Francis Bacon in Your Blood (39 page)

I've also just been down to the studio in the rue de Birague to let the cleaner in and make sure everything is ready for Francis's next visit. I get the fridge stocked with a few basics, pay the utility bills, which come in my name anyway, and I remember to go to the dry cleaners to pick up his sheets which are noticeably similar to the colours Francis uses for the backgrounds of his paintings: pink, lilac, orange and yellow. If it's at all cold, Francis likes the heating turned full on before he arrives. Even when it's been cleaned, the studio still looks pretty messy because I've given strict instructions that nothing – and that includes paint tubes and brushes on the floor – should be moved. I've also been over to Sennelier on the Quai Voltaire to order some pre-stretched canvases so that Francis has what he needs when he's ready to work.

The last time Francis was over, I brought round an American collector I know who's always calling me, probably because he thinks I'll lead him to a bargain-price painting, and when he saw the studio, he exclaimed, ‘With the prices you're making, why do you live in a dump like this?' The remark tickled Francis enormously, I don't know why, but sometimes he laughs until he literally cries. He has a neighbour at the rue de Birague, a burly retired railway worker, whom he has got to know, and who popped in when I was there once and mimicked – having no idea of Francis's own orientation – two queers he'd just seen on the street. Francis found the comedy of errors so funny the tears came coursing down his face, and the neighbour, delighted by the apparent success of his clowning, went on to do more and more grotesque imitations of effeminate men.

Effeminacy is no doubt the last thing you could accuse Francis himself of. I've seen him barely able to walk or turn his head, presumably because he'd had himself so badly beaten up by passing lovers, without ever complaining or explaining, and
I know he's had stitches taken out without anaesthetic. He'll go for days without sleep and drink everyone under the table and still be ready for more. ‘One is never hard enough on oneself,' he's fond of saying. I often wonder how much of this toughness comes from physical resilience and how much from willpower, both of which he has in spades. I can keep up with him for a few days, but then I have to lie low and lick my wounds. There'll be no lying low for a while, however, because Francis has just called to say he's arrived at Birague and he's asking whether I have a moment to pass by.

I suspect Francis wants to ‘settle' for the various bills I've had to pay. He's very punctilious about any debts he may have, whether real or perceived. At the beginning I used to keep all the bills and tot them up to show him, but he brushed them aside and gave me two or three times the total. I have to admit that some extra cash would come in very handy now that I'm paying off all the expenses of my move to the rue des Archives.

When I get to the studio, I'm surprised to find Francis in a red-and-blue-striped dressing gown, though it occurs to me he might have just taken a quick bath. We chat for a while and to my growing alarm, Francis keeps crossing and uncrossing his white, hairless legs and tucking in his gown with exaggerated care as if by some terrible accident his sex might come tumbling out. As he acts out this drama, I train my eyes on a flare of orange paint on the wall above his right shoulder and begin talking in swift succession about various goings-on in the building and the exhibitions I'd seen and whether he'd be staying long in Paris this time. The crisscrossing and tucking eventually subsides without any tumbling, to my considerable relief, and we are able to catch up on various matters and me to invite him to dinner in my new space, along with Denis Wirth-Miller, who's joining him for a few days in Paris, and wouldn't that be nice and before I know it Francis has whipped, nothing untoward, a wad of 500-franc Swiss notes out of his dressing gown, saying he has to get rid of them because it will soon be impossible to change them
and thanking me profusely for everything I've done to keep the studio for him.

As a bachelor my cooking tends to the quick and filling. Pastas and risottos with the simplest sauces, speedy fry-ups and grills are my staples. I can however go further, and when I'm doing one of my large parties I serve a spicy chicken curry with exotic condiments, much appreciated by my French friends, or for a sit-down dinner I often make a slowly braised
boeuf bourguignon
, to which in a slight departure from the classic recipe I add mushrooms and top with diced bacon, croutons and crisp-fried parsley – the latter being something I know Francis likes especially, since we had it once in a restaurant on some grilled fish and he pronounced it ‘one of the most delicious things you can possibly eat'. I also make sure that a good bottle of wine goes into it, although I can't compete with the bottle of the fabled Château Cheval Blanc that Francis told me he once poured into an Irish stew he had on the go. I now boast a dedicated dining room, sparsely furnished but with a small grate where I've lit a welcoming fire. Denis Wirth-Miller is on his way with Francis, and I've invited Alice, who inspires a degree of chivalry on such occasions, even from the irrepressible Denis. Alice is particularly amused that the ‘two old boys', as she calls them, will be sharing the bed at the rue de Birague. Fleetingly we wonder whether, improbable as it seems, there has ever been anything between Francis and Denis.

