Authors: Michelle Gable
“‘
Brutal
’ is right. When I moved to New York for college, people always thought I was crazy to leave San Diego. The truth was it would’ve driven me crazy to stay.”
“And then to Paris,” he said with a half-smile. “It was even further than that.”
“I never really looked at it that way.” She shook her head. “Anyway, things sort of went south from there. Or, even more south than they already were. Dad thought he could take care of her, but by my fifteenth birthday she was in a home. There was no sweet-sixteen party and certainly no car. I had to coerce our neighbor into taking me to get my license. My dad was more or less absent from then on. As much as Mom was. More. At least he had a choice. On my fifteenth birthday I felt like I lost both of my parents, even though up until two days ago both were still alive.”
April grabbed her purse and pulled out her wallet.
“Here. I’ll show you. A picture says a thousand words, right?”
She plunged her fingers into the space behind her credit cards. Tucked amid a checkbook, three business cards, and stamps from some lower price point, was a photograph. April extracted it and passed it Luc’s way. Much to her surprise, he was now beside her on the couch. She looked down to see their thighs nearly touching.
“These are your parents,” Luc said, studying the photograph, eyes following the curve of the man’s sparsely covered head as it leaned over a hospital bed. Beneath him a blank-faced woman reclined against two pillows. His eyes were closed; hers were vacant and staring. They held hands. Or, rather, the man clutched the woman’s hands as her fingers sat limply inside his hold.
“It’s them,” April said with a nod. “Don’t even ask when it was taken because I have no idea. He’s been in that position for the last nineteen years. Or he was, at least until the other night. Poor guy. What the hell is he going to do with himself now?”
“C’est incroyable,” Luc said. “That is true love.”
“I suppose that’s one way to look at it,” April muttered.
“But it is beautiful, non? We all want to feel this way.” Luc went to slide his hand around April’s waist or touch her back—or something—but then uncharacteristically pulled back. “Most people never get the chance. Too many things—people, life—it all gets in the way.”
“I’d never figured you for a romantic,” April said, lying in some way. “And while I agree he loved her tremendously, at the risk of sounding like the teenage April, what about
us
? He still had a family to raise but completely forgot about us.”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
“Troy, my husband, ex, my—”
“Le grand m’sieu,” Luc said and tried for a smirk. “Yes, I am familiar.”
“Le grand m’sieu thinks I hold
him
to these standards, that my so-called ‘trust issues’ stem from the fact I don’t think Troy could ever display that level of devotion. But I don’t want that. He
should
love Chelsea and Chloe more than he loves me. I’d be upset if he didn’t! That’s where my dad got it wrong. Troy’s girls should be number one, the wife a distant second.”
“Avril,” Luc frowned. “That makes me sad.
You
should be number one. You should also not refer to yourself as ‘the wife.’”
“Ha! You’ve got that second part right.”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“They’re his kids, Luc! They’re his forever. I could get sick or just plain leave.”
“You could leave,” he said. A question? Was it a question or a statement? Or was it simply an echo of April’s words?
“My dad knew my mom wasn’t going to get better. It wasn’t like she could come to her senses, or they could work things out, or she would even know who the fuck he was the next day. Yet all he cared about was spending every waking moment with her, even as she deteriorated. He quit his job. He sold everything, every heirloom and stick of furniture and car to pay for her care, to put food on the table since he bailed on actual employment. He did a few odd handyman jobs around the island, favors offered up by our neighbors, I’m sure, but our life was basically stripped to the bone. Looted.”
“The heirlooms,” Luc said. “The things in Marthe’s apartment. Your job. It all makes sense now.”
“It’s not that simple,” April said. “I didn’t want those things, the
stuff
. Lord knows I lack a spacious apartment in the Ninth to keep it all in.” April tried a smile, Luc smiled wistfully in return. “I only wanted something to keep, something that was hers, something substantial that would outlast even me.”
Luc smiled again, brighter this time. “You have in mind one thing, non?”
“Oui.” April nodded. How was it that Luc almost always knew the correct answer? “Mom had this long cherrywood dresser passed down from her grandmother. It was gorgeous. It had that shiny, glistening marquetry. Queen Anne–style but not actual Queen Anne. You know the kind, with the brass pull handles?”
