Jerusalem Maiden (30 page)

Mlle Thibaux also would have her go back—not as a mother in Jaffa, but as an artist in Jerusalem, one whose work hung in the Louvre! Esther folded Nathan's letter. She had reached the edge of the earth and could find no steady footing.

Then she knew. Rather than listen to her husband ordering her to return home, she must listen to God, who had brought her here. Paris had lured her into its bosom, and paradoxically, in its strangeness had made itself Esther's home. God had meant to bring her back to her art, to express her yearning for it. How was it possible that He had meant to turn her back on Dvora, Gershon and Eliyahu?

Artist

A person should want to live,
if only out of curiosity.

—YIDDISH PROVERB

T
he steady striking of a chisel on stone made Esther stop by Saint-Sulpice Church. Though it was the second largest in Paris—albeit merely a fraction of the size of the grand Notre Dame—for some reason Mlle Thibaux had never included this church in her art lessons. With its two dissimilar towers that seemed to be tacked on, it probably had little to offer.

The
chink
,
chink
,
chink
echoed from the tight row of houses framing the plaza. Looking up, Esther saw a man perched high on the right of the church's twin towers, where large, uncarved stones jutted out. He was harnessed at the waist by a wide leather belt bolted into a narrow window in the tower's wall, and his legs were braced with ease on a shelf created by a projected block of stone. This far, the hammer and chisel in his hands were too small for Esther to see, but by his exact movements, she could tell he was sculpting.

Mlle Thibaux had a mid-morning hairstylist appointment, and Esther was on her own to think about her plans, as she had been doing for days. How was it possible that God had hidden the Primordial Light inside her, of all people? Why would she be a chosen one among the Chosen? A long time ago, that very belief had caused her dire consequences. Nevertheless, she couldn't ignore the fact that years ago God had placed Mlle Thibaux in her path to guide her to art.

Esther had canceled her sea-passage booking. Even if Mlle Thibaux had advised her to go back to the Holy Land, she couldn't go. How could she return to a life of pent-up wants, to people who didn't understand her, to a home that suffocated her? Jaffa's only pull was her children, but that reflected her needs, not theirs. They had a better mother in Hanna. The way they took to her sister mocked Esther's attempt at living up to a woman's single most important destiny.

Esther's calves ached. She had ambled along the Seine embankments for hours. How many times these past seven weeks had she viewed the pastoral green meadows where sheep and cows grazed, or the river docks busy with fishermen and freight boats? How many times had she walked the charming streets of this neighborhood of Saint-Germain-des-Prés? Yet, she wasn't ready to leave Paris. Why, just looking around this plaza, which she had passed often, she saw a garret she had never before noticed, a brass door knocker on a building, a metal grate encircling a tree bed.

In front of the church, against the sculptor's hammering, the water in the double-tiered fountain tumbled in a cheerful gurgle, the soft spray refreshing. Ignoring the fountain's four sculptures of cardinals brimming with self-importance, Esther drank from its basin, then settled on a tree-shaded bench. She massaged her calves through her skirt, then removed her hat. As passersby seemed oblivious to her, her wig offered sufficient head covering.

The sculptor's back was to her, too high and set against the glare of the sun. His French beret left the back of his neck exposed to the harsh rays, and sweat streaked his shirt. Curious about the artist's inspiration for the square medieval tower, Esther studied the two massive porticos, one atop the other. Above them, a roof balustrade connected the unmatched towers, whereas in similar structures there would have been a Greek-style pediment of a pitched crown. These lower Gothic columns suggested a Greek temple that had not fully materialized.

When Esther raised her eyes again to the top, the sculptor had taken off his shirt and thrown it over one of the protruding stones. Under the beating sun, the shiny skin of his back was burned to a deep tan, his smooth muscles knotted rhythmically with his movements. Every artist must paint the human body to get to the essence of life, Mlle Thibaux had explained when pointing at male sculptures mounted on façades of buildings, in city squares and in museums. Risking ostracism by the Church, Leonardo da Vinci had operated on cadavers in the dead of night in order to study the complex workings of muscles and ligaments. Learning that had helped Esther overcome her timidity about looking for muscle definition in sculptures. The only man she knew was lanky, with pale skin that gave no hint of the construction underpinning it. She could no more study Nathan's muscles than she could the many chickens she had prepared for meals.

