The Velvet Hours (9 page)

September 1939

T
he three of us continued to meet around the dining room table every night: my father, myself, and our radio.

The radio held a position of honor between us. After I had dished out the evening meal and poured a little wine in our glasses, we'd listen to the broadcast to learn what either Germany or the Soviet Union would do next. Two weeks after France and Great Britain declared war on Germany, the Soviet Union invaded Poland from the east. The country had now been attacked from both sides.

“Do you think that France will be invaded?” I asked my father.

“I pray that won't happen, Solange.” He looked older, more tired in the past few weeks. “But, it's not impossible.”

I poured more wine into his glass.

“What I believe is that the Germans will not stop with Eastern Europe. Hitler will want all of it.”

I felt a shiver run up my spine.

“I'm afraid.” I uttered the words so quietly it almost sounded like a whisper. “He's blaming almost all of Germany's problems on the Jews.” I did not mention to him about my afternoon spent at the Armels' bookshop, the stories I had learned about my maternal grandfather, or the worry I had seen on Alex's and Monsieur Armel's faces when Hitler's name was mentioned. But I needed to know what my father would reveal when I mentioned my concern for the anti-Semitism that Hitler was inciting across Europe.

I watched as my father lifted the wine to his lips. His spectacled gaze was now straight upon me. There was a sudden lapse into silence. From the way I returned his gaze, he seemed to understand without me uttering another word that I had come to learn I was part Jewish.

“
Maman
showed me some of her books written in Hebrew, before she died.” I took a deep breath and continued to look at him. “I know I'm half Jewish.”

I heard a deep breath escape from him. He placed his empty wineglass back on the table.

“I must tell you . . .” He pushed himself into the back of his chair. “It's a relief to me that you finally know the truth . . .”

“But why did you both keep it from me for so long?”

My father looked down at his half-eaten plate. One of his fingers traced the rim of his glass, as if he was considering the right words for his reply. I could see how it pained him not to have had more time to formulate his answer to me, having always had such a deep need to be precise.

“Of course, you realize that the Jews have not always been treated kindly by the French people, Solange. Consider what happened to Captain Dreyfus, for example. We are still very much a country that considers itself French, very much Catholic, and quite suspicious of anyone else . . .” His eyes drifted upward. “And as much as we claim to be a tolerant nation, that's not always the case . . .”

“So you both made this decision to protect me?” It was hard to mask my disappointment that they had kept the information from me for so long. “Even if you chose to raise me as a Catholic, I still don't understand why
Maman
felt she had to keep the truth from me. She hardly seemed like someone who would be ashamed of her past.”

He shook his head. “No, she wasn't ashamed of her roots, Solange. She was hurt by them.”

I raised an eyebrow, questioning.

“Your mother's story was a complicated one . . .” His voice trailed off. I watched as he took another sip of wine before placing his glass on the table.

“She grew up with more privileges than a typical girl in her community. It was just she and her father for so many years . . .”

I nodded, knowing that my maternal grandmother had died when my mother was barely three years old.

“And those books”—he lifted a finger and pointed in the direction of her bookshelves—“were such a comfort to her. For most of her life, anyway.”

The tenor of my father's voice shifted. His tone always had a trace of hardness to it, perhaps out of an innate need to always be clinical in how he revealed information. But now it had softened, as though just the thought of recalling my mother had the capacity to somehow soothe him.

“Your grandfather had a rare book and manuscript shop on the Rue des Rosiers. I believe he thought your mother would one day assist him there . . . or perhaps more realistically, that she'd marry someone Jewish to whom he could bequeath the store.”

He lowered his eyes.

“But she brought me home, instead.”

Father cleared his throat. “I think you can imagine his disappointment . . . I was a struggling pharmacist, a Catholic, and someone whose family background was anything but clear.”

I looked at my father with empathy. Even now, so many years later, I could see that he blamed himself for what happened between my mother and her father.

“I was never going to be the Jewish boy who could take over the family business, their traditions, or maintain their place in the community that they had created over the years.”

I nodded, knowing this to be true. My mind kept returning to the memory of Alex and his father working side by side in their small shop. The respectful way in which the son deferred to his father's expertise.

“Your grandfather reserved his respect for those books he believed to be precious and rare. And his circle of friends were all people who understood their value.

“But even though your mother was what he prized most in his collection, I was never going to be someone that belonged to his world.” He raised his glass for another sip of wine and steadied his voice again. “He might have thought I was common as newspaper, but what he didn't realize was that we both loved her more than anything in the world.”

“But if he loved her so much, why did he disown her?”

