A Paris Apartment (12 page)

“Olivier,” April said. “Can we chat?”

She approached the kitchen, where he stood, back toward the doorway and looking through a crate of sealed wine.

“Bonjour, April,” he said without turning around. “How’s it coming with the furniture? Not sure any of this wine is auctionable—”

“We need to discuss the apartment.”

“L’appartement?” He turned to face her. “What is there to discuss? It is a rental, non? It does not get transferred with the estate.”

“I don’t mean the apartment itself,” April said, trying to settle the pitch in her voice. “These aren’t filler pieces, Olivier. You can’t cram them into other auctions.”

He shrugged. “I disagree.”

“What about the Boldini? You can’t possibly—”

“The Impressionist and Modern Art Auction. A perfect fit.”

“Impressionist and Modern Art,” April repeated, dazed. “You can’t do that.”

Marc’s head popped around the corner.

“Ça va?” he said. “Is there a problem in here?”

“Yes, there’s a problem!” April said in anguish.

She suddenly pictured the two men running around the Paris auction house, sticking pieces of Marthe’s life into the empty, awkward spaces of other peoples’ broken estates. Together Madame de Florian’s things told a story, with the gilt and ostriches and all of it.

“This is not filler,” she said again, helplessly gesturing around the room, as if she’d known these belongings for decades instead of hours. “You can’t do this.”

Maybe if she said it enough times they’d agree.

“We see no reason to conduct an entirely different auction,” Olivier said. “It’s cost-prohibitive. Think of the catalogs and the dinners. We’d never make any money if we gave every interesting find its own auction. You know this, April. You’ve been in the business for years. This is not Contemporary Art.” He made a face. “It’s much more economical to place these assets with other properties.”

Properties, assets—that’s all the pieces represented to them, goods to be collected and monetized. It was, of course, the whole point to Sotheby’s, though not necessarily to April, at least not then.

“Olivier, Marc, I fully appreciate the need for conservatism,” she said. “But hear me out. I’m a little surprised you did not consult me, but it’s your office and I understand the dynamics. As you said, I’ve been in the business long enough, and I truly feel we’re being shortsighted. There are intangibles to realize. Together these pieces have that extra something, the provenance that made Rockefeller’s Rothko go for $73 million instead of $30 million, that je ne sais quoi that fetched several hundred thousand dollars for Jackie O’s fake plastic pearls.”

“Elisabetta Quatremer was no Jacqueline Onassis.” Olivier chuckled. “Unless you have an iconic photograph of Sean-Sean wrapping her belongings around his chin.”

“John-John.” April shook her head wearily. “Not Sean-Sean.”

“This is what I said, non? Either way, unless Madame Quatremer has progeny considered so-called American royalty, or is a long-lost Rockefeller, her name would not draw people to a separate auction. It’d be one more event, tens of thousands of euros wasted. It’s far easier to put her with the regularly scheduled auctions.”

“It’s Marthe de Florian who has the intrigue,” April said, picturing what was sure to be the catalog description—“Private Collection, Paris”—instead of what it should’ve said. Instead of Marthe’s full name in print. “It’s the woman in the Boldini people will care about, not Madame Quatremer.”

God, she’d have to show them the diaries sooner rather than later, wouldn’t she? April bristled at the thought.

“My research is only very preliminary,” she continued. “But based on what I’ve read, I truly believe if we marketed her auction in the right way we’d more than recoup the cost. If people came to know the woman in the painting, the lots would have the dual benefit of being a Boldini
and
featuring the artist’s lover, a woman with a fascinating background of her own. This goodwill would extend to the other objects, and raise the value across all and in total.”

“April—”

She was too far gone now to be stopped.

“Our entire job is to get bidders to see the value of the pieces beyond their physical description. The story we could tell with Marthe would net us at least double. I’m sure of it.”

“‘Marthe,’ is it?” Olivier smirked. “On a first-name basis?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, and if we play this wisely the entire art world will be on a first-name basis with her, too.”

“You pose a very convincing argument, but it’s too risky. I don’t know that I can line up enough buyers for this type of sale.”

“But these pieces themselves! Forget Marthe’s story. Every asset here is fresh to market! That’s its own selling point.”

