The Velvet Hours (21 page)

March 1940

M
y grandmother now sat across from me, a strand of pearls encircling her neck, the glimmering butterfly clasp resting just above the nob of her collarbone. Having relayed the story of how Ichiro convinced her to sell the pearls, and of her success in having sold them before the cultivated pearl market reduced them to a fraction of their original value, a deep satisfaction came over her. Just retelling the story had clearly pleased her.

“But then what are the pearls you're wearing now?”

She touched her neck; a sly smile emerged on her lips.

“These,” she said with a soft giggle, “are actually cultivated pearls. I bought them years later and had them strung with my butterfly clasp that I could never part with.”

I was speechless. Had it not been for the guidance of Ichiro, who knows where Marthe would have ended up. It was no secret that
many women under similar circumstances could easily have landed in homes for the impoverished. Or worse.

“You were very lucky your friend gave you such good advice.”

“Yes, and I received enough money that I was actually able to return to his store and buy back many of my favorite porcelains just before he set sail to Japan.”

I pushed myself back into the chair; my mind was still spinning from her story.

“I hope you have enough to fill your notebook, my dear. I've now divulged all the high points of my life . . . Do you think I've given you enough inspiration?” A throaty laugh escaped her.

“I think enough for at least two novels,
Grand-maman
.”

I placed down my pen and pad. How different the air now seemed between us. In the beginning of our relationship, I sat in Marthe's parlor intimidated by her elegance and in awe of her apartment. Now, a true friendship had developed between us. She had shared her life story with me and, now more than ever, I was inspired to craft the material into a novel. With Father away and the war forcing most of us to stay indoors, it seemed like the time was ripe to begin.

“You know, Solange, since I've been spending so much time with you, I've begun to reflect on my own mortality. I look at you, a girl at the peak of her youth with her life ahead of her, and instead of making me feel older, you bring me a surprising sense of comfort.” Her gaze traveled toward mine and then lifted toward the window. Outside, the sky had turned a chalk blue.

“I suppose because I never had children around me, ones that I could mark time by the way they grew or the milestones they achieved, I didn't feel the passage of time like most women.” She reached over to pour water into the small drinking glass Giselle had left by her side. With Marthe's recent coughing spells, Giselle had been vigilant in making sure there was always a filled pitcher nearby.

The water slid down her throat, and the sound of her swallow was slightly perceptible.

“It has been strange for me to look at a young and bright girl across from me for the past year and a half. It's made me feel more alive to have someone visit me and hear my stories, but it's also forced me to recognize that I am not eternal. I won't be around forever.”

I lowered my eyes. Marthe had never appeared sentimental with me before, and I was unsure how to respond.

I shifted my gaze toward her painting.

“Your portrait will be here forever,” I said as my eyes focused on the image of Marthe captured in the gilded frame. In the sideways glance of young Marthe, her image seemed omnipresent, as if Boldini had painted her knowing this. He had, in fact, made her immortal.

“Yes, the painting.” She let out another small laugh, and now she, too, focused her gaze at herself captured on the canvas.

“Will I always remain above that mantel . . . even for years to come?” She turned toward me, almost as if asking me to seal some sort of promise.

I stole one last look at the portrait and then at Marthe. “Well, if it's within my power. I will do everything to keep it that way.”

“It is a wonderful thing to be able to believe in another person's word, and I certainly trust you,” she confided. Her eyes closed for a moment and a sense of peace washed over her face. “I am so grateful for that . . .”

“Of course,” I said, hoping to reassure her.

“I made mistakes with your father, I realize that. But I don't think I would have been a good mother even if I had kept him.” She took a small breath. “Sometimes life gives us a second chance to redeem ourselves.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “I would like to believe it does.”

“And who would have ever thought I'd have a third role in my
lifetime. ‘
Grand-maman
.' I wonder if Charles and Boldini would say my new title suits me?”

I smiled. “I think they'd both say you wear it regally, as you do everything.”

“Thank you, my dear,” she said, the last word catching in the reverberations of her cough.

“To think now, I'm ending my evening with a glass of water instead of wine or champagne . . . Indeed, Solange, I'm getting old!”

“Well, I must be as well, as I'm off to bed now, and it's only nine thirty,” I said, getting up from my chair.

“Beauty sleep is very important . . . Especially if a young woman is intending to meet a gentleman the next morning.”

Had I told my grandmother about Alex? I didn't believe I had.

“I'm not sure I know what you're talking about.” I was trying to see if she'd reveal her hand.

