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'Yes!' they were saying in the crowd. 'How can he sell it? It is part of himself!'
'Listen,' the dealer said, coming up close. 'I will help you, I will make you rich. Together we shall make some private arrangement over this picture, no?'
Drioli watched him with slow, apprehensive eyes. 'But how can you buy it, Monsieur? What will you do with it when you have bought it? Where will you keep it? Where will you keep it tonight? And where tomorrow?'
'Ah, where will I keep it? Yes, where will I keep it? Now, where will I keep it? Well, now ...' The dealer stroked the bridge of his nose with a fat white finger. 'It would seem,' he said, 'that if I take the picture, I take you also. That is a disadvantage.' He paused and stroked his nose again. 'The picture itself is of no value until you are dead. How old are you, my friend?'
'Sixty-one.'
'But you are perhaps not very robust, no?' The dealer lowered the hand from his nose and looked Drioli up and down, slowly, like a farmer appraising an old horse.
'I do not like this,' Drioli said, edging away. 'Quite honestly, Monsieur, I do not like it.' He edged straight into the arms of a tall man who put out his hands and caught him gently by the shoulders. Drioli glanced around and apologized. The man smiled down at him, patting one of the old fellow's naked shoulders reassuringly with a hand encased in a canary-coloured glove.
'Listen, my friend,' the stranger said, still smiling. 'Do you like to swim and to bask yourself in the sun?'
Drioli looked up at him, rather startled.
'Do you like fine food and red wine from the great chateaux of Bordeaux?' The man was still smiling, showing strong white teeth with a flash of gold among them. He spoke in a soft coaxing manner, one gloved hand still resting on Drioli's shoulder. 'Do you like such things?'
'Well - yes,' Drioli answered, still greatly perplexed. 'Of course.'
'And the company of beautiful women?'
'Why not?'
'And a cupboard full of suits and shirts made to your own personal measurements? It would seem that you are a little lacking for clothes.'
Drioli watched this suave man, waiting for the rest of the proposition.
'Have you ever had a shoe constructed especially for your own foot?'
'No.'
'You would like that?'
'Well ...'
'And a man who will shave you in the mornings and trim your hair?'
Drioli simply stood and gaped.
'And a plump attractive girl to manicure the nails of your fingers?'
Someone in the crowd giggled.
'And a bell beside your bed to summon your maid to bring your breakfast in the morning? Would you like these things, my friend? Do they appeal to you?'
Drioli stood still and looked at him.
'You see, I am the owner of the Hotel Bristol in Cannes. I now invite you to come down there and live as my guest for the rest of your life in luxury and comfort.' The man paused, allowing his listener time to savour this cheerful prospect.
'Your only duty - shall I call it your pleasure - will be to spend your time on my beach in bathing trunks, walking among my guests, sunning yourself, swimming, drinking cocktails. You would like that?'
There was no answer.
'Don't you see - all the
guests will thus be able to observe this fascinating picture by Soutine. You will become famous, and men will say, "Look, there is the fellow with ten million francs upon his back." You like this idea, Monsieur? It pleases you?'
