The Calfayan Collection

it was not his intention to share his treasures -- either old masters or young mistresses -- with the rest of the world

Bedros Calfayan, the Armenian multimillionaire, had taken again to walking out for lunch from his deceptively modest Paris office. The wizened little hunchback servant Rifat, who accompanied him, skipping to keep pace, was not surprised when Calfayan stopped having the limousine pick him up at noon, for it had been almost three months since Rifat had been charged with dismissing his employer's last mistress, a café singer.

Calfayan, his conscious genius totally absorbed in matters of business, knew less than Rifat what Calfayan was now up to. The hunchback knew, because it fell within the range of one of his primary tasks, which was to procure, help train and ultimately discard the objects of Calfayan's powerfully animal, yet delicately aesthetic inclinations. Calfayan did not know, because his brain, the apparent equivalent in practical and imaginative capacity of a heavily staffed corporation, preferred not to know. Therefore, Rifat's brain, like a pilot fish, followed by leading the Armenian whale.

And so Calfayan, as he moved, glimpsed women of Paris dimly through the slow, turbulent seas of his absorption. A lower-class matron, ripe and wise-seeming, came close, but receded; then a short, trim young student on the arm of a shaggy-haired boy; and there was one lithe Swede. But Rifat knew his work would not begin until a vision touched and then firmly arrested Calfayan.

Calfayan had granted one newspaper interview in his 50 years. But it was not really an interview. The London Times reporter had opened his mouth, about to ask a first question, when Calfayan said: "I am not a gambler. I am truly audacious. I wait and wait without panic until I am sure. I tell myself no hopeful lies. I am not too much vain. These are my courage. Good day." Then he left the room, nodding briefly to Rifat in signal that the Englishman be ushered gently away.

This summer noontime they passed a sandwich counter near the Printemps. Calfayan stopped. One of three blue-smocked salesgirls from the department store, on their lunch hour, leaned tight against the chromium edge of the counter, on tiptoe, her full breasts halfoutlined, blue cloth drawn tight. She was laughing at the ungainly, oversize man behind the counter, who (continued on page 183)Calfayan Collection(continued from page 151) shook his head sternly, irritated. Then a trace of a smile flexed the corners of his mouth. He forced it stern again for an instant, but at last, full free laughter shattered his naturally sullen gray face. The girl jumped in triumph, reached her bare arms out to grasp his head, pulled it down and put a kiss on his fleshy nose. Then she ran out the open door past Calfayan, nearly tripped across his cane, but darted from it, turned her dark eyes at him for an instant and skipped to disappear in the vast department store. The other two girls, sedate, now followed, good-humoredly shaking their heads.

Calfayan looked down at Rifat, nodded and walked on, leaving Rifat.

The Armenian was lunching at the Plaza Athénée with Sir George Rainer, curator of the British Museum, on a short visit to Paris. As he arrived, Rainer was toying with an aperitif and with the idea of again broaching an old question.

Calfayan had, in the past 15 years, acquired an remarkable collection of paintings and other art objects that had disappeared into a Neuilly building used for the sole purpose of housing them. The building was watchdogged, full of burglar alarms and surrounded by a high wall. Rembrandt, Rubens, Frans Hals, Fragonard hung in rich lively silence along the wide corridors and spacious rooms, awaiting nothing but Calfayan's private pleasure. The only works ever to reappear were those less-than-magnificent ones which, as Calfayan's taste developed, were discarded and replaced. Not even Rainer himself had ever been invited to view the collection. The masterpieces had vanished from the world except insofar as they remained in the minds of a few men who dreamed of convincing Calfayan that he should share them by placing them on public exhibition from time to time. Calfayan, not a public man, had always stubbornly refused to do so.

