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I remember that afternoon vividly.
It was not going to be an easy feat.
After all, it was meant to be a quick job.
Getting in the room with them, by comparison, had been a cakewalk.
After a lengthy chat, it turned out Kathy was also Herves longtime girlfriend and protector.
Some might have even described him as a has-been.
And yet here he was, auditioning me for the part of interviewer.
Fucking showbiz dwarfs, theyre all the same, he snarled quietly.
We had bigger fish to fry.
He was much older than I had imagined, his hair graying, his complexion jaundiced.
But it was the voice that really got you.
It was high-pitched and gravelly, like a baritone whod inhaled helium.
I asked Herve if something had happened to make him so late.
I was reading your articles.
Zey only arrive zis morning.
He smiled charmingly and gestured us back inside the restaurant.
He was so fascinating and charismatic that Sloane and I didnt bat an eyelid and just followed him.
I called the publicist of my next interviewee to say we were running a little behind.
Perched on his favorite chair like a king, Herve answered everything with a mischievous warmth.
You couldnt help but like him, love him even.
It was a shame I had to leave so soon.
I laughed intuitively how could you not?
Now Ive told you all ze bullshit stories, what about ze truth?
What do you mean?
I asked as casually as I could.
Would you like to hear ze real story of my life?
I could see that Herve wasnt truly threatening me, that all he wanted was my attention.
And now he had it.
He let out a small smile of relief.
Meet me tomorrow night at Le Petit Chateau in Universal City.
I gestured down at the blade.
It was still far too close for comfort.
Herve finally let it drop, paused, and then took a small bow.
He was sitting at a large round table under a spotlight.
Julie Londons Fly Me to the Moon played softly in the background.
The show had begun early tonight.
I pulled out my tape recorder and placed it in front of him.
So what about this real story of yours, then?
Herve gestured to the plates of barely touched food and laughed.
Arent you going to ask me why I only taste things first?
Sure, I nodded.
He demonstrated by delicately slicing off a tiny tranche of steak and dropping it on his tongue.
He added that the worst offenders were cigars, rich chocolates, and Roquefort cheese.
And with that, Herve smiled and lit a Monte Cristo.
He weighed just 63 pounds and only one of his lungs functioned, worsening his respiratory problems.
My eyes couldnt help but find the cigar slightly shaking between his stubby fingers.
As I glimpsed a dangerous-looking hunting knife among the bottles, Herve snapped the case shut.
I dont like to be misquoted, he explained with a shrug.
But still, he said, he knew in his heart that his mother loved him very much.
Herves childhood had been grueling.
His early memories were nearly all of protracted and painful medical treatments.
I started realizing I was different when I went from hospital to hospital.
I was 5 or 6 when I became conscious of it.
At the time, you have to understand, dwarfism was something they did not know too much about.
They would try everything to make me grow.
One time, they cut my throat from ear to ear to look at my thyroid.
I will always remember that.
The waking up, the stitches, the crying, the nun praying in the corner.
They put clips in my throat so I could eat.
It was a harrowing experience.
None of the treatments worked.
As horrible as all of this was, Herve found cathartic respite in painting.
But life in the Paris of the 50s and early 60s was far from easy for someone like Herve.
My father told me,I dont think you should come back until you are successful, he said.
Herve arrived in New York in 1964 with plans to gain an art scholarship.
I was the littlest hippie in the [Greenwich] Village, he told me.
He was determined never again to come out second-best in a street fight.
Herve told me adored the Bond actor, with whom he shared a similar taste for practical jokes.
Every time I go down the stairway and nobody came.
That happened every day.
On location in Thailand and Burma, Herves predilection for the local women was legendary.
Even two-time Bond girl Maud Adams found herself the target of Herves relentless attentions.
I am not a womanizer, he protested.
I just love women.
All women …
Herve smiled at that, then paused to take a large gulp of brandy.
He threw some bills on the table and grabbed his green Samsonite Vanity case.
Now, why dont we get out of this dump and go have some fun?
He was gone before I could even answer.
I packed away my things and came outside to find Herve posing for a photo with the valets.
As he signed an autograph for one of their kids, someone screamed, The Plane!
from a passing car.
Herve saluted his new admirers and gestured for the waiting white limo to pull forward.
He opened the door himself, threw in the vanity case and clambered inside after it.
After a moment, Herve reappeared at the window with some kind of tropical flower in his hair.
He waved a wad of dollar bills at me, gesturing for me to join him in the car.
Have you heard of Jumbos Clown Room?
I shook my head, no.
Hurry up, English!
I hesitated briefly, looked back around at all the valets staring at me, and got inside.
What else was I going to do?
