Moonlight Over Paris (11 page)

“Andrew. He used to tell me, in his letters, that he was proud of me. That's why he joined up. And when he was killed, I don't know . . . I guess I felt I needed to take his place. So I signed up. Was assigned to his old unit. That's when I met Archie.”

“Your back . . .” she began, but let her voice trail away. She simply wasn't brave enough to ask outright.

“My scars? Sorry about that. I forgot. Should have changed in the hall.”

“Don't apologize. Never apologize for something like that.”

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his eyes fixed on the floor, and when he began to speak his voice hardly rose above a whisper.

“I was a corporal in the 130th. It was the day before the Armistice. They wanted us to retake the ruins of a village called
Marchéville. It was crazy. There was nothing left of it, and we all knew the Germans were about to surrender, but out we went all the same.

“Someone—I've no idea if it was us or them—had used mustard gas a day or two earlier, and the ground was muddy. We were on our way back when I slipped. I fell on my back, in a low crater, and it was filled with the gas. The stuff is heavier than air, so it can sit there for days.”

“So that's why your lungs are sensitive?”

“No,” he said, and he laughed hoarsely. “I was gassed earlier in the war, but that was just chlorine. If I'd got any of the mustard gas in my lungs I'd have been dead inside a week.”

“What happened after you fell?”

“I don't really remember. I woke up in a clearing station the next day. That's when they told me the war was over.”

“Were you in hospital for long?”

“Two months or so. Burns weren't that deep.”

“And now?” she asked, her voice trembling a little. “Does it still hurt?”

“Not really. I didn't need skin grafts or anything like that. My face and hands weren't burned, so people don't stare. It could have been a lot worse.”

“You said you were a corporal. Why not an officer?”

“I could have been, I guess. They did ask me a few times. But I couldn't stand the thought of it. Left the States to get away from all those buttoned-up idiots I'd known at university. From . . . from all of that.”

He sprang to his feet, walked over to the bookcase, and picked up a bottle of dark-colored liquor. “Sure you don't want that bourbon?”

“I'm sure, thank you. Where did you go to university?”

He poured himself a measure of spirits and returned to his chair. “Listen to you today. Asking questions like a newspaperman. I went to Princeton.”

“What did you study there?”

“Classics. Then I went to Harvard, to law school.”

“With the view to doing what? Becoming a barrister?”

He tilted the glass in his hand, letting the amber liquid swirl around. “No, not exactly,” he said at last. “I was planning to work for my family business.”

“Why are you here?” she asked softly.

He stared at the spirits in his glass, not once looking up at her. “It's hard to explain. I guess I could say that I love my family, but they want me to be someone I'm not. I felt terrible about it. I still do, but I just couldn't become that man. Not even for them. That's why I left.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry.”

“You don't have to apologize, but would you mind if we talked about something else?” he asked, his smile wry. “I could ask you uncomfortable questions about your family.”

“I've no secrets there.”

At this he looked up, his expression doubting. “Really? What brought you here? You hardly ever speak of your family, apart from your aunt and one of your sisters. Did they cast you out?”

“Nothing so Gothic as that. I had scarlet fever last year. It was a normal enough case at first, but then I contracted some sort of secondary infection. The doctors told my parents there was no hope. I heard them talking. And I promised myself that if I survived I would change. I would make something of my life.”

“Oh, Ellie,” he said, his voice gruff. “You're so brave. You have to know how brave you are.”

“I don't think so. Not really.”

“You are. Most of us spend our whole lives with our heads down, walking in circles. It never occurs to us to want anything more, so we cling to what's safe. What we know.”

Sam went to the clotheshorse and turned her clothes over so the backs of everything would dry. Then he sat down again, and this time he looked her in the eye.

“Will you stay on in France?”

“I don't know. There's nothing much for me back in England. That's the problem. I'm too old to dream of a home and family of my own, but my parents won't give up hope. I'm not sure they ever will.”

“Is that what you want?” he asked. “A home and family?”

“I did, once. Before the war.”

“You were engaged, weren't you?” he asked carefully, with no more affect than a stranger inquiring after the time of day.

“How do you know?”

“Sara,” he answered simply.

“Edward and I were engaged just before the war—weeks before, in fact. I waited for him, of course. When he finally came home, he was changed, and not because he'd lost a leg and had been taken prisoner, although people later said . . .

“At any rate,” she went on, “he realized he no longer wanted me, so we broke things off. It was for the best, really. Especially since he was in love with someone else.”

