Francis Bacon in Your Blood (34 page)

Francis has called to say that he has something to discuss with me before he goes back to London tomorrow. My first reaction is that I must have put my foot in it one way or the other, even though the lunch turned out against all odds to be a success and I can't think of anything I might have done to annoy him. We decide to meet at his hotel for a drink and when he gives me the address I realize with a shock that all this time he has been staying at the Hôtel des Saints-Pères where George killed himself. And if he's there, I suppose once I start thinking about it, he must have booked himself into the very same room they were sharing when he died, macabre though that sounds. Of course it is macabre, and if I were ever stupid enough to ask him about it I'd either get the sharp side of his tongue or he'd fob me off with some blind or other about the manager having been so understanding about George's death that he couldn't think of staying anywhere else. I wonder whether his returning repeatedly to the scene like this is a form of self-punishment, a deliberate aggravation of his guilt, or could it be, monstrous as it sounds, a way of absorbing the facts and circumstances of the death more fully, almost like a writer researching or an actor preparing himself for his role, since I know Francis has been working on several pictures directly inspired by the memories he has of George? I've seen ektachromes of a couple of them, and they have an extraordinary grandeur to them, both simple
and factual, that puts them among the most memorable paintings he has ever done.

I always leave enough time to walk wherever I have to go in Paris. It gives me a moment to collect myself, although I often find I'm just as tense and confused when I arrive as before. Even so, it's always a pleasure to cross the Seine, and I love to see the sun sparkle on the water and light the gold ribs on the glittering dome of the Institut de France, my single favourite building in the city. But I feel apprehensive and I start thinking about George and the other people I have known who are now dead, just plucked out of the air and forever absent unless you chose to bring them back as memories, and in particular of Danielle, the writer I became close to during the '68 ‘events' who has, I've just discovered with horror and guilt, also killed herself. Strangely she crosses with me over the Pont des Arts and up the little streets, hanging like a shadow in the sunlight as I walk along the Boulevard Saint-Germain and turn up the rue des Saints-Pères.

Francis greets me genially, which is a relief, and he seems filled with energy, although I can hear a slight wheezing as he breathes. He's drinking a whisky in the lobby of the hotel, and I follow suit.

‘Now listen, Michael,' he says. ‘You know those interviews that David Sylvester has done? Well, a publisher called Skira has asked whether they can bring them out in French and David has asked Michel whether he would translate them. Now Michel says that he would but he's not sure that his English is good enough to understand all of what's called the nuances. I wouldn't have thought myself that there was much nuance in what I say, but anyway we've talked about it and wondered if by any chance you'd have the time to do a kind of literal translation of them for him. I know it might be a bit of a bore . . .'

‘No, of course I'd love to, Francis.'

‘I know it's a lot to ask so are you sure you wouldn't mind? I know everybody would be very pleased.'

Thinking of the jobbing reviews I would have to put to one side, my only problem is to disguise quite how delighted and excited I am.

‘It would be a pleasure, Francis,' I say, taking a measured sip of my whisky. ‘Think what a privilege it would be for me to work with a master of French like Michel.'

‘Well, I'm so glad you think that, Michael,' Francis says, and we clink glasses.

I've done Sylvester's whole first interview with Francis into basic French and sent it to Michel. It's not as difficult as I feared, although the exchange does have nuances that are hard to catch in another language and often sound a bit weird since I have to stick to whatever the most literal, word-by-word version would be, even if it's going to make me look clumsy and uninspired when Michel gets down to transforming the lumpy result into elegant, flowing French. We've decided to have our first meeting this morning and Michel has suggested we work for a couple of hours at the Deux Magots and then go somewhere locally for lunch. I'm nervous when I arrive, not least because I feel I have fleetingly joined the ranks of the writers I admire by having a project under way with an eminent former Surrealist in a café where Joyce and Picasso, to say nothing of Sartre and Camus, have sat and worked and argued and generally carried on, somehow changing the course of art and literature as they did so. I don't think Michel and I are going to change much of anything this morning. He seems particularly buttoned up and formal as we shuffle his version and my version of the interview from side to side. Still, it's fascinating to see how much my text has changed: there's an incisiveness and flexibility in the French now that I could never have dreamed of. The only problem is that every once in a while the French conveys something manifestly different from what was intended in the English original. I broach this very gingerly but Michel is adamant, saying that he looked up the word in
his Harrap's French–English and that is one of the meanings given. I try to intimate that, even if Harrap's says so, I know it's not what Francis intended but I can almost feel Michel digging his heels into the café floor and realize this is going to be an uphill battle, though I plan later skirmishes because I owe it to Francis to ensure basic accuracy and wonder whether I might eventually have to involve him to persuade Michel to reconsider a few of his renderings.

