The Velvet Hours (22 page)

March 1940

K
nowing Alex would be coming seemed to reinvigorate Marthe. I watched how she acted buoyantly the following morning as she rose and took her bath. I could see she was taking multiple cups of tea and honey to calm her persistent cough.

In midmorning, she was still in her dressing gown, giving Giselle orders about the menu. Giselle reached into the tin for the extra money she would need to obtain such delicacies in the midst of the war.

By the time Alex arrived, Marthe had transformed back to the way I had first seen her. The beautiful dress. The rope of pearls. A sparkling comb set into her chignon of thick hair.

Her face, which had been gaunt for months, was dusted in powder. Her cheeks were rouged and her eyes glimmered. I had given her something to look forward to, and the sight of her appearing somewhat restored made me immensely happy.

Alex was wearing a suit and tie. He looked older in his elegant clothes. He had smoothed his black curls with pomade and smelled of sandalwood soap and night air.

“You must be Alex,” Marthe said, extending her hand. With great politeness, Alex kissed the space just above her fingers.

“
Enchanté
,” he said. His slow, deliberate pronunciation delighted my grandmother; for a moment, I could imagine her extending her hand to gentlemen such as Charles or Boldini who arrived at her door.

“My granddaughter has spoken so highly of you.” She smiled. “To the salon, shall we?”

He followed her as she gestured in the direction of the parlor. She opened the French doors, and I nearly gasped at the sight of how beautifully Giselle had prepared the room. It wasn't just the array of small tea cakes and petits fours that Giselle had placed on a tiered serving dish. The tall famille rose vase from Marthe's porcelain collection had also been filled with fresh flowers. Roses and lilies of the valley were bursting forth in great abundance from the vase's mouth. The room smelled of the most beautiful perfume.

“Now I know why Solange has said your apartment seems as though time has stood still . . . Why, I would never leave if I lived here.” His eyes glinted first toward Marthe and then me.

But soon I saw his focus travel toward the mantel then to Marthe's portrait. I glanced over at her. I now realized this was part of her ritual with every new visitor who walked through the doors of her parlor for the first time. They would meet her first, but the largest impression she would make was when her guests' eyes fell upon Boldini's painting of her.

It was Alex's turn to discover the painting. He stood in front of it, entranced.

“Madame de Florian,” he said, prying his eyes away from the sensual portrait. “What an incredibly stunning rendering of you.”

Her smile was one of a coquette, even in her seventies. “Well,”
she uttered, beguiled. “I'm quite flattered you can still discern it is me.”

‘There is little doubt,” he replied, his eyes returning to the portrait. “It's captivating.”

“Thank you.” I could hear the satisfaction in her voice. Alex had passed her first test, and I was relieved.

“Let's take a seat and have some tea,” she said as she gestured for him to sit on one of the bergères.

She rang a small bell to signal Giselle to bring in the tea.

We sipped dark, fragrant tea from porcelain cups and saucers decorated with butterflies and birds, the winged creatures that Marthe so loved. We spoke of Alex's love of rare books, his apprenticeship in his father's shop, and Marthe's passion for Asian ceramics.

It wasn't until the end that she asked Alex about his conscription.

“It is wrong to draft such a cultured young man into the army.” She shook her head. “Many men are built for fighting brutes who are natural warriors. And then there are those who have minds suited for wartime strategy. But you are gentle and blessed with an artistic eye.”

She looked as though she was appraising him as she spoke. “I can see why my granddaughter has taken such a liking to you.”

I felt myself redden with embarrassment.

“
Grand-maman 
. . . ,” I protested, but she raised her hand to silence me. She would have the last word.

“You seem like a delightful young gentleman,” she told him. “And when I look at you, I can imagine you making my granddaughter quite happy. To an old woman like myself, this is a gift.”

*   *   *

That evening, as I went to say good night, I saw her at the dining room table.

“Good night,
Grand-maman
,” I said sweetly. I came over to her.
“Thank you for today.” In her peignoir set, her face naked and without makeup, she looked more vulnerable than she typically appeared. She seemed to be writing something, but she covered her hand to shield me from seeing what it was. I inhaled the scent of flowers from the cream she used on her skin. And I realized that I didn't just love Alex. My heart had also made room for this woman who smelled of rose.

March 1940

I
went to Alex the next day at his father's store. When I arrived, it looked as if half of the inventory had already either been packed away or sold. The shelves were nearly empty, as less than a third of the number of books remained compared to my previous visit.

Standing in the back were Alex, his father, and Solomon. I could hear the faint sound of German being whispered. I knew that Alex's father's family had originally come to Paris from Alsace and it was probably easier for the German-born Solomon to converse with them in his native tongue.

I walked closer to them, my eyes traveling again to the sparse shelves. An ominous feeling washed over me. What if Monsieur Armel had decided he had no other choice but to flee Paris, even at the risk of Alex being imprisoned for ignoring his draft notice?

“Solange.” Alex looked up. I could immediately sense the strain on his face.

Monsieur Armel, too, looked far wearier than the last time I had seen him.