Rainer sensed that he himself was one of the few men who this orphaned survivor of the Turkish massacres respected, even admired, and was deeply flattered, for the select company was a notable one; in spite of Calfayan's idiosyncrasies and certain downright meannesses, he drew such people to him. Rainer also felt, quite inexplicably, that Calfayan was in some way a decent man. Yet Rainer could find no means of excusing what was to him no less than a frightful crime: the gratuitous withholding of beauty from the world. The implication that followed from that seemed fully as frightful: that his friend Calfayan believed he could possess such beauty merely because he had purchased it with money; that such beauty could belong to one man. The picture of Calfayan gloating over it, all by himself in that Neuilly mausoleum where no breathing person lived, was a monstrous one.

Now, as Calfayan walked briskly, smiling, toward the table, Rainer looked up with pleasure.

The conversation during lunch was almost completely about art, and Rainer, stimulated, marveled again at the quality of Calfayan's sensitive, unsentimental taste.

It was not until coffee that Rainer asked when the British Museum would be privileged to exhibit part of the Calfayan Collection on loan.

Calfayan shook his large head, smiling coldly, yet pleasantly: "My paintings need privacy. They cannot stand to be gaped at."

Rainer properly showed contempt for Calfayan's absurd answer, knowing that Calfayan would never harbor a grudge for the show of contempt. They parted warmly and at profound odds.

• • •

Shortly before five that afternoon, Rifat slipped a note and a 10,000-franc bill into an envelope, sealed it and took it with him to the department store, where he waited at the employees' exit for the dark-eyed salesgirl to come out. It began to drizzle. Rifat, the familiar dull pain having begun along his back that morning, had known it would. He now took a difficult deep breath, winced and unfurled his umbrella. He readjusted his black Homburg and drew his alert little eyes from the exit for but an instant to glance down and check his perfectly tailored gray suit.

The three salesgirls came out together and began to hurry through the wet, not dressed for it. He trotted along beside them. "Are you heading for the bus stop?"

"None of your business, is it?" one of the girls said harshly.

Rifat had steeled himself to attend such remarks only vaguely, and said, "Please allow me," reaching high to hold his umbrella over them as best he could.

"Talks and acts as funny as he looks, huh, Gabrielle?" the second girl said, glancing merrily at the dark-eyed girl, Calfayan's interest. Gabrielle did not respond, but turned her eyes directly upon Rifat and answered him in a heavy meridional accent: "Yes sir, we are."

"I'm going along that way, you see," Rifat said, "and since I have an umbrella..."Gabrielle was now alone under the umbrella. Spots of water spread large on Rifat's gray suit as the drizzle became a rain. The other two girls giggled. "Gabrielle, who's your wet friend?"

"What's the matter with you two?" Gabrielle said in a surprisingly sharp voice. She glared at her companions.

"What's the matter with you?" she repeated.

They reached the bus stop. There was a long line of people waiting. "I'm sorry, but I must go now," Rifat said. He handed Gabrielle the envelope. "Here. I hope you don't get too wet."

He disappeared around the corner as rapidly as he could without running.

Late that night he sat in his front room, in his seldom-used armchair, under a yellowish light, reluctant to go into his bed, fingering her manner toward him over and over again like a creased, worn, much-reread letter of tenderness.

• • •

Shortly before one o'clock the following afternoon a telephone rang in one of several private houses which Bedros Calfayan maintained in Paris. A chunky woman in her mid-40s stopped working at a massive desk and answered.

"Hello," she said.

"Hello. My name is Gabrielle Monnot. I was ----"

"Yes."

"A man gave me a note yesterday to call about a job."

"A position, yes."

"The note says to talk to Mile. Dussane. Is that you?"

"This is Mile. Dussane," the woman said, smiling. "You may come here for the interview if you like, or I could meet you elsewhere."

"I'm working and I can't leave till after five o'clock."

"You may come here then if you like," the woman said, still smiling.

"All right."

The woman gave Gabrielle Monnot the address, put down the telephone, stopped her pleasant smile and returned immediately to the work at her desk.

Tina Dussane, a Belgian, had been in Calfayan's employ for the past 11 years ever since Calfayan, on a visit to his daughter's school in Lausanne, had asked the girl who she liked best on the school staff. Calfayan engaged his daughter's favorite teacher on the spot, at a substantial increase in salary, and took her back to Paris, where she proved to be of great service in a number of capacities.

