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a poor old man who was called Drioli was walking along a Paris street. He was cold and miserable. He looked without interest at the things in the shop windows—expensive shirts, beautiful furniture, fine books. Then he saw a picture gallery. There was a single painting on display in the window under which the name of the artist “Soutine” and the dates 1894-1943 were written. Suddenly Drioli remembered that he had known Soutine many years ago.
Drioli was young at that time and as he could tattoo well he made good money. He met Soutine at a small cafe. Drioli felt very sorry for the young poor man who painted wonderful pictures, but could not sell any.
Once he said to Soutine, “I want you to paint a picture on my back and then I want you to tattoo what you have painted so that it will always be with me.” He promised to teach Soutine to tattoo and he brought a lot of needles and small bottles of inks in different colours.
…Soutine began to work in the evening and when he finally said, “It’s finished,” it was light outside and they could hear people walking in the street.
Drioli came up to the mirror and looked: all over his back a young beautiful girl was painted. The artist used a lot of colours—green and blue and black and their combination had a surprising effect. Drioli was so impressed that he could only say: “Marvellous!”
“I like it myself. I think it’s good enough for me to sign,” and Soutine wrote his name in red ink on the left-hand side.
That’s what Drioli remembered while he was looking at the painting in the window. He put his face closer to the window and looked into the gallery. On the walls he could see many pictures and they seemed to belong to one artist.
Suddenly Drioli opened the door of the gallery and went in. There were a lot of people in rich clothes in the room.
Drioli heard somebody say, “What is it you want?”
*I’d like to look at the pictures!”
“You’d better get out. Otherwise you’ll have trouble!”
“But this painter was my friend and I have a picture which he gave me,” Drioli cried.
Some of the people said, “The man is mad! The police should be called for.”
“But it’s true! I’ll show you!” and Drioli took off his old dirty coat and shirt and turned his back to the public. “Yes, it’s Soutine, it’s his early manner.” “Look, it’s signed!”
“It’s great, it’s a masterpiece/’ people were saying.
The gallery owner came up to Drioli and said, “I’ll buy it at a very good price!” “How can you buy that?” Drioli wondered. “I’ll make you another offer,” a tall man from the crowd said. “I am the owner of the Hotel Bristol in Cannes. I invite you to come to my hotel and stay there as my guest till the end of your life. You’ll eat delicious food, drink the best wines, wear beautiful clothes; every morning an attractive maid will bring you coffee. All you will have to do will be to spend your time on the beach and show your back to my guests. Would you like that?”
Drioli hesitated to give an answer.
“Let’s go and have dinner and talk about it,” the man said.
They both left the gallery.
….It wasn’t more than a few weeks later that a picture by Soutine which was painted in an unusual manner, appeared for sale in Buenos Aires. That and the fact that there is no Hotel Bristol in Cannes causes us to feel a little surprised and to hope that, no matter where the old man is at this moment, he wears beautiful clothes and every morning an attractive maid brings him coffee.

it was almost midnight before they got around to giving Oscars to the well-known personalities. series of guests stars had awarded the prizes to the best designer, to the special-effects man, for the best technical invention for motion pictures during the year and to many other people, unknown outside the industry and so important within it.
i looked around the theater, recognizing most of the important faces in the business, but not caring much: you see, i was nervous. Myra Caldwell, whom i had brought to the ceremony, was sitting there beside me, and right across the aisle was Joan Weyland. now, to get the picture properly, you have to remember that during that particular year Myra had played the sensational supporting role in the Devil Loses and and had been called the greatest find in the history of pictures. but that was the same year that Joan weyland had stolen a big picture called Calumet Center right out from under the nose of one of the most famous female stars in industry. the only other actress nominated wasn’t given much chance. now in a few minutes, they were going to announce who had won the Oscar for the Best Supporting Actress of the year. it was the hottest contest, and everybody knew it. furthermore, it wasn’t a secret that the two leading contestants would be delighted to boil each other in oilwin, lose or draw. they were across the aisle from each other. do you get why i was nervous?
then the lights went down. they were going to run short scenes from the pictures for which the actors and actresses had been nominated. the supporting-actress pictures were comeing on, and here was Joan Weyland in her big scene from Calumet Center. the audience started to applaud as soon as they saw her. after that they ran a short scene from Whirlwind, showing the other nominee, a refugee actress called Tanya Braden. i had never seen the picture and the picture hadn’t made much money, but there was no doubt she could act! she played the star’s mother and made you believe it.
then they ran Myra’s big moment in the Devil Loses. after it was over i tried to guess who got the biggest chance.
“i think i won,” Myra said to me.
the lights went up. the old actor who had won the supporting actor award the year before came through the curtains and was prepared to make the award. i didn’t see how i was going to live through the next few minutes. he got the envelope and began opening it very slowly. he was enjoying every second of it, the old man. then he looked at the little piece of paper.
“the winner,” he said, then paused again, “is miss Tanya Braden, for her performance in Whirlwind.”
well, i’m not too sure about the sequence of events that followed. i don’t remember the applause, because Joan let out a loud cry from across the aisle that drowned out everything else. then myra started to cry. i don’t mean cry like an ordianry person, but i mean cry so that the building shook.
then Joan got up and started out, and her mother went after her. but i couldn’t do anything with myra. the show was stopped and the whole theater was looking at her. i picked her up and carried her out. it wasn’t a very pleasant performance, i think there was some excuse. after all, Joan is 8 years old, and Myra is only 6, and she isn’t used to being up so late. i’m a little on her side anyway. and why not? i’m her father.