“Oh, Solange,” she said, shaking her head. “I'm an expert on these things.” She laughed.

“I could fill an entire notebook of yours on how I am able to read all the signs concerning love.”

March 1940

M
arthe had read me correctly. I had made a date with Alex to meet him at his father's store the next day. That morning, I dressed deliberately, inspired by Marthe to make myself look as fetching as possible. I reached for my red dress, instead of my blue one, and fastened a belt around my waist. In the mirror, I pinched my cheeks and applied a little lipstick. Having spent so much time with Marthe, I now understood just how much color could communicate. I gave myself one final glance in the mirror and decided something was still missing. Searching through my drawer, I found a navy scarf edged in white piping. I knotted it around my neck and suddenly felt infinitely more elegant. Only then did I reach for my coat, hat, and gloves.

On the Métro, every person appeared buried in a different newspaper:
Le Monde. Le Figaro. Le Temps
. Each man hid his head behind one like a fan.

Women held the hands of children, their eyes averted, their gaze focused on the ground. When the doors opened up at the Métro stop, I hurried outside, my adrenaline increasing as I knew I was that much closer to seeing Alex again.

It had been a few weeks since I had visited the Marais, as Alex and I had met the last two times at the café in Place Saint Georges. The same winding alleys that had seemed so exotic for me the first time I went to the Armels' bookstore now seemed much more familiar. As I approached Rue des Écouffes, two dark-haired children crouched near the doorway playing with marbles.

I circled around them and pushed through the door.

The bell chimed, and as I entered, the scent of old parchment permeated my nostrils like a familiar perfume. In the back, I could see Alex engrossed in conversation with his father and a man who appeared to be the book restorer, Solomon.

Alex turned and saw me as the door closed.

I saw him motion to excuse himself and he walked toward me, a big smile crossing his lips.

“You're the best sight I've seen today.”

“No rare Haggadahs coming into the store this afternoon, then?” I teased.

He leaned closer to me. “What does it say for my future career that I couldn't concentrate on work all day? All I could think about was seeing you.”

I felt my temperature warming at his words. “I think it means you might consider another career option,” I laughed.

“The shy girl who first came into this store holding her priceless books, has since become emboldened, I see.”

“Indeed.” My eyes flickered. “Shall we go near the Place des Vosges and have a coffee?”

He smiled. “There isn't anything I'd like to do more.”

*   *   *

We left the store and his hand reached for my fingers, his own folding into mine. “Those children are Solomon's,” he said as he turned back to look at the children still at play. “His wife has been crying all day. A gentile neighbor back in Germany wrote to him in some sort of code they devised, saying that police had rounded up his brother and sister, along with their families.”

He turned to me, his face illuminated by the winter light. “Papa thinks we may have to leave Paris sooner rather than later.”

My heart sank.

“But where would you go?”

“North America or South America, I suppose. Isn't that where every European Jew wants to go right now?”

I bit my lip. I felt the desperation wash over me, fearing I was about to be abandoned by someone I had just come to love.

I didn't know how to respond. The mere mention of the word “America” from his lips made it feel as though the floor had been dropped beneath me. Only seconds before, I had felt a light flood through me. Being in Alex's presence, the proximity of his body near mine, filled me with a warmth that had penetrated my skin. But with the news that his family might be emigrating, I felt as though we were engulfed in a dark shadow. Instead of feeling the heat of young love, I felt terribly cold.

“But immigration is incredibly difficult. Do you have family there that can sponsor you?” I was trying to mask my despair by sounding practical. “Are passenger boats even leaving now?”

The papers had already reported about torpedoed ships. I worried it would not even be safe to travel at this point in the war.

“Yes, the waters are more dangerous than ever, but boats are still being chartered. My father has a second cousin in New York. Also a
book dealer. We've written to him, asking if he will sponsor us. If we can't get the entry visas, there's always South America.”

I said nothing. All the excitement I had kept inside my heart for the past two days, and the happiness I thought I would feel when my eyes saw Alex again, had vanished.

“But who knows if he can even sponsor us? And the amount of paperwork needed before anything can actually happen is daunting, to say the least.” Alex sensed my nervousness.

“And I don't want to leave
you
.”

My heart lifted at his words.

Before I had a chance to respond, his hand grasped my fingers, and the sensation that I had felt the first time his skin brushed against mine, again flooded through my body.

He did not speak. He did not even offer any expression on his face for me to interpret. He simply pulled me to his lips. His kiss telling me far more than words ever could.