After several more tugs of war and a couple of cups of coffee, Michel and I wander out on to the Boulevard Saint-Germain and decide to have lunch at a family-run bistro almost opposite the offices of
Cahiers d'Art
, one of the artistic and literary journals I revere most, to which among his myriad other achievements, I remind myself sharply, Michel has almost certainly contributed way back before I was even born. Suitably chastened, I sit squarely opposite him for what I imagine will be a quick, frugal meal, wondering whether I shouldn't back down over certain points in the translation out of respect. However, Michel's attention is focused on the wine list from which he eventually chooses the new Beaujolais, saying that would be best as a lunch wine because it's so light and I agree cheerfully although from past experience I know that Beaujolais has a treacherous undertow that gets you drunk more quickly than any other wine going. We're well into the first bottle before we've even looked at the menu and Michel is suggesting that since it's such a light wine a second bottle would be in order and from being thoroughly constrained, with his stern features constantly twitching, he begins to relax quite visibly, glass by glass, as thought it were a potion, which in many ways I suppose it is, and he becomes voluble about his life and his writings, which I've come to know quite well, insisting more and more that everything he has ever done is worthless and he himself is a sham because although he has taken certain literary ‘risks' they are nothing compared to real physical risks which he has never the courage to take so that someone whom he detested and
whose face he would like to slap publicly like General Bigeard, famous for the torture he carried out during the Algerian War, is in fact demonstrably superior to him because he has at least proved his bravery in war.

I am caught completely off guard because I have never seen Michel this communicative, not to say so fiercely self-deprecatory, before. I remind him that during one of the Surrealist escapades he had shouted out in front of a crowd ‘Down with France' at a particularly sensitive moment in the Rif war in Morocco and that he would have been lynched if the police hadn't intervened.

‘That was nothing,' Michel replies in a definitive tone. ‘I am a coward and a
sale bourgeois
, and that's that.' And as if to emphasize the point, he orders another bottle of Beaujolais.

I try to change the conversation. I've heard that Picasso's dealer, Daniel-Henry Kahnweiler, who has been living with Michel and Zette for years, has been very ill, so I ask him if he's any better.

‘Yes, he's made an extraordinary recovery,' Michel says. Then he grins suddenly, baring large teeth, with all tics gone. ‘We gathered round his bed thinking he was about to die. Then he suddenly came to and we asked him, timidly, if there was anything he wanted. “Yes,” he said, “
une saucisse-frites
”!'

By the time we leave the restaurant Michel is clearly unsteady on his feet, so I take his arm and we walk back to his apartment on the Quai des Grands-Augustins. I wonder whether he'll have to confront Zette in his inebriated condition or whether he'll be able to slip unobserved through the dark discreetly luxurious interior lined with Picassos, Légers and Braques, to his study overlooking the Seine. As we stand in front of the fortress-like door, I sense that Michel is about to re-enter a world of convention where self-exposure is taboo.

Just before he disappears into the building's gloom, he turns and repeats, like an urgent message to the outside world:

‘The truth is I never had the courage to risk my skin. I am just a
sale bourgeois.
'

‘Michael, is that you?'

‘Yes, Francis.'

‘Look, I'm terribly sorry to bother you like this but I've just been wondering whether by any chance you
could
find me a place like yours in Paris, as I think you said you might be able to do. I've been thinking about it ever since I got back to London.'

