JULES OLITSKI
43
I'm stunned. Can it be? This slim, dark, olive-skinned Greek
dressed in a black, elegantly-cut Italian suit-my Kahnweiler? I
want to throw my arms around his neck. I want to kiss him. All I can
manage to say is : "Demikov will be ecstatic. Ecstatic." I keep saying
it: "&static. &static."
Mr. Iolas is businesslike. "To have an exhibit, I will need more
paintings."
I tell him Demikov paints day and night.
"I'll
bring a truckful of
paintings. Big ones . Even better than these . You11 see . Master–
pieces . I can't wait to tell Demikov. He'll be ecstatic, ecstatic. What
a wonderful thing.... " I'm going on , out of control.
"When can I meet the artist?"
I'm stopped in my tracks. "Good God," I say, "don't you
understand?" I'm talking fast about Stalin and his thugs . "They're
out there . They never give up . Demikov won't come out. He won't
come out. Impossible. You want to get him killed?"
Mr. Iolas is looking a bit uneasy , a bit goggle-eyed. He's giving
me a funny look. "I must meet the artist," he says .
"All you need are the paintings," I say . "I will bring the paint–
ings. I will be the go-between."
"What do you want out of this?" I don't like the edge in his
VOlce .
"Me? Nothing. I'm a professor. I'm not even an artist . I teach
art
history. You think I want money?" I try a disdainful chuckle, but
it gets away from me and comes out sounding like the bray of a
donkey.
He's looking at me the way you'd look at someone selling fake
Persian rugs . I suggest a post office box in Demikov's name (though
how Demikov can use it if he never leaves the cellar, I hope Mr.
Iolas won't ask). "If there are any paintings sold , you can send him
the money. I," I say solemnly, "am only trying to help my friend, a
great artist."
Mr. Iolas has had enough . "No!" he says. "No! I've never dealt
with a living artist that I did not know personally. I won't deal with
you! Tell your friend I am not political . He has nothing to fear from
me. Tell him I will meet him anywhere he chooses - in the middle of
the Brooklyn Bridge at midnight, if he wishes - but without our
meeting, fine artist though he is , there will be no show."
It's
all
slipping away . My head feels like a popcorn machine
operating at highest speed. What to do? Tell the truth . There's no