• • •

Early that evening Gabrielle Monnot, wearing a green dress that buttoned to the neck, not at all suitable for her black hair and ivory complexion, was led into Mile. Dussane's sitting room.

The two women were served tea, and Mile. Dussane observed Gabrielle Mound's manner of receiving the tea and drinking it. She noticed that the girl was quick to do as she herself did, and that the effect was not at all one of slavish imitation. Sometimes the women put in Mile. Dussane's charge were quite stupid. This one would not need intensive instruction. But this one was also sensitive, perhaps more sensitive than any of the others, and would need to be handled gently.

They were left alone. "If you agree to the conditions of this situation, I am authorized to see to it that you are very well paid," Mile. Dussane said.

"That's good."

"May I call you Gabrielle?"

"Sure."

"Gabrielle, why are you interested in making so much money?"

"It would be nice."

Mlle. Dussane smiled.

"Why are you smiling that way?"

"I might have expected you to say that it was a foolish question, that everyone is interested in making a lot of money."

"Oh."

"I'm sure you realize that one does not make a lot of money for doing nothing."

"No."

"You're from the south, aren't you?"

"Yes. From near Pau. I've been here almost six months."

"Why did you leave, may I ask?"

Gabrielle beamed. "Oh, that's simple. Because I always wanted to come to Paris. It's the most wonderful place in the world. I want to live here all my life. It was hard to leave home. But I did. My poor father, he's a postman. he didn't like it. You can imagine. It was sad. But I had to see."

"Tell me, Gabrielle, would you like to live in this house?"

The girl looked about. "Oh, yes. Is the job here?"

"It can be yours to live in if you like. There are servants. This wing is my apartment, with a separate entrance at the side. You would live in the main part of the house."

"I don't understand."

"I'll explain simply and to the point. My employer is an extremely wealthy man. He saw you the other day and admired you. He would like you to stay here and allow him to take you out from time to time, as he chooses. He is an attractive man, and I can say that he is a kind man, in no way cruel or unpleasant. He will certainly sometimes choose to stay here with you."

"Oh."

"Do you understand now?"

"Yes," the girl whispered.

"You look astonished."

"When I came in, I thought it would be a job as a servant. I couldn't figure out why I was picked out on the street and given the 10,000 francs, but people often do funny things. But I never thought" ----

"There is nothing in this that should astonish you. It is a common occurrence. Don't you realize that you are a beautiful young woman who should don't go to waste among those who don't know how to appreciate you? With the right clothes and the right hair style, you will see how beautiful you are. I can promise that."

"They found me pretty at home." She laughed.

"I'm sure."

Although the girl seemed to want out of Paris just the sort of thing that a man like Calfayan offered, Mlle. Dussane was surprised at her blithe eagerness to come to an agreement. What the offer involved had surely been made clear to her, and yet Mlle. Dussane sensed an innate fineness in the girl; therefore, it was somehow as if the girl did not fully realize what she was accepting.

What a prize she could be! Mlle. Dussane thought. If she was indeed what she seemed -- a precious mixture of coarseness and fineness, heavy vulgarity and sensitivity.

The girl did not ask any details about money. Oddly, she insisted on returning alone to her small room for her belongings; and she insisted on keeping the room, but agreed to return that night by subway and begin living in the house.

Mlle. Dussane paced her sitting room excitedly, telling herself that she would outdo herself with such material, imagining how pleased the Armenian was going to be. After a few minutes she composed herself, telephoned Calfayan to compliment him coolly upon his luck and taste and to inform him that he might call on Gabrielle in less than three weeks' time. She could tell by the sound of his hello that his wife was present. "Gabrielle is an intelligent and naturally graceful woman. I will have difficulties, but they can be handled."

"I leave it to you," Calfayan said, and he hung up without speaking further.

