City of Darkness and Light (2 page)

You remember my friend Letitia Blackstone? Her daughter Imogen married a young engineer who is now designing a bridge across the Mississippi River. Letitia wanted to visit her daughter who has just had a baby, but was reluctant to travel alone to such wild and barbaric parts. So she asked me if I would accompany her if she paid my way. Of course I agreed. What an adventure at my time of life to see a little more of our beautiful country before I die. And Letitia insists on doing everything first class so I don’t expect it will be too uncomfortable or dangerous. It will also be a perfect opportunity for young Bridie. I’m taking her along as my companion as she’s been worried recently about her papa and this will take her mind off things.

I stopped reading and stared out across the square. Poor little Bridie, whose father and brother had gone down to Panama to work on the building of the canal. None of the news that came from that hellhole had been good. Men had been dropping like flies, so it was said, from yellow fever and terrible working conditions. And there had been no news from Bridie’s father for months so we had to assume the worst.

I read on. Martha the maid was to visit her ailing mother. The house was to be shut up and Mrs. Sullivan didn’t know how long they would be away. She sent her warmest regards and a fond kiss to her grandchild. I folded the letter and put it back in its envelope. Well, that would be a surprise for Daniel. His mother was not the kind one would expect to make rash, last-minute decisions to go out into the wild west.

I glanced across at Liam and saw that he had fallen asleep. I adjusted his pillows, covered him properly and then turned to my other letter. It was as I expected, full of exciting tidbits of news of life in Paris. Sid wrote:

Willie has obtained an introduction for Gus to none other than Reynold Bryce. You know who he is, don’t you, Molly? He made a name for himself as part of the Boston School back in the eighties—particularly with his paintings of the young girl he called Angela. Then at the height of his fame he took off for Paris and has remained here, becoming one of the leading lights among Impressionist painters. Anyway, he is THE patron and lodestone for American artists in Paris. His salon is where one needs to be seen. He holds an exhibition every spring and if he includes your work, you are IN! Gus is hoping he’ll include her, naturally. She’s been painting some really interesting canvasses recently, although I think she may be a little avant-garde for traditionalists like Reynold Bryce. Gus says she’s not sure whether she’s a Fauvist, a Cubist, or simply a modernist, but she’s thrilled to be among artists who dare to paint with her boldness. We met a rather dashing young Spaniard in a bar. His name is Pablo Picasso and he said that Gus’s work shows promise. I’m not sure I can say the same about his daubings—most odd.

Speaking of young painters, we have just made an astounding discovery. Remember it was Gus’s cousin who lured us to Paris in the first place. Well, it turns out that I have a relative here as well—a distant cousin. When we were about to leave for Paris my mother told me that we had family members who had settled there when the family left the turmoils in Eastern Europe. My grandfather came to America and my great-uncle’s family went to Paris. Mama had no current address for them but their last name would have been Goldfarb like ours. I asked at several synagogues but to no avail—in fact the Parisian Jews did not exactly extend the welcome mat. Well, I admit that I do not look like the good traditional Jewish woman, nor do I practice my religion, but it turned out that the cause of their caution had more to do with the current wave of anti-Semitism that has swept this city, culminating in the dreadful treatment of Captain Dreyfus—falsely imprisoned and shipped to Devil’s Island mainly because of his race.

Having heard this, we’re not sure how long we’ll stay, though of course among the more bohemian community of artists and writers, race, gender, or even appearance don’t matter a fig. Talent is all that counts. You’ll be amazed to learn that I was the first of us to have a talent acknowledged here. We went to a soiree and were each instructed to write a poem. I read mine with great trepidation but it was pronounced good. At this gathering I was instantly drawn to a young man with an interesting face and such soulful dark eyes—clearly also Jewish. We started to share information about our ancestry and lo and behold he turned out to be my long-lost distant cousin, Maxim Noah. Apparently his mother was a Goldfarb. His parents are dead, and he lives in a studio with artist friends up on the hill called Montmartre. And the poets I met have invited me to join their group. It seems that in this city poetry is as important as painting. Did you ever imagine that such a place could exist on earth? If it weren’t for the anti-Semitic sentiment and for missing our delightful godson Liam, we might never want to come home!

