The Siren of Paris (3 page)

“They say in the papers nearly 16,000 children have now left the city,” Marc overheard from a discussion next to him.

“I believe they are now passing out the gas masks,” another student said in a hushed tone.

“Take out a pencil and a sheet of paper. Place it to one side of your desk where you cannot see it,” the older instructor told the students. “Now, please, eyes forward. Marie, can you please remove your robe and give the class a comfortable pose? I want you to draw the contour of Marie’s body, without looking at the paper. This exercise will be seven minutes.” Marie gazed confidently at the nude, auburn hair with brown eyes, her figure full and hourglass.

“Why can’t I look at the paper?” a student complained from the rear of the room.

“How will I know if I am drawing her right?” one of the female students echoed.

“You won’t know,” the instructor retorted.

“This makes no sense to me,” another complained.

“This is the final? You have led us to a point of drawing without looking?” another complained bitterly.

“Do as I ask. And now, silence. My God, all of this worry and fuss over a certificate of attendance. You will get your paper but, right now, focus on Marie. Draw her slowly. Do everything you can to overcome the desire to check your work. Do not look at your hand, paper, or the pencil. Just look at the model.”

When the instructor turned his back, nearly everyone in the class looked, including Marc. The temptation inside him became overwhelming but the glance at his page did nothing to relieve his frustrations, fears, or doubts.

“Who just looked?” There was silence. “Liars,” he chuckled with a smirk. The time was finally over. “Now, let’s take a look.”

Sighs and murmurs filled the room. Students glanced away from their drawings. The man in front of Marc turned his paper over.

“What do you see?” the instructor demanded.

“I see a really shitty drawing,” a woman in the middle of the class said, her tone sharp.

“Excellent. Who else?”

“Mine looks good, not perfect, but good,” another student replied.

“Were you looking?” he asked.

“No, I did just as you asked,” the student answered.

“Amazing. Maybe later you can demonstrate for us this miracle gift you have,” the instructor said. A few laughs floated amongst the students. “The purpose of this exercise is not to draw what you think you see, but what you actually see. Most of the time when we draw, we are focused upon the paper instead of the model. You look up with a glance, and then look down at your paper and continue to work. But you are not drawing the model. You are drawing what you think you see as the model. This exercise is not about training your hand, but your eyes. Unless you really see your model with all your sight, you are just drawing from your imagination.”

Marc studied his own poor example. The shape he had drawn was nearly unrecognizable as a human form. He felt irate with himself as he stared at the distorted proportions and contorted lines.

A sound could be heard outside in the hallway, muffled by the door.

“This is the foundation of my class if you continue with me at École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts. You know how to draw, but you lack the ability to see,” he continued.

The noise became far greater outside the class. People in the hall spoke loudly; the stomping feet of someone running down the corridor grew closer.

“Marie, please replace your robe,” the instructor said, and then walked toward the noise.

As the door opened, Marc heard, “Guerre! La guerre!”

“Stop! Silence, please. I have a class in session. Have you gone mad?” Students from other classes poured into the hallway.

“No, sir. I was told to tell everyone of the war.”

“What war?” he asked.

“France. France is at war with Germany. If you have a radio, turn it on. They are calling up the troops.” The students gasped, and their teacher stood in the doorway, stunned.

That night, Marc’s roommate packed for the front. “It is all a farce. I am going to be bored to death,” he complained bitterly. “France is not Czechoslovakia, or Austria.”

“The war is not official yet. France and Britain made demands, but nothing is official until the third,” Marc said to him.

“Perhaps I am packing for nothing?” he snorted.

Marc left in the morning for the city to take up his next flat. People bustled about, making preparations for the war. Sandbags lined the fronts of prominent buildings; posters announced air raid stations. Marc stopped and joined a crowd gathered in front of one of the posters. As he read, it occurred to him that it said nothing different from what he’d heard on the radio or read in the papers, yet, somehow, none of it seemed real to him.