He doesn't appreciate me, Mlle. Dussane thought, changing into a negligee and robe. Then she sat down at her desk and made some notes: Dresses -- blues, beige. Panties -- regular assortment plus floral print? Taffeta half-slip. Mlle. Dussane had an ivory-satin gown in mind for this girl that would need a taffeta half-slip. Red girdle with gun-metal nylons? In the case of the last girl, the singer, Mlle. Dussane had felt Calfayan was much moved by that combination. She might try it again. She went to bed early, wondering about an appropriate hair style. I will show him what I am made of, she thought. As she lay in the darkness, her mind created magnificent combinations: gowns, stoles, handbags, perfumes, gloves, jewelry, suits. Rapidly she set off that perfect complexion in various ways, and that body as well, the fine legs and the breasts, wasted until now beneath an ugly but-toned-up green dress.

• • •

Charles, the handsome, talented, youngest captain at Maxim's, whose startling rise from ordinary waiter in only half-a-year had aroused the impotent jealousy of the older captains, waited calmly at his station one evening three weeks later. Charles was calm by nature, but altogether alert. Monsieur Calfayan was expected shortly, presumably for after-theater souper, with a guest, and Charles had his table. Although the maître d'hôtel was sure to handle everything personally, Charles deeply appreciated the opportunity to further his education through any close contact with such an important man as Calfayan. The last time Calfayan had dined at Maxim's, Charles not only had observed the multimillionaire without in any way neglecting his own duties, but had also often deftly managed to stand where he could overhear bits of conversation at Calfayan's table.

You would never presume to joke with Calfayan, bait him half-subtly, or patronize him in any way. Charles knew that his response to such standard headwaiter gambits would be immediate and utterly cold. Some wealthy men (not only middle-aged women, in whom the phenomenon was most common) responded very well to such gently attentive means of humiliation. It was remarkable to Charles, though evident, that they not only welcomed such debasing treatment by headwaiters and sometimes by captains, but positively desired it. Charles was objective enough about himself not to presume to fathom definitively the whys of such behavior, but he gave himself due credit for his powers of observation.

He respected Calfayan. Calfayan was his better, unlike so many of the others, because of whom he had already come far. They were always delighted to see him as they entered Maxim's. It made him sometimes wonder what sort of poor life they must have. Calfayan would never register pleasure or displeasure at the sight of Charles, so long as he was served efficiently. Calfayan had flat, black, intelligent eyes, and when he smiled, with delicate reserve, they did not change. His face reacted with extreme economy. Calfayan was consistent at the core, most surely, but Charles, having watched him converse, saw that Calfayan was not bland. Calfayan was composed. He did not laugh, nor was he in any way loud.

At last a young woman wearing a cream off-the-shoulder gown entered, followed by Calfayan, his barrel bulk in evening dress, his clipped gray hair coming only to the height of her chin. Patrons glanced up from their troughs. The maître d'hôtel escorted them smoothly past Charles to the table; the ball-bearing mechanism, Maxim's, had begun to function for Calfayan. Charles nodded in greeting, but not in order to be observed for more than a flicker. The maître d'hôtel swept their table back.

They sat. The maître d'hôtel hovered. The solemn, independent little wine steward presented himself. Calfayan ordered. Champagne, beluga, lobster and, for dessert, a soufflé.

The woman began to talk. Charles kept looking at her, looking away, looking back at her. It was the smile. The smile was infectious. The last woman, older, who Calfayan had brought had also talked a great deal. Charles remembered that Calfayan had been very quiet, almost motionless but for an occasional polite nod. He remembered that he had laughed, not obsequiously, over the look on Calfayan's face, afterward, with the maître d'hôtel.

Calfayan was talking to her. Each of them spoke about the same amount of time. Calfayan opened his mouth inordinately wide once, eying her, to put beluga into it, not unattractively. He smiled often and his eyes changed when he smiled, once in astonished glee. What were they saying? What on earth was she saying to him? Charles caught the maître d'hôtel staring once at them. He met Charles' eyes and turned away.

It was not until they were finishing the lobster that Charles managed to position himself and hear a bit. She now put her hands palm upward and said, "We just got on our bicycles and rode right out of Pau!"

"No!" Calfayan said, sucking at a claw's tiny end.

"Yes!"

"I've never ridden a bicycle in my life," Calfayan said.

"Is that true?"

