Authors: Michelle Gable
Mirror with C-scrolls, flowers, and rocaille ornament.
Crescent moon, three stars flanked by a pair of doves.
Rouge royale serpentine marble top, cabriole legs.
April checked the back, which bore a label inscribed: “De la grand antichambre/de Kiosque de Gezira/Console or et ébène.” She smiled, astonished. Only Marthe de Florian would own a piece that once lived in a palace in Cairo.
“Grand Antechamber, Gezira Palace,” she wrote, and underlined it twice. Hardly fit for lot 379 of a “random European crap” auction.
Suddenly April heard the sound of a key trying the lock. She stepped behind the console and reached for a decorative sword. It wasn’t sharp but could do some damage if smashed across an interloper’s skull.
“Hello?” she squawked before the door opened. “Bonjour?”
Luc stepped into the hallway.
“Avril?”
“Oh, Jesus.” April exhaled. She peered out from her hiding place. “You scared me. Again.”
“You have my eternal apologies,” Luc said as he set his satchel on the floor. “I did not expect to see anyone on a Saturday. What are you doing here?”
“Catching up on a little work.”
Occupying her brain. Trying not to think about the man across the Channel or the woman with him.
“In Paris on a weekend and you only work. How positively dreary.”
“You’re here as well,” April said and stepped around a black dresser. “Thus you are equally dreary.”
“Ah, yes, but I’ve just come to look for a particular painting as directed by Madame Vannier. I will then immediately proceed to my weekend, not a thought of work until Monday.”
“If you’re here for a painting you’re out of luck. All artwork is now offsite. Olivier and Marc can give you access to the warehouse on Monday. I doubt they’re around today. Sorry you wasted the trip.”
“It’s no waste,” he said with a shrug and proceeded to rest against a lacquered commode, a Riesener number that was a copy of one of the most famous pieces of French royal furniture. The word “copy” sounded cut-rate until you considered it would sell for three hundred thousand dollars at least.
“Can you not lean against the property?” April asked. “Here. I have something for you. Given your propensity to lounge, I’ve had some folding chairs brought in specifically for your use.” She pointed to the corner. “Do you mind?”
“Ah, our Avril. Forever scheming when it comes to her bureaus and knickknacks.”
Trying to act put-upon, Luc grabbed a chair and dragged it against the floor. Within seconds April was on hands and knees, trying to buff out the scratch.
“You may take all the precautions you desire, but it seems I cause damage no matter what I do.” Luc said with a grin. “So is it a Linke? This commode? You see, I do listen to your furniture sermons.”
“Though not closely enough,” April grinned back. “You’re about a century and a half off. No, this is a Jean-Henri Riesener. He was the official ébéniste du roi—cabinetmaker to the king. It’s a copy of a piece owned by the royal family. See here? Marie Antoinette’s monogram is on the front.”
Luc lowered onto his chair, squinting, looking vaguely thoughtful if not moderately fatigued.
“Anyway, I’ll spare you more of my
sermons
. But have you seen this?” April said and reached behind her for the previously discarded sword. She heaved it upward and swung it around, grossly misjudging its heft and inadvertently thwacking Luc in the knee. He was less than one-half meter from receiving blunt-force trauma to the groin.
“Mon dieu!” he yelped.
“Oops, sorry. Is your knee okay?”
“My knee is not the body part I’m concerned with. A very close call, Avril. My future children thank you.”
“Good thing I’m only a little bit clumsy,” April said, blushing hard. “Anyway, isn’t this sword beautiful? You’re a dude. You should like weapons, right?”
“I am in fact a
dude
, though not by the strictest American definition, I suspect.”
“You are correct on that count,” April said and ran a finger down the sword’s blade. “I don’t know how we’ll value this, or if it has any value at all. I wonder if Marthe used it to scare away her overly pushy paramours. Or a rival!”
April lunged forward and pretended to pierce the gut of Jeanne Hugo, though her imagined fictional violence did not stop at that one person. She wondered if anyone had ever stabbed an environmentalist, a venture-fund impresario.
“Anyway.” April placed the sword back in its sheath. “Enough screwing around.”
“Avril, why are you frowning?”
“What do you mean, ‘frowning’?”