the sun went down, and the girl in grey arrived. every day at the same time she came to the same quiet corner of the park. she sat down on a park bench. it was still light enough to read; she hahd a book with her, and started to read it.
i repeat, her dress was grey. it was very simple and fitted her well. she wore a grey hat; it hid her face. the face under the hat was calm and beautiful. i repeat, she always came to the park at the same time. and someone knew this.
the young man watched and waited. he said a quiet prayer to the Great God Luck, and Luck heard him. the girl turned a page, and her book slipped out of her hand. it fell down on the ground a yard away from the bench. the young man picked up the book at once. he gave it to the girl with a look of hope in his eyes. in a pleasant, ordinary voice he said something about the weather. then he stood and waited for her reply. the girl took a long, careful look at him. he looked nice, but there was nothing special about him. she saw his ordinary, tidy clothes and his ordinary, pleasant face.
you may sit down if you like,” she said. her voice was deep and pleasant. “i’m glad to see someone. the light is too bad for reading. perhaps we can talk instead.”
the follower of the Great God Luck sat down on the bench beside her.
“do you know,” he began (so many men in parks begin their conversation this way), “you are the most beautiful girl i’ve ever seen. those pretty eyes of yours, my sweet”
“i don’t know who you are,” said the girl in a cold voice, “but you must remember that i’m a lady. i will excuse you. perhaps you don’t meet many ladies. i asked you to sit down, i didn’t say you could call me your sweet.”
oh, please, excuse me,” begged the young man. “it was my mistake. i mean - there are girls in parks, you know who - well, of course, you don’t know, but some girls”
“please, say no more about it. of course, i understand. now, tell me about those people,” she pointed towards the people who were passing by. where are they going? why are they hurrying? are they happy? tell me about them, tell me about their hopes and their fears.”
the young man didn’t quite understand. “why does she want to talk about them?” he thought, but he wanted to please the girl in grey.
“it’s interesting to watch them,” he began.
“really, life is a wonderful thing. some are going to supper, some are going to other places., and everyone of them has a story.
“i know,” said the girl in grey. i come and sit here because here i can watch ordinary people. here i’m near the great beating heart of city life. in my position i can never hear that heart or or feel its beats. can you guess why i spoke to you, mr.,”
“parkenstacker,” said the young man, “may i know your name?”
“no,” said the girl in grey. she held up a finger and gave a sad little smile. “my name is too famous. it’s very difficult to keep my name out of newspapers, that’s why i’m wearing my servant’s hat, the servants don’t understand, of course. my driver thinks i’m mad. i spoke to you, mr. stackenpot,”
“parkenstacker,” said the young man quietly.
“mr. parkenstacker, i spoke to you because i wanted to talk to a nice, ordinary man. i meet many rich young men, but they are spoilt by their money and their position. oh, i’m so tired of them all! money, money, money! the men crowd around me. they are all the same. they are all like littel dancing dolls. i hate them! and i’m tired of dances, and jewels, and travel”
“i’ve thought,” the young man began, “that money must be quite a good thing.”
“enough money, yes. but when you have so many millions of dollars,” the girl in grey waved her pretty hand, “it is always the same,” she went on, driving around in fast cars, goin to dinners and dances, always too much of everything. too much rich food to eat, too much french wine to drink. sometimes the sound of ice in my wine glass almost drives me mad!”
mr. parkenstacker looked interested. “i enjoy reading about fashionable people,” he said, “they interest me. their way of life is so different from my own, and i’ve read that fashionable people always put their bottles of wine into ice buckets to make the wine cool. i thought they don’t put ice in wine glasses.”
the girl gave a laugh like little silver bells.
“people in my position,” she said, “love to be different, just now, it’s fashionable to put ice in wine. it all started when a rich visitor from mongolia came to new york. he had dinner at the biggest restaurant in broadway, and he put ice in his wine. just now, it’s fashionable. soon everyone will forget about it. something else will become fashionable instead.”
“i see,” said the young man, “of course, ordinary people never hear about such things.”
sometimes,” said the girl with a little smile, “i think about love. i’ve never given my heart to anyone. i sometimes think i could love an ordinary man, a worker, not a passenger on this great ship of life, of course, i shall have to marry someone in my own class. you see, i’m a prisoner, a prisoner of my money and position. just now two men are begging me to marry them. one is a king’s son from a small country in Europe, i think he had a wife, once he drove her mad, i believe. the other is an english nobleman, he doesn’t love me, he just wants my money, of course. why am i telling you all this, mr. packensticker?”
“parkenstacker,” said the young man, “i’m so glad you decided to tell me.”
the girl gave him a cool, calm look. the differences between them were great. what’s your job, mr. parkenstacker?” she asked.
“a very poor one, but i hope i shall do better in the future. just now you said you could love an ordinary man. were you serious about that?”
“oh yes, i was serious, but i said “could”, i didn’t say “will”. i have to remember the king’s son and the english nobleman, you know. but, yes, with the right man the position isn’t important.
“i work,” said mr. parkenstacker, ” in a restaurant.”
the girl moved a little farhther along the bench. “not as a waiter?” she asked. she looked rather worried, “all work is good and useful, of course, but a waiter”
“i’m not a waiter, i’m a clerk,” on the opposite side of the park the word “restaurant” shone in bright electric letters. the young man pointed towards it, “i’m a clerk there.”.
the girl looked at a small gold watch. she rose quickly. she pushed her book into an expensive bag, the book was too large, the bag wouldn’t close.
“why aren’t you at work?” she asked him.
“i’m working later this evening,” the young man said, i’m starting in an hour. can i hope to see you again?”
“i don’t know. perhaps yes, perhaps not, i must hurry now. there is dinner, then a boring party with some silly people. fashionable parties are all the same. perhaps you noticed a large white car at the corner of the park?”
“with a red roof?” asked the young man.
“yes. i always come in that. Pierre is waiting for me in the car. he thinks i’m buying things in the big store across the road… oh, isn’t it silly? i have to tell lies to my own driver! good night.”
“but it’s getting dark now,” said the young man, “and the park is full of rough people. let me walk to the car with you,”
“you want to please me, don’t you?” said the girl with a serious look.
“yes, of course. why?”
“then you will stay on this bench for ten minutes after i leave. i don’t want to hurt your feelings. i’m sure you’re honest. but if you see my car number plate you will probably be able to find out who i am. good night.”
the girl hurried away. the young man watched her. she reached the edge of the park. she turned towards the corner. the car was still there.
the young man now began to follow the girl in grey. he moved quickly, hiding behind the trees as he went. the girl in grey couldn’t hsee him, but he could see her very wwell. she reached the corner, turned her head and looked at the car but didn’t get into it. she passed it and walked across the street. then she entered the restaurant with the bright electric sign. it was a cheap, shining place with a lot of white paint and glass.
the young man saw everything. the clerk’s desk was near the door of the restaurant. a woman with red hair came out from behind the desk. she looked at the clock, then she said something to the girl in grey, and the girl in grey took her place at the desk.
the young man put his hands into his pockets. he walked slowly along the street. suddenly his foot touched something. he looked down, saw a small book and picked it up. he recognized that bright paper cover at once. “she dropped it,” he thought. he looked towards the restaurant and then shook his head with a smile. he dropped the book on the ground again and walked towards the large white car with the red roof. he got into the passenger’s seat.
“take me to my club, Henry,” he ordered to the driver.