“Did he break your heart?”

“He didn't. He honestly didn't. If we'd stayed with one another he'd have broken it eventually. But he never had the chance.”

They regarded one another, the silence building and building until she could bear it no longer. Glancing at her
wristwatch, she saw it was well past nine o'clock. “I ought to be on my way.”

“I'll walk you home.”

“No,” she said firmly. “No, there's no need. It's late, and it's still raining. I'll take a taxi.”

“I'll come down with you—oh, wait. I almost forgot.”

He went to the bookcase and, crouching, rummaged through its contents until he found a slim paperbound volume. “Here—found it.” Returning to where she stood, he put the book in her hand.

“Your Rilke poems,” she said, touched that he should trust her with a favorite book.

“Yes. Doubt you can get them here, not even at Sylvia Beach's shop. Promise to take good care of them?”

“I will.

“I had better get dressed,” she said.

“Of course. I'll wait in the hall.”

When she had changed into her clothes, which were still damp but not unbearably so, he followed her downstairs and outside, and then he flagged down a taxi for her. He told the driver where to go, and then, stooping low, surprised her with a kiss on her cheek. “Good night, Ellie.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I had a lovely time.”

“In spite of getting caught in a downpour.”

“In spite of that, yes. And I did enjoy dinner at Chez Rosalie.”

“Will you come out with me again?”

“Yes,” she answered unhesitatingly. “I should like that very much.”

Smiling up at him, she got in the taxi and let it bear her away. As they approached the corner, something made her look
back. Sam was still standing there, watching, his kind eyes so serious and sad, and she nearly told the driver to stop the car so she could run back and say something, anything, to erase or ease the loneliness she saw on his face.

But she kept her silence, and the taxi turned the corner, and the moment was lost.

T
he list was pinned to the corkboard in the Académie's front foyer, but try as she might, Helena couldn't get close enough to read the names. A bell rang, heralding the start of the morning sessions, and the crowd began to thin. She pushed forward, heedless of the crush, until her nose was all but pressed against the notice.

31 octobre 1924

Étudiants admis—peinture à l'huile

M. Dupont

M. Esquivel

M. Goodwin

M. Herrera

M. Kolosov

M. Martens

M. Moreau

Mlle Parr

Mlle Renault

M. Swales

M. Williams

M. Zielinski

She blinked, rubbed at her eyes, and read the list again. Her name was on it. Her name, and Mathilde's, and Étienne's. Daisy's was not.

How was it possible that her name was on the list? Maître Czerny didn't know she existed; and if he did, if by some means she had made an impression on him, it certainly hadn't been a positive one. In eight weeks—nearly a hundred hours of class—he hadn't directed a single comment at her, good or bad, and he had never, not once, spared a glance for any of her work. How could she have been chosen for the oil painting class when far more capable students had been left off the list? It simply made no sense.

Étienne had been brave enough, a week or so earlier, to challenge the maître's habit of only selecting twelve students from a class of two dozen or more. Silence had followed his question, a silence so profound she'd heard the thump of her own heartbeat, and Helena had feared that her friend would be expelled. At the very least, the maître would find a way to cut Étienne down to size.

“You remind me of myself at your age, Monsieur Moreau. I, too, questioned my teachers, especially when their decisions appeared unfair. So I have a certain tolerance, even fondness, for a young man who dares to speak his mind.

“Why do I choose only twelve among you? I do so because I am not a patient man. I am not a charitable man. And I do not have the patience or charity to waste my time on incompetent students. Understood?
Bien
.”

After class, when they began their walk to the studio, she
made a point of hanging back with Daisy, just so they might have a chance to talk. She'd wanted to say something earlier, but Étienne had been seated between them all day.

As soon as she fell into step beside Daisy, her friend smiled and linked her arm with Helena's. “Congratulations. I'm so happy for you.”

“Thank you, but I—”

“I'm fine. I've worked in oils before and they're not my favorite medium. Besides, I'm not sure I could stand any more time in one of the maître's classes.” She rolled her eyes, and Helena tried to smile.

“He's a brute, and we both know it,” Helena said.

“Perhaps. But he was right not to pick me for the class. And I truly, honestly, am not upset. So don't worry about me. Promise?”

“I promise.”

Mathilde and Étienne were walking just ahead, and Louisette trailed several yards behind. Helena was fairly certain the woman didn't understand English, but pitched her voice low just in case.

