Authors: Michelle Gable
But April remembered she could not share this with Troy. Well, she could, but he’d wonder why the hell April was talking home decor when she was supposed to be figuring out whether she wanted to stick around their apartment in the first place.
They hadn’t spoken in four days, only e-mailed or texted, throwing out excuses about work and time differences to account for the lack of phone communication.
Je vais tomber dans les vapes!
I’m so tired I could pass out! Both fully comprehended the subterfuge, which left April to question why they bothered at all by now.
“Zut!” April said to the BlackBerry screen. “No Dalou for me.”
Like a rattlesnake, the phone buzzed in her hand. April tossed it to the floor as if it might have an actual bite. The BlackBerry rang on. April crouched down to pick it up.
“Oh, Birdie, hi.”
Was she relieved? Disappointed? She could describe furniture all day long, but not her own feelings when looking at someone else’s phone number.
“Did you get the copy I sent last night?” April asked.
“I did,” Birdie said. “Thanks. It’s now on Peter’s desk. The man is, by the way, annoyingly anxious for your return. He keeps asking when you’ll be back.”
“How sweet. He misses me. Alas, my flight isn’t until July eleven.”
“I know, I’ve told him 51,000 times but somehow he can’t remember longer than ten minutes. He, like, cannot function without you or something. It’s pathetic. He even asked if you can come back earlier.”
“Earlier?” April balked. She thought of Madame Vannier. She thought of Troy. “No, I cannot do earlier.”
“Yeah, I know, and I’m stalling like a bastard, but it’s not easy. The woman’s still alive, right? The heir?”
“Yes. Still alive. For now.”
“Good. I have a few interesting comps, like we talked about—properties sold within their own themed auctions versus part of a bigger group. There’s not a ton of one-for-one, but maybe it’s a start. Anyway, I’ll send you what I have.”
“Thanks,” April said and sighed.
“Chin up! Peter is totally on our side.”
“Which is great, but I’m not sure he has much pull over here.”
“When is this quote-unquote unreachable woman going to be reachable again?” Birdie asked. “Maybe she can sway the Paris office?”
“That’s the hope, but she’s a wild card. She’s ill and in the hospital. So the timeline is a little hazy.”
“What if you don’t get to talk to her before you’re supposed to leave? Can you, like, call her or something?”
“Oh, I’ll talk to her,” April said. “I’ll stay an extra week. Two weeks. A month. I’ll show up at her deathbed if I have to.”
She was surprised to hear herself say it out loud. As her upcoming flight loomed (July 11: two weeks), April woke each morning a little queasier, a bit more anxious. The reservation was made to get her home for her birthday. If she stayed in Paris April would spend it alone, though a lonely “celebration” was on the docket in New York, too. Lord knew it was better to be solo in Paris than in your own home. Yes. She would extend the trip. Peter said to take as long as she needed. There was no shortage of need.
“Extend the trip?” Birdie said and laughed. “You’ve got to be shitting me. Peter’s head would explode.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Why do I feel as though you’re going to stay forever? Like you’ll somehow end up working for the Paris office?”
“Sounds delightful, but I do have a job and a life back in New York.” Not that “back in New York” wasn’t terrifying. Not that April’s “back in New York” would look at all the same as when she left it. “I’ll need to return at some point.”
“As long as you realize that. Because you
will
have to come home.” Birdie’s voice dropped as if delivering bad news. She added earnestly, “This is your home.”
“I know,” April said. “Well, let’s see how much I get done in the next week or so. Remind Peter about the interview. Tell him I’m still waiting.”
There was a slight hesitation, as if Birdie was about to issue her obligatory “sure thing” but decided instead to wait. Maybe she knew what would come next. Maybe she sensed a pause was exactly what April needed. On the other hand, she might’ve simply choked on some breakfast muffin as she had so many times before.
Whatever the case, Birdie was silent a single moment too long. Enough so that April was able to slip in, before anyone could think better of it, “You know what? Tell Peter tough shit. Extend my return flight. By two weeks. For now.”
Chapitre XLI
Paris, 30 November 1893
It’s been months since I’ve written in this journal. So much to tell but so little I can say!