Esther took out of her bag a kosher poppy-seed cake she had purchased in Le Marais and bit into the sweet paste.

The man shifted his footing to another stone shelf and adjusted the leather strap, giving himself a wider angle. Facing Esther now, he looked straight down at her. Her cheeks became hot; a man had caught her staring at his body. It was too awkward to put on her hat now that he was staring at her. Mlle Thibaux would have waved as she often did to craftsmen they passed. Esther turned to read the Latin inscription on the monks' seminary wall behind her.

When her eyes came to rest again on the church, the sculptor was gone. Relieved, Esther put on her hat, rose and went over to the fountain. She splashed water on her face, letting some drip into her collar, then scooped up some more to drink.

The next thing she knew, a pair of workmen's shoes and the bottoms of dusty brown pants came into her field of vision. The feet jumped in the air and clicked merely two meters from her. She recoiled.

“Esther,” he said. “It's you,” he added in Hebrew.

T
his couldn't be happening, yet it was. Emotion billowed in Esther like a curtain caught by the breeze. Pierre! Why would God fulfill this desire? She was glad that she was wearing her good shoes and white Parisian dress; the washwoman had delivered the dress clean and pressed early that morning.

“I was hoping we'd run into each other,” Pierre said.

She could speak with him, Esther told herself, as though she had the will not to. Yet words wouldn't come out.

His eyes locked into hers. She could drown in their blue and never be found again.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

How was she doing? With this quickening rushing through her? Should she tell him that other than a few words exchanged with merchants and that one conversation with her brothers-in-law, he had been the only man she had ever talked to other than her husband and Asher?

She couldn't tear her eyes from Pierre's face. His tanned skin looked leathery and was flaking on his brow, nose and chin. The beret pushed his ears out, reminding her of Gershon.

When she did not respond, he asked, “What has brought you to Paris?”

God had brought her here. She finally replied, “The art.”

“You came to the right place.” His gaze rested on her lips. Even his grown-up mustache failed to conceal the youthful eagerness she remembered. “Are you traveling alone?”

She nodded. She wished she could speak a full sentence, so he wouldn't think her dim-witted. Or loose-moraled for having traveled without a chaperone.

“Last time we met, you were getting married.” He put his hand on his chest. “It broke my naïve little heart.”

Was he being serious or merely teasing? She looked down. How did women speak to men they knew, yet didn't?

“You never came to look at my work at Bezalel,” he pressed.

“I meant to.” She forced herself to raise her gaze again. “But then the locusts came—”

“The locusts. I remember.” He nodded as if the cause-and-effect made sense. His eyes locked onto hers. “It's wonderful seeing you now.” His hand motioned behind him. “I don't know how you feel about entering a church, but it's cooler in there.”

Her heart wouldn't stop its wild fluttering. “I've visited several with your mother.” How ironic that so many important moments of her life had happened in a church, she thought, how incredible.

She followed Pierre in, her mind blank even as it tumbled with thoughts, her body numb even as her senses felt raw and heightened. Pierre. He was here. She was in Paris, seeing him.

A voice in her head reminded her that being in the presence of a man alone was
yi'chud
, and when it wasn't her husband, it was a sin as grave as killing.

In the first chapel on the right, she caught sight of a mural of Jacob fighting the angel. She stopped in her tracks.

“Delacroix,” Pierre said over his shoulder.

Esther's mind buzzed. Jacob had been attacked at night by a stranger and wrestled with him until daybreak, only to realize that his attacker had been God's emissary, who ended up giving Jacob a benediction. Had she been Jacob, wrestling with an urge that was in fact God's blessing?

To what destiny, though? And how did Pierre fit in? Esther detached her feet and followed him toward the stairs. She guessed why Mlle Thibaux hadn't brought her here to look at Delacroix's work.

At the second-tier portico high above the square, Esther sat down on a stone bench and tucked her hands under her to keep them from trembling. Pierre sat on the floor across from her, leaning against a fluted column. She couldn't avert her gaze from the eternal blue of his eyes.

