The place smells alive. Emotions are palpable; relief at the war’s end, sorrow that so many were lost, love for those who survived. You can feel the history, almost hear the hoof beats of Napoleon’s cavalry returning from Egypt, almost see Marat, Charlotte Corday, and Robespierre on every street corner. I hardly slept the first night.
We are in an excellent-if-small suite at the Hotel Royal Deschamps. It is expensive; yet another reason for finding a more affordable residence. Since we have arrived here, there has been a tendency on Frederick’s part to complain about the price of meals, transportation and other services. For example, I asked that the hotel send a seamstress to the room as my clothes hang on me after our sea voyage. Frederick frowned, asked how much this would cost. I didn’t know, having not bothered to ask. Frederick frowned again, made a great show of producing his wallet and fanning through the roll of Franc notes. He looked unhappy at the prospect of parting with a single bill.
*****
Was that an indelicate thing to write? Frederick was not a tightwad, and only twice had he groused about the price of things, and yet it had surprised her; it was out of character. She thought for a moment, then continued.
*****
But Frederick has also been taken by the city. I have caught him staring at the latest men’s fashions in store windows. He purchased a bottle of shaving cologne at a parfumerie, and tomorrow we shall look for a tailor who can make him some shirts.
I roam the streets like a common tourist. Frederick accompanied me the first day, but since then I’ve had mornings to myself. We meet for lunch, visit museums in the afternoon, and have attended two evening performances. The one last night was quite risqué. Frederick claims he was told by the hotel staff that it was a very entertaining spectacle, and so we attended. We sat in the dark for what seemed a long time. When the curtain finally rose, a line of dancers wearing brief costumes cavorted about the stage, sang songs, performed acrobatic feats of mild daring and told jokes that neither of us could understand. One skit about the murderer Landru, whom I have read about in newspapers, was obviously ill-rehearsed and disconcerting. An actor, wearing a pointed beard and a bowler hat, lures a young woman to his room. He persuades her to take off most of her clothes, which she does with a maximum of tasteless movements. The lights dim, and eerie strains rise from the musicians’ pit. One hears the sounds of passion, and we are treated to a number of tableaux of Landru and his captive in compromising positions. The crowd applauds, shouts suggestions (I think) and generally carries on. Then a large black box—an oven—is produced. Landru wrestles the hapless woman into it while singing at the top of his lungs, then lights a match. Flames. Screams. Smoke. A crescendo of music. After a moment of anticipation, Landru wrests open the oven door and pulls out a skeleton with which he dances across the stage to an infernal rhythm. In the background, 10 thinly veiled women, whose breasts are barely hidden, sing a Greek chorus. Applause. The curtain drops, then rises. The actresses whip off their wigs and skirts, fling their fake bosoms to the ground and reveal themselves to be all men! Frederick, of course, knew. Why he chose this particular spectacle is beyond me. If he wanted to shock me, he succeeded.
*****
Easter poured more tea and signaled to a waiter for a fresh pot. It was hard to remember everything—so many discoveries, so little time, so much yet to see. How best to approach Frederick about staying longer than planned? He liked the city, or at least claimed to, but he missed American breakfasts, which no Parisian restaurant served. If he agreed to lengthen their stay, Easter decided she would cook Frederick eggs, bacon and pancakes every day, or at least once a week.
*****
Two days ago I sent a note to Mr. James Johnson, whom the seamstress of my wedding dress, Yvonne Février, suggested I contact. She told me he is a charming man who might be helpful in getting to know the city. Yesterday, having obtained a response from him welcoming me to France, I went to his residence.
I half-expected an artist’s garret, the cold-water atelier of an impoverished painter, for Yvonne had told me that Mr. Johnson was struggling to establish himself. I had envisaged a handsome man besmeared with traces of ochre and magenta, and instead found a neat, ground-floor apartment and a young American with melancholy eyes. Yvonne had told me he’d driven an ambulance during the war.
Save for a foldable easel standing by a window, the tools of his trade were nowhere to be seen. I anticipated the smell of turpentine but was greeted by the aroma of cabbage and sausage wafting from the concierge’s kitchen.
He was wearing a brown corduroy suit that had seen fresher days, and a gray foulard. His shoes, though scuffed, were clean and free of paint spots. I mention all this because I was taken aback. He apologized for the smell, asked for news of Yvonne and avoided my inquiries about his art.
The walls of his apartment were largely bare, save for some colorful posters and several portraits of a young woman. When I asked him, he admitted the paintings were his, and that the girl in question was a local model by the name of Kiki, but that he had painted them from memory. I sensed some embarrassment.
He mentioned in passing that he has a brother, Daniel, who is among the missing.
He offered me tea and cakes, and we then spoke for some time about the people whom I had read about in Chicago. He knows Modigliani!!!
I could not hide my exaltation, and he found this amusing.
“Tell me,” he asked, “is Modi that well-known in the U.S.? I would have thought people there worshipped the Fauves, like Matisse or Dufy. Surely Americans are still enamored of wild colors and daring landscapes.”
How embarrassing! I did not know who the Fauves or Dufy were. I’ve since found out. Dufy is a watercolorist. He illustrated some poetry books and became quite famous. The Fauves—it means “The Wild Animals”—are members of an artists’ movement launched by Henri Matisse that is seeking to change the very concepts of what art is. At the time, however, I had to admit my ignorance.
Mr. Johnson—I shall call him James from now on, at his request—smiled at my lack of knowledge, and I might have been offended save that, for a moment, the sadness left his eyes. He is really quite handsome, but here is the exciting thing: he has promised to introduce me to Modigliani. He made the offer without prompting, as if he performed such services daily for American visitors, which, for all I know, he may.
Frederick did not accompany me on my visit. I hope James did not think it forward of me to come alone. The truth is that Frederick would have been bored and fidgety. Talk of culture fatigues him, and judging from his enjoyment of last night’s performance, he is more at home in a popular music hall than in an artist’s studio.
Tonight at dinner, I will broach the subject of lengthening our stay. James mentioned several inexpensive furnished apartments in his Montparnasse neighborhood, including two in his building. He also said he would gladly approach the concierge if I were interested in securing one. I told him I had not yet spoken to my husband and he winked at me, as if we shared a secret, which I suppose we do.
*****
Easter blotted the entry, drank the last of her now-tepid tea and left some change on the tray. She returned to her room and undressed quietly in the dark, slipped into her nightgown and got into bed. Frederick was sleeping on his back, mouth ajar, snoring very lightly. She thought for a moment of waking him, but then reconsidered. He might want to seduce her. Was that the right word? Seduce? Probably not. She kissed him on the cheek and he didn’t stir. She turned on her side and in moments was asleep.
Chapter 12
And why, Frederick wondered, did the man at the hotel suggest that particular
