Francis Bacon in Your Blood by Michael Peppiatt Read Free Book Online Page A

warn you you’ll be out of your depth intellectually, and probably socially. Michel Leiris is reckoned after all to be the greatest French writer alive, and he’s just finished the latest volume of
La Règle du jeu
which as I hope you know has become a fundamental text. Everyone in Paris is raving about it. We’ll also have the new French cultural attaché who’s the author of
Marx est mort
, which I have to say is
tout ce qu’il y a de plus controversé en ce moment
, and André Masson’s son, Diego, the conductor. I won’t say
le tout-Paris des arts et des lettres
will be there but not so very damned far off. Then we’ll probably have the publisher Nikos Stangos who’s delightful and a very talented American writer called David Plante. Do you think you can hold your own in a soirée like that?’
    â€˜Yeah,’ says George with a derisive snort. ‘You reckon you can ’old your own with all of ’em?’ He’s perked up and is following the scene with obvious amusement.
    â€˜Well, I’ll try,’ I say lamely, feeling exposed and regretting the anonymity my role as interviewer has so far conferred on me.
    â€˜I don’t think you need worry, Sonia,’ Francis says. ‘I’ve noticed Michael’s at ease in any company. He might seem shy to you, but he understands everything. After all, we’re all shy when we’re young, what with all that talent welling up inside us, even though with time we realize there’s simply no point in being shy.
C’est pas la peine
, as your friends in Paris would say. So whydon’t we have just a leet-el more of this Château La Lagune, then go on to Muriel’s for some champagne?’
    We tumble in and out of a taxi up a dank stairway and into a low-lit, green room heavy with cigarette smoke and seething with people where someone is playing an invisible piano and crooning, ‘And that’s why darling it’s incredible – that someone who’s unforgettable’, and there’s a severe-looking woman dressed in black with her shiny black hair pulled into a tight bun who looks like a retired ballerina sitting straight-backed on a stool by the bar who turns and says: ‘There you are, my daughter, no not you, you cunt, I’m talking to Francis.’
    With the three of us in tow, Francis kisses her and orders champagne all round. As the corks pop and everyone’s glass is filled to the brim, he raises his own, with the golden liquid slopping over his wrist, and like a challenge calls out: ‘Champagne for my real friends, real pain for my sham friends,’ and amid the laughter, some frank, some furtive, he knocks the drink back and orders more and introduces me to the severe lady who turns out to be Muriel. She seems kindly disposed towards me as another round of champagne breaks like a wave over the room and says that as ‘daughter’ has said such nice things about me she’ll make me a member of the Colony Room and Ian behind the bar will give me the card I need. As I down my champagne with the best of them I notice her whisk the bubbles out of her own glass with a little silver cocktail stick and I’m taken aback when she says politely, ‘That’s my clitoris, dear, always keep it moving’s my motto, I’ve never liked the bubbles, just the effect.’ The piano starts up again and it’s ‘Non, je ne regrette rien’, and I notice Sonia, red-faced and almost tearful, joining in while George stands to one side silently keeping himself to himself with cigarette and glass, now one going up to his mouth, now the other. Muriel controls the unruly swell around her by regularly issuing orders to punters who seem to be called alternatively ‘Sod’, ‘Granny’ or ‘Lottie’ – ‘Come on, Lottie,’ she says, ‘open up your bead bag and pay forlast night’s