Paris, He Said (20 page)

In her building’s crepuscular vestibule she was greeted by an arresting sound: strains of a cello suite drifted down from one of the high floors, startling and alive. She knew that it was Philippe, not someone’s radio turned up to an unneighborly volume. He must have thought that all of the apartments were vacant on a weekday afternoon, because he had said that he didn’t practice in the building, not wanting to intrude on the lives of the other tenants.

His playing was both melancholy and contemplative. Jayne paused on the first-floor landing, one shoulder pressed against the cool wall. She felt tears sting her eyes, her nose prickling from the wave of unexpected, unfiltered feeling.

The piece was by Bach, one of the cello suites that her father had listened to on his stereo many times during her childhood. She wished that she had paid more attention, that she could mention it by name to Philippe the next time she saw him.

Dear Paris. Dear Philippe. Dear Laurent. Did you bring me here to break me apart, to see if there is anything inside? How brief I know my time here will be. Even if it is the rest of my life.

At the door to her and Laurent’s apartment, she rested her forehead against the frame, unwilling to go inside while Philippe was still playing, but after another minute the music stopped, the silence abrupt as a slammed door. Dust motes drifted in the sunlight pouring hotly through the stairwell’s windows. She waited a little longer, but he didn’t start again. Later she would realize that this was the most purely peaceful moment she’d had since moving to France.

Whatever Laurent might be keeping from her, she could almost say in that moment, with conviction, that she didn’t care.

She realized that she had no real idea of how his mind worked, and she had no idea how his daughter’s worked either. The luncheon invitation had been so unexpected, and with a mother like hers, Jayne had to wonder why Jeanne-Lucie would ever allow Anne-Claire near her and Marcelle. Jayne was also curious about Jeanne-Lucie’s marriage, because two things had been clear during the lunch: she wished for more freedom, and the lion’s share of Marcelle’s daily care was left to her.

Jayne had felt Jeanne-Lucie’s absent husband’s presence in the books in the salon, and in the ceramic, brick-red ashtray that she’d spotted on a small table in the corner, off to the side of the bookshelves. The ashtray held a carved cherrywood pipe like the one her maternal grandfather smoked, a few shreds of tobacco still in its bowl. Very likely it was Daniel’s; she laughed at the idea of Jeanne-Lucie smoking it, her cheeks puffing like bellows. The pipe made Jayne wonder whether Daniel was quite a bit older than Jeanne-Lucie. In the two photos she had seen of him with Jeanne-Lucie at Laurent’s apartment, he didn’t really look it, but depending on the light and the lens, she knew that years could be taken off a person’s face. And Laurent had never mentioned an age difference.

It was almost five o’clock by the time she’d taken a shower and gotten dressed again, the evening’s meal a looming obligation, but on many of the days that he spent at Vie Bohème, Laurent was unlikely to return home before eight. For herself, after the five-course lunch Jeanne-Lucie had served, she wanted nothing more for dinner than a small green salad. She thought about calling Laurent to suggest that he pick up something for himself on the way home, but instead she went into the study and worked on the sketch of Colin for an hour before moving to her easel and the painting of Joanie in Salinas, the sky behind and above her human subject a pale orange with streaks of yellow. She’d been thinking about doing a series of portraits with desert settings; the quality of light in the desert, how it was refracted by sand—this elemental form of glass had always appealed to her.

Whatever she did, she wanted to be thought original. In college art classes, everyone she knew would have admitted to this desire without irony, but now, long past art school and youthful hopefulness, what many artists in the gallery scene seemed to want most was to be rich and famous. (Originality was nice too, but it didn’t pay the electric bill.)

And how could it be different? Laurent had asked her one night during her first week in Paris. They lay naked in bed, the lights off. Outside on the narrow, becalmed street, an occasional car slipped by, the sound of urban low tide. “You are aware that money makes the laws in the art business, as in every other business,” he said. “Genius is secondary to profit. This is a fact, one for adults, not children.”

She made a sound of disapproval.

“Genius is to be coveted, of course it is,” he continued, undeterred. “But from my point of view, it matters less than salability. If you can sell your work, then making art can be your only job. Does genius matter more than the ability to put food in your mouth and clothes on your back?”

