The Velvet Hours (20 page)

“Do you still keep one?” she asked as she stroked the inside of his knee.

“I no longer write them down, but every morning I pause for a few minutes and try to force myself to remember before I start my day.” He sat up and now faced her.

“In fact, just last week you appeared in one of my dreams like an empress, your body wrapped in a silk kimono embroidered with silver cranes.”

“How marvelous,” she chimed, her pleasure was evident.

“You dropped the robe from your shoulders, and the material pooled around you like a frozen lake. I stood transfixed as you raised one foot after the other, stepping over the fallen silk and walking toward me with outstretched arms.”

He lifted a hand and ran it through her heavy hair. The tortoiseshell combs lay on the bedside table, and now her hair ran over her shoulders and breasts.

“It was after recalling the vividness of that dream, that I decided to write you.”

“I'm so happy you did.”

“I only regret that I won't have time to buy you something beautiful before I leave tomorrow.”

“Don't give it a second thought,” she laughed, kissing him again. “It will be nice to have a handsome young major in my debt.”

She pulled herself on top of him, his body a saddle beneath her. And her hair fell against his skin, the sensation as delicate as fallen rain.

Paris 1917

O
ver the years, Marthe had been forced to become creative in order to supplement her dwindling income. She had modeled for Boldini on a few occasions for his own personal studies, though never nude.

But when he asked her to pose so he could experiment with different positions of the body, she always obliged. He always showed his appreciation by leaving an envelope of money by the pedestal near his door.

She had also sold a few of her ceramic pieces to Boldini as well as back to Ichiro, who had told her when she first bought them from him that they would retain their value and he could always resell them. Marthe had already sold back to him most of her shunga collection and three of her celadon bowls and a famille rose vase.

But nearly twenty years had passed since Charles had died. Marthe realized that she was starting to run out of money, as much of her savings had dwindled. And now that she was older, the
opportunities to model, as well as her list of new suitors began to grow sparse. The major had been a rare opportunity, one that would likely not repeat itself. He had written to tell her that he was now in western France, but she knew he could not say too much with all correspondence censored due to the war.

She thought it unlikely she would see him again, and she knew he was not in a position to financially support her as Charles had. If he survived the war, he would come back and marry a woman his own age, as she believed he should. The only men who'd take her as a mistress would be ones close to seventy with failing eyesight. Marthe understood that the same affliction that had caused Mata Hari to turn to espionage was now threatening her. The next step to stretching her finances further would be to let Giselle go.

When she met with Boldini now, Marthe was too embarrassed to admit she was having difficulty making ends meet, though she suspected the artist realized something was amiss when she informed him she could no longer afford to hold her monthly salons.

“With the wartime rations now, one needs to buy nearly everything on the black market.” She shook her head. “The cost for everything is just exorbitant.”

“I am in the same position,
carissima
. I've had to lower my commission price, but the cost of all my supplies is inflating. Canvas is now particularly high because they need it for the war.”

She smiled at him. “And I was going to ask if you'd perhaps like to buy another one of my precious ceramics,” she laughed. “I suppose I'll need to pay another visit to Ichiro instead.”

*   *   *

She dressed in chiffon for her visit to Ichiro. The dove gray that had always been a favorite of Charles's, the color that offset her eyes. She also put on the strand of pearls from Charles, the ones she swore to herself she would never sell unless her situation became dire.

By this point, she had little of her remaining ceramic collection left. That afternoon, she placed her melon gourd vase in its original bamboo box and brought it to the shop.

Typically whenever she returned to Ichiro's, a calm came over her. With its dark wood interior and shelves that were never overcrowded, but instead were maintained to showcase the beauty and rarity of the objects displayed.

But this time, when she arrived at the store, Ichiro looked as though he was not setting up new inventory, but was rather packing it all up to be shipped someplace else.

“Ichiro,” she gasped, unable to mask her surprise. “Where is all of this going?”

“Back to Japan.”

“But for heaven's sake, why?”

He reached behind his neck and untied his smock, placing it on the ladder in front of him.

“I'm afraid, Madame de Florian, I will be returning there as well.”

“I don't understand.” She stepped closer to him. “You always seemed to do so well here, and you have your clientele that deeply appreciates you . . .”

“Paris is not the best climate for a Japanese anymore. The war has taken a toll on business. And things from the Far East are no longer in fashion as they once were.”

“Oh . . . ,” she murmured. She held the bamboo box that she had wrapped with a silk scarf closer to her chest. “I'm not so sure you'll be interested in buying this back from me, then . . .”

He smiled at her. His face, like hers, had changed over the twenty years since she had first come through his door. His once-black hair was now nearly white. His skin reminded her of the porcelain she had gifted Boldini years before, the one with the cracked ice glaze.

“Let's have some tea in the back, like old times . . .” He gestured
with his hand for her to follow, and together they walked behind the curtain.

*   *   *

“What have you brought me today?” he asked her, after he returned from putting the ladder away and came over to his desk with two steaming cups of tea.

“The melon gourd vase . . . ,” she answered forlornly. “I've held on to it as long as I could . . .” She had placed the bamboo box on the desk while she waited for him. Now she rested her palm on its lid.

“I am certain you will find it another good home.”

