by Betsy Draine
“Years later, as God willed, her order sent Sister Jacques-Marie to our convent here in Vence, where Matisse had settled for his old age. When Sister heard the convent wanted a chapel, she started designing one, and she brought her sketches to Matisse for comment. Her drawings lit a fire in his imagination, and within a short time, he made the project his own. You see before you the result.”
Sister Glenda picked up the thread. “Matisse didn’t practice his faith, but just look—he created a great ensemble work of Christian art. Some even compare it to the Sistine Chapel.” Sister Glenda’s arm swept from the brilliant windows to the stone altar and finally to the Stations of the Cross represented by abstract figures on the tile wall.
Shelley looked unimpressed. She turned her back on Glenda and our guide. “‘Chaste model,’ my ass,” she said, to Maggie. “It’s obvious she was his mistress.”
“Why else would they go out of the way to tell you she wasn’t?” said Maggie.
“Honi soit qui mal y pense,” pronounced Glenda.
The visitors moved into the adjacent exhibit hall, but Angie held me back. “What’s that mean, what Sister said?”
“Uh, ‘Shame on people who have dirty minds.’”
“That doesn’t sound like Sister Glenda.”
“Well, she was a little more polite.”
“What’s the big deal if Sister Jacques-Marie did sleep with Matisse?” asked Angie. “What counts is what you do after you take your vows, not what you did before. Right?” When I didn’t comment, she repeated her question.
It sounded like special pleading to me.
I awoke with a start. An explosion of thunder still reverberated. Heavy rain drummed against the shutters. I raised my head to see the clock on Toby’s bed table. It read three o’clock. Toby groaned and rolled over. In moments, his slow breathing told me he was out again. I fluffed my pillow, turned it over to the cool side, and tried to sleep, but it was no use. I lay in bed, thinking, drifting off into a dream, and then jumping awake with fear.
After several such cycles, I heard muffled sounds coming from the corridor. I had the impression that a man and a woman were fighting. I got up and crept to the door. I put my ear against it but couldn’t make out the words or recognize the voices. Then I heard a door slam. I opened our door a crack and peeked out, just in time to see a wisp of white nightgown and the heel of a slipper disappear around the corner. Montoni’s room was just down the hall from us, and the Ne pas déranger tag hanging on his doorknob was rocking back and forth. Well, well. Ray had been entertaining a female visitor, and there had been a spat. Maggie?
While I was speculating, the light in the hallway abruptly increased. Someone had turned on the light at the bottom of the stairwell. I heard footsteps on the stairs and pulled back, leaving my door ajar only a sliver, so I could barely see out. A tall figure, moving furtively, crossed in front of the door. It was Angie, dressed for outdoors, her coat dripping, tiptoeing in at three in the morning.
By the time he was ready for lunch the next day, my portrait was nearly finished. Already you could tell it was me, with my red jacket, blond hair, and crooked nose, which the other boys made fun of. As usual, Vincent carried his equipment back to the inn, and I went home to eat with my family. Because Papa was with us, the Sunday meal took longer than on weekdays, and that’s why I was late getting back.
Vincent was pacing impatiently in front of his easel. He seemed distracted. I thought perhaps he had taken too much wine at lunch, but something else was wrong. He yelled at me, which he had never done before. The words made little sense. His eyes looked strange.
Suddenly he reached into his paint box and pulled out the gun. I could see right away that it was René’s old revolver. How Vincent ended up with it, I don’t know. Be careful! I shouted. You never knew when that thing would go off, it was so unreliable. Did he mean to frighten me? Shoot me? Instead, he raised the gun to his temple.