“From the moment I walked in you have shown me a deep scowl.” Luc ran a finger between his eyes. “What’s wrong? Do we have another furniture crisis on our hands?”
“No, nothing like that.”
April pulled out another folding chair and placed it across from Luc’s. At once her legs felt weak. She wasn’t twenty-five anymore. She couldn’t operate in a constant state of medium-to-high-grade stress and then expect to sling a sword around without suffering a few physical effects.
“I’ve been thinking about Marthe a lot this morning,” April said, an accurate statement though not the full story.
“This morning? I was under the impression you thought of Madame de Florian every hour of the day.” Luc chuckled. When April didn’t respond he gently touched her knee. “I’m only teasing, ma chérie. Tell me, what were you thinking about?”
“The four-to-five,” April admitted. “Also known to Marthe and friends as the approved philandering hour.”
“Ah, I see, the infidelity offends your puritanical sensibilities.”
“No! Not at all,” April said, trying to put her thoughts into words that did not say too much. “Actually, there’s something to be said for the arrangement. Everyone agrees, so no one must discuss it. No one can get mad. It’s not scandalous. It just is. It’s like letting your teenager have wine with Sunday dinner. It demystifies everything.”
“Are you suggesting a revival of the four-to-five?” Luc asked. “I’d venture to guess you could find widespread support for the idea, though probably only with the men.”
“Yeah, the concept probably wouldn’t take,” April said. “Random question. Would you want to know if your wife was having an affair?”
“I’ve never had a wife.”
“Assume you did. Would you care?”
“As with anything, it would depend on the situation,” Luc said. “In general, non. I would not ‘care’ as you say. It is not the worst thing in the world. Why do I have the feeling this is not a compulsory question?”
April inhaled and studied Luc from the corners of her eyes.
“My husband,” she started. “Well, he…”
April shook her head.
“He and I have this debate,” she added quickly. “A friend of ours, her husband had a one-night stand.”
“Your
friend
.” Luc nodded with understanding. Of course this
would
be the one American subtlety he was able to interpret.
“Oui.” April said but looked away, feeling no need to confirm his sudden mastery of American subtext. “The husband told her about this tryst. To be clear, it was not an affair, only a mistake in judgment.”
April could’ve provided more details of her friend’s predicament. She could’ve said the husband was in Singapore for work. Closing a deal. There was a dinner and too much of some kind of liquor he’d never had. And there was a consultant. The two wound up back in his hotel room. He called his wife ten minutes later and confessed everything. One hundred days later the conversation continued to loop in her brain.
“How big was the mistake?” Luc asked. “According to the couple, whose opinions matter, not according to anyone else.”
“There was sex. But it’s never only that, right?”
April pictured her husband’s hands running over someone else’s breasts, along her thighs, beneath her underwear. Troy had his mouth on her nipples. Yet another fact April didn’t need to recall or imagine.
“What do you mean, ‘it’s never only that’?” Luc asked.
“Well, there are many stops on the road to consummation.”
“Ah,” Luc said. “So, what is the debate then? Between you and your husband? Though it must be said, debating others’ marital problems is a bit questionable.”
He raised his eyebrows, challenging her.
“Oh, she doesn’t mind,” April mumbled. “The debate is this: I think he never should’ve told his wife. Troy thinks it was admirable of the guy to come clean.”
“And what does your
friend
believe?”
“She wishes she never knew.”
April had toyed with the thought since it happened, but this was the first time she bought it all the way. Though she was not proud of the statement, it felt good to say it out loud instead of think about in the abstract. Luc was not the first person to hear about this fictional friend. April told herself the lie, too.
“Why’s that?” Luc asked. “Why wouldn’t she want to know?”
“It put her in a bad position. If it wasn’t going to happen again, why tell her? To relieve his guilt? Get it off of his chest and onto hers? Who did the admission help other than him?”
“Yes, it mostly helped him, although some might argue ‘Truth above all else.’ Isn’t honesty part of the reason she married her husband?”
“Absolutely. But now she worries, she worries constantly. And the husband. He’s almost smug about it, his righteous truth-telling. The forgiving, for him, seems to be a foregone conclusion, an expectation. It’s as though, sorry I did this, but I’m not perfect so … read between the lines.”