“Forgive me for intruding,” she ventured, “and don't feel you need to reply, but I can't help noticing that your father is really very, ah, vigilant.”

“He is,” Daisy acknowledged, her expression resigned. “I know.”

“How do you bear it? Having her follow you around day after day?”

“It was hard at first, but I got used to it after a while. What else could I do?”

“How long has it been?”

Daisy's sigh was almost inaudible. “Almost six years. Do you
recall my talking about some work I did near the end of the war?”

“With wounded men? Yes, you did mention it. I did something similar. Writing letters for the men, and drawing portraits of them to send home. Was it like that?”

“Not really. It was . . . have you ever heard of the Studio for Portrait Masks? No? The wife of one of my father's colleagues founded it. Mrs. Ladd was an artist, a sculptor, actually, and she'd heard about a studio in England that provided masks to men who had been disfigured by their injuries. It made her think she might be able to do something similar in France. She went to England, to learn how to make the masks from the experts there, and then she set up a studio here at the end of 1917.”

Helena nodded, trying to take it all in. “How did you come to work there?”

“I was bored, plain and simple. I got to talking with Mrs. Ladd at a dinner party one evening, and she told me about the studio, and then we met again so she could make sure I was serious about it. I mean, the last thing she needed was someone who'd take one look at a man who was missing his jaw, or his nose, and faint on the spot.”

“Presumably you passed inspection.”

“I did. It was upsetting at first—how could it not be?—but the only thing that really bothered me was how depressed most of the men were. Some of them had been rejected by their families because of how they looked, you see, and they'd pretty much given up hope of ever being able to walk down the street without people screaming or turning away.”

“Did you make the masks?”

“Goodness, no. At first I just swept the floors and tidied up, and after a bit I graduated to sitting with the men and holding
their hands while the plaster impressions were made of their faces. It's a very uncomfortable process, and I think it helped them to know someone was nearby.

“After a while, I began to experiment with some paints at home. I'd look in the mirror and then copy what I saw as exactly, and finely, as possible. Once I was certain I could do it, I showed Mrs. Ladd, and she let me help with the painting after that. I was especially good at eyes.”

“What were the masks made of?” Helena asked, fascinated by her friend's story.

“Copper, hammered very thin, with a layer of enamel paint on top. They were held on with spectacles, even if the wearer didn't normally need them, because that helped to make the entire mask look more lifelike. At a distance, you wouldn't realize they were masks—that's how good they were.”

“But how did working at the studio lead to Louisette?” Helena pressed, still not understanding.

“There was one patient, an American officer, and he and I became friends. He was so nice, you know. Just the nicest man. He'd lost an eye, and the occipital bones around it had been crushed, but he was still very handsome. At least, I thought he was handsome. We . . . well, we danced together, the day the war ended, and I so hoped . . .”

“What happened?”

“Nothing, in the end. I came down with Spanish flu, and spent nearly a month in bed. By the time I'd recovered, Mrs. Ladd had decided to return to Boston and the studio wasn't taking on any new commissions. And Captain Mancuso had gone back to America.”

“I still don't understand why your father felt the need for Louisette.”

Daisy's voice, already faint, faded to a whisper. “Daniel—Captain Mancuso—went home, or I suppose he was sent home, while I was sick with the flu, and I had no way of finding him. I asked my father for help, but he got very upset. He said it was wrong of me to ask, and that I should just forget about Daniel.”

“Oh, Daisy,” Helena said, and gave her friend a handkerchief so she might wipe her eyes.

“And then, almost right away, Daddy hired Louisette. For his ‘peace of mind,' he said.”

“It is rather odd,” Helena ventured. “Does he know that you dislike her? Won't he consider someone else?”

“No. He says I'm meant to dislike her. That she's there to protect me, and not to be my friend.”

“I thought my parents were strict, but this is terrible. Perhaps we can find a way . . .”

But Daisy was shaking her head. “I'm used to her now, and she can't stop me from spending time with you and Étienne and Mathilde. Only Daddy can do that, and ever since your aunt sent him that letter he hasn't complained once about the studio or my going out from time to time. So, you see, I can't really complain.”

H
ELENA CERTAINLY DIDN'T
have cause to complain about anything, for her life in Paris was perfect in nearly every respect. The exception, the single stone in her shoe, was oil painting, for her initial elation at having been chosen for Maître Czerny's elite class was slowly dissolving into despair.

