> The sun shone brightly in Paris for Ralph's funeral in Montparnasse. It
was
> good, moving event. Two other English friends of Ralph came: the art
> historian Peter Smith and his artist daughter Romana. Peter, who I liked a
> lot, had known Ralph since his days in west London in the late seventies,
> and had visited him in Manosque. Michele Bernstein was there and was
> charming -- these days she's a plump, round, strong elderly lady with a
> walking stick. Never stops talking; after the burial we sat together on a
> tombstone and gossiped. Ralph's son, Sandro (who looks, even walks, very
> like his father) have a short speech. He told of how, despite threats from
> Peggy G., he tried to trace Ralph when he was eighteen. Phoned all the
> Rumney's in the phone book. Eventually got Ralph. 'Ah', said Ralph when he
> announced himself, 'I thought you'd call.' He said he was deeply moved by
> the Guardian obituary, especially because of what I'd said about Ralph and
> Pegeen. I guess there were about sixty or seventy people there. There was
a
> one column obituary in the Saturday Liberation but nothing else anywhere
so
> far. Afterwards we went back to Sandro's palatial flat in Rue de Bourgogne
> for food and wine. Lots of Ralph's work on the walls, along with some
> delightful paintings by Pegeen. One of Ralph.s montages was especially
> amusing: a cut-out of a glass of red wine surrounded by packets of
Celtique
> cigarettes (a self-portrait, said Sandro). Ralph's favourite brand, since
> banned in France for having nicotine levels right off the scale. Just as
we
> were finishing the wine, a sudden gust of wind flung open the French
> windows -- 'It's Ralph', said Sandro, 'come to get the last of the wine.'
>