My father shook his head. “Shame is a terrible thing, Solange.” He pushed away his plate to the side. “He felt she had betrayed him. They had a huge fight just after I proposed. He didn't want her to marry me. He told her there were at least a dozen potential suitors in the neighborhood that wanted to court her, all of whom were worthy of being his son-in-law. I don't think he could believe that she actually wanted me.”

I tried to envision my mother engaged in such a fiery row. She was so gentle, with such a soft-spoken voice, that this was almost impossible to imagine.

“He threw her out. He told her she had shamed him and dishonored their family name.”

I shuddered.

“We married a few weeks later in the town hall.”

*   *   *

The rest of the story I knew. I had learned during my mother's last months how my grandfather had died of a heart attack when she was pregnant with me, and how she had returned to close his store and put the remaining inventory up for sale. The only things she had kept were those two books, and perhaps the regret of not having put aside her differences with her father before he died.

“I just don't understand why this was all kept from me for so long. To find out so late . . . It just seems wrong.”

My father shook his head. “You have to understand, your mother was shattered when he told her she could never come home again if she married me.”

I had never considered my mother as being so strong or even defiant. Father was now revealing a side of her that, for me, was previously unknown.

For a few moments, a silence lingered between us. But the lack of words did not feel uncomfortable. If anything I felt closer to my father than ever before. I appreciated his finally telling me the truth. As I sat quietly at the table beside him, my mind raced with questions.

“These past two years have been full of many unexpected things for you . . . Don't think that I don't see that.” He took a deep breath. “It has been difficult for me to raise you without your mother. I miss her so much.” His voice nearly broke at the last three words. “I was nearly the same age as you when I learned a secret had been kept from me, that my mother was not in fact Louise Franeau, but the woman you now visit weekly, Marthe de Florian.”

My eyes slid down to my lap. I had not made the connection, but what my father said was true. He, too, had been kept in the dark
about his ancestry. And the contrast between the woman who raised him and the woman who bore him must have come as a complete shock to him.

“We have both learned that women are capable of keeping secrets . . . and that both our mothers were far more complicated than we initially believed.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “Still, it is strange to only learn now that I am part Jewish.”

“I suppose you are Jewish in so much as your mother's blood runs through yours. But the woman who raised me, Louise Franeau, who died two years after your birth, took you in her arms and had you baptized at the local church. She couldn't sleep without knowing you had been bathed in holy water.”

“But Mother's religion is not listed on my birth certificate?”

“No,” he said. “I don't believe religion is ever stated on the French birth certificate. But I will check to make sure.” He stood up and went to his bottom desk drawer where he kept all of his important papers locked in a small metal safe. He took out a key and unlocked it, retrieving an envelope with my birth certificate inside. “It only says your mother's maiden name: Cohen.”

“Well, the name will certainly give me away if they search through the records.”

“I don't think we should worry ourselves about such matters now, Solange. There are no Germans marching down the Champs-Élysées just yet.”

“Not yet,” I said as I turned up the dial of the radio. “But I can't help but imagine if they did.”

Paris 1898

M
arthe had not quite believed Charles when he promised her there would be a second present to follow the pearls. She couldn't imagine anything that could possibly top what he had already given her. But less than a week later, as they lay in bed with his finger tracing the length of her body, he turned to her and said: “I've commissioned a portrait of you.”

She grabbed the sheet around her and sat up. “A portrait?”

“Yes.” Despite his fragility, she could see the pleasure in his eyes. “I've taken note of all of your little collections . . . all of your objects scattered throughout the apartment and all of those paintings in the dining room, too. Now, I want a large portrait of you to hang over the mantel in the parlor. I want to be able to see two of you whenever I'm here.”

“For such an ascetic these days . . . you're becoming quite greedy,
aren't you?” She took her hand to his cheek. “Really, two of me?” She feigned a sense of modesty at his generous suggestion.

He reached out to kiss her. She closed her eyes. It was hard to see him so thin. He resembled one of those wire armatures that sculptors used to create the skeleton before they began applying the clay.

“I really wish you'd save your strength, instead of squandering it negotiating with artists.”

“Come now, Marthe . . . I know you far too well. Doesn't the idea absolutely thrill you? To sit for one of the most fashionable portrait painters in Paris?”

“And who might that be?” she teased.

“A man named Giovanni Boldini.”

Marthe's face went blank. She didn't recognize the name.

“Why, he's the biggest name in society portraits these days, my darling. He's a good friend of Sargent's.”

Marthe raised an eyebrow, intrigued. She had certainly come a long way from the first time she had heard the name John Singer Sargent mentioned while strolling the halls of the 1884 Paris Salon with her fellow seamstress, Camille.

Camille had always been full of ideas and was interested in making any spare time outside their workshop an adventure.