The difficulty lay in the gulf between her expectations and reality. Back in Antibes, happy in her little studio overlooking the sea, she had imagined that learning to paint in oils would be a straightforward affair, though naturally demanding. It
would simply require patient application on her part, and practice would eventually make perfect.

She had assumed that she would have a natural flair for painting in oils. She could not have been more wrong.

Squeezed from the tube, gleaming and fresh on her palette, the oils were gorgeous, like little puddles of melted jewels. Every time, admiring them, she believed. This time the paint would behave. This time the colors would remain true. This time she would create something worth saving.

She failed. Again and again, she failed. The paints, so bright and perfect and new, turned dull at the touch of her brush, and the more she worked at them the worse they looked. Around her, the other students worked so confidently; some, like Étienne, had been painting in oils for years. She was the only one who struggled. She alone was left to flounder with the desperation of an upended tortoise.

And always, always, the voice of the maître, strident, methodical, and unrelenting.

“Fat on lean. Thick on thin. Warm on cold. Engrave these words on your heart—have them tattooed into the skin over your hearts—and forget everything else. These are your commandments. These are the laws I compel you to follow.”

She tried, harder than she'd ever tried at anything, but they were commandments, not habits, and they left her head so crammed full of technique there was no space left for inspiration. There were moments, rare ones, when she figured out the
how,
but the canvases she then produced were mannered, stiff, and lifeless.

Worst of all? It was impossible to hide from the maître in a class of twelve. He took notice of her now, but only to lavish upon her the disdain he'd once reserved for Daisy.

“Again, Mademoiselle Parr. Again you make of your paint
une pagaille
upon your palette. I must conclude that you wish to paint with mud, or perhaps you wish to depict mud?
En tout cas
you are hopeless.”

At lunch and after class each day, Étienne and Mathilde were endlessly patient, never complaining when she needed help working up her paints. From them she learned when to make the paint lean by thinning it with white spirits, and when to fatten it with linseed oil. At Mathilde's suggestion she altered her brushwork, for the delicate manner she'd used with her watercolors led only to a bumpy mess of impasto on the canvas. At Étienne's direction she used fewer colors, combining them as needed on her palette.

“Monet often used only five or six,” he explained. “Here—I've given you yellow ochre, golden ochre, viridian, vermilion, cobalt blue, and chalk white. These are all you need.”

In the peace of the studio, helped by her friends, and freed from the simmering contempt of the maître, she worked up several small canvases that showed some promise. Back in the
grand salon
, however, with the maître pacing back and forth, muttering and tearing at his hair, her newfound knowledge and competence drained away like so much dirty bathwater.

“I need a rest,” she told Étienne and Mathilde as they left class one afternoon; Daisy had gone home after the morning session. “It's only been a week and my head is spinning.”

“It's the fumes from the paint,” Étienne said teasingly. “We'll open a few more windows.”

“Ha. I need more than fresh air.”

“I wonder if perhaps you might like some company?” Mathilde asked. “I, too, feel in need of a short vacation from the studio.”

“I should like that very much. I was thinking of taking a walk through the Luxembourg Gardens, but if you—”

“No, that would be most pleasant.”

They bid adieu to Étienne, who was going directly to the studio, and set out for the gardens. Walking side by side, they shared a comfortable silence, rather as if they were old friends who had already disclosed every possible thought, opinion, and secret to one another, and were simply content to be together.

The Luxembourg Gardens were dormant and rather sad at this time of year, but they were quiet, a rarity in a modern city like Paris, and their cool beauty was exactly the tonic that Helena needed after the combustible atmosphere of Maître Czerny's class.

They walked north to the Musée du Luxembourg, and then, wordlessly agreeing that its paintings could wait for another day, made their way over to the Grand Bassin, and then to the playground. Finding a bench, they sat and watched as beautifully behaved children, their faces gravely dignified, waited their turn for a ride on the garden's carousel.

“My daughter loves to ride the carousel,” Mathilde said quietly. “Although we have not come here in a while.”

“You have a daughter? I mean . . . I feel as if I ought to have known.”

“Her name is Marie-France. She is almost ten years old.”

“Do you have a photograph of her?”

“Not here. But I may have . . . let me see . . .”

Rummaging through her bag, Mathilde extracted a sketchbook and handed it to Helena. “There—that drawing. That is my daughter.”

“She's very pretty. Is her hair as dark as yours?”

“Yes. And it is just as straight. It will not hold a curl, no matter what I do.”

“What color are her eyes?”