But I digress. As I mentioned, Maxim lives with some other young artists up in the rural part of Montmartre and invited us to visit him. “Primitive” is hardly the word to describe it, my dear. No heat, no running water, just a group of young men painting, creating, discussing. Maxim suggested that Gus and I take a place nearby, but I pointed out that we were no longer eighteen and that civilized New Yorkers needed heat and a daily bath.

But having finally made artistic connections in the city we wanted to move closer to the hub of the current art world. We have finally found a place of our own in that general area that suits our needs. Our previous lodging was in a more genteel area near the Seine—preferable in some ways but too far from the exciting world of the arts. What’s more the landlady was a fussy old bird who objected to the smell of paint and our late hours. So we have found what we consider a wonderful compromise … a top floor atelier on a street close to Pigalle. Not as primitive as the streets further up the hill and mercifully close to a station of the Métropolitain railway—yes, dear Molly, they have a perfectly fine working subway here, making travel across the city quick and easy. There are already three lines with more under construction.

As you can see from the address at the top of this letter, our new home is on Rue des Martyrs. I must confess we picked it for its name. Gus was tickled pink to be part of the martyrs—she said she always knew that she’d have to suffer for her art! The street itself is a good mixture of commerce and residence, lively yet not too raucous. We can take advantage of the little cafés around Pigalle and yet escape from the hubbub by climbing the five flights to our little nest whose balcony gives us a glimpse of the new church that is being built at the top of Montmartre (if we lean out far enough). I wish you could see it, Molly. You’d love it here. Do policemen ever get time off for good behavior? Would Daniel ever consider traveling to Europe? If not, please persuade him to do without you for a while. You know we’d pay for your ticket if that was a problem. We yearn to see our adorable Liam. He must have grown so much since we parted from you. Think of the cultural opportunities of Liam being exposed to Paris at an early age. Gus says we are to keep pestering you until you agree to come. It’s too lovely and breathtaking and exciting not to want to share.

Gus sends her warmest regards, as do I, and a big kiss to dear Liam.

Your friend Elena (Sid)

I shut my eyes, enjoying the feel of warm spring sunshine on my face and tried to picture Paris. Then suddenly I was back in Ireland, sitting in the schoolroom at the big house with Miss Vanessa and Miss Henrietta. When I was ten I had rather impressed their mother, Mrs. Hartley, with my eloquence and cheek and she had invited me to join her own daughters for lessons. They clearly didn’t think much of this idea and never made me feel welcome but their governess was delighted to have a pupil who was so keen to learn. On this day she was telling us about a trip she had taken to Paris. I was plying her with questions about the Louvre and Notre-Dame when Miss Vanessa cut into our discussion.

“I don’t see why we’re wasting time like this. It’s not as if you’re ever likely to go to Paris, Molly,” she said scathingly and her sister had tittered as if this was a great joke.

A sudden cold breeze swept across the square, almost snatching the paper from my hands. I looked up and saw that Aggie’s prediction was right. Dark clouds were racing in over the Hudson. It would rain before the day was out. I folded the letter replaced it in its envelope, and then stood up. I should get a move on and do my shopping for tonight’s meal now, rather than later in the day. Liam slept on blissfully as I set the buggy moving in the direction of home. Another gust of wind sent spray from the fountain in our direction. And then it was almost as if I was having a vision: before they left for Paris, Sid and Gus had taken me to an exhibit of Impressionist painting at a gallery in New York. I had found the paintings delightfully light and fresh and free, although others viewing them had pronounced them as shocking daubs with no substance to them. Now, as I glanced back across the square it was as if I was seeing one of those Impressionist paintings of a park in Paris—a young girl holding onto a white straw hat with red ribbons flying out in the breeze, while her small brother ran to retrieve a red ball, pigeons pecking hopefully, and sycamore trees coming into leaf, casting dappled shade on the gravel walkways. I smiled wistfully as I moved on. Such a scene in Washington Square was the closest to Paris I was likely to get.

