Chapter 21
It was an unusual and depressing summer. Gertrude finally scheduled the dinner party for Marevna and I was invited. Marevna arrived with Diego who was leaving France that week. It would be his farewell party as well as Marevna's unveiling of the portrait. Gertrude was joyous.

She wore a yellow floor length dress made of sail cloth. Alice was all in Green. Pablo arrived with Max Jacob. Hemingway's wife Hadley was there too. She and the baby lived almost next door. There were strong naturally distilled liquors made from wild pears.

Picasso was deep in conversation with Diego and Marevna. Max nibbled on olives and Gertrude talked to Hadley. I listened, close by, talking to Alice as she prepared food. We both knew what was about to unfold. I for one was a little nervous.
"And how is Goddy?" Gertrude asked.
"You mean Bumby," from Hadley.

"I know very well you call him Bumby. I know very well his real name is John. But I as his godmother and I chose to call him Goddy."
"Well," Hadley smiled. "He's well. He's a good little boy; very easy to take care of. He's always happy."
"Does Hem spend time with him?" Gertrude asked.

"Oh yes. He comes over every other day or so. They go off to the park together or to the Closerie for lunch. The waiters make a big fuss over him and feed him ice cream. He just adores it."
"I'm sure he does," Gertrude laughed heartily.

Everyone Knows Bumby

"All the writers know him. Everybody knows baby Bumby," Hadley smiled proudly.
Pablo interrupted. "So Gertrude, I haven't seen you. Are you avoiding me?"
Gertrude laughed and slapped Pablo on the back. "No, Pablo. I would never avoid my favorite painter. I've been in Bilining."
"Ah, yes, Bilignin, where one can eat like Brillet Savarin."

"Yes," said Gertrude. One eats well there. But I come back to Paris because in Bilignin at this time of the year there is nothing."
Picasso looked confused. but he smiled agreeably. "And I see you have added a new painter to your atelier," he smiled.
"Ah you have seen my Haas."

"Yes and I know him well. We were just talking."
"Yes, yes. I met him at your place with Rousseau and your gang of hoodlums."
"This word hood... This word I do not know," he replied, frowning.
"Oh, you know what I mean. " She slapped him on the back again.

Picasso Was Not Too Amused

Picasso was less than amused.
"So. Now you have a new protégé. He paints like me. I like that."
"Nobody paints like you, Pablo," she remarked.
"No, no. I do see a Picasso in his style. I think he has been studying my work."

"Well, perhaps. That is why there is only one Pablo...for me, that is. Come, let me show you something. Everyone, come this way,' she shouted.

We entered the atelier where a dining table was set up with candles, flowers and settings for us all.
Gertrude spoke. "I have only a few candles but I am going to turn on the gaslight. We have a surprise for you."

"I looked at Marevna. She smiled nervously. Everyone took their places at the table. Gertrude gave a signal to Alice who turned up the gaslights.
"Now," said Gertrude. What do you see?"

A Confusing Moment...

Everyone looked around, confused.
Suddenly, Picasso rose. He pushed back his chair.
"Caramba! He exclaimed. "It's impossible. There cannot be two Picassos."

Everyone looked at the two portraits of Picasso's work.

"That's amazing!" Hadley exclaimed.
"Mon dieu," said Max, crossing himself.
What a funny gesture from someone Jewish, I thought. We later discovered that he had converted to Catholicism.
Picasso climbed on a chair to get a closer look.

Picasso Cannot Tell the Portraits Apart!

"Impossible. I cannot tell them apart. This is not a good thing," he frowned.

"Not at all," said Gertrude. "There is only one Picasso. The other is a copy."
"You mean a forgery," Picasso fumed.
"No, Pablo. A forgery is a copy made to fool someone into thinking it's the original. This is just a copy. Marevna here spent two months working on it. It is a work of genius."

"But who will know which one is the original from a distance? It could get into the wrong hands," from Max.

"Not at all my dear Max," Gertrude laughed nervously. "I placed a mark on the back of the original. I know which it is and I will take the copy to Bilignin. It's a compliment to you Pablo. I need a copy because I cannot bear being separated from it."
"Marevna. You are a great copyist," Max said. "I had heard you were good but this, this is a miracle." He crossed himself again.

Picasso was still uncertain. "But it lessens the value..."
"No," from Diego. "Gertrude will never sell either, especially since one is a copy and one is her prized possession. I would think it a compliment if someone copied one of my works."

"Well, then," said Alice, dryly, "why don't you get Marevna to copy something of yours. I'm sure she'd do it, for the right price."

Picasso Stared at the Two Paintings

Her remark made the group relax a little. Picasso sat staring at the two paintings.
"It is incredible," he muttered. "Incredible."

"And it will add to your fame. I don't know why you are concerned. What if a lithographer made thousands of copies and sold then for a few sous. Would you be annoyed? No, you would be delighted. Well, Marevna has made a very good likeness of my portrait and I am delighted. Don't make such a huge fuss. Let's enjoy our dinner. Alice, tell Clotilde we are ready to be served. Pablo, I give you the honor of opening the wine. It's a special Chateau Margaux, to commemorate the occasion."

Marevna Receives Many Congratulations

The conversation was animated. Everyone congratulated Marevna. She smiled quietly and said very little. I thought it was because Diego was leaving and she and Diego alone knew the truth of what was happening. What the group was admiring were two copies of the Picasso painting. The original was far from the rue de Fleurus. It wasn't even in France. Marevna had made an agreement with the devil. Everybody has his price, it seemed.

Pablo made light of the copied painting. "Is this mine or Vorobiev's?" he'd ask jokingly.

Gertrude just laughed. "Oh Pablo," she'd say, "you're such a joker."
"I should get her to copy all my paintings," he once said. "We can become rich."

But Picasso was rich. His work was in demand while others struggled. Pascin, Kissling, Chagall and many others became known and in demand but of all the painters I knew in Paris, Picasso and Braque, and perhaps Matisse, were most successful. As for me, I was now in demand more than ever. The extra money meant better food and clothing and more drinking with friends. Marevna also had more money from the Stein copy. She talked of moving out of Paris now that Diego had returned to Mexico. She found it difficult to paint during her pregnancy.

"I have friends in the country. I might spend some time with them," she told me.

Caresse Gives Up Her Lavish Apartment

Caresse had given up her lavish apartment and had moved to her beautiful estate at Ermenonville. She fittingly called it 'Moulin du Soleil'. Before she left, she invited me to see her. The apartment was empty except for a small table and two chairs. On the table was a tray of sandwiches from Prunier's and a magnum of Champagne. We were alone.

"What will you do now?" I asked.

Caresse took time to answer. "I will go to the country. I will continue Harry's dream of a publishing house. I will ask questions without answers. I will watch the sun in its orbit. It will remind me of Harry. He is now one with the sun."

After a pause, she continued. "Henri Jacqui and his wife will take care of me. They have a way with dogs, especially Whippets. I have a little white goat that Kay Boyle gave us. We...I, call him Soucoup. I have two handsome cockatoos, a ferret, carrier pigeons, some loving ducks, two Siamese kittens and a cheetah. I won't be lonely. My Afgan, Amanulia, king of canines and the schnauzers, will watch over me...and, of course, you'll come to visit. Won't you Bobby?"

"Often," I replied, holding her hand. She had tears in her eyes.
I couldn't help think that Harry was the big loser here. Harry, the rich young man with the head filled with dreams, had never bet to place or show. "One always plays to win," he once told me.

But Harry was a loser. Caresse, the biggest prize at all, had fallen from his grasp, the moment he reached out for that life-ending pistol.

(To continue, click here)