My Uncle Oswald(50)
The possibility of getting a picture from one or both of these great artists excited Yasmin a good deal. “You’ll be visiting lots of other painters before we’re finished,” I said. “You could form a collection.”
“That’s a pretty good idea,” she said. “Renoir, Monet, Matisse, Bonnard, Munch, Braque, and all the rest of them. Yes, it’s a very good idea. I must remember that.”
The lobsters were huge and delicious, with enormous claws. The Chablis was good, too--a Grand Cru Bourgros. I have a passion for fine Chablis, not only for the steely-dry Grands Crus but also for some of the Premiers Crus, where the fruit is a little closer to the surface. This particular Bourgros was as steely as any I had ever tasted. Yasmin and I discussed strategy while we ate and drank. It was my contention that no man was going to turn away a young lady who possessed the charm and the devastating beauty of Yasmin. No male, however ancient, was capable of treating her with indifference. Wherever we went I kept seeing evidence of this. Even the suave, marble-faced receptionist downstairs had gone all over queer when he caught sight of Yasmin standing before him. I had been watching him closely and I had seen that famous old spark flashing in the very centre of the pupil of each of his jet-black eyes, and then his tongue had poked out and had begun sliding over his upper lip, and his fingers had fumbled inanely with our registration forms, and at the end of it all he had given us the wrong keys. A scintillating and sex-soaked creature our Yasmin was, a kind of human Blister Beetle all on her own, and as I say, no man on earth was going to send her packing.
But none of this sexual chemistry was going to help us one bit unless the girl was able actually to present herself to the customer. Formidable housekeepers and equally formidable wives could well be a problem. My optimism, however, was based on the fact that the fellows we were after were nearly all painters or musicians or writers. They were artists. And artists are probably the most approachable people you can find. Even the very great ones are never guarded, as businessmen are, by iron-mouthed secretaries and amateur gangsters in black suits. Big businessmen and their like live in caves that can be reached only by passing through long tunnels and many rooms with a Cerberus around every corner. Artists are loners, and more often than not they open the front door themselves when you ring the bell.
But why would Yasmin be ringing the bell in the first place?
Ah well, she was a young English girl, a student of art (or music or literature, whichever was applicable) who had such a massive admiration for the work of Monsieur Renoir or Monet or Stravinsky or whomever, that she had come all the way from England to pay homage to the great man, to say hello to him, to give him a little present and then to go away again. Nunc dimittis.
“That,” I said to Yasmin as I polished off the last succulent lobster claw--and by the way, don’t you love it when you are able to draw the flesh of the claw out of the shell whole and pinky-red in one piece? There is some kind of tiny personal triumph in that. I may be childish, but I experience a similar triumph when I succeed in getting a walnut out of its shell without breaking it in two. As a matter of fact, I never approach a walnut without this particular ambition in mind. Life is more fun if you play games. But back to Yasmin--”that,” I said to her, “will get you invited right into the house or the studio ninety-nine times out of a hundred. With your smile and your lascivious looks, I cannot see any of these lads turning you away.”
“What about their watchdogs or their wives?”
“I think you’ll get past them, too. Occasionally they may tell you the man’s busy painting or writing and to come back at six o’clock. But you’re always going to win in the end. Don’t forget, you’ve travelled a long way just to pay homage. And make a point of saying you won’t stay more than a few minutes.”
“Nine,” Yasmin said, grinning. “Just nine minutes. When do we start?”
“Tomorrow,” I said. “I shall buy a motor car this afternoon. We’re going to need it for our French and other European operations. And tomorrow we will drive to Essoyes and you will meet Monsieur Renoir.”
“You never waste time, do you, Oswald?”
“My darling,” I said, “as soon as I have made a fortune, I propose to spend the rest of my life wasting time. But until the money is in the bank, I shall work very hard indeed. And so must you.”
“How long do you think it will take?”
“To make our fortunes? About seven or eight years. No more. That’s not such a long stretch when it means you can laze about doing nothing forever after.”