I was terrified. Without thinking, I threw myself at him and reached for his arm to pull the gun away. Let me do it, he cried. We both tumbled to the ground. With one hand gripping his wrist, I tried to pry the gun from his fingers with the other, and managed to grasp the handle. I pushed away from him and got to my feet. Now I was holding the gun, and I thought the danger had passed. But Vincent sprang at me, seized my hand, and began forcing it toward his chest. Let me do it, he cried again. I was big for my age, but he was a man and stronger. With both his hands over mine, he forced the gun closer, reaching for the trigger with his thumb. But I wouldn’t let go. Then, my God. I felt the explosion. Vincent clutched his side and staggered against the easel, knocking it over, along with the painting. He swayed for a moment, looking at me. Then he fell to his knees, moaned, rolled over on the ground, and lay still.
I only wanted to save him. But instead I shot him. I was holding the gun in my shaking hand.
10
EMMET TROTTED into the breakfast room as if he owned it, head raised, nostrils aquiver, nails clicking briskly on the tile floor. He was followed by his mistress. I was already on my second cup of coffee. “Top o’ the morning!” said Maggie, putting on her brogue. Her eyes looked puffy from lack of sleep. She folded herself languidly into the chair next to mine. Emmet circled around ceremoniously and nestled against her leg, resting his snout on his forelegs.
I gave the server across the room a signal, and she came right over and poured some tea. Maggie added milk to the brim. Just like my grandmother. Very Irish.
“Only one cup,” she said. “I’m waiting for someone.”
Then I didn’t have much time. “Maggie, this may be none of my business, but tell me the truth. Was that you I saw coming out of Montoni’s room in the middle of the night?”
She looked puzzled. “Which night are we talking about?”
“What do you mean? Last night, of course.”
“Then, no.”
I sat back in my chair.
“Last night I was with Thierry. Ray was Wednesday night.”
“You’re kidding me!” I said, too loudly. Then I toned my voice down. “You mean you’re sleeping with both of them?”
“Slept. Just once.” I stared at her. “Apiece, that is, not together,” she added by way of clarification. There was a pause. “Ray, I admit was a mistake. But Thierry’s a sweet boy.”
“But . . . You’re old enough to be his mother,” I sputtered.
“Not at all. Don’t exaggerate, Nora. Anyhow, nothing will come of it. I won’t corrupt him, if that’s what you’re worried about.” I must have looked dazed. “Well, you asked for the truth. Look, fooling around is one of the perks of coming to these conferences. I don’t carry on like this at home. People would talk.”
“People would talk here. I’m talking.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I’m sorry. Look, I don’t mean to judge you. Really. I’m just trying to take this in.”
“When you’ve finished taking it in, let me know.”
My life is sheltered, I thought. Bodega Bay’s in California, but it’s not Sin City. To shift the subject, I made some awkward remark about the Matisse chapel, but Maggie had my number. “Go on, ask me more. You’re dying to, now, aren’t you?”
“Of course. Your nightlife is a lot more interesting than mine.”
“Don’t say that. Toby’s a fine man.” She said it with a lascivious lilt.
“Hey, get your own guy!”
“I did. Twice.”
“Ray isn’t ‘your own guy.’ He’s married, isn’t he?”
“He told me he was getting a divorce.”
“That’s more than I know. Anyway, if that wasn’t you last night, he slept with somebody else.”
“I knew he couldn’t be trusted.” She laughed at herself. “Then again, neither can I. No double standard here.” She raised her teacup as for a wedding toast.
“I see that you’re having fun. But don’t these one-offs get tiring after a while? Wouldn’t you like a more permanent rela
tionship?”
“Marriage suits you obviously. Maybe it doesn’t suit me.”
“What about companionship?”
“Don’t forget Emmet. He’s loyal.” She reached down and scratched him behind the ear. “As for a man, I thought I had a good one last year until he ran off with one of my graduate students. That’s the reason I’m on leave, if you must know, to pick myself up. Here comes Thierry.” Maggie got up. “You’ll have to excuse me, dear. I agreed to meet him for breakfast.”
Thierry’s smile made him look even younger than before. Perhaps to hide his shyness, he bent down to stroke Emmet’s head. Maggie pointed toward a table for two and signaled to her man and her dog to join her. As I watched them walk away, all three looked happy. Emmet was wagging his tail, and Maggie for my benefit wagged hers. She winked at me when she sat down.