“Have you met Solomon Weckstein?” I shook my head. “We're very lucky to have him. He does amazing work with restoring our most delicate manuscripts and books.” Monsieur Armel gestured with his hand toward the thin man in the ill-fitting black suit. He was taller than both Alex and his father, but he stood with his shoulders sloped and his neck bent forward as if he were afraid to take up too much space.

“A pleasure to meet you,” I said, extending my hand.

Solomon, clearly uncomfortable with my presence, did not take my hand. He only nodded politely. I let my hand fall to my side.

“We have been discussing the need to close the store,” Alex said.

“At this point, most of our former clients have no interest in buying anything for their collections. If anything, they want to sell what they already have.” Monsieur Armel's eyes fell to the ground as Alex spoke on his behalf.

“And Solomon here is telling Papa that we should just sell everything we have and try to get visas to the United States before it's too late.”

I remained quiet.

“But as you know, leaving is impossible for me unless I'm first released from my military service.” Alex looked exhausted. “And I don't see that being possible.”

“There's no point in me still working without my son at my side.” Monsieur Armel's voice sounded shattered. “I built this business to be able to provide for him, with the hope that one day he would take it over,” he sighed.

Solomon muttered something in German to Alex, and I saw both he and his father shake their heads no, as if saying whatever he was suggesting was hopeless.

“What does Solomon think?” I sounded desperate.

“He says Papa should do something harmful to my eyes, so I'll fail my medical exam.”

“What?” I was incredulous. “What could he possibly do to your eyes?”

Alex shook his head. “He said in Poland, teenage thugs threw acid on the most beautiful Jewish girls' faces, and it not only scarred them, it blinded them, too.”

I shuddered at his words, and my fingers instinctively floated to touch my own face. The image of the young girls was horrible and hard to put out of my mind.

*   *   *

We left Alex's father and Solomon. Monsieur Armel had insisted that Alex leave the remainder of the packing to him, as he had only a few more days of freedom left.

“Where will you store everything?” I asked as our hands reached for each other's.

“We'll move the boxes to our apartment. It will be crowded, even with me gone, but the books will be safe there . . .” He seemed confident that his father would be able to manage.

The day was warm and the sky was delft blue. “Let's go somewhere we've never been together before . . . If I have only a few more days with you, I want to see you next to as many different landscapes as I can . . .” He leaned over and kissed me.

This time his kiss was firmer, more passionate. When our lips parted, I could see he was savoring every moment between us.

Although I loathed how time was slipping away so quickly, Alex's kiss felt like a magical box opening inside of me. I now felt beautiful and desirable. And it was as intoxicating as perfume.

*   *   *

We ventured toward the Luxembourg Gardens. We would save our money by forsaking the Métro, and instead walk hand in hand toward the park. On the streets, people clutched their belongings to their
chests. Packages wrapped in brown paper. Newspapers that bore the latest Nazi advancements. The looming threat of a German invasion felt like hovering storm clouds, even though all around us were the first signs of spring.

Like the rest of the Parisians, we distracted ourselves with what simple pleasures we could find. On the street, we found a man selling crêpes. Alex reached into his pocket and bought one for us to share.

Our fingers touched as we traded the crêpe between us.

The taste awakened our senses, warm and sweet against our tongues, and inspired us to forsake our shyness.

“Tell me,” he said. “Do you write every night?”

I smiled. I felt my eyes dancing as he asked me about the thing I loved to do most in the world.

“I have written every night since I was twelve. My mother was the one who gave me my first leather journal. And I've filled the pages of a dozen others ever since.”

“I've always loved to read,” he said, sneaking another glance at me. “Not just the classic novels, but the French philosophers, too.

“Voltaire, Montaigne, Rousseau . . . I grew up believing the French valued the rights of the individual. I'm not sure I have that same confidence now. Solomon tells us that, in the end, we will be considered Jewish before French.”

I lowered my eyes.

“I suppose I should read some Dumas now. It would provide a well-needed diversion.”

“
The Count of Monte Cristo
would be perfect . . . just in case we need to escape from prison,” I replied, trying to match his ability to use comic relief. I knew he was trying to return our conversation back to less gloomy waters. Alex could shift between darkness and light. It was a pattern with him. He could be grave one minute
talking about the war and flirtatious the next. I enjoyed the undulations in our conversation. He always kept me on my toes.

*   *   *

We were now at the entrance to the gardens. The grass was green, the palace in the center cut majestically against the sky.

Around us, apple blossoms lifted off of their branches floated in the wind like snow. Pigeons landed on the pebbled pavement and then took flight again as our shoes crunched on the sandy taupe-colored gravel. The walk from the Marais had been lengthy, and now we looked for a place to sit.

I pointed to a park bench under one of the many elm trees that lined the grounds. With his hands now free, Alex reached for my fingers and pulled me to where we could finally sit down.

He kissed me again. “Will you write in your journals about my kisses?” he said as he reached now to touch my hair.

“I will write about everything,” I said, closing my eyes. I lifted my lips toward his once again.

What I didn't tell him was that when I sat down to write, it wouldn't be only his kisses I would remember, but also the ache in my heart that he was leaving. It is a terrible thing to feel so powerless. I wanted to rewrite our destiny in my journal. I wanted to believe that I wouldn't lose yet another person I loved.