*   *   *

Alex and I now began to see each other daily. We tried not to speak about the possibility that he might be leaving for the United States. Everyone knew how difficult it was to gain sponsorship and to get a visa, so part of me genuinely believed it was unlikely to happen soon, if ever. We spent the remainder of the month finding ways to see each other.

I would bring my journal and write at our favorite café on Place Saint Georges until he arrived. And it was in those stolen moments, when our knees touched beneath the table or his hand clasped my fingers, that I felt I understood the words of my grandmother, that the touch of one's beloved could resurrect you.

In mid-March, however, Alex received a letter from the French army announcing his conscription.

It was another moment when words failed us.

The letter was very similar to the one Papa had received. It gave instructions for him to report for his physical, and provided the address where he needed to go register for his unit.

“I was surprised it took them this long to call for me,” he said, his voice clearly numb from the news.

“How is your father taking it?” I could only imagine how upset Monsieur Armel must be.

“He's of course blaming himself that he did nothing to prevent it.

“I think this is the first time in my life I ever wished a doctor would tell me I was in poor health, so I could fail my physical.” He attempted a forced grin.

My mind raced. Were there things one could take that could help fail a medical exam? If my father were here, I'm sure he would know of drugs that could cause complications.

“There has to be something we can do,” I said, my voice cracking. If Alex reported to duty, I knew I'd never see him again. It was one thing when Father had to report to a military hospital. I knew he wouldn't be fighting. But if Alex was right, the French army would treat him as little more than disposable military fodder.

“We must find a solution to get you out of this.”

“I told my father he should maim me by dropping his heaviest books on my legs.” Alex reached for a way to make me smile.

“No. There must be another way,” I said.

He lifted his hands.

“When do they say you report for duty?” I asked him.

I pulled the paper from his hands and studied the date.
March 25, 1940
, was written in typed block letters.

“That gives us five days,” I said, counting on my fingers.

“There is nothing we can do, Solange. Half the boys in my class were drafted more than a year ago. I should consider myself lucky I've had this extra time with you.”

“Nonsense,” I said. “We'll devise a means for your escape.” My voice now sounded defiant and full of energy, its strength surprising even myself.

“I would like to believe you could save me,” he said as he leaned over the table to kiss me again. This time his fingers ran through my hair, and I could sense that his fear of having just been conscripted made him even more desperate to live as fully as possible before he had to go.

“At least now, I know if anything were to happen to me, Solange, I've experienced love.” He paused and lifted his eyes toward mine. “I have you to thank for that.”

My own eyes were fighting back tears.

“We have five days, Alex.”

He placed his hand on my knee and cupped it through the cloth of my skirt.

“I have the rest of the day just to be with you, Solange. Let's fill it with light.”

I placed my hand over his, sealing his invitation with my answer to join him for whatever time we had together.

We rose and headed straight to the Métro. Without either of us speaking, we both knew where we wanted to go.

*   *   *

In the Bois de Boulogne, where courtesans used to ride their carriages and where lovers for centuries found seclusion off the beaten paths, we found shelter under the budding almond trees.

I lay down with Alex in the damp grass. I let his hand travel beneath my skirt. His body pressed against mine. I inhaled his breath between kisses. I ran my fingers through his black, wavy hair, and let him touch every curve of my body without protest.

With my eyes closed, I surrendered under his caresses. I let the young naïve girl melt into the grass, and I allowed my own longing to awaken.

Mapmakers record every cliff, every plateau, with their drafting pen. But lovers use their hands to mark the topography of flesh and bone.

Under the canopy of fragrant trees, my hands memorized the strong contours of Alex's chest through the cotton of his shirt. My thumbs traced the cleaving of his shoulder blades.

Afterward, we wandered toward the pond. Lilies floated softly, and a family of swans navigated the gentle green water.

It was dusk when we finally walked back toward the Métro, our hands laced together. I did not look at Alex in profile. My mind was already full, and I saw him more clearly than if I had used my eyes.

*   *   *

That evening, I did not tell Marthe about any of these passionate moments. But I did go to her and ask her if she knew of any way she could help us.

I was surprised when she eventually asked me for the details of the letters. Alex's name and his address, where and when he was to report to duty.

She could sense my despair even though her own cough and health seemed far worse than the week before.

“This Alex,” she said. “I would like for you to bring him to the apartment so I can meet him.

“Time is of the essence,” she said. “See if he can come by tomorrow at four o'clock.”