It was becoming more and more difficult to listen to the speeches; Gino was accustomed to acclaim, but nothing like this. His smile was growing tighter and he twisted in his seat--in part because he wore an elegantly tailored formal, and although it fit him perfectly, he was by nature uncomfortable in anything so stiff and artificial. The human heat of the room, billowing up from the audience, didn't help. He was beginning to perspire, dampness on his upper lip, cloying wetness under his jacket. He wanted to pull at his collar, loosen his tie, but that would have been rude. Gino was large and bluff-rarely rude.
He tried to remain politely focused on the speaker, but his eyes occasionally wandered about the vast hall. Facing him, almost Surrounding him, were four towering tiers of flamboyantly carved gold balustrades framing scarlet-upholstered walls, draperies, boxes and seats. The first and fourth levels were similar in design, as were the second and third, every inch covered with golden cascades of heraldic and floral patterns, figures and flags, interwoven with breathtaking skill. For a moment, he imagined it was a gigantic gilded web and he was glued in it.
Twenty-two hundred people-women in rainbows of long gowns and bare shoulders, men in black tuxedos, white fronts gleaming: a vast troupe of marionettes, remarkable more for their number than their mobility. From time to time seismic waves of applause rippled across them, and he had to restrain himself from shaking his head in amazement.
Around the auditorium pairs of great fluted gold columns rose at rhythmic intervals, some clutched by cupids, all blossoming high overhead into flowery capitals. These titans upheld a golden circlet encrusted with lights that shimmered like pearls in the faceted glow of the immense, pendulous glass chandelier, an inverted wedding cake wonder of awe-inspiring grandeur.
He would have found the florid, overwrought designs garish, except: above them all soared the dome and on its arching ceiling, the great mural with its brilliant, fragile colors and wraithlike fig- ures, celebrating the city, the arts, life itself. How he had puzzled over the colors and figures, seeking to learn, afraid to be tempted, troubled and yet enlightened. And what a mystical contrast to everything else in the hall.
Another staccato of applause; the marionettes obligingly dip- ping and lifting their heads, raising their hands and slapping them together, then arranging them in their laps, virtually in unison. The strings were invisible. Where was the maestro who conducted this performance? Hidden in the mural? The chandelier? Another mystery.
The speaker was André Malraux, novelist and art historian, the man who had been President de Gaulle's Minister of Culture until the great leader had resigned only a few months earlier. Wearing the obligatory formal attire, slim, with dark smooth hair, aquiline features; imperious. Malraux! Standing at the microphones and saying: "This is a rare moment in history, when we honor a creative genius during his lifetime--even better, while he is in his prime'"
Again the marionettes dipped and swayed in approval.
Gino smiled shyly, head down, unable to believe that this was happening. When he looked up, his eyes caught the eyes of Pietro, who sat in the first row of the orchestra, looking pale and pinched, hands clutching the armrests, eyes blinking rapidly. Despite the glare of the lights, Pietro seemed darker than ever. Gino considered nodding to him, but thought that might seem cruel.
When he looked back toward the dais, he saw Sartre sitting casually, smiling at him. Debonair despite thick black-framed glasses and unruly, thinning hair, he appeared to be the most relaxed man on the stage. No longer young, but still compelling, with lively eyes and a quick tongue. Earlier, Sartre had remarked to the audience that he and Gino shared the same name, Jean-Paul--Gianpaolo. "But Signore Bondone has more hair." That had brought laughter, too.
Malraux continued, praising Gino's innovative artistry, his powerful connection with reality-a new reality transcended by genius. Which made him think of the mural overhead, its translucent, Murano glass colors, the black framing of contorted yet lithesome figures, floating, always floating. What deceptive simplicity! He glanced to his right at Chagall, sitting with his wife, Vava, in the first level of boxes, almost close enough to touch. Small compared to Gianpaolo, bent and more gaunt with every passing year, hair white and sparse, but chin and nose still thrusting, powerful, eyes gleaming with joie de vivre. He was smiling benignly and proudly at Gianpaolo-Gino, as if he were his son. Perhaps listening to Malraux, nodding now and then, but never taking his eyes off Gino. His heart swelled with love for this proud, but generous man-teacher, friend, defender, critic. I am your humble student, Marc, disciple in the high temple of the mysteries of life. Our works have little in common, yet we cherish each other.
Chagall nodded, as if he had heard. Malraux pointed to Picasso slumped in a box, and more applause erupted. The great man barely acknowledged it; he was busy murmuring to his pretty, youthful companion. Still, he had come up from Mougins for the occasion, a trip he rarely made these days.
Ariane was there, too. Lovely as ever, regal features flawless, silvery gown swirling below smooth shoulders. It was here, in her company, that he had first been dazzled by the Opera, a callow, ignorant youth, captured by the music, enraptured by a countess. Her escort on this night was young, handsome, attentive. Gino felt no jealousy, only happiness for her.
He wondered if Monique was there. He had scanned the audience without finding her, but questioned whether he would recognize her after so many years.
The man in the next chair leaned close; the Italian ambassador, whispering something Gino couldn't quite hear. It would have been impolite to ask him to repeat himself, so he merely smiled, he hoped appropriately. Not that he really cared. Gino was honored the ambassador had come, but he had little use for politicians, even handsome, elegant ones with too-perfect teeth.
My birthday, he thought. Imagine, thousands of people--wealthy, important people from many countries-are celebrating my birthday. I am an ignorant peasant, and they have dedicated a hall to me in a great French institution. It's crazy.
They were all on their feet applauding him, and he had to stand and acknowledge their cheers. He smiled and waved a hand and then smiled even more broadly. It was a while before they realized he was laughing. It's ridiculous, he was thinking, remembering who he was and where he had come from. His laughter had an edge to it, and his audience became uncertain of what he meant, and their applause grew ragged. But he wasn't in that great hall with its cohort of wealthy, powerful and talented people who had come to honor him. He was far away in a dusty town at the very heel of Italy, in September of 1943.