“Tell me about your life,” he said.

She blushed. “Like everyone else's. A husband, three children, Hashem bless them.”

He looked at her long. “I thought you'd have more by now.”

Nathan and the children didn't belong here; she wanted more of Pierre. “Don't you live in the South of France? What were you doing on top of the church tower?”

“I'll start at the second question.” He made a futile attempt to smack the dust off his pants. “Years ago, the church's central pediment was destroyed by lightning. The masons that rebuilt the southern tower left uncarved stones fixed in place, but no one got around to finishing the project.” He grinned, and she saw that mischievous boy she remembered. “Recently, a rich patroness decided to have it completed in honor of her deceased husband, and I'm the lucky artist given the commission.”

Esther tried to understand his words, but all she could think about was the miracle of having Pierre in front of her again, talking to her.

“As for the South of France.” The grin vanished from his face. “During the war, my father helped get some contracts for a man of status and means who came on pilgrimage to Jerusalem with his daughter. I believed she was free of bourgeois hypocrisy, and a few years later we married. I wanted to devote myself to my art, and her father offered me patronage.”

That's when Pierre had sailed to Marseille to get married, Esther thought. When he had passed through Jaffa, when she could have bumped into him while pushing Gershon's pram.

He touched his mustache, suppressing a twitch of sadness. How would his facial hair feel against her cheek, would it be pricklier or softer than Nathan's?

Pierre went on, “But my wife expected me to spend my days with her circle of aristocratic friends hunting pheasants and hitting tennis balls, and my evenings playing cards or dancing at costume parties. I was interested in sculpting and in intellectual debates.” He took a deep breath. “I had lived far too long in a country where stones, words and moments have a deeper meaning than these frivolous pursuits.”

He fell silent and examined his hands. Esther followed his glance. His nails were clipped short, the skin cracked. Whitish powder burrowed in the crevices.

She cleared her throat. “You have a son.”

“A wonderful little boy. He's like no other kid on earth.” Pierre laughed with delight. “How old are your children?”

“A girl seven, and boys five and two.”

“Is your husband good to you?”

She nodded.

“I wasn't so lucky. My wife's disappointment in me grew. Then my father became the ambassador to Argentina and sailed away with his new mistress, and suddenly my wife remembered that my mother was just a discarded mistress, and I a forgotten bastard son.”

“I'm sorry,” Esther whispered. “For both you and your mother.”

“It worked out for the better. Important things are happening in the world of art, and Paris is at the center of it. There is no better place and time for an artist.” His strong teeth shone as he smiled. “My Ima and I were visiting my son, which we do every June and December, when your letter reached her. She couldn't hide from me the reason she needed to rush back to Paris.”

Esther's hands were numb under her thighs. She brought them out to restart the circulation. She wanted to ask why Mlle Thibaux had wanted to keep this information from him, but could guess the answer. “So you live in Paris?”

“For two years now.” His voice was soft. “My Ima made me promise not to look you up. She's always been protective of you and your religious way of life.”

Esther blushed. “She never speaks of you to me.”

“I've always been intrigued by what she refused to tell me about you.” He smiled again. His legs uncoiled as he rose without using his hands and stepped to the balustrade. Leaning back on his elbows, he faced her. “I lived in Jerusalem longer than she did. I attended school there, I have friends there, and I speak the language. I don't need my mother to tell me what your presence here—what our being alone now—means to a woman raised in Me'ah She'arim.”

He was giving her an escape. This was her chance to get up, to extricate herself from this
yi'chud
. She remained seated. “Me'ah She'arim expelled me to Jaffa, married me off to someone they believed was less righteous than they. I was the payoff for a big favor.” Esther's lips tightened. She wished to leave Nathan out of this conversation, but it was dishonest to create the wrong impression. “With Hashem's blessings, I ended up with a good life.”

Pierre looked down. “I hoped you'd turn up in Paris one day,” he said. “Every art lover does.”

“Whether I knew it or not, it's been inside me,” Esther whispered.

He turned his head and looked up, the sun flooding his features. He was probably staring at the tower he was carving, but Esther couldn't see it from her angle.