Jerusalem Maiden (32 page)

“Hear, hear.” A man across the table clapped. “It takes a fresh brain to put sense into us.”

“Right,” a pretty blonde wearing a cloche hat said. “Had anyone foreseen where Picasso would lead us?” Three people responded in a jumble of words, and the group became embroiled in a new debate.

The man with the bulbous nose leaned toward Esther. His wild eyes shifted mercurially between broodiness and joyfulness in a way that reminded her of a Jerusalem
meshuggah
. His hair was oily, and his body reeked of fish-like sweat.

To her surprise, he addressed her in Yiddish. “Visit me some time. My studio is not far.” He drew a map on the broken inside of a cigarette packet.

She would never go alone to any man's place, even a harmless one who looked and smelled like a beggar. “Thank you,” she mumbled.

“Indulge me and say my name: Cha'im.”

“Cha'im,” she repeated slowly, unsure of his sanity.

He closed his eyes as if sniffing good wine. “Music to my ears is hearing my name pronounced by a Jerusalem maiden.” Suddenly, his face contorted. His hands clutching his middle, he rose on unstable legs and wobbled away.

“Stomach problems.” Pierre's worried glance followed the man. “Cha'im Soutine. Last year an American collector, Albert Barnes, bought fifty-two of his paintings.”

Esther vaguely remembered Soutine's name from Mlle Thibaux's talk about the École de Paris. He was an Expressionist. Fifty-two paintings? She couldn't imagine an artist living with so many stored canvases, nor one buyer purchasing them all. “Why would he invite me?” she asked.

“He's been supportive of artists from
Eretz Yisrael
.”

Artists from
Eretz Yisrael
. Where were they and what kind of work did they produce? They must be modern Jews; maybe even Hassidim, as that movement had spread. “I'm not an artist.” Esther crumpled the map and dropped it on a plate of leftovers.

Pierre shrugged, and she wished irrationally that he would argue with her as his mother did.

On Pierre's other side, the gypsy hummed a song and waved the edges of her full skirt. Goaded by her tablemates, she jumped to her feet and strode inside to the bar, where she broke into a song accompanied by a twirling dance that exposed her legs up to the knees. A few patrons joined her singing, and within minutes, the whole place was filled with joyful song.

Behind her, Esther heard Pierre join in. His voice had a deep and brassy resonance, masculine and assured. Exhaling to steady her emotions, Esther felt herself relax, nestled in the warmth of the place and its people. She retrieved Cha'im's crumpled note and passed her hand over its crinkles before tucking it in her bag.

When the song ended, the gypsy returned to the group's table, fanning herself with her mane of her hair with one hand and pouring beer into her throat from a stein held high in the other. The group went on to analyze the merits of a new Surrealist movement, championed by a Spaniard named Salvador Dali. They dissected specific paintings in an exhibit and criticized the audience's ignorant reactions. The women—especially the Americans—voiced their opinions in an authoritative tone, the way young Esther had imagined the suffragists speaking. In Jaffa, Esther had resented brash Zionist women for their lack of deference to men. Yet here, she too, had spoken up in mixed company.

She turned in her seat to ask Pierre where this exhibit was, and her breath caught. The gypsy's elbow rested on his shoulder. Her fingers played with his earlobe.

Esther's head snapped back. Dreams she hadn't dared dream choked inside her like stillborn babies. Her cheeks burning, her gaze fixed on a round stain in the grain of the wooden table. How many people had sat here, staring miserably at this mark? She took a deep breath, but the swirl of smoke was so thick a cough erupted from her chest and turned into a fit. The woman on her right tapped on her back. Embarrassed at having drawn attention, Esther pushed herself from the table and stepped to the curb. Her vision blurred as she gulped fresh air.

Pierre appeared at her side with a glass of water. “Drink it.
It's a matter of life
,” he said, citing a Talmudic rule she was surprised he knew. Saving life superseded kosher observance.

“My life is not in danger.” She coughed more and took in another lungful of air. She waved her hand in front of her face, but refused the non-kosher glass.