–
stacy: 19.10.2009, 17:23:20

End of document

it was a day in march. sara was crying over a bill of fare. her work was typing. she didn’t type very quickly, and so she had to work at home. she lived in an old red-brick building where she had moved some time ago. she usually had dinner at Schulenberg’s Home Restaurant, which was next door to her house.
one day after dining at Schulenberg’s Sarah took a bill of fare away. the handwriting was almost unreadable and so difficult to understand that if you weren’t careful you began with “the sweet” and ended with “the soup”.
the next day Sarah showed Schulenberg a bill of fare with the food listed in the right and proper order. schulenberg was pleased. before sarah left him he had made an agreement with her. she was to provide typewritten bills of fare for his restaurant. in return Schulenberg was to send three meals a day to Sarah’s room. Sarah’s room was at the back of the house. looking out of the window she could see a brick wall of the factory in the next street. but she thought of trees and bushes and roses.
in the summer of last year Sarah had been in the country and fallen in love with a farmer’s son, Walter. they were to marry in spring, “the very first signs of spring”, Walter said.
a knock at the door drove Sarah’s dreams of that happy day. a waiter from Schulenberg’s brought a pencil list of fare for day. Sarah sat down to her typewriter. today there were more changes in the bill of fare than usual. the soups were lighter, there also were changes in the meat dishes, spring filled the whole list. Sarah began crying. she had received no letter from Walter for weeks and the next thing in the bill of fare was “dandelions with eggs”. it reminded her of those happy days when she Walter were sitting together and he was making a crown of dandelions for her hair…
at 6 o’clock the waiter brought her dinner and carried away the typewritten bills of fare. an hour later the front door bell rang and landlady answered it. Sarah heard a strong voice in the hall was Walter’s voice!
“why haven’t you written to me?” cried Sarah, rushing to him.
“new york is a large city,” said Walter.
“i came a week ago to your old address and found out that you had moved to a new place.”
“i wrote to you about it,” said Sarah.
“never got it,” Walter answered.
“how did you find me?”
the young man smiled a springtime smile.
“i went to the Home Restaurant next door this evening,” he said, “after i had gone through the bill of fare i asked the owner and he told me where you lived.”
“why?!”
the young man took a bill of fare out of his pocket and pointed to a line at the bottom. she recognized one of the cards she had typed this afternoon.
between two dishes on the list there was” “dandelions with dearest Walter!”

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