Katherine Keenum (23 page)

“I love the way edges and distances merge on a night like this,” said Jeanette.

Sonja gave a short grunt and shouldered her way off among pedestrians. On the back streets as well as the arteries, people were making their way home or running a last domestic errand; they paused to gossip at food stalls or to buy a newspaper. Feeling only well fed at first, Jeanette came more awake as she hurried to keep up with Sonja. The walk was a counterpoint to the Rue Jacob at dawn, and through it for Jeanette ran the novelty of being somewhere at night without Cousin Effie. “Remove your hat to pose,” said Sonja, in the apartment vestibule as she carelessly flung off her own baggy beret.

While Sonja lit lamps near a tall stool, Jeanette turned back a corner of damp sacking from over a wooden tub and poked at the block of cold clay inside. More solid than flesh, it gave only slightly, yet it was pleasantly smooth. With a wire scoop, she cut out a lump the size of a small egg, rolled it around in the cup of her hands, and pressed.

“Tell me about Dr. Murer,” commanded Sonja. “What is he like?”

“You’ve seen him.”

“But not so much as you. And it is your portrait he wants.”

“Your work, you mean.”

“No. If it were my work he wanted, he would ask what I offer to sell.”

Jeanette squeezed the softening clay and smiled to herself. She was not sorry to be standing in deep shadow outside the lamplight.

“Over here now, please.” Jeanette held on to her ball of clay while Sonja positioned her on a stool. “What about him would you say is most salient?”

The sidelong, inquisitive look Dr. Murer had given her when he caught her studying him at the Odéon flashed into Jeanette’s mind; she felt him beside her on the tour of the Renicks’ art collection.

“There’s something mysterious about him,” she said, slowly. “You don’t exactly notice him—not at first, anyway. But when you do, he’s more
there
than other people. At the same time, I think he’s always holding something back.”

“He is a man of business.”

“It’s not that—and I don’t think he’s an ordinary businessman, Sonja.”

“So his clothes proclaim him, very conventional.”

Jeanette shook her head, disagreeing, and then remembered to hold still. “Not an ordinary Ohio businessman, not like my father—nor my Uncle Matthew in New York City, for that matter.”

“A better tailor.”

“Maybe that’s it,” said Jeanette, though she didn’t think so for a minute. “There’s something else. He doesn’t push forward—except when he has to, and then when he does, he’s almost scary. Remember with your landlord?”

“Could I forget? He is a swordsman, this Dr. Murer.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“I do.” Sonja correctly took position,
en garde
, and extended her arm. Whisk, whisk, her hand cut through the air with an imaginary blade. “So he scares you?”

“No! Just the opposite! I think I’d trust him anywhere. He holds back, but underneath he’s the kindest, most observant man I’ve ever met, Sonja. I think maybe he’s unhappy. I’ve seen him look at paintings. It’s not the way a painter does, nor a collector, nor a connoisseur either; but he sees things, and he’s not afraid to say what he thinks—only, only you sense there’s lots more going on than what he says out loud. He wants something.”

“Imagine now: Dr. Murer is coming through that door.”

For an instant Jeanette glanced over at the dark doorway into the corridor; she smiled involuntarily, a warm, quick smile. “You’re the artist, Sonja! This is your commission. Show him what you see.”

Sonja
was
an artist, and she had seen a lot. On that first night, however, her task was to study Jeanette’s head as a three-dimensional object. She sketched the face from different sides to learn its bone structure and proportions. The next day, when there was plenty of light, she posed Jeanette and Effie side by side to think about her medallions as a pair. She had them look at each other, look away, face in pure profile, look out at three-quarters. She told them to look happy, to look sad, to look angry. She found that when Effie talked about Boots, her face became affectionate; when she did needlework, it was serene. With Jeanette, Pont Aven brought animation.

“I shall say to you
Pont Aven
at the beginning of each session,” said Sonja. She also mentioned her patron every once in a while in an offhand way, always taking her subjects off guard.

The next few weeks fell into a pattern: Effie sat on weekdays and Jeanette spent Saturdays at the studio, where she posed for Sonja and was coached through color exercises by Amy. Emily joined the coaching sessions for the first couple of weeks; but as autumn wore on and darkness closed in, she grew increasingly pinched and pasty. She stopped coming. “I’m not sleeping well,” she admitted to Jeanette. “Chloral helps a little, but it makes my throat worse.” Meanwhile, pellet by pellet, bits of potter’s clay were added to Sonja’s sculptures and smoothed by her sensitive fingers into forms, planes, and finally the likeness of living flesh.