As she regained her breath, her eyes refocused. The rays of the setting sun threw a copper glow onto Pierre's cheeks, deepening his tan. His mustache assumed a reddish tint. “It's late. I'm going home.” It had never occurred to her to fondle Nathan's earlobe; he'd think it bizarre. What else did French lovers do that she couldn't fathom?

“I'll walk you.” Pierre stepped back to the table to retrieve her satchel.

His hand might have touched the small of her back as he started toward the corner, but when she glanced down, his dangling arms moved like a pair of pendulums swaying with his gait. She increased her pace. She had imagined that theirs had been a stunning encounter that could have only been guided by fate. Now, whatever had passed between them evaporated.
Kol-isha
had been forbidden in Me'ah She'arim, for it had the power to seduce men. Esther now had seen that it also had the power to embolden women.

Pierre increased his stride to match hers. “Since you're in such a hurry, how about if we race to Pont Marie?” he asked, amusement in his voice.

What had she expected from a man living alone? “I'm fine,” she replied tartly. In her head, she called out to God,
I'm only a woman. Why are you testing me to no end?

At Pont Marie, Pierre vaulted onto the stone railing and, balancing himself, walked with his arms stretched out.

She couldn't stop herself from calling out, “You'll fall in the water!”

“Then I'll swim a bit.” He smiled down at her. “How do you think I wash after work?”

She stifled a giggle, but knew he'd heard it, and she hated being disarmed so quickly by him.

At the end of the bridge, he jumped to the ground. “Ta-da!” He bowed.

“You've scared me, showing off like this,” she said, her indignant tone skirting the edges of her jealousy, instantly resenting herself for minding.

“I've made you laugh.” He gave her his playful grin. “I've made climbing walls a respectable profession. Being on top of a tower is as close as I'll ever get to being a bird.”

The sun had disappeared behind Notre Dame, leaving the skin of the water inky. Esther said nothing.

“One day I will carve a whole cliff,” he said.

When she still did not react, he went on, “Greek mythology's gods and goddesses frolicking, competing, loving, feasting, hating, engaging in all seven sins.” His hands marked an expanse of land. “The cliff must overlook a vast valley so travelers will see it from afar.”

“You dream big,” she stated, trying to imagine dozens of giant twisted figures covering a steep mountainside.

“I've been lucky to be an illegitimate son. I'm free of social conventions.”

“Who's going to hand you a cliff ? It's not like a stone on a steeple—”

“My father is trying to secure me a permit for some deserted area in the South. The war has devastated many provinces. My cliff will attract tourists.”

“The rabbis in
Eretz Yisrael
would have had a fit,” Esther said.

Pierre let out a mock sigh of relief. “I'm also lucky not to be God's chosen.”

“ ‘Lucky'?”

“I haven't been suffocated since birth by hundreds of decrees.”

Though his tone was mild rather than judgmental, she cringed.

In the alley perpendicular to the river, the Jewish quarter opened up, ready to take her into its safe bosom. Men were coming out of a synagogue, probably after their evening studies, just as Nathan was doing hundreds of kilometers to the east.

“Let's go down to the river.” Pierre pointed toward the steps leading to a wide path. “Using the stairs, of course.”

If she looked at him, she would say yes. “I'd better get back.” She turned to the curb, waiting for a carriage to pass. “I enjoyed meeting your friends.”

He opened his mouth to say something, but she bade him good night. She walked away, feeling his eyes upon her, hoping he couldn't read the misery in her steps.

E
ven a grand tour with Nathan wouldn't have gained her invitation to an artist's studio—and one who had sold fifty-two paintings. An Expressionist. Turning her questions to the subject of Expressionism, Esther had verified with Mlle Thibaux that, although mad, Cha'im Soutine was indeed a respected artist. An Expressionist. Esther swished the title in her mouth. While walking to work, she checked Cha'im's map; his atelier was just a couple of streets away from Vincent's.

For the next two days, she stopped in front of his building and looked up at the tall windows on the top floor, not mustering the courage to knock on the door. The building was dilapidated, with crumbling plaster exposing the half-sawn timber that kept the bricks from sliding out. Apparently, the patron hadn't paid much for the collection.

