AMBITION

                                        

             Literary characters such as Balzac’s Rastignac, or Americans Gatsby and Sammy Glick exemplify the young man arriving from farm or suburbs to the city prepared to move up in the world.  So too did Alain Bertier, the superstar of my first Parisian poker game, follow a similar route.  Nothing, he said, was going to block his route to success.

 

            “I was devoured by ambition,” he said.   “I would have sold my sister to the pimps on the Rue Saint Denis.”

 

            Alain enjoyed bragging about his poker losses.  Not a single art dealer, auctioneer or hanger-on in France was unaware that Bertier spent weekday afternoons playing cards.  As his reputation grew, so did the number of people coming to visit him.  Art magazines sent photographers to take pictures of his apartment.  Shopkeepers from Madison Avenue to the Ginza came to restock their boutiques.  Museum curators called on him regularly.  Movie stars and pop singers would have been hard pressed to add to their Art Nouveau or Art Deco collections without looking in on Le Grand Bertier. 

 

            “I’m making a fortune,” he liked to announce at the poker table.

 

            Alain had no patience with people outside the trade.  He felt it was a waste of time to seek goods from private individuals.  If he did not buy from other dealers, he limited his purchases to public auctions.  Contrary to his competitors he refused to pay intermediaries a commission for bringing him merchandise.  On one occasion, after an employee at Paris’s main auction house had concealed a much sought-after item from rival bidders, Alain rewarded him with a single franc, worth at best a quarter.  Having saved the art dealer hundreds of dollars, it was only normal the poor fellow was shocked.  Letting the franc slide onto the floor, he made no effort to conceal his contempt.  Bertier could not have cared less.  Stooping down, he retrieved the coin and placed it into his pocket.

 

            Only once that I know of did Bertier visit the home of a private party.  Madame Sorigny, an elderly lady had fallen on hard times and was selling off of her possessions.  Alain sensed there might be something in the house for him.  As usual, his instincts proved correct.  Immediately upon entering the lady’s apartment, he caught sight of a rare Galle vase.  While nothing else interested him, he spent over an hour inquiring about the rest of the collection.  Finally, he asked Madame Sorigny how much she wanted for the vase.

 

            “I could never part with that,” the lady replied.  “It has too much sentimental value.”

 

            Bertier was not put off.  He knew he would have to take his time.  Once more he went through the entire collection.  Time and again he fingered an object with deliberate care.  Only when he felt the proper moment had arrived did he return his attention to the Galle vase.

 

            “You know, Madame,” he said, “I can understand your feelings.  While this vase has no commercial value, it is rather pretty.”

 

            Now, as though obeying the instructions of a theatrical director, he picked up the vase and examined it closely.

 

            “The reason I am interested,” he said, “is that this vase belongs to a set of four.  I happen to own the other three.”

 

            “Really?” said Madame Sorigny.

 

            “Don’t you think it is a shame for the vases not to be together?”

 

            “Well,” stammered the lady, “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

 

            “It is a set, Madame.  A set should not be separated.”

 

            “It does seem a bit sad.”

 

            “Perhaps,” said Alain, “you would like to purchase the other three?”

 

            “Dear me, I am in no position to be buying antiques.”

 

            “For the sake of the set I will sell them to you cheaply.”

 

            “I am afraid that is out of the question.”

 

            “Then allow me to buy yours.”

 

            The woman hesitated.  Alain sensed she was weakening.  As irritating as it was, he would have to remain a while longer.

 

            “Really, I do not want to sell this vase,” Madame Sorigny repeated.

 

            “Listen,” Alain insisted.  “I’m a little crazy.  Cite me an absolutely impossible price.  That was I can leave here in peace.”

 

            “Oh dear,” said the lady.  “I would rather not.”

 

            “Go on.  Mention some ridiculous price.”

 

            “Well,” said Madame Sorigny, “suppose I were to say twenty-five thousand francs?”

 

             Alain’s mouth dropped open.  He fell to his knees.  Madame Sorigny could see the poor fellow was white as a sheet.

 

            “Madame,” he said, gulping for air, “that is more than the entire set is worth.”

 

            “Well,” said Madame Sorigny, smiling.  “You said I should quote a ridiculous price.”

 

            Alain spent a full half-hour explaining to the lady the necessity of reuniting the set.  By now nearly three hours had elapsed.  The art dealer paced the floor.  He pulled at his hair.  He emitted pitiful noises.  He grew angry, then contrite.  Again and again he told Madame Sorigny how outrageous her proposal was.  Tears welled in his eyes.  Several times he grabbed his hat and approached the front door.  At last, sensing the psychological moment had arrived, Le Grand Bertier took a large wad of bills from his pocket and placed twenty-five thousand francs on the dining room table.  As if in a trance, he clutched the Galle vase against his heart.

 

            “You have made a complete fool out of me, Madame,” he said.

 

            Once outside, Alain hurried to his boutique.  Breathing rapidly, he did not bother to sit down.  He threw off his coat and picked up the telephone.

 

            “It’s Bertier,” he said.  “Come to Paris tomorrow.  I have the vase you have been looking for.”

 

            The following afternoon a gentleman arrived from Zurich.  Attached to his wrist by handcuffs was a leather case containing 120,000 Swiss Francs.  For a single day’s work in October 1969 Alain Bertier had earned $26,000, nearly twice the average Frenchman’s annual salary at the time.  Oh Boy, were we about to have fun at poker!