“She’s anticipating it might happen again.”
“Yes,” April said. “And the anticipation is almost the worst part. Maybe she should implement Marthe’s four-to-five. Somehow get it included with all the other unspoken societal agreements. You open the door for old ladies. You throw out your trash. You are allowed the occasional meaningless tryst as long as it doesn’t disrupt your regularly scheduled program. No one is surprised. No one looks stupid.”
“You don’t really believe this.”
“Don’t I?”
“Personally, I think it’s a fantastic idea,” Luc said. “If you want to know the truth—”
Suddenly his phone rang. Luc looked at the Caller ID and grimaced.
“Merde,” he said under his breath. “I have to go. Can we continue this conversation later?”
“No. I mean, we can. But it’s unnecessary.”
“I wholeheartedly disagree.” He stood. His knees creaked on the way up. “I’m sorry to dash off like this. I wouldn’t unless I absolutely had to. Do you mind that I’m leaving you here alone?”
“Of course not, alone is how I started.”
Luc placed his folding chair in the corner, careful not to scrape its metal legs against the floor a second time. Walking back to her, he began with his usual smile, followed by the “au ’voir, Avril” she could nearly hear in her sleep.
“Take care of yourself,” he said.
April smiled weakly in return but did not get up. She couldn’t do it. Her legs (her body, her mind) lacked the power to stand. Though she now looked forward to their physical farewells April simply couldn’t muster the strength.
“Bye, Luc,” she said, sounding like Chelsea or Chloe or any given American teenager. “See ya later.”
“This will never do. Here.” He reached out a hand. “Lève-toi.”
“Luc, just go, okay? I’m exhausted. You don’t want to be trifling with a grumpy—”
Without warning Luc learned over and pulled April upright and ultimately straight into him. As she stood, fuzzy-brained and eyes blinking, Luc bowed his head and placed a delicate but firm kiss on one cheek: “Take care”—and then the other—“sweet Avril.”
He turned and disappeared from the flat. April remained frozen for several minutes, surprised to find she could stand after all.
Part Trois
Chapitre XL
April tried to ignore the quickly flipping calendar as the furniture in Marthe’s flat continued to dwindle. On the plus side, each remaining piece required more effort than the last. April saw anomalies. She had questions that required more research. Time. She needed more of it.
Inlaid with boxwood and ebonized lines, the piece has a breakfront demilune red griotte marble top above a paneled frieze. There are three drawers and two hinged side drawers with laurel-leaf decoration and a central tablet inlaid with fleurs-de-lis. Two long paneled drawers are inlaid sans traverse with a marquetry center [repainted?] panel featuring a basket of peaches and flowers, flanked on each side by a hinged door simulated as two short drawers. The commode stands on hairy lion-paw feet and features acanthus legs [refinished?]. Each foot rests on a plinth.
Questions upon questions, ever more excuses to keep working, to stay in Paris. Maybe she could stretch her trip a few days. The best thing about research was it could never be fully exhausted. And, as April told Peter and Olivier and anyone who cared to listen, she was waiting on an interview with Agnès, Madame Vannier, a woman who could well prove the most intriguing research source of all. Thankfully she was not yet dead.
It was a Wednesday afternoon and April sat in one of her folding chairs inspecting a bronze figure by Aimé-Jules Dalou. April had seen his sculptures before, in museums and the Luxembourg Gardens, but she’d never held one in her hand. Usually his works were on a grander scale, standing as monuments and not household decorations. Where did Marthe secure this piece, April wondered? Was it from Boldini or Montesquiou or the shit tycoon? Or did it come from Dalou himself? Marthe had to be the sole woman in history for whom all these possibilities had an equal chance of being true.
This statue, like so many of Dalou’s, was a nude, a woman with a rounded back and bottom, both knees tucked up into her chest. She sat on a rock, undressed, resting chin on shoulder and contemplating the stream below. April felt a little like Dalou’s nude at that moment: curled into herself, totally exposed but showing nothing, the inevitable dunk into cold, fast water minutes away.
April snapped a picture of the statue with her phone. She had a camera she used for work, but this photograph she would e-mail to Troy along with a breezy comment about how it’d look great in their apartment. Feel free to buy this at auction! Just kidding. (Not really).