The black sedan with Connecticut license plates pulled up to the curb on Tenth Street, opposite the gate that led to Patchin Place. The driver got out, unlocked the gate, and eased the car into the alley and down to number five. The forty-mile drive from Darien had taken a little over an hour and a half. Anne Matta’s father believed that his car got the best mileage at a speed of thirty or less. His wife’s volunteer work as a United Service Organizations driver allowed them ample gas ration coupons, but he saw no need to waste them.
As he opened the back door for his daughter, William Clark once again stifled his dismay at the prospect of Anne and her four-month-old twins living in a second-floor walk-up on a seedy dead-end street in this crummy neighborhood. Since he was paying the rent, he thought they should be someplace nicer, but Anne had convinced him that her husband needed to live near the other artists, who congregated in and around the Village. Besides, she had told him, for the same rent in a better neighborhood, they wouldn’t have room for a studio.
She could handle the groceries and the stroller, she said. “I’ll take them up first and then come back down for the boys.”
They unloaded her overnight bag and the basket with the baby supplies, which Anne carried across the sidewalk, up the three steps to the front door, and into the hall. Clark followed with the twins, Gordon and Sebastian, one in each arm. He wondered how Anne would manage once they started walking.
Her husband was no help. Oh, he was charming, intelligent, probably quite talented, though to Clark his paintings were ugly. He made a big fuss over the boys, bragged about how handsome they were—just like him, was the implication—but never lifted a finger to feed them or bathe them or change their diapers. But Anne was committed to him and wouldn’t hear a word of criticism, so Clark had learned to keep his misgivings to himself.
Anne made two trips to the second-floor hall, deposited the stroller, groceries, and luggage, and returned downstairs. She took the sleeping boys from her father’s arms.
“No need to come up, Dad,” she told him. “I’m an old hand at this already. You get on home.” She stepped toward him and stood on tiptoe for a kiss.
With the twins in her arms, he couldn’t embrace her as he would have liked to. He wanted to sweep her up, bundle her and the boys back into the car, and drive them home to Darien, away from this unsavory place and her feckless husband.
When she met Matta in Paris in 1938, he was a fledgling architect with a promising career ahead of him, but no sooner had she fallen in love with him than he threw it over to become a painter. What sort of prospects did that offer? Even in Paris, the center of the art world, the most advanced artists were starving, and of course, Matta wanted to be one of the innovators. On top of that, the war came and they had to get out.
Clark reflected on the bright side. Thank God Matta didn’t take her to his family in Chile! They would have been completely cut off for the duration, and she would have been among strangers, not knowing the language, totally dependent. At least here we can keep an eye on her, help with the expenses, and the twins were born United States citizens. And they’re less than an hour away by train. If things fall apart, he reasoned, she and the boys can always come to us.
“It was sweet of you and Mother to put up with us for a few days,” said Anne. “It was too bad of her not to let me lift a finger, but I admit it was a nice break for me.” She adjusted the twins in her arms. “These two are quite demanding.”
Clark touched her cheek. “You know how much your mother and I love having you with us. You must come whenever you like and stay as long as you like.” He added tactfully, “Of course, Roberto is welcome whenever he can get away.”
Anne was not fooled by his diplomacy. “I know how you feel about him, Dad. You think he’s wasting his time painting pictures no one wants to buy, but he works hard at it and he’s making headway. Peggy Guggenheim is promoting him. She has rich friends who she’s trying to interest in his work. Even the Museum of Modern Art is interested. But it takes time. He’s only been painting for a few years, and his ideas are kind of radical. Don’t think he doesn’t appreciate your support. I know you say it’s a gift, not a loan, but he wants to pay you back once he gets established. I have faith in him. I hope you will, too.”
They had had similar conversations before, always polite, never spinning out of control, but always ending with the same unsatisfactory stalemate. She was devoted to a man he disapproved of, and she showed no sign of changing her mind. Still, he knew better than to alienate her. His consolation was how close they were to Darien. Clark actually hoped that Matta would prove him wrong, but if not, Anne didn’t have far to go.
He kissed her again, and they said their goodbyes.
Anne found the apartment door unlocked. The party guest who had slept on the couch had revived after Matta left and didn’t lock up on his way out. All the other remains—the full ashtrays, the stale food, the dirty glasses—were still there. The only thing missing was her husband.
She surveyed the room with resignation, determined to have it cleaned up by the time he returned. Quickly, she parked the twins in their double crib in the bedroom and fetched her things from the hall. She didn’t bother to unpack. The kitchen garbage pail was spilling over, so down she went again to fetch an empty bin. With a window opened to air out the smell of stale cigarette smoke and the bin in the middle of the living room floor, she got to work.