The Velvet Hours (26 page)

April 1940

G
randmother did not take her breakfast the next morning.

“The cough seems to have returned,” Giselle told me in the kitchen as I sipped my tea. “Perhaps she stayed up too late and only needs to get some rest.”

“I don't want to leave her if she's feeling unwell.” As much as I wanted to see Alex, it seemed wrong to leave her in a weakened condition.

“I think she is hoping you'll leave for a few hours, Solange. That way I can call the doctor and she knows she can have her privacy.”

I shook my head. “I would like to meet the doctor. Discuss what is ailing her. See how I can help. It is the least I can do.”

Giselle shook her head. “I don't know, Mademoiselle Solange.” Perhaps just come back to the apartment earlier than expected. I will try to have the doctor come around two o'clock. Come then and it will look unplanned.”

“A good idea,” I said, impressed with how clever Giselle could be.

I was relieved that I could still see Alex for a few hours, but still find out more about Grandmother's illness.

I finished my tea and went to my room to get dressed.

*   *   *

My room in Marthe's apartment now felt completely as though it were mine. The desk was full of my journals, my books. The Mickey Mouse doll from Papa was placed high in the corner. I pulled out one of the dresses that I had folded in the bureau since there was no room for a wardrobe and looked at myself in the mirror. I brushed my hair and smoothed it with my palms, before tying it back with ribbon.

My body began to warm. In less than an hour, I knew I would feel Alex's kiss.

I was to meet Alex that afternoon at our café at Place Saint Georges, for it had become our special place.

Alex didn't seem to see me at first. His back was turned and he was deep in conversation with another gentleman at the table next to him. He was significantly older than Alex, and he was gesturing with his hands as if to emphasize his words.

As I came closer, I heard Alex say: “Everyone has their head in the sand, but it's only a matter of time . . .”

The other man shook his head as if disgusted. “I agree with what you say. And I don't think we can count on Reynaud at all,” he said, referring to our new prime minister.

I came closer and the two men lifted their eyes in my direction.

“Solange . . .” Alex seemed surprised not to have noticed my arrival.

“I hope I'm not disturbing you. We did say eleven o'clock, didn't we?”

Alex's face flushed. “I apologize, Solange. I was just deep in conversation with Monsieur Clavel.”

He motioned toward his acquaintance and introduced us to each other.

“Solange is an aspiring writer and also the owner of a very rare Haggadah . . .” Alex smiled. “And Monsieur Clavel is one of my father's best clients.”

“It's a pleasure to meet you.” I extended my hand before accepting the chair that Alex had pulled out for me. He gestured and encouraged me to sit down.

“I'm afraid your description is far more intriguing than mine. A writer? How unusual for a young woman to have such interests.”

I smiled. Monsieur Clavel displayed none of the impassioned gestures or animated speech patterns I had witnessed minutes before. Now he simply appeared intrigued.

“What are you writing? A piece for one of the ladies' journals?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I'm working on a novel.”

“A novel?” He smacked the edge of the bistro table. “Now, that's not the answer I was expecting!” He chuckled.

“I admire your tenacity. I aspired to write, too, when I was about your age . . . But now I just collect other people's old books.” He took another sip of his coffee. “But there's something to be said about centuries-old books. We are only here a limited time, but it's the books that are eternal.”

“I like that thought,” I said. “The immortality of books.”

Our conversation about books soothed me. With all of the uncertainty the war had brought and, on top of that, Grandmother's failing health, it was nice to be able to talk about books for a change.

“So now you've unlocked the secret between booksellers. Shame on you, Alex,” Monsieur Clavel teased. “But this brings me back to the rare Haggadah in your possession, Solange. I'm incredibly intrigued. Perhaps you'd be interested in selling it to me?”

Alex shook his head. “Always the aggressive collector . . . But if she won't sell it to my father, I doubt she would sell it to you.”

I laughed. “Yes, I'm not planning on parting with it just yet. But thank you for the offer.”

Monsieur Clavel placed a few francs on the table for his coffee before extinguishing his cigarette.

“I'll have to ask your father more about this mysterious book of hers . . . I'm leaving France soon, and it might be time to give your book one more journey all its own.”

Alex cut him off. “I think she'll be keeping it close to her. But safe travels if I don't see you before you leave Paris.”

“I hope you'll also consider getting out before it's too late, Alex.” He stood up and patted down the front of his pants.

“Things are only going to get worse here.”

Alex squeezed my hand. “Then Solange and I had better make the most of today.”

*   *   *

Later we walked toward the opera, the sunlight hitting my face as Alex's hand threaded through mine. We breathed in the fresh air. We ignored the newspaper boys selling their headlines of doom. We didn't look into the store windows whose empty shelves made me sad. Instead, we looked toward the birds and the stretch of blue in the sky.