My mind returned to last night. Well, if Maggie wasn’t with Ray Montoni, who was? I had picked up signs of tension in Shelley’s relationship with Ben. Had her frustration with him sent her to Ray? The Bennetts and Montonis lived in Philadelphia, so she may have taken up with Ray before the conference. I looked around the room. Jane Curry was having coffee by herself. Now, there was another woman with a problem husband. Could she have turned to Ray for comfort, while her husband lay in the hospital? Would she have done that?
As I mulled over these possibilities, the De Groots entered the breakfast room. Normally, Hans was cheerful, but today he looked sullen. What about Klara? If she was an errant wife who had just been found out, she looked awfully calm. Maybe Hans was simply grouchy from lack of sleep. I probably hadn’t been the only guest disturbed by the storm. But then my overactive imagination conjured a scene of Hans awakened in the middle of the night by a thunderclap, only to discover that his wife wasn’t in their bed. As quickly as the thought occurred to me, I dismissed it. At least I was sure of one thing. Whoever was sleeping with Montoni, it wasn’t Sister Glenda.
That turned my thoughts to Angie. What had she been up to last night? A whispered summons from Madame Richarde, who appeared at my side and asked me to follow her, led to the answer. Coffee in the library is not part of the breakfast deal at Hotel des Glycines, but Angie has a way of getting what she wants. She was sitting on a couch with a tray on the coffee table in front of her. Madame Richarde gave Angie a conspiratorial look and left, closing the door firmly.
“What’s this?” I asked. “Am I being ambushed?”
“Don’t be so suspicious. Just sit down.” She patted the place next to her on the couch. “I need to talk with you—privately.”
“Getting Madame Richarde to lock us in a room together seems a bit dramatic. What did you tell her?”
Angie calmly poured herself coffee. “We’re not locked in. And I told her the truth.”
“Which is?”
“I said I have a love problem, and I have to talk with my sister. She was very understanding. She told me how to say it in French: un problème d’amour.” She pursed her lips into a secret smile and opened her eyes wide like a Kewpie doll. For a woman with love problems, she appeared awfully merry.
“Is this about Robert?” She looked coyly at her cup, as if to hide her smile. “So you are in love with Robert. Is he in love with you?”
She looked up, and I saw the Angie of twenty years ago—a child of delight, feeling joy in every hour of the day.
“I think so. He says so.”
“He says what, exactly?”
“I feel like you’re badgering me. I’m trying to get your advice, not the third degree.”
“Okay, Angie. I’ll try not to grill you, but if you’ll tell me what he said about his feelings, that will help me give you advice.”
“You know, ‘I love you. I adore you.’ It sounds so sweet in that accent of his.”
“Are you sure he means it? He just met you. Maybe he’s practicing the phrases they taught him in English class.”
Angie’s face fell.
“You’re smitten, aren’t you?” My voice was light, but my chest was heavy. I love my openhearted sister, and I feel for her when she gets hurt by callous men, which happens absurdly often. Did she need a warning to slow things down? I waited, reminding myself to just listen.
“I really like him.”
“Tell me about it.”
She sighed. Then she took a breath and started what seemed a rehearsed presentation. “First,” she said, “we’ll be leaving here in two days. That’s not enough time to finish falling in love, even. I’m starting to be heartbroken already. If this is really love, then I should stay here or come back fast and give it a chance.”
“But you don’t speak French. How would you get along here? How would you support yourself ?”
“I have some savings.” She put her hand up. “But let me finish. The second problem is that I’m not a hundred percent sure that Roe-bare is as much in love with me as I am with him.”
I had my doubts too.
“Third, this comes at a bad time. I’m supposed to be making up my mind about whether to become a real novice. I’m facing a vow of chastity.”
“Yeah, I’d say that’s a problem.”
“You’re always sarcastic. Cut it out.”
I felt cornered. “Have you told Sister Glenda? She’s your mother confessor, right?”
