A Paris Apartment (44 page)

“You have been rather single-minded in your pursuits,” Luc said, grinning.

“My mind was on a few other things,” April said and smiled in return. “But Madame Vannier is up there. Full disclosure, though—this is probably not going to help the auction. Despite my efforts, the house won’t budge and at this point it’s futile to keep pressing. So I can sit here and crow about provenance but it’d be merde. I’m doing this not for Sotheby’s but for myself.”

“So you won’t keep pressing on the auction? On getting Marthe her own affair?”

“Nope.” April took a gulp of wine. “I’ve given up.”

“‘Given up’? That does not sound like my favorite American.”

“Eh.” April shrugged. A man onstage played a few notes on his saxophone. “I tried but I’m stuck. You can only bang your head against a wall for so long.”

“What if there is no more wall? What if someone else already went through it? “

“I think you’re screwing up your idioms again.”

“I’m not trying to use any idioms. I’m trying to tell you some news, some news about the head-banging auction.”

“For the record, a head-banging auction would probably involve music albums and cans of hairspray. But, do tell, which auction are you referring to? One of Marthe’s?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“Which one? Furniture or paintings or the ever-exciting silver, gold boxes, and vertu?”

“None of those. The one auction. In October. For all of Madame de Florian’s estate.”

“What are you talking about—”

“She will have her own auction, Avril. Just as you wished.”

April stared at Luc’s face, waiting for a smirk or a wink or some other expression indicating he was full of shit. He had to be full of shit. Full of shit was his thing.

“Not funny,” she said.

“I’m not trying to be funny.”

An instrument squeaked. April shook her head as if trying to clear her brain.

“A few weeks ago a birdie told me—” Luc began.

“No more of your lame attempts at American idioms, please. What ‘little birdie’? Who told you and what did they say?”

“Birdie,” he said again. “This is not an idiom, I don’t think?” He tightened his lips in concentration. “She said Birdie was her name. At least I think that’s what she said.”

“Birdie!” April gasped. Could it be? Did Luc know what he was talking about? “My assistant! Is that who you spoke to?”

“Yes, yes. She said she was your assistant.”

“When? Why? What happened? How did she even—”

“You sent her Marthe’s journals, non?” Luc asked with a touch of disapproval. “I was not aware you shared them.”

“Yes.” April cleared her throat. “I did. But for our records. And for research. Birdie is my research assistant. Provenance.”

“That again?”

“And, not to worry, I used the proper procedures for scanning old documents.”

“Avril.”

“Okay, fine. I sent them to her.
Copies
of them. It was for our files, yes, but also my own prurient interest. I also showed them to my dad and my brother and one of my stepdaughters, and I don’t regret it. Sorry, but I don’t.”

“Well,” Luc said and took a sip of wine. “It’s a good thing you have such a big mouth.”

“I see the Luc Thébault charm is in full effect—”

“I am being serious. You shared these with your assistant and it seems this assistant shared your same viewpoint, about the auctions.”

“Bien sûr! Of course! She has a brain in her head. But I still don’t understand why she spoke to you.”

He shrugged. “She rang. Told me what I needed to do.”

“What do you mean?”

“One has a lot of sway when one threatens to take his business elsewhere. One can get the exact kind of auction he desires.”

“You threatened to take the auction to another house?” April said, starting to laugh again.

“Per Birdie’s advice, yes I did. She gave me an indication of the value of the estate, and I made sure to equate this into commissions and premiums that would be lost if this auction did not stand alone. The Boldini, of course, was the linchpin. Maybe I’d let Olivier have a little vertu, but not the Boldini.”

“That was a dangerous game. But, my god, a brilliant one.”

April let the air run out from her lungs. She had that weird feeling, the one you got after narrowly avoiding a car crash or almost getting run over by a cab.

“Madame Vannier was very grateful,” Luc said. “When Birdie explained how much more the estate would generate with the items grouped together. And the journals, they gave provenance, non? Just as you said. Because we learned these things were owned by Victor Hugo’s heretofore unknown daughter.”