On the third day, looking up at the windows, Esther gathered the courage. Cha'im spoke Yiddish; they shared the nuances, humor and wisdom of a language that was like no other. All she needed to do was walk upstairs and knock once. If he let her in, she would be able to look at the paintings of a master. She'd breathe the air in which he worked, and then she'd leave.

She entered and climbed the stairs. On the top landing she stopped next to a communal sink and listened, but could only hear the dripping faucet. Her knock was so faint, it got no response. She tried again, still too shy to bang on the door. A few seconds later, as she turned to leave, the door burst open, and out stumbled Cha'im, clutching his stomach. Grimacing in pain, he rushed down the stairs, grunting. She heard a door slam.

Through the open doorway, Esther glimpsed a large room as bedraggled as its owner. Several canvases leaned against the wall, their backs to her. A mound of books seemed to have been dropped on the floor next to a makeshift shelf of planks on bricks. A narrow mattress in the corner wore crumpled, grayish sheets. She stepped inside and was greeted by the memorable scent of linseed oil and turpentine mixed with the stench of vomit and garbage.

Esther had bent to turn the canvas nearest to her when a Polish-accented French voice startled her. “No! Don't think you can steal anything.” She turned to see Cha'im leaning on the doorframe, wheezing. “What do you want?” he asked.

“I'm Esther from the Holy Land,” she replied in Yiddish.

“I hate women,” he growled. “They are all liars or whores.”

“I'm neither,” she said, looking unabashedly at his face. It was ashen, and he reeked as if he had soiled himself. In his weakened state, he seemed more like the poor Jewish immigrant from a Polish hut-village disoriented by modern city life than a celebrated artist. “You're sick,” she said.

“Don't look at my paintings. I only show them in a gallery because I have no choice.”

“Sorry.” The room was stifling, with the summer heat trapped under the eaves. She pointed at the mattress. “Lie down. I'll make you something to eat.”

“You'll steal while I close my eyes.”

“I'm a Jewish mother,” she said in the tone she used for Gershon, although Cha'im was older than she, perhaps thirty. She stepped to the right of the two windows flanking a large pane of glass and struggled with the latch until it gave. The air that rushed in was still warm, but fresh.

Groaning, Cha'im curled up into a ball on his mattress.

She brought water from the sink in the stairwell and boiled it on the kerosene stove for tea. Then she used the same pot to cook rice from a tin can she found in a wooden box. While she waited for the rice to cook she washed the few dishes, then sat on a chair, her hands clasped in her lap as she regarded the brushes strewn on worktables and easel ledges. Too bad he wouldn't allow her to look at his paintings. Was Pierre's studio as messy?

There was a rustle behind her. She turned to see Cha'im seated cross-legged with a large pad on his knees. From the way his eyes darted between her and the paper she knew he was sketching her. She dared not object.

“What are you thinking about, pretty Esther from the Holy Land?” he asked, his pencil working furiously.

She let out a nervous laugh. She liked hearing Yiddish in this unlikely place. “We're Jews. We must trust one another. That's what I'm thinking.”

“What about a groom?” he persisted. “Don't you have one—or four—lined up?”

Esther rose to check on the rice. “It's ready,” she said.

Cha'im ate while finishing his sketch. “Worms love my skinny body,” he whined. “They're eating me from the inside.”

“Then you must eat a lot to feed them. In Jerusalem, many people are infected with tiny pinworms. But Jews who returned from Egypt after the Turks left have giant worms wrapped around their intestines. Which is yours?”

“Special ones we grow in Minsk.”

“Uncooked eggs are good for you.”

“Nothing will help me.”

“Hashem will. You should pray.”

“To whom? If I could, I would have been born Christian. Who wouldn't?”

“Whoever heard a Jew speak like that?” she exclaimed. “Shame on you.”

Cha'im rose and rooted in the kitchen cabinet. “Not a single bottle left.” He sighed. “That's what killed Modigliani. He drank himself to death and left me behind to suffer without a drop of alcohol for comfort.”

Esther gathered her satchel. “Thank you for inviting me,” she said, wondering why he had done so if he wouldn't allow her to look at his work.

“Here, keep this.” Cha'im signed his name on the sketch and tore off the page. “After I'm dead it may be worth a
sou
. I don't usually do portraits.”