“Ah, well. Blame the economy. And the department. This is what the team has decided. Je suis désolé. I’m sorry we did not include you in the discussions.”

“Oh it’s…” April mumbled. “Unnecessary.”

She was, after all, merely the American hired to look under desks and at the backsides of rugs.

April wondered if she could go above their heads. Marthe deserved her own spotlight even if, like everything else in this world, it boiled down to economics. Not much had changed. A hundred years ago Marthe didn’t have enough name to get her own show at the Folies. Instead Gérard relegated her to the bar, filling in where Émilie could not. April said it before and she’d say it again: Marthe was not filler.

“I do not mean to disappoint you,” Olivier said. He frowned almost imperceptibly, and for a second April believed him. “But I am glad you understand. In any case, it is time for me to go. I have a meeting in the office. Do you need anything before I leave?”

“I think I’m fine here. I’ll be working in the master bedroom today. I’ll ring your mobile later with an update.”

“Very well. We’ll speak this afternoon. Au ’voir, April.”

“Au ’voir.”

April pivoted on her heels and shuffled to the back of the flat, eyes hot with the threat of tears. Marthe de Florian. She was almost already gone.

Furniture, she reminded herself. You’re here for the furniture.

Olivier was right. This was business, and she would do well to treat it like the series of economic transactions it would soon become. No use getting attached to a woman in a painting. What did April care for a Belle Époque prostitute? It had nothing to do with walnut bookcases or mauve settees.

Unfortunately it was impossible to weed through Marthe’s boudoir without seeing the woman in it. Though the room was as jumbled as the rest of the flat, at the center was an imposing mahogany-and-gilt-bronze mounted
Aux Nénuphars
bed. It had a towering headboard sprung with golden cobras. Matching cobra-legged tables, also with the water lily motif, sat nearby. It was not enough to say the pieces were extravagant. A similar set was on display in the Musée d’Orsay.

Though April was there for the furniture (as she reminded herself six, seven, a dozen times), what she really wanted was the journals. Upstanding, bookish Continental furniture expert April Vogt was far more interested in what happened
on
the bed than who made it and in what year. This was a first.

Gloves on, April lifted the diaries from their folder. She poked her head around the wall to where Olivier and Marc stood squabbling in French about where to order sandwiches for their afternoon meeting. She had time for a few pages. It was the least April could do for the woman who once lived there, a woman whose life would soon be parceled off and sold to the highest bidder.

Chapitre XXI

Paris, 22 September 1891

I’ve found you can acquire things from the male species, valuable things.

A little flirtation and they are aflutter, tripping over themselves to compliment and dole out the treasures.
Vous-êtes plus belle que les étoiles!
More beautiful than the stars? Hardly, but I will take your candlesticks and lacquered boxes.
Merci, Georges Hugo
.

Thus far I’ve acquired: four gowns, two necklaces, one painting, and countless francs tucked into pockets and sleeves. I’ve already run out of room in my bed-sit and therefore have three pairs of candlesticks living with Aimée. She will likely sell them and claim theft. I don’t mind. It gives me an excuse to acquire something new!

Have I relinquished a few things to secure these spoils? Well, yes, but not
the
thing, though not for lack of trying on the part of these so-called gentlemen! What Aimée and Louise and the other girls in the
hôtel
do not realize is that
the
thing isn’t even necessary. Why drop your drawers for every man with a few francs when you can instead offer a sweet, coy romance? I brush up against him in a certain way, protest only meekly when a hand wiggles down the front of my dress. They’re only nipples but can elicit such excitement, such largesse!

Sometimes I let my fingers slide down the front of
his
pants. Sœur Marie would fall to the convent floor if she heard such a thing!
C’est pas si mal
. This is not so bad. Really, such fondling is more scientific experiment than anything else. Indeed, after my first handling of a man I was more amazed than the first time I set foot in the Folies. The object no less garish!

Needless to say Sœur Marie did not prepare me for the aggressiveness with which a man’s lower half would come alive with a few touches. Goodness, I have to stop myself from laughing. It is really quite ridiculous, this creature, like one from the bottom of the ocean. I can scarcely hold this pen, I’m laughing so hard. Of course the pen itself calls to mind the width of a few less fortunate fellows.
Mon dieu!