“It’s true,” April said, nodding earnestly. “I know you thought provenance was an excuse, and on some level it was, but there’s nothing more important in an auction. And Marthe de Florian has the most fascinating provenance I’ve ever seen in my job.”

“If not for your efforts, your dogged pursuit of provenance, there’d be no separate auction.” Luc smiled. “As a small token of her thanks, Madame Vannier said I could give you this.”

Luc reached into his leather satchel as April tried to fully process the information. An auction for Marthe: the attention, the press, the private views. All the frenzy she deserved.

“This is for you,” Luc said and plopped Mickey Mouse on the table.

April’s mouth dropped open.

“It was once a present from Boldini to Lisette Quatremer. Madame Vannier wanted you to have it.”

Before she could think, April reached out, snatched the mouse, and held it to her chest. Though he still smelled of dust and old people, Mickey was perfect.

“Are you sure?” April asked. “This is a relic, an heirloom, potentially worth many thousands of dollars to the right collector.”

“What’s an heirloom unless it means something to the person who has it?”

April’s eyes watered. It was a long time before she could bring herself to release the animal. Even as a man stepped onstage and welcomed the crowd, April could not let go.

As the instruments started to ting, Luc scooted his chair closer and placed a hand on April’s thigh. She reached down and wrapped her fingers around his. The gesture was congenial, mostly, but with the full weight of what happened behind them. At once April remembered the first time she saw Luc, smoking that cigarette in the dust-ridden flat as she wondered how the hell she could comb through the clutter, the mess in the apartment and in her life.

April thought of their first meal together, at the Café Zephyr, when she nearly toppled over the low-lying fence. She thought of the rooftop deck at the Galeries Lafayette, the moment when April finally understood Luc was not just a smirky, salty lawyer with an inflated sense of self. There were more restaurants, more chats, all the hours spent in Marthe’s home explaining to Luc exactly how special each piece was. And, of course, there was Bastille Day, the firehouse, her bedroom—a mistake to be sure, but one April didn’t altogether regret making.

She leaned toward Luc. It was nearly too loud to speak.

“Thank you,” she said. “For everything. For every big and little thing.”

“Ah, I’ve done nothing,” he said. “We’ve had fun, haven’t we?”

April nodded, biting her lip, tears running down her face.

“Ah, sweet
Avril
. No tears. It’s not over. It will never be over. And tomorrow is the best part.” He paused and gripped her hand tighter. “Tomorrow … tomorrow we see Agnès.”

Chapitre LXIX

New York Times

MME. CHARCOT SEEKS DIVORCE

Granddaughter of Victor Hugo Charges Her Husband with Desertion

PARIS,
Feb. 15
– Jeanne Charcot, née Hugo, granddaughter of Victor Hugo, has filed a petition for divorce in the Paris courts against her husband, Dr. Jean Charcot, son of the famous nerve specialist, and head of the French Antarctic Expedition, on the grounds of desertion.

The petition creates the liveliest interest in Parisian circles where both parties are prominent.

Madame Charcot had been divorced previously, having been, before her marriage to Dr. Charcot, the wife of Léon Daudet, eldest son of the late Alphonse Daudet. Shortly after she was married to Charcot the latter had a dispute in a theatre with Léon Daudet, and a duel was fought, in which Charcot was slightly wounded.

Charcot left France over a year ago in an attempt to reach the South Pole. Fears have recently been expressed that his expedition has met with disaster. A relief expedition is now proposed.

Chapitre LXX

Paris, 4 June 1905

Dear God, how did everything get to this state? I did a horrible thing today, truly horrible. I don’t know that I can ever forgive myself.

It started with Boldini and one of his sour moods. Is that not always the case? My stomach hurts just to transcribe the scene, but transcribe it I must. My brain is moving too fast, the words are spilling out of me. I must find somewhere to put them.

How to explain this particular sour mood? You see, Parisians seem to be off the great Giovanni Boldini, Master of Swish. Like sheep in a herd they follow the whims of American collectors, a laughable situation to start. I cannot fathom from the bowels of which of Satan’s henchmen the idea that Americans have taste originally sprung. And “bowels” is the exact right word. Their discernment is for shit. Alas, some American or another woke up one morning and decided Boldini was entirely out of fashion. Before, you were not anyone unless Boldini painted you. Now there is not anyone who wants to be painted by him.