“Not really—”
“Anyway. It was
so
her. I can close my eyes and picture what was in every drawer, even her horrible skin-colored bra and panty collection.” April let her lids fall shut. “I can see the doilies on top, the pink and orange perfume bottles sitting on them. I see Mom brushing her hair in the dull mirror, my Girl Scout picture tucked in the corner.”
April opened her eyes again. She was surprised to find Luc tearing up.
“I’ve spent years looking for a replica,” she admitted. “We’ve had a few come through for auction, but nothing exact. I even went to the consignment shop my father took it to in the first place. They sold it to someone named Carol for $125! Can you believe it—$125!? I put an ad in the paper looking for any Carols who bought that dresser, said I’d pay five times what she did. I’d pay fifty times. A hundred times! Anyway, that ad ran for a year. Nothing.”
“I’m so sorry, Avril, I don’t know what to say.”
“That’s what bothered me so much about Marthe’s apartment. How could her children, whoever they were, and her granddaughter, leave it behind? Didn’t they want something to remember her by? And never mind the furniture,” April said and laughed dryly. “Never thought I’d say those words. Although the furniture grabbed me first, it’s the journals I think about when I go home at night. If I were Lisette I would’ve kept those above all else. Maybe I don’t want the damned dresser after all. Maybe I just want my mom’s life, her memories. Of course, given her diagnosis, memories were the very first thing she lost.” April shook her head.
“You are an extraordinarily strong woman,” Luc said as he moved closer. “I knew that from the onset, I just never realized the extent until now.”
Luc inched ever closer. He was still hesitant, a little reticent to make contact, whether due to her story or the night in her apartment or Delphine or some combination of the three April did not know. She smelled his cologne, the cigarettes on his breath, and although he was not yet physically touching her, April felt him as though he was.
“I’m hardly strong,” she said, shoulders loosening. “What did I do? I ran. Mom didn’t know who I was. My father didn’t care. I decided to start fresh somewhere else because I’d lost what I had in California. I still went to visit like a dutiful daughter but I tried to start over. I went to college, and then grad school. And ever-more grad schools until I could grad school no more. I thought my life would reset here in Paris. And it did. Sort of. For a second there everything was perfect.”
“Americans and their quest for perfection,” Luc said. “One day you will learn it’s not achievable. It’s not even something you want. So, ma chérie, here is the question I pose to you. What will you do now? You cannot worry about what you didn’t do. What will you do going forward? This is the only way to find your answers.”
“In the long run? I have no idea. But short-term I’m going back to San Diego,” she said. “I’m going home to say good-bye.”
Chapitre LVIII
Paris, 17 April 1898
Intentions! Oh, for the devil are they!
You can have them. They can be pure and good. In your mind you will execute them in a very precise manner with the purest of hearts. Then something happens and shoots it all to hell. Does that make a person any less good? I don’t think it does.
Since that fire beneath the tents, I have scarcely spent a night away from Boldini, save for his multiweek adventures to Monte Carlo to commit hara-kiri. No matter how he aggravates me I continue to love the bristly, cagey man.
Still, the temperament of our union can be trying. Indeed, he never tries to smooth things over with jewels or furnishings. For now I am able to live off the generosity of
Le Comte,
yet I worry about tomorrow, and the day after that. Heaven knows Boldini cannot be relied upon to contribute. So many years have passed, yet I still do not know if he is a rich man, a poor man, or something in between.
I could not for a third time survive that bone-weakening feeling of near-destitution. There might not be any bat guano kings or famed flatulists or amorous counts to save me the next time. So I’ve done what I had to. I slunk back to the Folies and asked for my former job. Precious Gérard said that as long I remain beautiful he will always make a spot for me. I cannot guarantee the beauty part, but damned if I won’t try. Henna and the latest in enamel whitening masks will continue to be my greatest allies!