“That’s why I have you,” she said, half serious. She felt the leaden weight of these words, the truth hiding behind the teasing facade.

“Yes,” he said, nonchalant. “I know, but commerce aside, you seem to think that if an artist creates, for example, a beautiful sculpture of a dancer that many people will want to have in their homes, it isn’t likely to be unique and fresh.”

“I don’t really think that,” she said. “If a lot of people like something, it doesn’t mean it isn’t good. Georgia O’Keeffe and Edward Hopper were still brilliant, even if their work has been co-opted by greeting card companies.”

“The only rule, as far as I’m concerned, is that you do not create something lazy and thoughtless.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“I know you wouldn’t. Brilliance will come if it is supposed to.”

Was this meant to comfort her? Because it didn’t, though she didn’t say so. He had to know this. Maybe that was his intention—to challenge her to move toward her greatest work.

What will you do? Laurent seemed to be asking. Now that you can do whatever you please?

When Laurent returned home a little before eight, she had stopped painting for the night. The study was often the warmest room in the apartment, and she’d had to take another shower to cool off. She heard him in the hall and called out a greeting as she dried herself with one of the pearl-pink towels he’d bought before she moved in. At pink toilet paper, she was glad he had drawn the line. She’d forgotten since living in Strasbourg that some of the paper in France was the same color as Pepto-Bismol. “Why on earth is it that obnoxious color?” she’d asked.

Laurent had said that he wasn’t sure, but maybe the intention was to add color to the proceedings. “Or perhaps it is someone’s idea of comedy,” he suggested.

He stood now in the bathroom’s doorway as she toweled off. “How was it?” he asked, a wary smile flashing across his face.

She went over and kissed him hello, pressing her nose to his warm cheek. Her work in the studio had helped to erase much of the sting of Anne-Claire’s behavior at lunch, as had hearing Philippe play.

Laurent’s face glowed with a thin glaze of sweat. He had walked home, something he did a few times a week instead of hailing a cab or taking the Metro. “You mean lunch?” she said, though she knew for sure that he did.

He lifted her chin and kissed her; one of his hands smoothed down the unruly hair at the back of her head. “Yes, of course. Did you have a good time?”

“Your daughter is a wonderful cook, and her apartment is very nice, but your ex-wife was, to put it gently, hard to take.”

He raised his eyes to the ceiling, showing her the pale scar beneath his chin from a boyhood bike accident. “What did she do?”

“She kept criticizing Jeanne-Lucie’s cooking, even though everything was delicious. It really was perfect. She’s like a gourmet chef.”

“I don’t know if I’d say that, but she does cook well. Anne-Claire isn’t very good at giving compliments. Not to our daughter, and certainly not to me. With Frédéric she’s a little better.”

“You’re nuts,” said Jayne. “Jeanne-Lucie is an amazing cook. You should both be able to say it to her without reservations.”

He leaned against the doorframe, watching her pull on a black tank top. She wore the top to bed sometimes, or had in New York, when she’d still slept alone on some nights. “Jeanne-Lucie doesn’t know how to accept compliments.”

Jayne gave him an arch look. “I wonder why.”

He looked tired and older than usual, despite his fitness and his beautiful clothes—the light gray summer suit and brown loafers, highly polished. She couldn’t remember if this was what he’d been wearing when he left for the gallery around midday. The morning felt very distant, as if since then she had traveled to another country and returned to find things subtly but noticeably altered.

“What else did you talk about?” he asked.

She felt a knock of defiance in her chest and blurted out the words she hadn’t been sure she should say, certainly not so soon. “Your ex-wife told me not to trust you. She also said that she was in New York in March and that you took her to dinner.”

There was no trace of evasion or guilt on his face. “Anne-Claire and I have known each other a long time, Jayne. More than thirty years,” he said. “We are friends, and that is all. I didn’t think to tell you she was in New York because it didn’t mean very much to me.”

She looked at him steadily for a few seconds before turning to hang her damp towel on the hook next to the tub. “She took such pleasure in telling me about seeing you there,” she said. “She knew that you hadn’t told me. I felt like an idiot.”

“I’m sorry you felt that way, Jayne. It was rude of her to tell you, but there really is nothing between us anymore. Maybe some old resentments, but most of the time we avoid arguments.”

