Mistral's Daughter by Judith Krantz Page A

were stalks of rhubarb.   From her
knees to her feet she was entwined in painted grapevines and her armpits held
apples.
    Her face was left unpainted
except for two honey bees on her forehead, her hair was held back by a garland
of flowers.   She had refused to bow to
the protests of the artists who insisted that the green chiffon scarf she
intended to wear as an improvised G-string was incompatible with the spirit of
the occasion.
    The artists had constructed
an oval, wooden fruit bowl, six feet long, covered with silver paint, on which
they planned to carry Maggy at shoulder height.   Each of the four men wore painted sandwich boards, over black tights
and sweaters.   André represented a Brie,
Pierre an entire Camembert, Henri a slice of Roquefort and Alain half of a
Chevre...   each huge block of cheese
painted so realistically that they looked edible.   The four artists were part of a school of
Realist painters and their ensemble of cheese and fruit was meant as a protest
against the Surrealists and their distortions.
    "Wait," Maggy
protested as they made a trial attempt to hoist the fruit bowl, "I need
something to do with my hands.   Can't I
carry a flower or something?"
    "No, you'll ruin
it.   Just rest your head on one elbow and
lie absolutely still and don't, for the love of God, sweat.   Damn it, Maggy, why wouldn't you let us use
oils instead of water colors?"
    "Because I don't intend
to spend tomorrow bathing in turpentine," Maggy answered. "As it is,
Alain, the silver paint feels a bit sticky.   I'm not sure it dried properly.   Didn't some king paint slaves with gold paint once?   I believe they died of it."
    "Rumor, rumor.   Anyway it's only going to come off on your
ass, if at all.   Now let'sgo — the ball started an hour ago.   Maggy, get
off there and walk with us.   When we get
to Bullier we'll put this miracle together."
    "Just let me put on my
coat and shoes."
    "Why bother — it's warm out," André protested. "But it's three streets away."
    "Don't you dare smudge
anything," Pierre said anxiously.
    "On second thought, I'm
taking a taxi — in a coat.   I'll
meet you there."
    "Oh, the little
bourgeoise," André mocked.
    Maggy advanced on the little
artist menacingly.   "Do you want to
die, mosquito? Strangled by two bananas? Take that back." "You
wouldn't get mad if it weren't true," he cried, dancing out of her reach.
    "Hey, there's no time
for lovemaking," Alain shouted.   "If we get there too late everybody'll be too far gone to notice
us-onward!   Everybody to the barricades!"
    Five hundred people were
jammed together at the Bullier by the time Maggy arrived.   In the crowd were Darius Milhaud, Satie and
Massine.   The Comtesse de Noailles was
there and so were Paul Poiret and Schiaparelli, joined by Picasso wearing his
picador's costume.   Gromaire had put on
the habit of a Spanish Jesuit to which he had added balloonlike woman's
underpants trimmed with rose   red ribbons
and Brancusi had gotten himself up as an Oriental prince with beads to his
knees and a Persian carpet around his shoulders.   Pascin, followed as always by his tame troop
of gypsies, jazz musicians and pretty girls, wore his usual black.
    Astonished "Bravos"
sounded at the first sight of Maggy at the tip of the great staircase.   She made her entrance borne aloft and
perfectly balanced during the perilous descent.   One by one the musicians caught sight of Maggy through the smoke, and
with a toot and a blare and a blast of every instrument in the orchestra they
heralded her slow passage around the huge ballroom, lying motionless on the
silver platter.   Everywhere she passed
sections of the crowd stopped dancing to press around the group of Realists, applauding
and screaming their approval.   Maggy had
been so skillfully painted that only little by little did everyone realize
that, except for a wisp of chiffon, she was utterly naked, a realization that
only added to the roar of approbation.
    "What on