These cretins are all enamored of Pablo Picasso, the crazy stupid Spaniard who somehow coerced the American Gertrude Stein into purchasing his works. The man has more names than Jeanne Hugo Daudet Charcot, even if you include the extra one she will add following her divorce from Jean-Baptiste and her inevitable marriage to the next poor fool who happens upon her doorstep, or her bedchamber.

For his part, M. Picasso is legally known as: Pablo Diego José Francisco de Paula Juan Nepomuceno María de los Remedios Cipriano de la Santísima Trinidad Ruiz y Picasso.

That alone says all we need to know of the man! Insane and overdone. Not only does he have a benefactor in Mademoiselle Stein, a fortune never bestowed upon Boldini, who required no ugly American to make his mark, but M. Picasso employs a publicist! It is only that coxcomb Apollinaire, the one with the curly hair and a ruby on his pinky finger, but a publicist he has. Everyone thinks Apollinaire is so cultured and wealthy. He only looks this way because his mother dresses him. I know this for a fact!

Last night Boldini came to my flat to dine. He was too distraught to eat in his studio surrounded by paintings, by all the things once beautiful that suddenly felt like failures. Knowing the depths to which his foul moods could sink, I’d dismissed the cook for the evening once she finished preparing the meal. I would straighten up myself. I hate to clean, and with the recent odd numbness in my wrists and forearms it’s more difficult than ever, but this was the least of my worries. I let her go, knowing full well I’d have more than dishes to clean that night.

Boldini sat at my table and refused supper, all peevish like a billy goat with the flu. I told him to buck up, stop complaining, and devise a solution. Maybe he could alter his painting style. Maybe he should go to London to work a few commissions. Lord knows it will take the English at least a decade to catch on to his nonsense, at which time the tide of favor will shift back to Boldini here in Paris!

Well, he continued to grumble and drink more wine. Béatrice sat in the adjoining room trying to work a puzzle to little success. In between grunts and complaints, Boldini cast sidelong glances her way. I knew what would happen before it actually did.

“She has never gotten any better,” he said, finishing off the last bottle of wine in the home, which is a testament to his inebriation as I am always well-stocked.

“Whatever do you mean?” I blotted my mouth with a napkin.

“You said she would walk later and talk later and read later. She is six and a half and ‘later’ has yet to happen. She looks like a young girl but remains an infant!”

“Boldini!” I snapped. “Keep your voice down! Béa may be simple, but she is the sweetest cookie of a child. I am blessed to have her as my own.
We
are blessed.”

“You only say that because she is pliant and does whatever you order. She thinks you’re perfect. I guess you
are
very fortunate, then. She will never know the real you.”

“That is quite enough!” I snapped and threw a fork down on to my plate, with less force than I’d intended, given the peculiarities with my hands and joints. “I will not entertain this mean-spirited conversation.”

“Tell me, Marthe, why is she slow?”

“She had a difficult birth,” I said, voice quivering. “You were there.”

“Yes, her birth was difficult, wasn’t it? It was very odd.”

“She was a double footling breech. I don’t know why you’re haranguing me about this.”

But I did know. I knew exactly why.

“Yes, but you’d think that no matter the position, a premature baby would not be so difficult to deliver.”

“Well, I am not a doctor,” I said and stood, gathering up our plates. “And neither are you.”

“Ah, yes, but Dr. Pozzi is and he told me Béatrice was awfully large for a baby born at her supposed gestation.”

I glanced away. My lip was trembling.

“She is not my child, is she, Marthe?”

Without answer, I tramped off into the kitchen and busied myself with the cleanup. I scraped and scrubbed while Boldini continued to yell, “She is not mine!” He grew so boisterous that even Béa started crying. She ran into her bedroom and slammed the door.

“Are you happy now?” I screamed, marching back into the dining room. “You have upset the one person in the world who never gets upset!”

“Tell me the truth, Marthe! I only want the truth.”