She slipped past him into the hall. A few feet away were Sofia’s family of portraits. Looking at the one of the father, she called to Laurent. She could hear him peeing now. “I met one of your former assistants at lunch,” she said loudly. “Martin Donnell.”

There was silence.

She repeated herself, raising her voice a little more.

“Yes, I heard you,” Laurent called.

“He seemed nice,” she said.

“He and my daughter are good friends.” He paused. “A little too good, you could say.”

She heard the water running in the sink before Laurent appeared in the hall. He passed by without touching her and went into the bedroom. She glanced again at the portraits, the father’s expression shifting into a question:
Do you really need to …?

“What do you mean?” she said, following him into the bedroom.

He had his shirt off and was hanging it in the closet, oblivious to or else not caring about its gaminess. “I think they spend too much time together, but from what my daughter has told me, Daniel does not protest.”

“I thought Martin might be your ex-wife’s boyfriend.”

He laughed. “No, no. Not Martin.”

Why was he being so vague and smug? “What does that mean?” she asked again.

“Martin is in love with my daughter, not my ex-wife. You must have noticed at lunch.”

“No, I didn’t,” she said. “Anne-Claire made sure that we paid attention to little besides herself.”

“That sounds familiar, but it is still true about Martin.”

“He seemed very kind. I liked him.”

“My daughter used my apartment to meet with him while I was in New York,” he said. “I am almost certain.”

“No. Really?” she said. “Doesn’t he have his own place?”

“Yes, of course he does, but it is nicer here, and I think he has a roommate. He did when he worked for us.”

“If I were her, I wouldn’t want to meet my lover at my father’s apartment.”

“You are not her, Jayne. Do not look so surprised. It is comfortable here, and I am sure this building is more private than the one where he lives. That is what is most important.”

“Privacy,” she said.

He shook his head. “No, comfort.”

“Did they use your bed?” The thought bothered her, as if she were being forced to wear a stranger’s unwashed clothes.

He wavered, noticing her discomfort. “I don’t know. I assume they used the guest bedroom.”

“If they came here at all.”

“Oh, I think they did.”

“How do you know this?” she asked.

“They left a few things here—a letter addressed to him from his mother, a hairbrush and a shirt that Jeanne-Lucie admitted was his. I think they intended to remove them before I returned from New York, but they must have forgotten.”

In bed a little while later, when Laurent had her pinned beneath his sweating, lean-muscled body, her arms captured at the wrists and gripped hard above her head, she looked up into his shadowed face, where only headlong purpose could be deciphered. She too was close to the final ecstatic leap and found herself begging, “More, Laurent. Please.” Then she said it again, her voice ragged with pleasure.

He paused, eyes flickering, before tightening his hold on her wrists. Leaving her behind, he came in a seismic, angry roar.

Her sleep that night was erratic—her parents and sister, Jeanne-Lucie, Martin, Colin, Laurent, and André fading in and out of her dreams in half-awake leaps from one face, one image, to the next. She woke herself up sometime before dawn when she cried out, though she wasn’t sure what she had said, and it was possible that the sound had only been a gasp, loud in her dream but little more than a whisper in the darkened bedroom. Laurent shifted onto his side, sighing softly as he resettled his head against the pillow. She could feel her heart knocking fitfully in its cage as she got out of bed and went into the study to look at the painting of Joanie. She was having trouble using light in the way she intended, to bend or extend line, but she hoped that she was making progress.

Sofia understood the principles of light and line; each of the six portraits in the hall was as insightful and skilled as the larger portraits by Bernard Ferriss that Jayne had seen and reluctantly admired at Vie Bohème–New York on the night she met Laurent.

Perhaps André had tried to kiss Sofia too—or, who knew, maybe he had gone so far as to fall in love with her, though Jayne’s impression was that he was too much of a womanizer to permit himself to be vulnerable enough to fall in love. She knew not to trust him, but she still had not yet told Laurent that his partner had kissed her. If André told him first, she had no idea how he would slant it. In the morning, whether or not she felt ready, she would talk to Laurent after his first espresso and Gitane of the day, when his mood was usually good, though in truth it was rarely ever bad.