*   *   *

It was Sonja’s genius to make for Edward two faces that balanced each other as surely as the masks of comedy and tragedy, while at the same time conveying the warmth of an intimate friendship. Effie she portrayed in a mood of quiet tenderness, gazing down gently as though something in need of protection lay in her lap. Jeanette’s face was alight with the pleasure of looking up at the mention of something she loved. The two portraits were less lively than the bust of Amy, for they were intended to be glazed, a process that would reduce the nuance of light across the features and make them speak less to a particular moment than embody an essence. But the essences Sonja chose to emphasize were generous to the sitters and to the man who would own the finished pieces.

Pellet by pellet, bit by bit, days on the drying rack, and then in December a first firing in the kiln of a friend who turned out commercial terra-cottas.

“So,” said Sonja, jubilant when no crack appeared, no blemish in the surface. “It is time for Dr. Murer to return if he wishes to attend the glazing.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Medallions

E
dward’s interest in ceramic glazes dated from a time in his youth when he occasionally lent a hand at the kiln to a potter in Cincinnati. They had talked of running experiments on graduated variations in pigments and the temperatures at which components were fused into glass but had never carried out the project. Early in his stay in Freiburg, when he was casting about for something to do, Edward had mentioned it to Cousin Paul, who viewed any interest in colorants as normal and provided him with laboratory space in the Murer dye factory. On the train back to Freiburg from Paris in October, something he had read in a paper on benzene isomers resurfaced in Edward’s mind as a question about the molecular structure of oxides used in glazes. As soon as he was back in the laboratory, alongside the empirical tests already under way, he set up some new, more theoretical experiments.

One day, with mounting excitement, he realized that a certain line of inquiry just might lead to new products for insulating porcelain electrical fuses and the like. He made notations. He stared at them and thought some more. While he wrote out assumptions and the relevant formulae more fully, he mentally designed ways to check his idea. He set up preliminary tests to scotch the hypothesis at the beginning if it was untenable, but the results suggested that, on the contrary, he ought to go on.

He flirted with the idea of renting a full workshop and buying equipment but was brought back to earth by the realization that he could spell out everything on paper: initial hunch, preliminary confirmation, hypothesis precisely stated, tests to be run, and possible applications. He could send it all to Theodore, who would understand every aspect and could set trained scientists at Murer Brothers to work on it. Edward hated letting go of his beautiful scheme, but it was no good playing the amateur if it had the potential he thought it did. He drew up a proposal, made a fair copy, and posted it to Cincinnati.

Two weeks later, by return mail, came a congratulatory letter from Theodore. He had already assigned men to the project and would consult with lawyers about patents. He proposed a closely held joint-stock partnership; he foresaw the Cincinnati power company as their first customer. A twinge of jealous exasperation ran through Edward’s pleasure as Theodore rolled on. He had known when he wrote that he was relinquishing control of the project but had not foreseen how totally detached from it he would feel once it was out of his hands.

He showed the letter to Carl, who looked up midway through reading it. “What exactly is this all about, Uncle Edward?”

“Here’s the proposal.”

Carl switched to the rough draft and picked his way quickly through Edward’s formulae, interlineations, and emendations. His immersion in chemistry classes at the
Hochschule
made the technicalities and speculations immediately comprehensible. “This is brilliant, sir,” he said, impressed back into the childhood honorific not only by the science but by his uncle’s grasp of commercial practicalities. He finished reading his father’s letter and looked up, grinning. “Pop’s really running with it! Well, and no wonder—this could be a gold mine.”

“It won’t revolutionize an industry.”

“No, but it could launch Murer Brothers into a whole new field.”

The prospect of a material success and his increased standing in his brother’s and nephew’s eyes gratified Edward, but the whole episode also stirred a restlessness he couldn’t shake. He wanted either real work or real leisure. Travel might answer. Come January, he and Carl should go to Italy, maybe as far as Greece.