Nigel complained to Marc in the café that night while having a smoke. “This is absurd. Suddenly now, everyone is bustling about as if the loudmouth himself is at the border, but the entire German army is in Poland. This is just another short crisis. I am sure there will be a new agreement in a few weeks.”

“I hope you are right,” Marc said. “If all the students are at the front, how many classes will there be?”

“Oh Marc, if you get bored of drawing lovely naked women, you can join the troops at the front and earn your glory and honor. It is the hero’s calling, you know, and you are a citizen of France, so you can be drafted in case the calling does not come through,” Nigel teased. Marc suddenly remembered he was born in France. The thought struck him as odd that he could be called up for the draft.

“Oh, I have the dogs of war in me, but I prefer not to feed them and, besides that, the French don’t know what to do with a man born in France, yet a citizen of the United States. I don’t even have a French passport,” Marc crushed out his cigarette.

“Smart. No worry Marc, you will find your glory another way I am sure, but, as for me, I have no dogs left in me at all,” Nigel said, a look of bemusement on his face.

“Are you leaving soon?”

“Of course I am, even though I’m sure everything will work out. But if this doesn’t calm down, I want to be on the other side of the pond.” Nigel looked out to the street.

“Well, I have class in the morning all the same,” Marc said. “If I do not see you before you leave, I hope you have a safe trip.”

“You will see me. I am not leaving that fast. David will be back and I will be at Dora’s for lunch. Don’t stay up too late dreaming of all your drawings,” Nigel said, and left the café.

On September 2, Marc saw a line out the door of the travel offices of the Cunard Line agency. He found this odd for a Sunday. Then, as he turned the corner, he saw the same with the French and Italian Line offices on Rue Auber. As he passed en route to the opera house, he heard excited conversations with the ticket agents. Marc caught the back of Nigel’s head among the would-be passengers.

“You must have something?” Nigel said.

“I do, just not in cabin class. I can get you on the
Champlain,
in tourist, in two weeks’ time,” the agent said, looking over Nigel toward the door.

“Any larger ship? What about the
Ile de France
?”

“No, all booked. If you want bigger, then maybe check with Cunard next door,” the agent said. Nigel looked down at his shoes, searching for a decision to come. He had just left the Cunard office and already knew they had no solution. The conversation was exactly the same, just in a different language.

The morning of Tuesday, September 4, all the papers were filled with the fantastic headlines. Marc could not avoid them if he tried.

“
Athenia
Hit!”

“EMPIRE AT WAR!”

“
Athenia
, Terrible Loss of Life!”

“10-year-old Girl from Canada a Victim of German Wolf Pack.”

“28 Americans Among the Dead.”

“What does it say, Marc?” Dora asked him from across the table.

“More of the same. It was dark, and that perhaps it was a mistake. It seems more people died trying to get over by boats to the rescue ship than from the blast of the torpedo. One flipped, and another was sucked into the propeller of the ship,” Marc said, scanning the article.

“Right up the rear staircase,” David said, staring at his tea.

“They think because the ship was zigzagging with lights out, the U-boat believed it was a cruiser instead of a passenger vessel,” Nigel said. He looked up at Dora.

“Right, and passenger ships do look so much like naval cruisers. It could have been the British, to bring America into the war.” David looked at Nigel.

“Well, what a world this has become.” Nigel’s face twitched.

“I think staying is better than trying to go,” David said, his face stark and serious.

“I am not so sure, David. I think we should at least consider making some other plans to leave,” Nigel responded, worry thick in his brow.

“Well, if you need a place to stay, you are welcome to stay with me,” Dora said. Marc sat quietly listening to his friends. He pondered his own plans at the same time. There was no pressing need for him to return to America, and Paris was safer than a lifeboat at sea. Marc looked up from the paper at David and Nigel, more worried for them than for himself.

“Let’s wait and see what happens. Everyone is upset right now about this
Athenia
thing and in a few weeks, the whole storm could blow over. We might be worrying for no reason,” David said, looking over at Dora.

