TALES AND TELLS

                                     

         It’s a mistake to think all Parisian art dealers are crooks.  One or two honest dealers can be found if you make an effort.  At our poker table Freddie-the-Weeper was lily white, or blanc-bleu as they say in French. That’s why, he claims, he never got rich.  Not that Freddie’s done poorly.  The crybaby owns a large apartment on the Left Bank and a country home in the Dordogne.  Pretty good for a peddler of military articles and historic objects.

 

             Little Pete (Petit Pierrot) is on the other side of the fence. He might do poorly at cards, but he makes a good living selling art.  Oh, the naughty things one learns at Parisian poker tables.  Pete himself liked to brag about his misconduct.  I’m telling you, if Messieurs Luciano, Costello and Lansky had known what was going on in fancy Parisian galleries, they would have forsaken guns and gangs.

 

            Little Pete measures five foot three.  Unfortunately, he’s only an occasional player.  Mainly, he comes to touch base with our superstar, Alain Bertier, one of the world’s leading dealers in Art Nouveau and Art Deco.  Rumor has it Alain began his career as a runner for a homosexual dealer on the Right Bank.  With no compunctions about lending his body to get ahead (pun unintended), our boy rose up the ladder very quickly.  Sex aside, Bertier would have been successful in whatever he did.  Intelligent and ambitious, he has a will of iron.   I don’t know what attracts him to Pierrot, unless he sees a version of his younger self.

 

            I’ll say one thing about Little Pete: he is not afraid to bluff.  When he asks for a single card at draw, he’s likely to come out betting.  Then it’s my job to figure out what he’s got.  Happily, Pete makes it easy for me.  His clients might not be able to tell the genuine goods from the fakes, but at poker he’s as easy to read as the Happy New Year sign on top of the Eiffel Tower.  All one has to do is make him talk.  If Pierrot opens his mouth, he’s bluffing; if he clams up, he’s hit his hand.  Naturally there is a method in how one goes about this.  In my case, I say:  “my time to pay.”  Now if Pete says: “take all the time you want,” the last thing in the world I’m going to do is pay him right away.  Don’t ever let an opponent know you’ve figured out one of his tells.  So I’ll toss a coin or count my fingers or throw in my chips disgustedly, so as to give the impression I don’t know what I am doing.  That usually evokes Pierrot to say something equivalent to: “hell’s bells, I can’t beat this bastard in poker or in flipping coins.”   But please, do not feel sorry for the little man.  He himself cannot count how many times he has sold Rodin’s statue, “The Kiss.” Surely, it’s in the hundreds.

 

            Francois-Auguste-Rene Rodin authorized seven versions of his exquisite bronze before breaking the mold from which the statue was cast.  So where did all those extra copies come from?  That’s hardly the point.  If given a chance, most any dealer would do what Little Pete does.  What sets Pierrot apart is not his dishonesty but the fact that he is a member of a committee appointed by the French Ministry of Culture whose purpose is to protect French art and artists from fraud and deceit.  They might just as well have appointed Jack-the-Ripper chief of police.

 

            In both the world of art and the world of poker, Pierrot is a relative minnow.  Wait till you see Bertier.  Now there is a great white shark, and subtle as well!  Although Alain maintains a gallery next door to the café where we play poker, most of his business is conducted from his home.  The boutique is a front.  Madame Bertier, Claire to her friends, tends shop.  Not only does that allow her to keep an eye on her husband, it helps keep the tax people at bay.  A compulsive buyer, Alain has stocked his emporium from floor to ceiling with bronzes, furniture, glassware and anything else created between 1890 and 1935.  I don’t know how many times he has sold The Kiss, probably, never.  Rodin is not one of his favorites.  Didn’t I tell you he was subtle?  Alain tends to steer clear of great names.  No Manets, Monets or Gauguins for him.  But don’t for a minute think that leaves him out of the counterfeit game.  Au contraire, he and a couple of other dealers have sold ten times as many marble and bronze statuettes of the Romanian born sculptor Demetre Chiparus than the master molded and cast on his own.

