“Something less expensive,” I said. “I would like to take you all to dinner. I can charge that to the dealer.”
“No,” said Anna. “I have the money, and for dear Sari's sake I want to do the honors.”
I was trapped. I said, “Of course.”
“You will take the painting back to your hotel?” said Hajji.
I avoided that. “No, let's examine it under the lights in your gallery.”
We drove back to the gallery, and I put the picture under the lights. I turned to Hajji. “Well, what do you think?”
He made an art dealer's face, twisted his fingers, rolled his eyes, and stepped back two paces. “Wonderful.”
I said, “I've painted better Picassos myself.”
Hajji said, “Ah.” He let his hands drop to his sides. He sat down and mopped his brow. “It will not do?”
“No. The canvas is too new. The paint is the wrong kind. There is too much underpainting. The colors are muddy. The thing is still wet on the canvas in parts and is pulling. The wood of the Strecher is Greek pine. Shall I tell you where the nails come from?”
“No. It's too bad. Anna is desperate.”
“I don't see how you expected to get away with it, Hajji.”
“It was only for Americans. I beg your pardon. After all, van Gogh painted only three thousand paintings, eight thousand of which are in the United States.”
I sat down facing him. “What happened to the painting she and Mama bought in Paris in 1913?”
“Anna sold it years ago. I had this copy made for her. But her memory for recent events isn't so good. She's forgotten I sold it for her in 1928.”
“That's not so recent.”
“It is for Anna.”
“How much have you given her as an advance?”
“A thousand dollars. I don't mind. I made a lot of money in the past from her collection. But how long can a thousand dollars last Anna?”
“If she's like she used to be, just tonight.”
It was a very big night. We went to a place called the Golden Horn, which was a French night club with colored jazz and Eurasian girls and men in evening clothes. For dinner we went to a small place with menus printed in gold leaf. Anna, done up like a battleship in red lead and rustproofing and a green gown that split in the wrong places, was queenly and loud. She puffed on a jade holder and drank wine with a quick gulp and never stopped laughing.
“Stevie, darling, there's life in the old gal yet. Lots of life. Sari would be proud of you, taking an old lady around the night spots. This place used to be wonderful. German and British Embassy boys and rich Russians who had mujiks to flog. What fine beasts the Russians were in those days. Wolf collars and black eyebrows and little white teeth, and such vodka and caviar! Not just black caviar, but the big, fat, gray stuff, too. Drink from a lady's slipper, my eye. Those boys used to …”
But the dinner came just then.
Gangar, artichokes in olive oil; slirk pilávi; a kibbi, or baked lamb casserole, to which had been added a stuffing of baked quince; the Armenian delight, sumpoog letzvadz, stuffed whole eggplant: with a side dish of fabsoulia beyih.i waisefab, Lima beans and apple. Wine came and went, and rare fish roes, and we ended with siirk kabvesi, the native coffee, and sarab, a white wine brandy of the country. This led to the raki brandy and more wine. There was no halva. Anna had a water pipe, and so did the Khalfahs. The raki was anise-Gavoicd, and I took so much I had to taper off on boza, a refreshing drink made of water and fermented bread which tastes like a fine sour milk. People have lived to 105 on boza.
After the liqueurs we went to another night club, but I don't remember much except Anna leading a conga line and teaching the samba to a man from the Soviet Embassy. I hope the F.B.I. doesn't hear about this.
The next morning was rather grim. I felt the futility of human endeavor, and there was little top to my head. I put the head under cold water, and with what was left of my mind I worried over Picasso's Rose Period.
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