He asked me a few questions about my childhood and my favorite memory. He searched for stories about my mother and shared with me his memories of his own, whom he had lost when he was barely three.

“I remember the sound of her heels on the tile of our apartment. The scent of her perfume. I remember she wore a sterling-silver comb in her hair. And that when I kissed her, my lips felt the veil of powder on her cheeks.”

I confided to him that I believed my mother's bookshelf still
contained her soul. That I only needed to breathe in the paper from one of her novels to find her again.

“I love hearing your stories,” he said as he pulled me into his arms and kissed me.

It felt like there were a thousand fluttering birds beneath my feet as his lips pressed against mine. I cupped his face with open palms and closed my eyes as I kissed him once again.

After we came up for air, he pulled away from me slightly and looked at me straight in the eyes.

“Solange, I want you to know I realize your association with me and my family exposes you to danger. There's nothing I can do to help with the uncertainty of war, but I want you to know one thing is certain and absolute.” He took me again into his arms and kissed me. “I love you.”

April 1940

I
t felt like a painful wound, pulling away from Alex that afternoon, but I knew it was imperative that I be at the apartment when Marthe's doctor arrived. By the time I finally reached the front door, my heart was pounding and I was nearly out of breath.

Once inside the vestibule, I could see the doctor's overcoat draped on the brass coat stand in the corner, where Giselle always hung hats and umbrellas. In the distance, I could see that the door of Marthe's bedroom was closed.

I turned toward the kitchen and found Giselle there. At the small walnut table where I sometimes took my breakfast, she was sitting having a cup of tea with Gérard. Between them was a small, half-eaten cake and two plates with crumbs.

“Mademoiselle Solange.” Giselle stood up immediately. “I'm so glad you came back in time.” She glanced over to Gérard, who was quickly dusting the crumbs off his lap before standing to greet me.

“Monsieur Gérard stopped by to make us aware that we will be having another air drill. He is as kind as his dear father, always thinking of us.”

Gérard shook his head. “Papa made me promise I would take special care of Madame de Florian. He always had a sincere concern for her well-being.”

“That is most kind of you to keep his concern close to your heart,” I said, impressed by how he had kept his word to his father. “I'm sure my grandmother will be touched by your kindness.”

“There are several apartments in this building, but your grandmother is one of the few owners that almost never asks anything from me. So many call for a leaky faucet or peeling plaster wall, something that should be handled by a repairman, not a concierge, but your grandmother troubles me with almost nothing. It's the least I can do, to check up on her, especially now with the Germans advancing.”

“Let us hope they come no further,” Giselle said. “That the Maginot Line is as strong as they say.”

Gérard shook his head. “My father felt one must always be prepared for the worst. That is why I wanted to make sure you and Madame de Florian know I am here in case you need anything.”

“You're a gentleman, just like your father.” Giselle came over and squeezed his shoulder. “Let me wrap this cake up for you. Your children will enjoy it.”

He took the cake that Giselle had wrapped in a cotton cloth. “Thank you.”

“A pleasure to see you again, Mademoiselle Solange.” He nodded to me and then took his leave not through the front exit, but through the pantry's back door.

*   *   *

“The doctor's been with her for over an hour,” Giselle said as soon as Gérard left. “I do hope you'll be able to get some information from
him.” She turned the faucet on over the plates and began washing them. “Madame looked so pale when I brought him in to see her. And her lips looked almost blue.” She shook her head. “It is terrible to see her looking so weak.”

“I will sit in the parlor now and wait for the doctor.” I touched Giselle's arm. “I know you're moved by Gérard's gestures of concern. But I'm also grateful for yours.”

She looked up and smiled. “I've been with your grandmother since I was sixteen, Solange. I've been employed by her for over forty-five years now. Longer than many marriages. It would be impossible not to worry about her.”

“Still,” I said, genuinely touched by her dedication, “I want to thank you.”

“Just promise me you'll tell me every word the doctor shares with you. I need to know.”

“I promise,” I assured her.

I walked toward the parlor and sat beneath Marthe's portrait, waiting quietly until I heard the doctor's footsteps coming down the hall.

April 1940

H
is footsteps sounded like a metronome as he walked down the hallway's parquet floors.

“Dr. Payard,” I said as I emerged from the open French doors of the parlor, clearly catching him by surprise. “I was hoping for the chance to speak with you about my grandmother's health.”

“You must be Solange,” he said, his eyes lifting to meet mine. “Madame de Florian has spoken about you quite often.”

“Unfortunately, she has not spoken of you as often to me. I feel I'm in the dark about her recent health problems. I was hoping you might illuminate me . . .”

He fidgeted slightly in front of me. My forwardness had clearly caught him off guard.

He placed his dark satchel down on the floor and then reached for his overcoat. He began to button it up as he spoke.

“Your grandmother is resting comfortably now. I gave her a syrup
with codeine to help her rest. She complains that it's almost impossible for her to sleep through the night with her cough.”

