One good thing, from Utter's viewpoint, was that his operations on the hill, dallying with Montparness widows, did put some cash in his pocket, a fortunate thing, because I,was absolutely dead broke--not a franc in the flat, and small propects of getting any money at all from Libaude. Utter's current fling was with an actor's wife named "Bebe," who, it was said, had an affinity for affairs with blonde gigolos, a billing that fit the penniless bon vivant perfectly.... She took a real fancy to Utter, dragging him all over Paris, the best places, like Le Theatre Francais, the open air concerts at Versailles, a posh event, and she moved with the elegantly dressed crowd that attended the horse races at Longchamps. Her only reservation about Utter was his clothes, encouraging her to spend a bundle of francs on a brand new wardrobe more to her taste. When they broke up, Utter gave the clothing, the lot of it, to a transvestite who performed at the Le Moulin de la Galette, calling the expensive garments, "Depressingly bourgeois--without style!"
When Utter had no place to hang his hat he'd appear in the doorway at the Rue Cortot, eager to make amends, without a franc in his pocket. Like a damn fool, I could never say no, so back he came, even though I knew he would be on the same old routines the next day. Why I didn't throw Utter out is hard to understand, but I must admit that I have a warm spot in my heart which induced me to take him back in my arms. Part of it was the loneliness that lay heavily across each day; a monotonous, repetitive experience, without end, broken only the demands Maurice made on my time. If Utter was in bad shape: the drinking and the womanizing having worn him down; he hung around for several weeks or so trying to refuel the tank before hitting the circuit again. I sometimes believed I was living a scenario in a Moliere drama, an accomodation with impossible conditions, which was moving relentlessly to a tragic climax, a denouement which carried all the principals to a bad end....
Maurice was an occasional visitor, usually at the beginning or end of a binge, a call that was not premeditated: he wasn't given to that sort of thing; but merely because he happened to be walking along the Rue Cortot. Most of Maurice's day was spent wandering up and down La Butte Pinson, in his room at Sergeant Gay's, or unconscious in the Montmartre Cemetery at the end of the Rue Vincent. Marie Vizier's-cafe was the center of his operations, the place where he began his nocturnal expeditions, a refuge where he could rest if he was tired of wandering around the hill with his fellow-boozers. Vizier tolerated his patronage, something other proprietors in the Montmartre discouraged, going along with the alcoholism a long as Maurice behaved himself. He had a special table in the corner, usually empty, but if it wasn't, he'd wait patiently on the Rue Leval until it was. At the Cafe, he met other people like Max Jacobs, Robert Naly, Libaude, mostly for business reasons, and occasionally, a critic, like Tabarant, who needed information on an article he was writing. But mainly, Maurice preferred to be alone, particularly if he was in the first stage of a binge, where abolute concentration was necessary to get it launched properly. When Maurice was deeply involved like this, he was isolated from the easy exchanges common in such places, a loner, notoriously unfriendly to other people.
The Prefect Beraud, splendid in his uniform, with a military strap across his chest, a heavy leather belt with pistol, and kepi under his arm, came to the flat, a very serious look on his face. After sitting down, wiping his brow with his handkerchief, he reminded me of Maurice's precarious position with the legal system. "Maurice," he said solemnly, lighting a cigarette as he spoke, and squinting as he puffed on it, "has passed the point where we can ignore his criminal activities, which, last month alone, reached a level of twenty-six arrests on various charges. My hand," he continued, raising his eyes to look at the ceiling, "has been forced by Cardinal Rochefault of Notre-Dame de Clignancourt, who complained that Maurice urinated behind the altar when priests tried to eject him, displayed himself to sisters engaged in prayer, and danced, naked to the waist, waving his arms, from the high platform above the choir section, screaming his version of the Latin mass, an act," Beraud concluded, "which the Cardinal Rochefault considers sacrilegious in the extreme." Beraud told me he had been authorized by the Council of the Seine, Criminal Division, to say that I had two choices, Villejuif, or a private institution at Sannois--in either case, he had stated, "It has to be done."
I had expected it because the police were fed up with arresting Maurice, the same face-off each day, and the same trip back to the jailhouse, sometimes with Maurice being carried in the paddy-wagon unconscious. When I tried to explain to Maurice that he was facing imprisonment for his crimes, he looked at me blankly, turned away sipping on a small bottle of absinthe, spat on the floor, before dragging heavily on a wet cigarette that dangled awkwardly from his mouth. He was far away in his own private world, he felt untouchable, protected from reality by his addiction. My inability to reach him frustrated me, but I realized that even if I did it wouldn't have the slightest effect on the insane path of boozing, because he would continue to drink until he was dead. I knew that once Maurice disappeared into the darkness of the French penal system, which was well-known for swallowing malfactors without a trace, we might a well forget that he ever existed....
Libaude, coming to the rescue, although he was obviously trying to protect his own interests, offered to pay for Maurice's period at Sannois. The hang-up for me was that he demanded exclusive rights to all painting done at the sanitarium, no exceptions, and that this right would continue until Maurice returned to the Montmartre--an event which seemed far-fetched, when you consider my son's unwillingness to mend his ways. The dealer assured me he had every reason to believe Maurice could survive the ordeal successfully. I replied that I thought this a little optimistic with the procedures involved in the sweating out process, measures very cruel, harsh, and prolonged. Max Jacob, when I talked to him, told me it wasn't going to be a picnic, and he knew what he was talking about because he had been through it several times himself. "It's touch and go--some make it, and some don't...."