Thank heavens I’m a woman.

Now that I’ve composed myself I must say this. Dear journal, lest you think I’m a gal about town like our precious Aimée, I must immediately disabuse you of the notion. The difference between her and me, other than the obvious,
le grand acte
, is that I deal in romance. My dalliances last longer than one night! Is there anything wrong with being in love? Or at least pretending to be? No matter the size of a man’s fortune (or of his member!), he is like every other man, every other human being, as a matter of fact. We all, every last one of us, we only want to be loved.

A new gentleman came to my station last evening. It’s as though he knew I’d recently become unattached, my most recent paramour having left the country due to a political obligation abroad (his wife the politics, her pregnancy the obligation). This new fellow was a curious-looking man, short of stature and with piles of brown-gray curls whipping around the tops of his ears. He was portly in a way suggesting love of good food and not of booze or sloth. In other words he was a happy fat. And unlike most Parisians he did not have a beard. The smoothness of his skin was almost disconcerting.

“What can I get for you this evening?” I asked.

He ordered a scotch, then wondered aloud why I was behind the bar and not onstage. I pointed an empty glass in his direction and chastised (smiling, winking) the lack of originality. I’d heard the same comment three times that day. And it’d been a slow day.

The man blushed, which pulled a smile from my own mouth. His was not a line but the only thing he could think to say. He was new to the Folies, it seemed. I liked him immediately.

“To tell you the truth.” I leaned across the bar, dipping my chest dramatically. “Behind the bar is the best place to be.”

A lie, this. One I tell the men, one I tell myself. Everyone wants her own show.

“It’s far safer,” I went on. “Plus I’m able to chat with all the handsome customers, such as yourself. I prefer a good conversation to hours of ogling.”

“Ah,” he said, still blushing. “Understood.”

“What’s your name?” I asked as I buffed the glass.

“Burée. Pierre Burée.”

“What brings you to Folies Bergère, Monsieur Burée?” I began to pour. “Are you from Paris? Or are you just passing through?”

“I was born here, but have not been back in years. I live in South America.”

I cocked an eyebrow. It is a common boast these days, but almost never true.

“South America, you say? What part?”

“Argentina,” he responded without hesitation.

“Where in Argentina?”

“The southernmost tip. Near Santa Cruz. Are you familiar with the area, Mademoiselle…?”

“De Florian. Marthe de Florian.”

“So you’ve been to South America, Mademoiselle de Florian? You do look rather Latin: the dark hair, the dark eyes, the olive skin.”

Though M. Burée would later say he meant it as a compliment, his words made me bridle. I am already self-conscious about my so-called olive skin. Pierre thought I resemble a Latin woman, but according to Émilie and Gérard the coloring is closer to Gypsy. Émilie is forever trying to pass her whitewash formula off on me, the alabaster skin tone being de rigueur, and Émilie’s particular brand of paleness the envy of many a dancer. I, too, could have her porcelain skin if only I lathered the thick paste on my face thrice daily. And so I’ve commenced the regimen. It burns, this formula, but only a little.

“No. I am from Paris,” I told him, trying to keep the snap out of my voice. “I’ve never set foot in South America, but it is quite the popular locale. I’ve met many men who say they work there, too.”

I plunked the glass on the counter.

“Well, there is money to be made,” Burée said, completely without guile.

“And how do you make yours?” I asked. “Coffee?”

It is always coffee.

Shaking his head, Pierre drew in a long, slow sip of liquid.

“Bat guano,” he said.

Bat shit? I could not have heard him correctly.

“Pardon?” I said, choking out the word.

“Yes,” he said and took another sip. “It is a rather lucrative industry.”

I knew then that M. Burée was for real. No purported coffee king for this man, and instead bat shit in all its glory.

And so I let Pierre stay on my primary stool, my favorite stool, for the rest of the evening. We are supposed to encourage the men to move on, rotate them quickly through. The more bodies on the seats, the more money everyone makes. But I liked having him near, even if he was a timid drinker and an even more timid conversationalist.