Well it’s happened. Yesterday the final letter from Pierre arrived. My guano gent knew the sorts of things I’d been up to and declared he’d no longer fund my exploits. To which
specific
exploits he refers I do not know. He told me not to respond, not to beg or plead or send any more imprints of my flesh. We are done. He paid for the apartment through the end of the year, and then I must find alternate housing. I will have to move! Next month! I cannot afford it. Where has the money gone? Into frocks and shoes and champagne, I suppose. I thought I’d made more!
I went to Boldini. He would save me, I knew. Our relationship has developed into something more than I’d intended at the outset. It is one of kinship, not objects or necessities. Indeed he hasn’t bought me one damn thing, and more often than not
I’m
paying for
his
meal at Maxim’s!
Over all these months I’d built goodwill. I was less expensive than any other paramour he might have entertained in his lifetime. As such, he should have no problem helping me through this sticky time. Why, I was downright cheery when I marched toward his flat, figures dancing in my brain. Giovanni would come through, I was certain!
He was fresh from the morgue when I swept into his studio. I was glad for the good spirits in which the corpses always put him. It was the perfect confluence of circumstances. For a moment I was glad Pierre cut me off. No more distant noose around my neck! Able to spend time with Boldini, free of any sense of guilt! Not that I experience guilt, as a rule, but sometimes these feelings sneak up and surprise you.
“I have great news!” I told Giovanni as I strode through the door and twirled for his benefit, the skirt of my gown fanning out behind me. “I am in love with you. I have ended my relationship with Pierre so we can be together without reproach, without the gossiping mouths of the dance hall girls and boys!”
“You love me?”
He scrunched his face as if tasting one of Marguérite’s dastardly collations. Poor child thinks when she’s done with the Folies she will become a chef in the finest restaurants in town. (A female chef!) Her food is dreadful, and the only place she’s actually going to wind up is in jail for poisoning guests. That and too fat for contortioning due to oversampling of food!
“You love me,” he repeated.
Again with the sour face.
“Indeed!” I danced up to him and wrapped my arms around his neck. “We can be together! Forever! No Pierre to block the way.”
Giovanni then looked at me squarely, wiggled his nose, and said, “Marthe, I adore you. But I am not rich enough to love you.”
“How could you say that?” I cried. Oh, the heartbreak! The immediate fracture across my chest! “You cannot refuse my love. I want to get married!”
“No you do not,” he said. “You are only bored.”
“I love you, Boldini, you idiot! With my whole heart!”
I put a hand to my forehead and attempted to pass out. He caught me before I landed.
“I have quite a lot of work to do,” he said. “Please take your theatrics elsewhere. I will call on you later.”
“You don’t have time for love?”
“I have time for love. I said I cannot afford it. What I do not have time for are your variant emotional states, which are another matter entirely. Please. Begone with you. I will see you later.”
What could I say? Filled to the hairline with humiliation, I slunk out of his studio. Despite Sœur Marie’s long-ago admonishments I allowed my sobs to break loose on the streets, emotionally naked for the world to see.
I then did the only thing I could: I proceeded immediately to Marguérite’s new flat. That she has a new flat when I am in such constant straits confounds me. Marguérite has had lovers, lovers aplenty, but they are all women!
At first I thought her penchant for the gentler sex was a ruse, a way to attract a certain kind of male. Yet her dedication remains steadfast. She has no sexual interest in men, she claims. Can you believe such a thing? Counting on women to support you? Honestly! She might as well wait for pixie dust and talking giraffes! I suppose this mythical line of thinking is why Marguérite believes she can cook meals for the great men of literature and arts and actually get paid for it.
When I arrived at Marguérite’s mysteriously acquired flat she was contorted into a figure eight. She answered the door this way, her bottom up above her head, debuting like a turkey looking for a mate. Momentarily relieved of my own problems, I asked why she could not greet visitors in a normal fashion. Then I breezed past and into her surprisingly grand parlor. Marguerite followed, waddling across the floorboards, still all tied up in her salacious numeral.
“What’s wrong?” she said, her voice twisted and guttural, giving new meaning to the term “talking from one’s ass.”
