too old for any other kind of work. In desperation he had made his way back to Paris, hoping vaguely that
things would be easier in the big city. But they were not.
And now, after the war was over, he possessed neither the means nor the energy to start up his small
business again. It wasn’t very easy for an old man to know what to do, especially when one did not like to
beg. Yet how else could he keep alive?
105 Well, he thought, still staring at the picture. So that is my little friend. He put his face closer to the window
and looked into the gallery. On the walls he could see many other pictures and all seemed to be the work
of the same artist. There were a great number of people strolling around. Obviously it was a special exhibition.
On a sudden impulse, Drioli turned, pushed open the door of the gallery and went in. It was a long
room with a thick wine-coloured carpet11, and by God how beautiful and warm it was! There were all these
110 people strolling about looking at the pictures, well-washed dignified people, each of whom held a catalogue
in the hand. He heard a voice beside him saying, “What is it you want?” Drioli stood still.
“If you please,” the man in a black suit was saying, “take yourself out of my gallery.”
“Am I not permitted to look at the pictures?” “I have asked you to leave.” Drioli stood his ground. " He felt
suddenly, overwhelmingly outraged. “Let us not have trouble,” the man was saying. “Come on now, this
115 way.” He put a fat white hand on Drioli’s arm and began to push him firmly to the door. That did it. “Take
your goddam hands off me!” Drioli shouted. His voice rang clear down the long gallery and all the heads
turned around as one - all the startled faces stared down the length of the room at the person who had
made this noise. The people stood still, watching the struggle. Their faces expressed only an interest, and
seemed to be saying. “It’s all right. There’s no danger to us. It's being taken care of.”
120 “I, too!” Drioli was shouting. “I, too, have a picture by this painter! He was my friend and I have a picture
which he gave me!” “He’s mad.” “Someone should call the police.”
With a twist of the body Drioli suddenly shook off the man and before anyone could stop him he was
running down the gallery shouting, “I’ll show you! I’ll show you! I’ll show you!” He flung off his overcoat,
then his jacket and shirt, and he turned so that his naked back was towards the people.
125 “There!” he cried, breathing quickly. “You see? There it is!”
There was a sudden absolute silence in the room, each person arrested in what he was doing, standing
motionless in a kind of shocked, uneasy surprise. They were staring at the tattooed picture. It was still
there, the colours as bright as ever. Somebody said, “My God, but it is!” “His early manner, yes?” “It is
fantastic, fantastic!” “And look, it is signed!” “Old one, when was this done?” “In 1913,” Drioli said, without
130 turning around. “In the autumn of 1913.” “Who taught Soutine to tattoo?” “I taught him.” “And the woman?”
“She was my wife.”
The gallery owner was pushing through the crowd towards Drioli. He was calm now, deadly serious,
making a smile with his mouth. “Monsieur,” he said, “I will buy it. I said I will buy it. Monsieur.” “How canyou
buy it?” Drioli asked softly. “I will give two hundred thousand francs for it.” “Don’t do it!” someone
135 murmured in the crowd. “It is worth twenty times as much.”
Drioli opened his mouth to speak. No words came, so he shut it; then he opened it again and said slowly,
“But how can I sell it?” He lifted his hands, let them drop helplessly to his sides. “Monsieur, how can I
possibly sell it?” All the sadness in the world was in his voice. “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
140 you rich. Together we shall make some private arrangement over this picture, no?”
Drioli watched him with worried 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? Well, now ... It would seem,” he said, “that if I take the
picture, I take you also. That is a disadvantage. The picture itself is of no value until you are dead. How
145 old are you, my friend?” “Sixty-one.” “But you are perhaps not very healthy, no?” The dealer looked Drioli
up and down, slowly, like a farmer examining an old horse.
“I do not like this,” Drioli said moving away. “Quite honestly. Monsieur, I do not like it.” He moved straight
into the arms of a tall man who put out his hands and caught him gently by the shoulders.
“Listen, my friend,” the stranger said, still smiling. “Do you like to swim and to lie in the sun?”
150 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 smili