“Oh, God. I got up all my courage and told her yesterday morning. It was so hard. But then all I had to confess was that I was attracted to him. Now I have to tell her we’ve done the deed.” She waited for my response. “You’re not surprised?”
“Listen, Angie, I was up last night at three o’clock in the morning. I heard you come in.”
“You did?” She hung her head.
“Does Sister Glenda know about last night? She’s right next door to you. Maybe she heard you leave and return.”
“Maybe. I don’t care. I’m going to tell her anyway. I have to. I promised to. It’s part of living in a convent. You open your life to your mother superior.”
“What do you think she’ll say?”
Angie gazed into the distance. “I think she’ll say what she said yesterday: that I’ll know God’s will when He grants me the grace to know it.”
That was the official answer. I wondered what she really thought.
Angie turned to look me in the eye. “I’m supposed to pray for God’s grace. Will you pray for me?”
“Sure, if you’d like me to.”
Angie threw her arms around me, which is awkward when you’re sitting with your knees wedged between the couch and the coffee table, but we managed a long sisterly hug. Pain cut into my shoulders, but I kept holding her until we began breathing at the same rhythm. We drew back from each other, feeling consoled. Angie faced some tough days ahead of her, and I couldn’t do much to help. I did say a little prayer for her. It couldn’t hurt.
Having finished his breakfast, Toby was propped against the bed pillows reading. I clued him in. “It’s what I’ve been telling you all along,” he said in a tone of irritation. It’s best not to get into a serious discussion with Toby first thing in the morning. Plus he was still grumbling about my decision to meet with Juliette La Font. We’d settled the matter last night, but his concession was grudging and now spilled over into this conversation. “Your sister was never cut out to be a nun. She happens to like men. What she wants is to be a ‘nun with benefits,’ but they don’t offer that option in the convent.”
“She thinks she’s in love.”
“Thinks. And if this romance doesn’t work out, the same thing will happen again when the next guy comes along. Face it. This fantasy of hers of becoming a nun was always just that, a fantasy.”
“Maybe so, but Angie has to find that out for herself.”
Toby grunted and went back to his book. I decided to leave it at that and wait for his mood to improve. It usually does as the day wears on. Meanwhile I got myself ready for the morning session. Toby was planning to skip it, as were the other nonacademic guests. It was the annual meet
ing of the Society for Vincent van Gogh Studies. To present at the conference, you had to be a member. Naturally, I joined.
The society members assembled in our usual room at the Maeght, which today seemed too large for our number. The main item on the agenda was the election of officers, which can be a sham in small organizations like this one, where the titles are parceled out to the handful of people who show up. Ray called the meeting to order. He had another year to go as president but announced that he was stepping down in order to finish a project he was working on. He was anxious to get it done, he said, and was behind schedule. He informed the group that Ben Bennett was willing to assume the presidency for the coming year, should he be nominated. So he was, by Hans de Groot; and facing no opposition—these things generally being prearranged—he was duly elected. Ben looked pleased. Next, Hans was reelected secretary/treasurer. Since the position required work, no one else wanted it. The board of directors was reappointed by acclamation. It wasn’t clear to me what the directors did, but their names were on the letterhead. In fact, the left margin of the letterhead had names and titles ranging vertically from top to bottom.
Having managed things to his satisfaction, Ray then asked if there was any new business. Maggie’s hand shot up. “I’d like to suggest an addition to the slate of officers,” she said. “The society could use an international secretary, someone based over here who could promote membership and publicize future conferences and activities. I’d like to propose the creation of that office. And I’d like to nominate Thierry Toussaint for the position.” She locked eyes with Montoni, and it seemed for a few awkward moments that they were engaged in a wordless conversation on an entirely different topic. Eventually Ray blinked.
“Is there a second?” he asked in a somewhat subdued voice. I raised my hand. “Is there any discussion?”
“It’s a good idea,” said Jacques, who was sitting next to Thierry. The kid had performed well. Why not give him a title he could add to his resumé when he went out on the job market? That seemed the general sentiment.