‘Of course I can. I'd be delighted to.'

‘I'm not looking for anything grand. Something simple where I could work and sleep. That's all I really want. I do feel London is terribly dreary at times and I'd love to have somewhere in Paris.'

‘Well, why don't I round up a few places for you to see and you can take a look at them when you next come over?'

‘That would be simply marvellous. I'll come over as soon as you think you've found a few places.'

I put down the phone feeling both elated and puzzled. I'd jump at the chance of being useful to Francis, particularly since it would mean he'd be coming to Paris more often. But I can't think why he'd want all the bother of having a place of his own when he loves staying in hotels and having everything laid on for him when he feels like it. He's also in his mid-sixties, which seems to me rather old to be starting a new adventure in life, and it's not as though he's ever found a place outside Reece Mews where he's been able to work. Still, I like the idea of finding a perfect studio for him and I put out the word among those of my artist friends who, and there are a few of them, have a very good eye for property. Before long one of them gets back saying that he knows of a magnificent studio for sale where Puvis de Chavannes worked and that the American owner would immediately drop his price if it was Francis Bacon who wanted it. I go along to visit and the space is indeed fantastic, a traditional nineteenth-century atelier with high ceilings and
vast windows, and with the reduction the price seems very reasonable. But it's not in the Marais, so I also do the rounds of the estate agents and settle on a space more comparable to mine, but bigger and more stylish, in an impressive, classic townhouse on the rue de Birague, which leads from the Place des Vosges down towards the Seine. The main room overlooks a quiet cobblestone courtyard and has a north light coming in through two lofty windows.

Francis arrives as planned and we go to visit the grand atelier and although he is very amiable to its American owner he tells me it's altogether more than he wants. We jump into a cab and go to visit the second option. The moment Francis walks in to the room he looks round and says, ‘I know I can work here,' and that seems to clinch the matter. He scarcely looks at the kitchen and bathroom. Things seem to me to be moving too quickly, particularly since the estate agents have lined up several other places for him to see and the owner's asking price for this one is exorbitant, especially in comparison to what I paid for mine. I feel I'm exercising due caution but Francis brushes this notion aside.

‘Let's just give him what he wants,' he says.

‘But, Francis, no one in Paris ever pays the initial asking price on a place.'

‘It's so rare to find something one wants that I can't really be bothered to what's called negotiate, Michael. And I'd like you to have the place and look after it for me.'

‘I can just look after it, Francis,' I say, alarmed by the sudden turn of events.

‘I'd like you to have it, as long as I can stay here when I want.'

‘That goes without saying, Francis. But wouldn't it make more sense if it was in your name?'

‘Well, it wouldn't actually, for all sorts of reasons. And I don't want the bother of owning things. I'd really be very grateful if we could do it in your name.'

I go back to my own less glamorous flat and spend the next couple of days in feverish speculation. Obviously I could hardly have dreamt up a more marvellous offer. There's not only the fact that owning something substantial would make my still pretty much hand-to-mouth existence in Paris less precarious, but the alluring prospect that I would be a more established and more obviously useful part of Francis's existence than ever. But while his trust in me is hugely important and flattering, I'm uneasy about getting ever further into his debt. I try to reason that this kind of conflict comes from my essentially puritan upbringing, but I just can't fob myself off. As I worry over this apparently insoluble contradiction, I find myself staring at the little papal head on the wall as if the anxiety inherent in the portrait's confused, blurred features might help resolve my own. A prominent Parisian art dealer has been making all kinds of advances towards me over the past few weeks, taking me to expensive restaurants as if simply for the pleasure of my company although at some point he always mentions how keen a wealthy client of his would be to own a Bacon painting. I've told him flatly that I have no intention of selling it, but suddenly the notion takes on a new significance. If I could get enough from the picture to pay for the flat, the problem would be solved, since I'd be able to do Francis what he calls a ‘favour' without increasing my indebtedness to him, and incidentally not having to worry whether the picture would be stolen or go up in flames every time I went out.