GUILLAUME OPENS THE DOOR.
Standing in front of him is a middle-aged man in a brown corduroy suit. He is short and barrel-chested, with a handsome face that, Guillaume fancies, has seen a thing or two. The man’s eyes shine with amused intelligence from beneath the rim of a pristine fedora.
“Monsieur Blanc?” says the man. “I hope you’re expecting us. We have an appointment.” He speaks excellent French, with just the faintest echo of an American accent. He gestures behind him, and there in the corridor stands Gertrude Stein. She is wearing a screamingly loud floral dress and a bright blue hat. She carries a large handbag in front of her, bearing it like a shield. In contrast to her companion, she is spectacularly unattractive. Her skin is sallow, her eyes dull, and her nose is shaped like a monstrous crow’s beak.
“Of course,” says Guillaume. “Won’t you come in?” He takes a step back and ushers the couple inside. The man removes his hat as he walks into the room, and runs a hand through his short-cropped steel-gray hair. His eyes fall on a painting propped up against Guillaume’s still-unmade bed, a grittily beautiful scene from the streets of the Marais. He turns and says something to Gertrude Stein in English. She shrugs her shoulders but says nothing. The couple stares at the painting in silence for several moments. Then the man shakes his head.
“I don’t like this at all,” he says.
Who is this bossy, ignorant fellow? The demonic pounding of Guillaume’s hangover returns. “Miss Stein?” he asks, turning toward her. “What do you think?”
Those big ugly eyes goggle at Guillaume in mute horror. He feels an anxious twist in his gut, a vague sense that everything is unraveling, but he doesn’t know why.
“Excuse me,” says the man. “But I am Gertrude Stein.”
Guillaume blinks. “Pardon?”
“I am Gertrude Stein,” repeats the man. He points to the woman. “This is my companion, Alice Toklas. You’re welcome to ask her opinion, monsieur, but I can assure you it will be the same as mine.” He produces a small, embossed card from an inside pocket of the corduroy suit, and hands it to Guillaume. It reads:
GERTRUDE STEIN
27, RUE DE FLEURUS, PARIS
écrivaine
Guillaume feels the blood rushing to his cheeks and hopes that he doesn’t look as confounded as he feels. He looks at Gertrude Stein again, more closely this time, recalibrating everything he sees.
Confoundment, still.
“Emile Brataille said that you had some superior portraits,” says Gertrude Stein. “Perhaps you could show us those?”
The portraits are propped up against the wall by the window. Guillaume leads the pair over to inspect them. His subjects are a motley crew; whenever he can afford it, he pulls people off the streets with a promise of a franc or two for their time. A street cleaner, a grave digger, the trumpet player from the house band at Le Chat Blanc. There are two or three of Thérèse in various states of undress. The two Americans scrutinize each painting, then whisper to each other before moving on to the next one. Gertrude Stein is doing most of the talking. Guillaume has learned enough English while dashing off charcoal portraits in Place du Tertre to follow most of the conversation, but he pretends not to understand a word.
Finally Gertrude Stein turns toward him. “What else do you have to show us?” she asks.
Guillaume feels his world tilting precariously. “There’s nothing here of interest to you?” he croaks.
She shakes her head. “I’m afraid it’s all quite derivative and second-rate.” Before Guillaume can respond, the American clomps across the studio and stands in front of the painting hanging on the wall opposite his bed.
“Ah, now,” she murmurs. “This, on the other hand. Alice, come and see!”
Alice scuttles across the room. They look at it together.
“This one is all right,” says Gertrude Stein. She turns to him. “How much do you want for it?”
Of all the paintings in the room, this is the one that she wants.
Guillaume closes his eyes. He thinks of Le Miroir and his thugs.
“Twelve hundred francs,” he says. The words are ashes in his mouth.
Gertrude Stein considers this number, her head cocked at a thoughtful angle. “I’ll give you nine hundred for it,” she says.
Nine hundred francs will not help him. Nine hundred francs will still get him killed. Guillaume curses silently. Of course the American wanted to haggle. He should have asked for two thousand and then allowed himself to be beaten down. He shakes his head. “The price is twelve hundred,” he says, hoping she won’t hear the fear in his voice.
Gertrude Stein looks at him with interest. After a moment she says, “Well, in that case you might as well show us what else you have.”
Guillaume doesn’t know whether to feel despair or relief.
For the next half hour the two women pick over what remains of Guillaume’s inglorious career. They are unmoved by his landscapes. They do not like his still lifes. His brief dalliance with collage leaves them cold.
They move toward the final canvas. They stand in front of it, their heads almost touching. There is a final shake of the head from Gertrude Stein, and the game is up.
Guillaume makes a decision.
“One moment, please.”
Gertrude Stein turns to him. “Yes?”
“I accept your offer,” he says miserably.
“My offer?”
He points to the painting on the wall. “It’s yours for nine hundred.”
“No, thank you,” she says.
Guillaume stares at her. “Pardon?”
“I’ve changed my mind,” she says. “I don’t want it anymore.”
“But you said you liked it!”
“Did I?” Gertrude Stein puts the fedora back on her head. “Come along, Alice.”
Alice moves past Guillaume and into the corridor, not looking him in the eye. He watches them go, numb. Just before the door closes behind them, Gertrude Stein steps back into the room. There is a new, hard glint in her eye. She points to the painting on the wall.
“I’ll give you six hundred for it,” she says.
Guillaume stares at her. “But you just offered me nine hundred!”
“An offer you rejected. This is my new offer.”
“But that’s daylight robbery!”
She doesn’t blink. “Do you accept or not?”
Six hundred francs. Exactly half of what he needs. He is bleeding, on the floor.
Gertrude Stein stands in his studio and calmly waits for him to agree to her terms.
She watches him.
She does not look away.