Ichiro's eyes met hers. They had known each other for so long that he sensed without her having to explain further that she had reached a point where she could no longer survive without selling something worth a lot more than just a vase.

“I will buy back the vase. It's a rare piece and I know several collectors, both here and in Japan, who will be happy to have an example from an imperial kiln. But I feel I must give you some advice about something else.”

He looked first into her eyes, then down at her neck. His eyes rested on her strand of pearls.

“I must tell you, as a good friend, some information I have recently learned from some acquaintances back in Japan.”

He took a deep breath and placed his hands on the table.

“I am aware there are ongoing efforts to cultivate pearls. The trials now are in their beginning stages, but I have heard that they are making great progress.

“I believe it would be prudent for you to now consider selling your pearls.”

Marthe lifted her fingers and touched the necklace.

“But these were from Charles . . .” Her voice began to tremble. “His last gift to me.”

Ichiro lowered his eyes, then cleared his voice. “I am sure he gave them as a gift so that you would always have security. A single strand of natural pearls of that quality and radiance must have cost him a fortune few men could even hope to earn in a lifetime.”

“Yes,” she said softly. “And he bought it at Mellerio's.”

“We've known each other a very long time . . . I would not guide you wrong. You really should sell them.”

The necklace, with the only substantial weight carried in the emerald butterfly clasp, had always felt like little dewdrops around her neck. It had been a part of her for so long, she couldn't conceive of parting with it.

“I'm not sure I understand . . .”

“Your pearls are priceless because thousands of pearls needed to be harvested from the depths of the ocean to find ones that match in size and color . . .”

“Yes, Charles said the same thing when he gave me the necklace.”

“But the day will soon come when pearls are cultivated by a man inserting a grain of sand into an oyster and waiting for it to grow under his own careful eye. When that happens, the natural pearls around your neck will be worth a fraction of their original cost.

“Sell them now,” he advised. “If you are wise, you will take that money and live on it quietly for the rest of your life. But if you wait any longer, Mellerio's will hear whispers of what's going on in the Far East with the pearl market.” He took another deep breath and shook his head. “And then, my dear Madame de Florian, even they will want nothing to do with your necklace.”

Paris 1917

T
he next afternoon, Marthe walked into the bejeweled storefront of Mellerio's dressed in all her finery. The dark silk faille dress with the covered buttons. The hat bought from Madame Georgette's, the gloves from La Samaritaine. And although it wasn't as elegant as one of her silk purses, she carried the red leather case that contained her precious necklace in a black satchel she made just to ensure she arrived carrying the box in something tasteful and discreet.

The store was on Rue de la Paix, and the most celebrated names in fashion shared the street as its address. The famous couturier Charles Frederick Worth had his atelier and salon nearby, as did the esteemed fan maker Duvelleroy. The venerable Cartier was further down the street.

She entered the store with her heart in her stomach. She was selling something that was not only dear to her because it had been a present from Charles, but also something she had always known
to be her most valuable possession. Selling it meant that she would no longer have it as a security blanket.

“Madame.” A man in a dark suit appeared from behind the glass table of glimmering stones. “May I be of assistance?”

She took a seat on one of the velvet chairs and withdrew the red case from her satchel.

When he saw the box was Mellerio's own, he too sat down, but this time across from her. The glass display case became a resting table for her to open the box.

She heard a small breath escape from him. The pearls, and the butterfly clasp, were dazzling in the light.

“Whoever purchased these, chose well.”

She felt a lump in her throat. “Yes,” she managed to say. “His taste was always exquisite.”

His hands reached to touch the box on each side. He searched under the satin cushion of the box and retrieved the certificate of authenticity and description for the pearls and clasp. “And how can I help you today, madame?”

“I wish to sell them. I was told that at any time, you would buy them back for at least what he had purchased them for.” She paused.

“I have one request, though,” she said, her voice surprisingly calm. “I would like to maintain the clasp.”

He nodded and closed the box.

“One moment, madame. I will need to check our records to verify the purchase.”

She folded her hands in her lap.

“And the name of the person who gave you these pearls?” He cleared his throat.

“Charles de Montagne,” she said. Again her voice was unflinching.

He lowered his eyes and nodded again, before vanishing behind a velvet curtain the color of a dark sky.

*   *   *

An hour later, she was given a bank check for an amount of money worthy of a pasha, while inside her satchel was a little velvet pouch with her emerald butterfly clasp tucked inside.

“Monsieur de Montagne must have had great affection for you, madame,” the sales clerk informed her. “The patriarch of our store himself sold them to him. They were one of the most prized possessions in our vault when he bought them for you.”

“Thank you,” she answered as she placed her hand over her bag.

“No, thank
you
,” he said, clearly oblivious to the knowledge that Ichiro had shared with her about the burgeoning cultivated pearl trade in Asia. We are happy to have them back in our collection.”

Around her, the mirrors and the glass cases with sparkling gemstones were blinding. She had always loved to be surrounded by reflections of beauty. But now she wanted nothing more than the soft shadows of her apartment.

Marthe met the eyes of the sales clerk before departing.

“It is a comfort to return them to where they were first bought,” she told him. She did not look at a single jewel under the store's glimmering lights. She simply adjusted her gloves and gathered her skirt, making her way swiftly out the door.