They had agreed to meet just outside the Palais de l'Industrie. Marthe had been so excited, she arrived early. She had never seen so many people crowding the streets. The day was beautiful. The chestnut trees were in bloom. A steady stream of horse-drawn carriages pulled up to the entranceway. Marthe watched as the city's most fashionable women stepped out into the daylight, their pastel parasols opening like cabbage roses in the sun.

She and Camille walked together into the first salon rooms, their lungs filled with the strong, foreign smells of varnish and linseed oil. They wandered through the enormous hallways, clutching their Salon
catalogs. They walked past the enormous mural by Pierre Puvis and then stood for a few minutes contemplating the nude figures drinking wine in Bouguereau's
The Youth of Bacchus.

But it was Sargent's portrait of Amélie Gautreau that she remembered most clearly. It had been the scandal of the Salon. Displayed in the final room of the exhibition halls, the large portrait stood out in haughty defiance. The painting was nearly life-size, taking up almost the entire hall, and dwarfing the other paintings that surrounded it. Marthe could close her eyes and still recall how Sargent had painted Gautreau's creamy white flesh and swanlike neck, her chiseled features as sharp as glass.

Marthe and Camille had walked past countless rooms of nudes that afternoon, but this portrait of the fully clothed Gautreau had been the most provocative of all. The nudes rendered in the other paintings all looked like sexless cherubs, most of them cast in idealized landscapes. Madame Gautreau, or Madame X as she was identified by the small plaque beside the portrait, appeared far more sexual than any of the other paintings exhibited. Sargent had painted his subject with her head turned in profile, wearing a plunging black bodice with one strap over her shoulder and the other dangling over her porcelain white arm. It was as if the dress could slip off of her at any moment. The painting had struck Marthe like a dare.

All these years later, Marthe had never forgotten the painting. Gautreau's body, though sheathed in black velvet, had left little to the imagination. One could see every line and curve. This was a portrait that lit up the room like a match.

While everyone gasped and whispered at its inappropriateness, it had secretly thrilled Marthe.

Now, she could hardly believe that Charles was suggesting a contemporary of this great artist to paint her portrait. “I do like Sargent,” she said, curling up closer to Charles. “But I've never heard of this Boldini . . .”

In her mind, she started imagining how an artist might portray her. Already, she could envision herself sitting with her head turned, her body dressed in one of her most beautiful gowns. It was comforting to also know that even in his illness, Charles had not tired of seeing her from all points of view.

“I've made an appointment for him to visit the day after tomorrow,” Charles interrupted her from her reverie.

“Let Giselle prepare something nice for him. He's small, but he's known to have an enormous appetite.”

He smiled. “You'll see what I mean when you meet him.”

She took his hand and brought it to her lips. “I am not too concerned, my darling. I've never been known to starve a man.”

*   *   *

Boldini arrived at half past noon. Marthe was already seated, waiting for him in the parlor. A pale lilac dress fell languidly over her long body. Around her neck, she wore the pearls from Charles.

“Monsieur Boldini,” Giselle announced as she ushered the painter into the room.

Marthe could hardly believe her eyes. The man did not look like anything she had imagined. He was short and balding, with a long mustache and goatee. His eyes were framed by thin wire glasses, and above their rims emerged a pair of thick and pointed brows.

Marthe rose from her chair and extended her hand. She was nearly a half foot taller than the artist.

“What a relief to discover I'll have such a beautiful subject to paint,” he said as he kissed her hand. “You will make my job here a pleasure.”

She smiled, pleased that the artist made up in charm what he lacked in good looks and height.

“And I am grateful to be painted by such a talent. Charles has spoken incredibly highly of you.”

He was still standing in the center of the parlor. Against his waist, he held a large sketch pad tied closed with black cord.

“Please, Monsieur Boldini, make yourself at home . . .” She made a small gesture, encouraging him to sit down.

He nodded, taking a seat across from her. She noticed how his eyes were scanning the objects around the room.

“I see you like Oriental ceramics.”

Marthe smiled, delighted that the artist had taken note of her collection. Her porcelains had become a source of great pride for her. “Yes, very much. They were the first precious objects I began collecting . . . and once I started, I couldn't get enough.”

“How interesting . . .” His expression suggested he was genuinely surprised that Marthe had chosen something so exotic as her first collection, for Asian porcelains were appreciated by a rarefied few.

“I must confess, I'm a bit of a collector myself.” Again, his eyes scanned the room. “I admire what you've managed to get your hands on.”

Marthe beamed. She was happy to have impressed him with something she had cultivated by herself, something beyond her own beauty.