Two

Clouds had almost swallowed up the sun by the time we returned to Patchin Place. The bumpy ride over cobbles woke Liam and his loud cries let me know that he expected to be fed again soon. I felt my breasts react in response. None of this newfangled bottle feeding for me, in spite of my mother-in-law telling me it was more hygienic and that ladies of quality never nursed their infants. I had not regretted my decision for an instant but the arrival of sharp little new teeth made me wonder whether weaning might be a good idea.

“I’m home, Aggie,” I called, pausing in the front hallway to remove my hat and coat.

Her pinched little face appeared from the kitchen. “Laundry’s all done and out, Mrs. Sullivan, but for how long, who can say?”

“You were right about the weather as usual,” I said. “The rainclouds are already gathering.”

“Maybe that’s why I’ve felt so cold all morning,” she said. “Could be a big storm coming.” Liam interrupted this conversation with another wail. Aggie went to lift him out of his pram, but I stopped her.

“It’s all right. He wants feeding. I’ll take him up to the nursery.”

Liam reached out to me to be picked up. I noticed how heavy he was getting as I swung him onto my hip. “I’m going to cut down your rations, my lad,” I said. “You’re getting too big.”

“Don’t say that, Mrs. Sullivan,” Aggie said. “We never got enough to eat at my house. You don’t know what that’s like.”

“No, I don’t,” I said, looking at her with pity. “It’s almost lunchtime. Go and warm us up some of that stew. I’ve got a nice chop for Captain Sullivan’s dinner, if he comes home in time to eat tonight.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” Aggie said. I paused halfway up the stairs and turned back to her. “A man was here this morning asking for Captain Sullivan.”

“What kind of man? A policeman?”

“Oh, I don’t think so.” She chewed on her lip. “A swarthy type. Foreign.”

“What did he want?”

“He just asked when Captain Sullivan was likely to be home. I told him I couldn’t say, and that Captain Sullivan didn’t keep regular hours. We’d hardly seen him at all lately. He then asked about you, and I said you’d be back shortly.”

“Did you ask if you could take a message?” I asked.

“I did. And he said he had to deliver the message to you and the captain in person, so he’d be back when you were both home.”

“How strange,” I said. “Foreign? I can’t think who that might be.”

“I didn’t like the look of him,” Aggie said. “He had shifty eyes.”

I smiled. “You think all foreigners have shifty eyes. Perhaps Daniel will know.”

And I went on up the stairs. Liam was fed and put down for his afternoon nap. The rain started about three and we rushed to get in the line full of laundry. The rest of the day passed without incident. I reread Sid’s letter over an afternoon cup of tea, sharing the interesting bits with Aggie. She was duly impressed. “Imagine traveling halfway around the world and then bumping into a long-lost cousin,” she said. “And a handsome one at that. Maybe they’ll fall in love and marry.”

“I hardly think that’s likely to happen,” I said, smiling at her naïveté. Sid and Gus lived as a couple right across the street from us, but then I hadn’t taken in the truth about their relationship when I first met them either. Such things had been outside of my sphere of experience too.

Darkness fell early with wind moaning through the chimney. I prepared our evening meal and put Daniel’s chop out, ready to grill, in the hope that he might be home for dinner, just this once. Then about six thirty my wishes were answered. The front door opened, sending a blast of cold air right down the hall to us, and Daniel came in, his cheeks red from the wind, clapping his hands together.

“It’s like winter out there again,” he said. “Luckily the rain has eased off. I thought I’d get drenched on the way home.” He looked around the kitchen. “Where’s my favorite son?”

“Aggie’s just putting him to bed,” I said.

“Good. I hoped I’d catch him awake for once.” He unwound his scarf, dropped it on a chair, and then bounded up the stairs. I heard his big voice and a baby’s squeal of delight and smiled to myself as I put his chop on the stove. By the time he reappeared his dinner was ready.

“What a splendid sight,” he said as I placed the plate in front of him. “It feels like the first decent meal I’ve had in weeks.”

“You’ve never been home to eat,” I said.

He nodded, his mouth full. “It’s been a rough time,” he said at last.

“Difficult case?”

“More like a war than a case,” he said. “The commissioner decided the time had come to take a stand against the Italian gang that is terrorizing the Lower East Side.”