"Yes, of course it is."

Then Charles was forced to move away. A patron wanted his attention. Charles made some remark and drifted off. His eyes went back to Calfayan's table. And for an instant he did not at all recognize Calfayan.

The face.

A night sky sat now upon Calfayan's face. Stars and planets -- a deep perverse astronomy of abandoned lingerie, mirrors, cries, revealed and ravaged flesh; female eyes, terrified, lost, drugged, were reflected here in these black eyes. Charles saw a whole constellation, a tableau of elaborate private charade incorporating the most extreme dark, impersonal dreams of any man, dreams long since forgone by mere Charles himself.

Charles took a deep breath. The girl, frightened, put her fingers to her mouth.

"My dear girl," the man murmured, hovering, his lips red and wet. "You look as if you had forgotten something."

"You -- you had a funny look," she said. "It surprised me."

The man did not answer. His face began settling back into old Calfayan again. Charles returned to his duties. He glanced at the couple from time to time.

Now Calfayan lifted his hand and put it down upon hers; his short fingers lay inert along her knuckles. "Yes. We shall go home soon, eh?" he said. "Have you found everything to your liking at the house?"

She nodded. She smiled wanly, was about to take a mouthful of the soufflé, but put her fork down slowly and smiled with strain into his eyes, holding her head fixed.

Suddenly she turned away from him. Her head bobbed downward. A mass of black hair faced Calfayan like that of a doll with its head twisted partway around. The girl's bare, rich white shoulders shuddered -- and again.

She was retching into her napkin above the cream lap of her gown.

Charles rushed to the table, unhesitatingly, ready. He tried to help her. He saw her large dark frightened eyes. Calfayan arose, nodded silently at Charles, who withdrew. He helped her to rise and ushered her, Charles leading the way, to the toilette. As she moved, she glanced at Calfayan. His look, gentle, seemed to reassure her. He nodded as she disappeared.

Calfayan gazed long at the shut door, his shoulders uncharacteristically, almost imperceptibly, slumped forward. Charles looked away. "Poor beautiful thing," Calfayan murmured. Then louder: "Poor girl." Charles assumed Calfayan was talking to himself, but upon turning back to the man, saw that Calfayan was actually addressing him personally.

"Perhaps we might fetch her stole for her?" Calfayan asked.

"Right away, sir," Charles said, and hurried away.

When he returned, they were standing together in the corridor.

"I can't go back there. I -- I'm sorry," the girl whispered.

Charles, holding the stole, waiting to be acknowledged, noted an unmistakable look of relief on Calfayan's face.

"My dear girl. You must not be sorry. I will take you directly to your old room. There, there," he said, and patted her shoulder with his little fingers.

Then the black eyes went flat at last and Calfayan said, "Have the car brought around."

• • •

Sir George Rainer was awakened at three o'clock that morning. The telephone at his bedside was ringing. What the devil, he thought, and turned over to grope for it.

"Rainer here."

"I have a call from Paris for Sir George Rainer."

"Yes. Rainer here..."

"Hello. Rainer?"

"Rainer here."

"Good. This is Calfayan. I have been thinking about your proposal. I will consider it. You will have my decision shortly."

"Well! Calfayan!"

"We had a pleasant lunch the other day, didn't you think?"

"Why, yes."

"Well -- goodbye."

"Oh. Right. Right. Goodbye."

As Rainer put up the telephone he realized for the first time that he had never for one moment seriously expected Calfayan to offer his collection for loan. Now that Calfayan had awakened Rainer out of a sound sleep to announce that he was considering such a step, Rainer was surprised to feel quite certain that nothing would ultimately come of it.

What state of being could have brought on such an urgent passing fancy? It was as if the fellow madly feared, out of a clear blue sky, that his wall was about to be breached, his watch dogs shot, his burglar alarms smashed, his people bound and gagged; that his collection was about to be carried off by bold thieves; and that therefore it would be safer across the Channel for a time, in the British Museum. Rainer chuckled to himself at his own bizarre idea.

It was not at all like Calfayan to call anyone in the middle of the night.