After dinner, Marc decided to join David to make a call back to the States. Brought to a small oak desk at the Paris international telephone exchange, Marc read the instructions of how to make a call. The entire room appeared to be nothing but Americans the evening of September 4. David had just made his own call home to his wife. Marc explained to his family his reasons for staying and they agreed it would be safer than risking a trip. Marc passed a long line a few hundred souls long as he left the exchange that night.

“Did you get inside?” David asked Nigel.

“Yes, of course, but it took a bit,” he answered in an irate voice.

“And, what did you find out?” he pressed further.

“Everything is canceled. They are giving refunds, but I did not take mine. I think it is better to let the money sit with them so when things open up, we are on the list of paid passengers.” Nigel waved his hand.

“That is wise. But, I’m worried. I would not underwrite these ships and I am sure that is what is going on,” David commented.

“What do you mean?” Nigel looked perplexed.

“All these ships are underwritten with insurance in the event of a disaster. I would not take the risk, and who do you think ultimately is behind all that money with the insurance underwriters?” David explained as he pointed to Nigel’s chest.

“There are thousands, you know, all searching for a way home,” Nigel said, waving his hands up in the air.

“It does not matter, Nigel, if it is thousands or millions. If no one is willing to risk the money for those ships, they are not going to take us home.” David looked directly at Nigel’s face, trying to catch the attention of his eyes.

“You’re right. I never thought of it that way,” Nigel said, defeated. “I felt sorry for the agent. He just looked at me and said ‘I cannot help you.’”

M
arc looked to the front of the classroom. The semicircular, wheeled stage held no model. The instructor had just finished passing out bottles of ink and long wooden dowels.

“Attention, please, attention. Listen to me,” the instructor rapped a stick on the desktop. “I am not unaware of what is taking place outside these walls of École Nationale Supérieure; however, the standards of instruction will remain the same. If you listen to every radio report, read every newspaper, and run to the underground every time you hear a siren, you will have no focus in this class and you might as well leave.”

The students stared without any emotion at the instructor. Marc looked out the windows, crisscrossed with tape. As he turned back to the front, Marie, again in her robe, came through a door with her back to the class.

“Today, you will stand as you draw. Break the dowels I have given you. I want you to draw on the full sheet of paper on your desk. You must focus and draw with your entire body, not just your little hands. Any questions?”

The students stood and uncapped their bottles of ink. Some removed their gas mask canisters from the top of their desks. Marc spread out a large sheet of paper upon his table.

“Excellent. Marie, if you please,” the instructor pointed to the cushions on the stage. She removed her robe and turned to face the class as she lay nude across the cushions.

First, a student gasped. Another let out a laugh. A murmur rippled through the room. Marc’s face grinned like a fox. The instructor turned toward her and cupped his hand to his mouth. Marie looked up at him, wearing nothing but a gas mask as she tilted her head to one side.

“Always up on the latest fashions,” he said with a smirk.

“But, of course,” she said, and pulled off the mask.

Marc took the dowel and dunked into the bottle of ink, looked up at Marie and then began to mark the page, all the while grinning with admiration.

Later that evening, Marc met Dora for dinner.

“Do you think this war is serious?” Marc asked her.

“What war? There is a war? I had no idea!”

“Dora, stop teasing.” Marc scrunched his brow.

“Marc, for the past hour, all you have talked about is your art class and Marie. Do you realize that? I have not even met this woman, but I feel like I could draw her myself,” Dora said.

“It is nothing. I think it is just due to the fact that I have to look at her so much.”

“You mean look at her while she is nude, right?” Dora smiled as she stared at him.

“Yes, yes, nude. I understand what you mean, but it is not going to go any place. She is the model and I am the student.” He averted Dora’s stare.

“You really do like to tell yourself stories, and I think you believe them,” she said as the food came to the table. Marc nodded thanks to the waiter.

“Have you seen Nigel or David recently?” he asked with a genuine sense of concern in his voice. Dora paused for a moment to consider her words.