Once the guests have arrived, we have some champagne in the big room, where Francis stares malevolently at the huge oil collage Dado has given me, then we move into my bare dining room, where Francis stares malevolently at the coloured landscape relief by Raymond Mason that I've hung there. I serve my
boeuf
and hope for the best. True to form, Denis goes purple in the face after a few glasses and gets increasingly garrulous. The talk and the wine take precedence over the food, I note, which is probably just as well.

‘I've just seen the studio, Michael,' Denis says, ‘and I think it's absolutely beautiful and just perfect for Francis.'

‘Of course Michael can throw me out any time he feels like it,' Francis says, slyly.

I protest vigorously, but of course he knows I never would. He hasn't got this far in life without being an accurate judge of other people.

Although no one has expressed even polite interest in the subject, Denis starts outlining the various illnesses he has had, including an operation on a leg that had become infected.

‘Somebody asked me whether Francis Bacon had bitten me,' Denis says, with mock indignation.

‘And had you?' Alice asks Francis.

‘Of course not,' Francis snorts. ‘I wouldn't be here today if I had.'

Denis leaves for the lavatory.

‘It's usually when he gets drunk like this that we have a row,' Francis says.

Denis returns and starts recounting his recent eye problems.

‘For the longest time I went totally blind,' he insists, purple with wine and the satisfaction of having made himself the centre of attention.

‘You were not blind,' Francis says irritably. ‘It was your brain that went, not your eyes. And when it comes to illnesses, not that I'd be so boring as to mention them, I've had everything. But I don't think other people are interested in those kinds of things. As it happens.'

I've noticed before that Francis gets restless if the conversation isn't revolving around him.

‘Even so, Francis, I have to say I've always found you the most extraordinary person,' Denis continues, gushingly. ‘I've never met anyone who has had as much effect on me as you have. After all I have known you since 1949 . . . I remember sending you a telegram once when you were in Tangier. I was in Aix at the time
and absolutely desperate because both Dickie and I had fallen in love with the same man.'

‘Who preferred Dickie,' Francis puts in. ‘Now wasn't that annoying.'

‘Well, I hadn't a penny to my name and I was so desperate I was suicidal,' Denis explains unperturbed.

‘You weren't suicidal. You've never been suicidal. You just talk about it.'

‘Anyway, as soon as Francis got my telegram, he cabled back “Will come”, and on the morning we'd agreed there he was . . . Wasn't that marvellous? And even though we've known each other all this time, he still says things that stop me in my tracks.'

‘What's the old fool saying?'

‘Oh but you do, Francis. You say things brilliantly, in so few words . . . I'm not surprised Eric Hall loved you, I don't think you loved him – the only man you ever really loved was Peter Lacy. But you wouldn't be what you are today without Eric Hall.'

‘It's true he helped me a great deal. He encouraged me. Do you know how I met him? I'd put an advertisement in as a secretary—'

‘As a male whore,' says Denis, glistening with the witty accuracy of his remark.

‘As a secretary,' Francis repeats firmly. ‘And this man got in touch with me who turned out to be a cousin of Douglas Cooper's. And he said, I think I know someone who would be interested in your work. And he took me to this club they went to in those days on Dover Street, the Bath Club, and that's where I met Eric Hall.'

‘Eric Hall's father had been a builder,' Denis says, for my and Alice's benefit. ‘He built things like Hall Road in Hampstead and he left his son a considerable fortune. Eric was deputy chairman or something on the London County Council and
when he met Francis he was a family man with children. Didn't you both go to visit his son at Eton for Speech Day or whatever it's called?'

‘The Fourth of June. Yes, we did, to take him out to tea. I'm afraid it must have looked very odd,' says Francis.

‘You
were
a monster, Francis,' says Denis encouragingly. ‘I suppose you introduced yourself as Mrs Eric Hall? Didn't the son go completely round the bend later?'

