it off. You see why Lola was so anxious for me to catch you.”
“Some catch.” The tide of elation that had carried him beyond the financial facts of life was beginning to recede under the pressure of the all-powerful words: cost, afford, money, income. The only thing to do about them was to pretend not to hear them. His adoption of more enduring values would have to be sustained by an act of faith. He made a quick mental list of his potential assets.
If his parents knew that the life of their grandchild was at stake, they might be willing to part with a bit of their precious capital. He thought of François Leclerc. If he put up $1,000, very nearly all he had left, in a week it would be $2,000, and the profit could pull in another $1,000 and so forth until the baby and marriage and even an apartment were paid for. He thought of Mr. Kappenstein but knew that the best he could hope for from him was a minimum to get by a little longer, certainly not enough for a wife and baby. Life’s marketplace–bargaining, jockeying for advantages, calculating every move, buying and selling things that shouldn’t have a price. A slave market.
“Listen,” he said. “All I ask is that you wait as long as possible before you do anything drastic. So long as there’s no risk for you, naturally.”
“You’re very surprising. Usually it’s the man who feels trapped when this happens. I don’t want to trap you.”
He reached for her hand again. “How could I feel trapped? I mean, if I’m trapped, it’s because I want to be trapped. By you. I sometimes think you let me feel almost too free. Is there any reason why we can’t get married and just go on the way we are until we see what happens?”
“Please, my darling. That is one thing I don’t want. When I get married, I want to feel truly married.” There was an uncharacteristic sharpness in her voice.
He looked at her, puzzled. “How much more married
can
we feel? I didn’t realize you thought a little ceremony would make that much difference?”
She looked briefly flustered, but when she spoke she had recovered her habitual sweet tranquility. “I don’t mean the ceremony. I mean the way we would live, in our own house, together. Until then I would rather be your mistress. Mistresses are supposed to take care of their carelessness.”
Rod groaned. “Damn money. Isn’t an abortion expensive?”
“I’m afraid so. I’ve been thinking whom I can borrow from.”
“Don’t, for God’s sake. I’ll take care of it if that’s the way it turns out. Please, sweetheart, let’s think about having the baby as long as we can. It makes me so damn happy. We’ve got to stop this once-a-week routine. I want to be with you as much as possible.”
He insisted on spending the night with her and got home as Patrice was preparing his café-au-lait. He broke the news happily and hugged his boy and kissed him on the mouth. “I’m a
father,
” he exclaimed. “Isn’t it incredible? I don’t see how we can keep it, but for right now I’m a father.”
Patrice treasured the kiss, knowing that this could drastically alter their lives. “You’re beautiful when you’re so happy and excited. Nicole must be mad about you as a father.”
“She’s all ready for an abortion, but we have a couple of weeks to decide. I want to spend more time with her until it’s settled. When I do come home at night, I’ll have to start using the sofa. I told you I like to wake up with my work. You understand, don’t you monkey? It may be superstition, but I’d be afraid that God would strike me dead if I did anything that a son of mine might not be proud of.”
“Of course,
chéri.
I wish you would let me have the sofa, but I understand about your work.” He also understood that Rod’s pride of parenthood and a matter-of-fact attitude about abortion were on a collision course that threatened disaster. It alarmed him, but there was nothing he could do except pledge himself once more to self-sacrifice and selfless love. He was ready to be tested. “That girl I mentioned came in again yesterday. She pretends to be interested in a very expensive vase, but I think not. Shall I invite her into my empty bed? You make me want to have a baby too.”