“Yes, this cough . . .” The words darted from my mouth. “She's been suffering from it for several months now, and it appears to be worsening. How serious is it?”

Dr. Payard shook his head. “Please step out into the hallway with me for a moment, mademoiselle.”

I followed him outside, shutting the door behind me.

“Your grandmother wants to maintain her privacy regarding her illness, and, as her doctor, I must respect her wishes. That said, without divulging too much, I'm sorry to say that I expect her time is limited. You should try to keep her as comfortable as possible and to spend as much time with her as you can. I will come by in another few days to see if she needs more syrup to help her at night.”

He looked at his watch, then left me alone outside the door, his words still ringing in my ears.

*   *   *

The morning's joyfulness of walking through the park with Alex—sharing our most intimate experiences and the thrill of his embrace—was now lost to the devastating news that Marthe's illness was far more serious than I had believed. All my life I had prided myself in my ability to truly gauge my surroundings. Yet somehow I had failed to sense how much Marthe was ailing. I felt that I had let her down.

Dr. Payard said she would be sleeping for some time due to the codeine in the syrup. I walked slowly down the hallway and turned the doorknob to her bedroom. Tucked within her damask sheets and lying underneath her upholstered headboard with its spray of birds and butterflies, Marthe slept like an empress. Her slender white fingers were clasped in front of her, and her titian hair, now white at the temples, was piled atop her head. Even her pale eyelids looked like perfect half-moons.

I pulled up a chair and sat down at her bedside. The mirror above
her caught the reflection of the two of us within its frame. It was a touching image. Two women who had come into each other's lives unexpectedly. I had first come to her simply to learn more of her story, not realizing that together we would create a new one that was uniquely our own.

I looked around the room. The vanity that I now knew contained her old love letters from Charles, along with a handful from Boldini, and, more importantly for me, the ones from Madame Franeau lovingly detailing my father's childhood. I admired the free-standing mirror before which she had so often dressed for Charles, and where she had prepared herself prior to being painted by Boldini. I had imagined her bedroom almost like a stage as she described all the events in her life story, and all of the furniture seemed eerily familiar to me despite only having been inside her bedroom on a few occasions. I walked over to her oak wardrobe, which housed her collection of silk dresses. I could hardly help myself as I pulled the small brass knobs to reveal what was inside.

In the front were the black silk faille, the lilac dress she loved so dearly. To the left were more contemporary dresses made from wool gabardine, a single skirt in midnight blue velvet, and even the wide-legged black trousers she had sewn herself. But at the far end of her wardrobe, behind the black velvet cape and the silver one with the pink ribbons, hung the one gown that had provided the signature look of her beautiful, sensual life: the pink silk charmeuse and organza dress she had worn when Boldini painted her. I reached to touch it. I felt the fluid silk between my fingers and could imagine her before my eyes. As I examined the bodice, I could see the detail more clearly than Boldini had depicted it in the painting—the two plackets of lace on the bodice and the gray belt with the horseshoe-shaped buckle of crystal beads. I marveled at the delicacy of the cloudlike sleeves, and the sheer beauty of the pink-tourmaline-colored silk. The gown felt forbidden, something that was reserved only for Marthe's skin and certainly not mine.

As exquisite as the dress was, it needed Marthe to bring it to life. Boldini's brush had rendered more than just a portrait of a woman in a sumptuous gown; he had captured Marthe's sensuality and exuberance. It made me pause to think how the final portrait had so many layers that contributed to making something so beautiful.

Sadly, Marthe now looked far from the robust femme fatale Boldini had captured in his portrait. Gone was the voluptuous figure and the blush of youth. Her body seemed half its size now. Her shoulders seemed to cave in, her breasts far smaller. She appeared almost childlike sleeping.

Next to her bed, inches away from her water pitcher and glass, I noticed two things I had not expected to see there. The first was the old leather volume of the fables of Jean-Pierre Claris de Florian, which Charles had given her so many years before. The second was the gold pocket watch she had mentioned during the course of her storytelling, but had never once shown me.

Unable to stop myself, I reached for the watch. The casing was now dull with age, and the metal slightly scratched. I carefully used my fingernail to open it and, there, just as she had described, was a winged dove engraved on the inside. The hands were stopped at 6:14.

*   *   *

I held the watch in my palms, hoping that I had the capacity to make time stand still. Marthe was fading. She conserved her speech. She mostly kept herself tightly wrapped in her layers of sheeting, the covers and blanket pulled up to her narrow chin. Her eyelids were pale lilac. Her skin, the color of rice paper. As she slept, I grasped her hand.

The memory of my own mother on her deathbed returned to me. At the time, I had thought the same thing I did now sitting beside Marthe. That we leave this world the very way we arrive. Our bodies shrunken and our eyes sealed shut.