The day I reclaimed my position at the Folies was the day after Boldini returned from a six-week trip to Monte Carlo. The minute my shift was up, I scrambled over to his studio, anxious to see him after all this while, anxious share in the good news: Gérard took me back. Boldini no longer had to worry about supporting me. Not that he worried about it in the first place!
When I walked down his street I spied from a distance a gorgeous eight-spring carriage with gold wheels. Out of it stepped a green velvet dress the color of vomit, none other than Jeanne Hugo stuffed inside! That wretched son of hers, the one from her first marriage, was beside her, sulking and pouting all the while.
“Jeanne au pain sec,” I gasped. Live and in the flesh.
Then, like she belonged there, the woman tramped right into Boldini’s building! My throat closed. No, it could not be. She could not be going to see him. I moved closer toward the studio. That’s when the light turned on in his parlor, Jeanne Hugo’s horrible high coiffure framed by the window.
The slut! The whore! Only someone of her flimsy morals would bring a child to a tryst. My first thought was to charge the studio, demand an explanation, and perhaps impale the woman with the end of my parasol. Then, for better or for worse, I had a second thought. Off I marched in the opposite direction.
Jeanne’s husband was home when I arrived, which was a miracle in itself and only confirmed my idea was a sound one. Though Jean-Baptiste Charcot is a trained physician, and his father once the most famous neurologist in all of Europe, the man prefers the wide open spaces of glaciers over the confines of a surgical room. After his father passed away and Jean-Baptiste was financially free, he left the profession altogether and bought a bevy of ships with which to sail the world. He is most often found in the Shetland Islands, Iceland, or Greenland, which is why it was so meaningful to find him in Paris at the precise moment I went looking for him.
When met by his servant I introduced myself as (famed Folies dancer—cough!) La Belle Otero and said I needed to see M. Charcot immediately. He’d been quite fond of the lady before his nuptials with Jeanne, so I knew he would agree to see me masquerading as her.
Jean-Baptiste’s manservant accepted my lie though he must’ve seen La Belle a dozen or more times before. It was yet another thing to indicate the universe was on my side. After Jean-Baptiste entered, the servant offered a wink and politely shut the door behind him.
“You are not La Belle,” Jean-Baptiste said straight off with a wry smile, though he did not seem displeased.
“Well, you are correct on that account. But lucky for you I am better.”
I said this distractedly as I looked around, shocked by the pink damask wallpaper and gilded surfaces enshrining us. Jeanne, that horrible woman, had taste. This was the kind of apartment I should have. Mine, though lovely, was downright drab in comparison.
“Tell me then, Non La Belle, why are you here?” Jean-Baptiste asked.
“Your wife is having an affair with Giovanni Boldini, the painter,” I told him.
“Are you quite certain?”
“Yes, quite.”
“Hmmm.” He looked confused though not necessarily upset. “Well, he is painting her. Perhaps you have mistaken portrait sittings for something more scandalous.”
My face blanched in surprise. He was painting her? Giovanni was putting that face to canvas? It was worse than an affair! Bestowing his sex upon her I could handle, but not his talent!
“No,” I said. I grabbed for my belly, certain it was about to spew forth my lunch. “That cannot be.”
“Yes. She wanted a painting with her son. Tell me, was Charles on the premises when this so-called dalliance occurred?”
“Of course not!” I lied.
Boldini. I could not believe he betrayed me in this manner. He was painting Jeanne Hugo Daudet Charcot–whatever she might call herself next! It was worse than if I found them
in flagrante delicto
on the studio floor. It was worse than if she fell pregnant with a hundred of his babies! Was he trying to hurt me? At that moment it was the only possible explanation.
“I think they’re quite in love,” I added for good measure.
My scalp felt as though it was on fire. As wonderful as they are, whitening masks do not allow the skin to moisten or release heat, thus everything gets more or less pushed up into the hairline. Sometimes I fear my face will peel away completely. Alas, preserving my beauty is worth every moment of discomfort.
“An affair.” Jean-Baptiste nodded earnestly. “Tell me, Non La Belle—”
“I am Marthe. Marthe de Florian.”
Jean-Baptiste did not blink at the name. He did not show even the feeblest flicker of recognition. I grew so upset I thought my face might crack right there.