Smokin' With Erte

7/31/2019 Smokin' With Erte

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Smokin With Ert

I have big news, ladies our gallery director gushed. I had never seenher so excited. A former school teacher, this middle aged British ladywas usually coolly reserved. I just found out that Ert is doing the

costume and set design for his god-daughters theater production herein town, and hes going to attend the opening!

Considering that the father of art deco was pushing ninety at the time,this was surprising news indeed.

Ive contacted the head office, and have suggested hosting a specialcollectors event. Perhaps hell even be willing to come. Mary K. wasactually blushing, but it was understandable. The man was a livinglegend, after all.

Her enthusiasm quickly turned to quiet fury a few days later, however,when she was told that the Beverly Hills gallery director had stolen theidea out from under her. Ert would indeed make an appearance, butnot at our gallery. What was worse, our gallery staff was ordered toattend the event in Beverly Hills as support staff only, not allowed tosell. There had always been friction between us and the far morelucrative Beverly Hills store, but this made it burst into flame.

Since we wont be able to attend the opening of the play, Mary K.sniffed at our staff meeting a few days later, Ive been told we mayclose the gallery early to attend the dress rehearsal. That way, we can

at least appear knowledgeable should anyone strike up a conversation.

Were allowed to speak, then?

Mary K. didnt laugh. The rehearsal begins at 7:30. Dont be late.

* * *

Im not sure what I was expecting, but it definitely wasnt the rat hole ofa theater in a scary part of town that we arrived at. I think the spacestarted life as a storefront, and it looked like minimal effort had been

made in converting it to a theater.

We took our seats before a large set piece so crudely painted it wasbarely recognizable as M. Erts design. We all glanced at each othernervously.

Just before the lights dimmed, a tiny, snowy haired man was led to aseat in the front row. Mary K. elbowed me hard. Thats HIM! she


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whispered. None of us had been expecting this. We spent more timestaring at the back of his head than we did watching the production. Hishead was more interesting.

At intermission, he made his way out to the street for a cigarette, and

Mary K. bulldozed us after him. She could be a force of nature when shewanted something, and she wanted this badly.

Pardonez moi, Monsieur Ert? she chirped while charging up to him.He looked startled, then just a flicker of annoyance as Mary K. prattledaway in French, but he smiled and was supremely gracious.

I grew up around celebrities, and it takes a lot to impress me. Sure,theyre people that a lot of other people admire, but theyre still justpeople. This was different. As I watched this man who barely came up tomy 52 shoulder, eyes sparkling while he chatted with Mary K., I was in

absolute awe. This man wasnt just people. He was history. Or an imp.Maybe both?

I was abruptly snapped out of my reverie when Mary K. turned to me,pushed me forward, and said And Betsy here speaks Russian!

To say I spoke Russian is like saying a kindergartner has a firm graspof English lit. While technically I did have two years of schooling in thelanguage, it was just enough to learn that I have a horrible head forlanguages. Sure, I spoke Russian, if by speak you mean somethingthat would be beneath Sesame Street vocabulary.

He perked up at this, however, and cheerfully rambled off a fewsentences that might as well have been Martian to my ears. I didmanage, roughly, to convey that I spoke only a little Russian, and thatvery badly. He cackled at this, and patted my cheek. Oh, you are aprecious girl. he laughed.

I was honored to have amused him, but still a bit pissed at Mary K.

The next night we were busy in our catering duties at the BH gallery.Selected collectors had been invited to this post-opening show, and they

came all excited to meet the master.

The BH gallery director had erected a throne of sorts in the back of thegallery, complete with velvet ropes to keep people in line. I thought itlooked like a zoo exhibit, and from M. Erts demeanor he thought sotoo.

At one point, however, as I was in the back filling champagne glasses, I


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noticed that there was no one in line. I also noticed how tired M. Ertlooked, leaning his head on his hand and yawning.

Gospadeen? (Sir) I asked him. He looked up at me startled, then camethat delightful cackle again.

Ah, it is my little Russian friend. How are you, my dear?

Im fine, but you look exhausted. May I get you something?

He winked at me. Actually, yes. I could use a bit of air. Would you be sokind as to accompany me?

Of course! I left my drink tray and helped him out through the backroom of the gallery, into the alley.

Once out there, standing amongst the dumpsters, he opened an elegantsilver case and withdrew two lavender cigarettes, offering me one. Eventhough I was a smoker, one drag had me buzzed. I didnt want to offendhim, though, so I just tried to remember not to inhale. I mostlysucceeded.

Ah. Much better. he said, after drawing deeply on his cigarette. Tellme, how is it you came to know Russian? It is not, as I understand it, avery common skill for a young American lady?

Well, I began, in case you havent noticed, I dontspeak it very well.

And Im ashamed to say that I started studying it not out of a love forthe language, but out of the love I had for a certain Slavic major.

He chuckled at this. Ah, yes. Isnt that always the way? There is alwaysa boy, and where there is a boy, there is trouble, yes?

Da.

He laughed harder. I proceeded to ask him what he had said to me theother night.

What I have asked you just now. he smiled.

See? Zhal! (bad)

His eyes twinkled as he patted my cheek. You are a treasure, my child.And now, I think we must go back in.

He took my arm and we slipped back into the gallery, only to be greeted


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by an impossibly long line waiting for their moment with him, and a veryirate gallery director. No sooner had I helped him back into his thronethan she yanked me aside, blasting me for disappearing like that andthreatening to have me fired.

Mary K. was suddenly at my side, jumping to my defense. I knew it wasonly because I was heremployee, and any tongue lashings to be issuedwere herprivilege.

I explained that he asked me to take him outside for a few minutes, so Iobliged. I wasnt going to apologize to anyone for being the only onewho cared enough to see to his needs. That shut them both up for theevening, though Mary K. did tell me later that while she agreed with me,she might not be able to save my job if the other director insisted on it.Especially after the dough they had raked in this night.

I explained again that I didnt feel I had done anything wrong, and if Iwas to be fired for that, it was fine by me. I held my head high as Imarched to the back to once again fill champagne glasses.

Another lull was happening, and the crowd was thinning. M. Ertgestured for me to come closer.

I fear I have caused you some trouble my dear, no?

No. Nothing I cant handle.

He patted my cheek again. His fingers felt like feathers.

You are kind to say so, but I know how these things go. I have beendoing these events since before you were born.

Actually, he had probably been doing these events since before mygrandparents were born, but I kept that to myself.

He pulled out a small silver case from his jacket, much like a miniatureversion of the cigarette case. He removed a business card and pressedit into my hand.

If they give you any trouble, you have them call me here. That is myprivate number. I will set things right.

His private home number? Seriously?

That wont be necessary


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Please. Keep it, just in case. He winked, and then his assistant came tohelp him out.

A few days later, Mary K. sat me down and said that the BH director wasstill demanding I be fired. I need to know everything, every little detail

about what happened.

I told her, and briefly showed her the card. Her jaw hit the floor like ananvil in a roadrunner cartoon. His PRIVATE number? Not even theowners have that sort of access!

And I intend to keep it that way. Im willing to be fired, but theres noway in hell Im going to give out his number and have him botheredabout this.

Mary K. quickly put in a call to the owners, explaining that M. Ert would

be angry if I was fired, and that he had given me unprecedented accessto ensure that did not happen. Surely they didnt want to upset theirnumber one artist? The matter was dropped.

Then she called the BH director and blew a big, wet raspberry into thephone, before hanging up. At least, thats how I remember it.

I worked there for another 3 years. And I still have that card.

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Smokin' With Erte