Boldini pointed to one of the gourd-shaped vases on the shelves. “Moonlight glaze. One of my favorites.” He closed his eyes briefly, as though the pale blue glaze had triggered something in his mind.

“The Asians have such a delicacy of palette,” he continued. “It's as if they can pinpoint the exact shade of breath, of water, of ice . . . Elements we think of as being clear, they find in that perfect shade of blue.”

She felt a slight flutter inside her as he spoke, a feeling wholly unexpected. She wanted him to keep talking, for she was immensely curious about what else he had to say.

“And that one . . .” He pointed to another one of her porcelains,
one of the famille rose variety. “How easy it would be to imagine one of the blooms in my hand . . . the velvet petals between my fingers.” His voice lowered in pitch as though he wanted to intensify the almost erotic nature of his words.

Marthe's skin grew warm underneath her dress.

“The lines of the artist's brush fired to a perfect high relief. The contrast of the hard against the soft.” He turned from the porcelain and then focused his eyes on her. “There's something quite sensual to it . . . don't you think?”

She smiled back at him, pleased that they had something in common. She could feel herself becoming entranced by him, despite his impish appearance. Marthe studied him again. The small face, the pinched features. The balding head. Nothing was handsome about him at all. He lacked what had first attracted her to Charles: the height, the head full of thick black hair, the sharp, straight nose and cupid-bow lips. But when her eyes fell upon Boldini's hands, she saw the one physical feature in which nature had been kind.

The fingers were long and tapered. The skin white and smooth, not a blemish or hair to be seen.

How beautiful his fingers were indeed. She could easily imagine him holding a paintbrush and palette.

“Yes,” she said, trying to reignite the conversation after her momentary distraction. “It's not only the lines of the enamels that are so remarkable . . . it's the shape of the porcelains as well . . . There's something so feminine about the hourglass ones . . . even the melon gourds have a certain female robustness to them . . .”

“You have an extremely good eye.” He smiled. “I am impressed.”

“There is no need to be impressed,” she answered. “It's refreshing to discover someone else who speaks the same language . . .”

“This is a rare thing, madame. To be able to speak to a woman so freely about beauty and art . . .” He opened his hands above his
lap as though he were releasing an imaginary bird into the air. Marthe watched him intently, listening to every word. She could feel herself becoming almost hypnotized by his movements and speech.

“The glazes inspire my own work . . . You can't imagine how many times I've tried to replicate those shades. Yet it's impossible to achieve that kind of transparency with oil paint . . .”

“Yes, I
can
imagine.” Her body rushed with adrenaline. Their conversation was a form of flattery that thrilled her. The artist spoke to her as though she were an equal, a woman who understood the unique language between artists.

“But I do have other talents,” he said, again gesturing with his hands. “So don't fret. I can promise you, your portrait will be beautiful.”

“I have little doubt,” Marthe answered with a beguiling, feminine smile. “I've been told that if one is to have her portrait done, you're the top choice of those in the best circles.”

“My patrons have made Paris a very hospitable place for me, that is for certain.”

Again, she saw a certain flash in his eyes. He possessed a unique sense of vitality, and she realized that she had missed being in the company of someone with such physical and mental energy since Charles's illness had made him a faint shadow of his former self.

Boldini reached down the leg of the chair, where he had rested his sketch pad. He took it and began to untie the black ribbons that were wrapped around the stiff canvas book.

“May I?” He tapped his sketch pad. “It might help to get a few quick drawings of you sitting here before I leave.”

“Of course,” she said, readjusting herself in the chair so her posture was straighter and her chin was slightly lifted. Then, like a huntress, she focused her gaze squarely at him.

“You seem to have done this before,” he mused.

“No. You will be my first.”

He smiled. “At some point that's convenient for you, I will need you to come to my studio on Boulevard Berthier so I can start the portrait. My easel, paints, and brushes are all there.” He opened up his sketch pad and smoothed over one of the blank pieces of paper with his hands. “And I certainly wouldn't want to sully your apartment with all of my supplies . . .

“But if you don't mind, today I'd just like to do a few sketches of your face . . . your features . . .”

His pen had already started to fly over the paper. He began capturing her in a flurry of rapid black strokes before she even had a chance to respond.

*   *   *

“What a queer little man!” she told Charles when she next saw him. He lay against the pillows of her bed, the barrel of his eagle and talon pipe nestled in his hand.

“But quite talented, I assure you. I saw his portrait of Madame Veil-Picard at the Paris Salon last year . . .” He sucked in his pipe again. “It was remarkable. He caught the mischief in her eyes . . .” He placed a finger underneath Marthe's chin and tickled her. “I wouldn't want just some stale portrait of you. I want someone who can bring you to life.”