‘Unfortunately he did,' Francis says musingly. ‘He suddenly attacked a woman in a hotel and they put him in one of those homes. He's become very pathetic now. His arms shake the whole time. I haven't seen him in a long while. He used to come round occasionally and stand outside the studio in London shouting, “It's because of you I'm like this!”'

‘You should have been more considerate about his feelings,' Denis chimes in. ‘There we are – you're a pig in name and a pig in nature.'

‘That kind of considerateness comes later,' says Francis. ‘When you're young you don't think about those things. You think about enjoying yourself.'

‘You must have met a lot of people,' Alice says.

‘Well, I haven't, Alice, I've never met anyone really. At least not those kinds of people – intellectuals, I mean.'

‘I remember you were invited to lunch by Virginia Woolf,' says Denis.

‘That's true. There was a lunch with all those people, like the woman she was supposed to have been in love with, Vita Sackville-West. She was a monster herself, Virginia Woolf. She shouted all the way through the lunch. She began by shouting and just carried on all the way through.'

‘But you've met everybody,' Denis insists.

‘I haven't. I almost never go out. I see a few people in Soho. And I see you, Alice and Michael. And that's about it. I used to see Lucian Freud, but he doesn't talk to me now. When I was young, I met one or two other drifters like myself. But I've
never met anyone to talk to really ever. I always think of real friendship as where two people can tear each other to pieces.'

Towards the end of the evening, Denis accuses Francis of having once put a dozen sleeping tablets into George Dyer's hand.

‘I know,' Denis repeats smugly. ‘John Deakin told me when the three of you came back from that holiday in Greece.'

‘Do you think I might put a dozen sleeping pills in your hand tonight?' Francis inquires sweetly.

Denis starts talking about where to find the best ‘waxy' potatoes to make a ‘proper' potato salad and he suggests opening another bottle, but Francis gets abruptly to his feet and thanks me for the evening.

‘Yes, that was a perfect evening,' Denis joins in, struggling up from his chair. ‘And the food was delicious, Michael. I can't remember ever having eaten a better
blanquette de veau
.'

The two of them make their way cautiously down the staircase, briefly suspending hostilities, but only, I feel sure, until they're alone again when they can continue ‘to tear each other to pieces', as Francis says friends should, the whole night through.

In my diary I've noted down the conversation between Francis and Denis because I want to be able to draw on it verbatim. For a long time I didn't even question the fact that I jotted down what happened and what was said when I was with Francis. I even used to joke to myself that if I didn't get it down the first time I'd record it the next time Francis said it, since he does repeat himself constantly, even though there's often a different nuance made or an extra detail added. More recently, I've become conscious that all this archiving of sayings and events must be leading somewhere and that Francis himself could hardly be relaying all the information he passes on to me for no reason. Although I've wandered into the inviting pastures of art history and art criticism, I have always considered myself above all a writer, indeed, as time goes by, more and more as a frustrated writer,
since although I earn my living by my pen I haven't yet been able to do much of what's called uninspiringly ‘writing for myself'. Put two and two together, and you'll have me writing a book about Francis Bacon. I don't have a better subject, and, though I say it myself, I have become something of an expert on the man, the work and the whole Baconian universe.

That book, little by little, has been coming together. I'm not sure how good, even how coherent, it is – Francis says it would take a Proust to tell the story of his life – but the stack of pages, full of whited-out and typed-over sentences, is piling up and taking some kind of shape, even though the language tends to the purplish. I haven't mentioned the whole venture to Francis yet, but now, on the eve of a big new gallery exhibition at Claude Bernard, is clearly not the time. I'll have to wait until the show is up and running. It's been over seven years since the Grand Palais retrospective opened, and the build-up towards this show in Paris is almost tangible. Francis has become a cult figure, not just in the art world but among the punks, who although somewhat more decorous than their alarming British counterparts will apparently be coming out in such strength that the police have cordoned off the rue des Beaux-Arts, where Claude's gallery is. Incidentally, I've heard nothing more about the publication project from Claude, and when I made a point of reminding him about his offer, he merely said, rather sharply: ‘It's too late.' I don't know what that means, beyond the fact that I've ceased to be of interest now that Francis's new show is about to open. But I'm really disappointed, so it's good that at last I have a book to keep me going.