Libaude, after the police had escorted Maurice off to Sannois, told me he would do everything to get the painting going again, because the expenses at the private sanitarium would deplete his bank account, and he feared going broke. I had no sympathy for this line of talk, he had made plenty, raking in money during the three years he had fronted for my son. As far as the painting was concerned, I was fairly certain that Maurice would manage this as part of his diplomacy in negotiating with the doctors, something he was no slouch at doing. Right from the start, when he was a child, he had shown a capacity to work out difficult situations in his favor, using guile, and sometimes, with Madeliene and myself, threats, anything which could gain him his ends. It was ridiculous to assume he could use his devious methods on trained professionals, men experienced in dealing with crazy boozers, but I'd seen him do it again and again, with remarkable panache for someone everybody considered simple minded. My experience had taught me that alcoholics are consumate actors, thespians on a grand scale, marvelous fabricators, and manipulators, who when they are in dire need of an extra drink, will resort to the most profound tactics imaginable--as smart as as a dozen foxes in heat....
I gave Libaude stacks of postcards I retrieved from Maurice's room above the Cafe Belle Gabrielle, scenes mostly of the winding streets of the La Butte Pinson, Le Elysees Montmartre, Le Place Pigalle, Le Rue Coulaincourt, Le Rue de Mont-Cenis, Le Rue des Abbesses, Le Rue des Saules, Le Rue Girardon, Le Rue Norvin, and Le Rue Andre Antoine. He said the quality of the painting was a good as ever, the rate of production was consistent, and there were no problems in a physical sense. Apparently, Maurice's exemplary behavior at Sannois had induced the medical staff to extend favorable treatment which consisted of advantages denied other inmates, like a private room overlooking a garden to paint, a relaxation of the disciplinary measures, and a chance to walk within the grounds of the sanitarium without being accompanied by guards. Most of Maurice's time, Libaude said, was used for painting, isolated in his special quarters, smoking cigarettes one after the other, more or less at ease, showing none of the symptoms of withdrawal from alcohol. This manifestation of proper attitudes, after three months at Sannois, encouraged the doctors to take a favorable view of granting Maurice his freedom, believing that he could, with careful watching, return to a normal lifestyle.
I received a letter, by registered post, saying that an official report had been forwarded to the Prefect Beraud at the 18th Arrondisement, on my son's rehabilitation. The report stated that the committee of physicians at Sannois had concluded that a partial cure had been effected, that any further restraint on Maurice was unnecessary as things stood. It also indicated that Maurice was simple-minded, an addicted alcoholic, but with symptoms which they believed were controllable with the implementation of disciplines, which were not specifically defined. The committee warned that with alcoholics a regression was always a danger, that the inherent alcoholism was incurable, and they recommended a monitoring of all activities. In conclusion, the committee acknowledged that Maurice's talent as an artist had been an important factor in the decision to release him from Sannois--a critical aspect which should be considered because it indicated a solid base for the patient's return to normal social activities ....
Despite my dislike of Libaude, I let matters drift back to the way they were before the Sannois episode, relieved to have cash in the flat again. Looking for trouble, I decided, was not, at the moment, a good idea. I had plenty of thoughts, however, about getting more of the money from my son's pictures, and, maybe, when the opportunity presented itself, to sack Libaude for another dealer. I had extreme doubts that I would ever receive a fair shake with a crook like him running the show. He was a clever scoundrel, cheating came naturally to him, and it would, most likely, become worse as he became more arrogant about manipulating the arrangement with Maurice.
Utter continued to hang around the Rue Cortot, brooding over the lack of money, sleeping at the flat occasionally, depending on his luck with the floozies who hung around the cafes in order to get extra cash. Maurice, Utter told me, was back at Sergeant Gay's place, unchastened by the experience at Sannois, and making up for the long dry spell by drinking heavily. As I was talking with Utter about this, Max Jacobs dropped in unexpectedly, eager to hear the latest news, looking elegant in a beautifully tailored gray suit, and smoking a thin cigar which he held delicately in front of him, gesturing with it as he talked. He had a big laugh about the way the script had,worked out, not surprised, overly, by the outcome. "Just a mild interruption in the guzzling," Max commented, and referring to the report, he added: "How in Christ's name could they float a balloon like that?" Utter, listening, observed that the report at least served the official notion of such things, satisfying the Prefect Beraud's need to take some sort of action, to show he was on the job. "Maurice," he said, "gives them a little, mind you, and then walks away with everything he wants!" Max shook his head, saying: "Beraud is dreaming if he believes a phony gasser like this can make the problem of Maurice fly away, because nothing has changed, the principal is out on the hill carousing again, picking up on his old habits, more confident than ever that he can beat the system."
I had mixed feelings about the way things had worked out, being pleased that the production line was in operation again, yet fearing that the pat on the hand administered by the doctors at Sannois would eventually have serious consequences. Maurice had hardly missed a step in his pursuit of alcoholic gratification, he was free from any restraint on his movements, and the income to support his drinking was assured by the sale of his paintings. The big problem, as I viewed it, was that my son with his easy victory over the law, would not only pick up where he had left off, but would intensify his activities, feeling he was invulnerable, and thereby bring on another crisis, probably far worse than the one he had just experienced. Max had hit the nail on the head when he said that Maurice, elated with his escape, would now stick his nose out a little further, inviting police action, and the next time, Max had warned, it was his opinion that the state would not be so lenient in exercising its prerogatives ....