 

 Residing for many years in Paris, Chiparus produced about 2,500 statues in the 1920s and 1930s.  So make your count.  At roughly $4,000 apiece, the trio of French counterfeiters have raked in – you’ve got it - $100,000,000 from a relatively unknown artist.

 

            At poker, Bertier has nearly as many tells as false Chiparuses.  Foremost is the sound of his voice.  Brother, when he drops his voice an octave you had better head for the hills.  The man is loaded, and everybody knows it, even Claude Stahly the dentist whose brain measures half the size of half a pea.

 

            Bertier prides himself on being the trickiest fellow in town.  He cannot understand why someone as clever as he is consistently loses at poker.  He loses because he has little patience, no discipline, lacks money management and displays his tells as clear as a flock of blackbirds in a snowfield.  Here’s an example:

 

            Alain draws a card.  Stahly takes two.  For sure, Claude has three of a kind.  He could never imagine drawing one or standing pat.  A rock tight player, the dentist raised before the draw.  No way would he do so on the come.  Bertier is probably drawing to a straight or a flush.  Like most of the locals, he wouldn’t dream of folding if there were a chance he could catch a card to complete his hand.  I’m telling you, these Frenchmen are money in the bank.

 

            “Parole,” says Bertier, glancing at his card.  That means pass, or check.  Oh my God, he sounds like he’s tuning up to sing basso in a Russian opera.  What did he do, hit a straight flush?

 

            Stahly has heard it.  Maybe he’s not so stupid after all.  He is taunting Bertier by waving his cards in the art dealer’s face.

 

            “What’s that you said, Alain?” he asks.

 

            Bertier does not reply.  He is trying to work an expression of fear onto his face.

 

            “If I heard you correctly,” says Stahly, “you said: ‘pass.’ ” 

 

            Back then we played that passing made a hand inconclusive.  Instead of turning over one’s cards and allowing the best hand to win, the money stayed in the pot.  Any other player who wanted to join in would have to cough up a similar amount.  That made for monster hands.  It also made for collusion.  At the end of a game, losing players would purposely pass so as to get a chance to get their money back in one fell swoop.  Leave it to the French to come up with a variation of logic that would have Descartes turn over in his grave.

 

            “You know what,” Stahly continues, “I’m going to pass too.”  He shows Bertier three aces before tossing his cards on the table.

 

            Alain is shocked.  The color drains from his face.   He picks up his glass and throws it across the room.  Madame Nicole who owns the place looks at the shattered glass before coming to our table. 

 

            “What’s this all about?” she asks.  “If you cannot behave I will not let you play.”

 

            “It’s Bertier,” says Henri the electrical equipment salesman.  

 

            Madame calms down.  Bertier is her number one client.  Dealers, collectors and art historians from all over the world come to see the great man.

 

            “What’s wrong, Cheri?” Madame Nicole asks Alain.

 

            “He saw my cards,” says Bertier, pointing to Stahly.

 

            Stahly laughs.  “How could I see your cards?  I’m sitting opposite you.”

 

            “No one has to see your cards,” says Henri.  “Every time you open your mouth you give yourself away.”

 

            Bertier exhales.  He knows Stahly is not a cheater.  Henri’s words are puzzling him.  Refusing to reveal his cards, he buries them in the pile.  Since none of us want to contribute to a monster hand, the two adversaries are obliged to split the pot.  That’s the first time I’ve seen Henri refuse to enter into such a hand.  He must be winning for a change. The damn fool should have kept his mouth shut.  What’s he trying to do, let Bertier know we have caught on to his tells?  For a moment I was afraid the art dealer might comprehend.  Thank God that’s not the case.  Bertier shrugs his shoulders and looks out the window.  He asks for another drink and requests we get on with the game.  I can breathe easy again.  Nothing is more alien to Alain Bertier than introspection.