Then came the summons from Sonja in mid December. With the help of Cousin Anna, he and Carl had long since sent home a Christmas package containing gilded gingerbread, beer steins, and a wooden cuckoo clock. Now it was time to think about his German hosts: French toys, ladies’ fans, French brandy. “I’m going to make another quick trip to Paris,” he announced, and cabled ahead to Mlle. Borealska and Cornelia.

*   *   *

Edward arrived in Paris a few days before the Renicks set off to spend the holidays in Provence. Cornelia invited him for a scratch lunch and asked Effie to bring Jeanette. “I don’t know what we’ll serve,” she said, “but Cook will manage something.”

Serious women students at Julian’s scorned their flightier sisters who missed class to attend luncheons and teas or visit the dressmaker; but as Christmas drew nearer, everyone loosened up, and Jeanette was too excited about the medallions to care anyway.

“Too right,” agreed Amy. “I’ll tell you what: Sonja has to make arrangements with Dr. Murer about the firing. We’ll invite him for tea that afternoon and you can join us. You, too, Emily—you must see Sonja’s masterpieces.”

When Jeanette slipped out on Wednesday, she bounced down the stairs, swinging gaily around the posts at each landing—to leave before the noon break and alone was as good as playing hooky. And it was Christmas. On the wide, tree-lined sidewalks of the Boulevard Montmartre, temporary tables and stalls in front of the posh shops and fashionable cafés hawked everything from handkerchiefs to oranges (all through December Paris gutters smelled of orange peel).
Bijoux
, bibelots, music boxes, and puppets. The blasé reserve of passersby gave way to pleasantries with strangers in front of a blanket on which tumbling puppies for sale entertained gratis. The queue at the omnibus stop responded jovially when the conductor of Jeanette’s bus swung to the ground and handed down a woman as gallantly as if she were a queen. He beckoned the new riders aboard with broad gestures and droll expressions. As Jeanette stepped forward, he cocked his head suddenly, a lovelorn Harlequin to her Columbine. She bobbed a mock curtsy, then did a double take. She knew his face from somewhere—but where? He met her confusion with a knowing wink and struck a contorted pose.

“Ah, monsieur, vous avez posé chez Julian!”

“Oui, oui, mamma-zella.”
He rolled on in a patois she could not understand. It didn’t matter; she had to move forward anyway. The bus was crowded, but someone made room for her on the bench, from which she could watch out the window as the conductor jumped on and off, directed foot traffic, collected fares, and turned the ride for his passengers into a pantomime performance.

“
Au revoir, monsieur, merci
,” she said, smiling, as she stepped off the bus. He staggered, a marionette unstrung by adoration.

When Hastings showed her into the salon, she was startled for the second time in an hour to recognize someone: not Dr. Murer (her eyes had sought him out; she was expecting him), but Hippolyte Grandcourt. Immediately, she became more demure. Edward, who had quickened at the sight of her animation, wished he knew what she had been about to say. Grandcourt had the charm and presence of mind to ask.

“It—it was nothing. Oh, well, only that the conductor on my omnibus was so comical. When I got on, he looked down at an angle like this—” She sparkled again as she mimicked his atelier pose. “I
knew
I knew his face from somewhere—and then it came to me. He had once been the model for a
concours
at Julian’s. I see the winning picture every day. I asked, but I couldn’t really understand his answer; he spoke a sort of gabble.”

“All the streetcar conductors in Paris speak gutter Italian,
mademoiselle
; it is a
mafia
,” said M. Grandcourt. “They come from Italy to be wrestlers or models or both; and when they tire of it, they obtain for each other jobs on the omnibus lines. I shall tell you a story about one of them, and then I must take my leave.
Eh bien.
Up to the moment when the Third Republic was declared, the world was at this man’s feet. Today he is clean-shaven and carries himself like anyone else; but for years, his mustaches were long and waxed to a point; he leaned over his legs when he walked as if he were about to fall, yet always with an air of command. He bore, you see, an uncanny resemblance to the emperor, Napoleon III. Now consider this: No one asks an emperor to pose for his portrait hour after hour, certainly not on a horse—nor on a saddle flung over a barrel. Am I not correct,
mademoiselle
, about the barrel?”

“
Oui, monsieur
,” said Jeanette, laughing.