“My life is over!” I wailed and fell onto a couch. Unlike Boldini, she did not stop my descent.
As I worked up the best of my sobs, I rubbed the seat with my fingers. It was made of a smooth velvet pattern and far nicer than anything in my flat.
“Where did you get this?” I could not help but ask. I sprang into an upright position and ran my hand along the nailhead detail on the seatback. “This is extraordinary.”
“I purchased it. How else? Tell me, Marthe, do you need money, is that why you’ve come?”
“And why do you assume this?”
“Because the only time you get this emotional is over francs and louis!”
“All right,” I said. “You are correct. I am having some financial difficulties. Pierre has cut me off.”
“It is only a wonder it took him this long. What happened to your wages?”
“Gone! The necessities in life are dear. I do not make as much as the stage performers, it seems.”
“You don’t make as much? Ha!” Marguerite snorted and pulled herself to standing. Her boobs dripped down toward her waist. The nipples were brown, fat, and erect. “I’ve always said you should have the Folies give your wages straight to Maxime and save time!”
“Please, Marguérite, I beg of you, for your oldest friend?”
“All right,” she sighed. “I cannot give you much. But I will give you what I can.”
“Well, thank you,” I said, trying to smile. “I am much obliged.”
“Please use it for food and other necessities, not your chinchilla wraps or questionable beauty products.”
“Questionable?!”
“Marthe—”
“Très bien,” I sniffed. “As you wish.”
After taking possession of the funds and watching Marguérite demonstrate her latest contortionist feat, I bade my friend adieu and walked back out onto the street. The sky had grown dark. Black clouds hung low over the city, and the air was damp. As I counted the moneys, panic took hold around my neck. Marguérite’s funds would only last a month or two. The time would go fast.
Afraid to return to my flat, to bump into any knowledgeable landlords, I stumbled down to Maxim’s for a quick drink. Alas, as often happens, one cocktail turned into three turned into four and more. Before long I was dancing with La Belle Otero in between the tables, her collection of pink rabbits scampering beneath the chairs. I stepped on at least one.
We had a grand evening. For a time. Then, while wrapping a scarf around my head and between my legs at the instruction of La Belle, I looked up and saw her. Jeanne Hugo. She was very obviously watching me. It seemed the optimal time to confront the woman.
After pushing La Belle Otero aside, I marched straight across the restaurant to where Jeanne sat atop a piano, legs crossed, the skirt of her gown draped in a most strategic way. It must be said: she is not the plain toast anymore. For the sake of her reputation, she could afford to be a little
more
plain.
According to Maxime I shoved over not one but two waiters on my way to the piano. When I reached Jeanne, I put one hand on either side of her and brought our noses to touch. She’d been drinking champagne. The smell was on her breath.
“How does it feel?” I asked, tears running down my face. “To be able to sit on some poor sap’s piano without a care for tomorrow? Knowing what you know, knowing what you’ve taken from others?”
“Why do you assume I don’t have a care for tomorrow?” she asked and guzzled champagne straight from a bottle. “Perhaps I have a lot of cares. Perhaps even more than you.”
“You don’t have to worry about feeding yourself, do you? Or where you will live? Or how you will buy the next most fashionable coat or hat? You have everything!”
“Everything is not everything,” she said.
Everything was not everything? Everything
was
everything, and it meant so much. It meant my life.
Jeanne never had to be with a man who repulsed her, one who reeked of
merde
from a cave. She didn’t need to roost in a goddamn barroom window, back aching, to pay off a dressmaker or two, all the while smiling at a hundred more men who made the bat guano swain look like a prince.
She never worked behind a bar, staring longingly at the stage, wondering how she could get beneath the lights. Nor did she have to borrow money from the very friend she was supposed to be looking after or try to persuade a man to love her in order to pay the rent, when really love was all she felt in the first place. And yet! Yet this was a place I could stand and legitimately say I’d come far.
Mon dieu!
The indignity.
“‘Not everything’?” I said, frenzied past any modicum of decency. The marriage, the presents, the four homes: This was her “not everything.” All of it from a stroke of luck and a little bit of wiliness to boot. “I don’t know how you can say those words when you’re who you are. When you know who I am!”