R
I opened my eyes. I was sitting in our armchair in the studio, but once again a noise had disturbed me. My eyes focused on the door: another visitor was about to come in. The hinges creaked; stealthy footsteps padded in. Two black-clad figures moved in the moonlight. The taller one lit a candle, striking a match on the sole of his boot. I could just make out their faces. The one with the candle was Armand Metz, who ran a gallery in Rue de Maine and bought up pictures by the Monparnos. We would often see him at the Rotonde, wearing a bowler hat, sitting at Picasso’s table with a buyer or two, negotiating some deal. He always ignored Modigliani’s work and treated Zbo with a certain superiority. So what was he doing here in our studio? The other one, a stranger, looked like a roughneck—wit