“Ah, but someone must sit on it—and sit and sit. An empire requires portraits! There must be portraits, portraits, portraits for every official purpose. For the most part, copies, of course, but also new depictions for new occasions; and our friend, he made a living entirely by posing as this one man. He becomes an expert on the imperial wardrobe; he had regalia made for him by a tailor on the appropriately named Boulevard des Italiens.”

“Not the man who also makes ladies’ riding costumes?” exclaimed Cornelia.

“The very one. You know him? You have been in his shop?”

“Often, in my riding days.”

“Ah, mais oui, madame, hélas.”
A look of sympathy was chased by a wicked gleam in M. Grandcourt’s eye. “He is now appointed to His Excellency, the emperor of Brazil. A shop that sells court regalia and ladies’ riding costumes: surely the scene for an
opéra bouffe
. But you must be asking yourself,
madame
: How could a future bus conductor afford such things? The answer is simple: He commanded the highest fees in Paris because he was unique.

“
Eh, bien.
One day he gets wind of a reception to be given by one of the glittering new men, an art dealer, an ardent Bonapartist. Now our Italian who wears the
cordon imperial
across his chest by day is by night a socialist of the reddest dye. He decides to play a prank and enlists the aid of two friends on the omnibus line. From somewhere they borrow the caps and capes of gendarmes to wear over their bus uniforms.

“At the gallery, in the public rooms there is candlelight, much candlelight but many flickering shadows, too. It is not so easy to make out a face as one thinks. Our three farceurs enter; a hush falls over the room. The crowd falls back. Guests press against each other to bow or curtsy and make way for the emperor. He trips forward on his short legs with that strange gait of his and shifts a sly glance from side to side but says nothing—all perfectly in character, I assure you. From the next room, the host bustles forward in an ecstasy of adulation—the supreme moment of his career—only to realize at the last moment when he makes his salutation that,
zut alors
! it is the blasted
sosie
, the mannequin, the double—or as you might say, Herr Dr. Murer, the doppelganger. What to do?”

“He should have unmasked the fraud and joined in the laugh,” muttered Edward, inexplicably nettled to have been recognized as German. He felt soothed when Jeanette met his eye and nodded.

But it was the suppressed mirth between the Renicks that caught Grandcourt’s attention. “Oh, ho, M. Renick,
madame
, I believe it is you who must finish the story.”

“We don’t know the end,” said Marius Renick, whose lips were twitching.

“Oh, but Hippolyte, you are right: We were there!” chimed in Cornelia. “And we were duped—duped!—along with everybody else in the room!”

Grandcourt beamed.

“As I remember,” said Mr. Renick, “Naudet escorted the emperor into a side room for a private supper and that was about all that happened.”

“It was all that happened, but confess, my dear, how we all waited—and waited and waited and waited. We were dying for another glimpse. But then somehow word went around that His Excellency never mingled at such impromptu appearances—”

“A rumor no doubt hastily set going by Naudet and the gallery staff,” said Marius.

“
Bien sûr
,” said Grandcourt, whose eyes twinkled at the unexpected confirmation of his story. “Meanwhile, in a storeroom, your infuriated host bundled the imposters into stockboys’ smocks and shoved them out the back door onto the alley. He could not bear, you see, to lose the momentary prestige of an imperial visit. But, of course, the truth got around.”

“We never heard it!” exclaimed Cornelia.

“You do not ride the omnibus,
madame
.”

“Oh,
maestro
, neither do you.”

“
Non, c’est vrai.
I myself heard the story at Compiègne from the emperor, who loved it. He had his spies, you know. But now that your luncheon guests have arrived,
madame
, I must take my congé.
Mesdames et messieurs, joyeux Noël à tous.
”

*   *   *

What seemed to constitute a scratch lunch for Cornelia was informality (there was no hint of the leftover or random in the food). Conversation was general or flowed naturally.

“I’m looking forward to seeing what Miss Borealska has done,” Edward said to Jeanette seated beside him.

“She told me that you had sent her a formula for the glaze.”

“A bone white, warmer than della Robbia.”

“I saw a sample. It’s lovely, but I have to admit I was surprised that you knew how much whites differ.”

“Family trade, dyes and pigments. Why surprised?”

“I guess I don’t imagine most men paying the least attention to fine discriminations in color. I know my father wouldn’t.” With a shiver of pleasure at flirting with an older man, she cocked her head pertly and ran on: “M. Grandcourt probably does.”