Afternoons in Paris

by Janice Law

  “The paintings are not my stock,” Claude said. “I share the space with an art dealer. It’s a minor collection being stored until it can be shipped off to—the Argentine, was it? Or was it to be Shanghai?” He twisted his mouth to indicate indifference. “No matter.”

  I got a dark look, and I changed subject to the chest. “Are the legs the same type of wood?” I asked.

  “Well, now,” said Philip. “They are. They certainly are, but are they the original legs of this piece? That’s the question.”

  This occupied them for several minutes, during which time Claude got out his Gauloises and lit a cigarette. The matches were from the Parnasse Bar. He gave me another look, and I nodded. Then he and Philip got serious about the price for the chest, negotiations that ended with handshakes all around. I thought perhaps I would be dispatched to pick up the chest, but no. I had to give my uncle high marks for thoroughness. He had access to a van and would deliver the chest. Or ship it, if Philip preferred.

  “Oh, we’ll have it shipped.” He took out his London card and arranged for the chest to be wrapped like a baby and well insured. On our return from Claude’s shop, Philip was in fine form. Whatever it was in Paris, in London, the chest would certainly be pre-1830 and all of a piece and at least 50 percent more expensive. On the strength of this we had a celebratory dinner that saw us both in a fine mood. Philip, because he had done a good bit of business, and I, because I now knew how to contact my uncle.

  Just the same, it was several days before the stars aligned, and I managed an early evening visit to the Parnasse Bar without Philip. He didn’t know that I’d been excused from the machine for the night. Our run in Paris was at last nearing an end, but there was talk of taking what its author was now calling a “Surrealist Entertainment” on the road. I had no intention of leaving Paris, so Les Mortes Immortels were breaking in another operator.

  At the Parnasse, I ordered a vin blanc and asked the indispensable Jimmy whether Claude was around. He indicated patience and, at a momentary lull, disappeared into the back. My uncle arrived within half an hour. He ordered a whiskey and tipped Jimmy well.

  “I didn’t expect to see you again, my boy.”

  “I felt you were owed a warning.”

  “About what, mon vieux?” Even when we were speaking English, my uncle liked to sprinkle in some French phrases.

  “I need to know if you are involved in some way with Inessa. Our theater’s star Human Hope.”

  He raised his eyebrows. I should say that my uncle rarely gets the wind up. “Inessa is a talent. Quite genuine, you know.”

  “Inessa is remarkable, but she’s no actress. You must know that.”

  “Neither was Helen of Troy, though she had a face that launched a thousand ships.”

  “What about a few dozen paintings? In the back room of your shop? Behind that locked door? I’m guessing those are portraits of Inessa.”

  He didn’t respond right away, and I added, “I know she’s sat twice for Matisse. How you managed that I can’t imagine.”

  “You underestimate me. One look at her and they were tripping over their easels. All except the little Spanish bastard. A surprise, that. He’s supposed to be death to women.”

  “Picasso! You approached Picasso, too.” I thought that my uncle might at least have taken me with him.

  “I followed your list, my boy. And very useful it was.”

  “You might have let me see the paintings,” I said.

  “Alas, they are still under wraps, only to be revealed at our show, A Tribute of Talent to Beauty.” He whipped out a little brochure, written in the high-flown style I remembered from the racket he ran in Weimar. “Introducing a young actress of exceptional talent to the French public.”

  “And who profits from all this?”

  He feigned offense. “You should have been put to the law, Francis. You have, I fear, a legalistic and suspicious mind. Our project is totally legitimate, though, of course, expenses must be covered. We are entrepreneurs and impresarios. And you—or at least your theatrical friends—have already profited, haven’t you? Would that ridiculous production still be ongoing without her? Not a chance. As for Inessa, she is being launched on a major theatrical career.”

  As usual, I could see that my uncle half believed his own scam.

  “She has no experience,” I said. “And her French—”

  “Her French is better than you think. Timing was important, and a delay, supposedly to improve her language, proved ideal.”

  “Nonetheless, she is completely untrained. She has to be led by the hand through any blocking. What happens if she does get a big part?”

  “She’ll sink or swim, my boy. You’re not the only one who can negotiate a tough spot. Believe me, she won’t turn down an opportunity for fame and fortune.”

  Maybe not. I’d seen a different Inessa the day she complained about the portrait sittings and danced with Jules. “What about Alexi?” I asked. “Her ‘brother.’”

  My uncle’s face, up to then complacent, turned serious. “There I have a tiger by the tail,” he admitted.

  I felt a pang for Jules; things were as I’d guessed. “Is he really her brother?”

  My uncle had perfected the Gallic shrug. “He could be her brother. It’s not impossible,” he said.

  “But unlikely.”

  “Oh, highly.”

  “Though he is ex-military and fought in the civil war?”

  “That is for certain. It’s probably how he acquired Inessa.”

  I must have looked surprised.

  “A cultivated young woman, educated, French speaking—you can tell, can’t you, that her accent is excellent? How does she wind up with a thug like Alexi but through the fortunes of war and revolution? The Bolsheviks stripped the nobility of their land, money, and possessions, then killed or exiled them. So-called enemies of the people were for the chop whether they were filthy rich or desperately poor, admirable citizens or bloodsucking exploiters. A teenage girl alone with Inessa’s extraordinary looks would probably have landed in a brothel in Shanghai or Istanbul. You can be thankful that Alexi had more imagination than to turn her immediately to cash.”

  My uncle frowned, lit another cigarette, and continued. “He was probably her best ticket to survival. Though I could wish she had selected someone more amenable. Even someone with a sense of the ridiculous would be an improvement.”

  “He picks her up in a taxi immediately after each performance.”

  “Don’t I know it. He sends me the bills.”

  So my uncle was financing the upfront costs. And how would he recoup them? A Tribute of Talent to Beauty at some gallery? No chance. This was a swindle for sure, and someone was going to wind up the loser. “It’s not just him you have to worry about. I’m sure I’ve seen him with the tough Russian group that hangs around the old Beehive. They are revolutionary exiles of one persuasion or another, and if he’s involved with them, you and Inessa and—other friends—are in danger.”

  He clapped me on the shoulder. “A concern that does you credit, my boy. But all is tickety-boo at the moment. Though”—and here Claude did seem a great deal like old familiar Uncle Lastings, quick to see every angle and eager for an exit strategy—“there may come a time when you can lend a hand.”

  Oh, no! I’d been down that road before and it led to nowhere good. “I wanted to warn you. I do not want to get involved in another dodgy scheme.”

  “Dodgy! This is culture, my boy, and French culture at that. Great painters, a great and talented beauty. All that remains is to hire the hall so to speak.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, but Alexi’s part of a bad crowd.”

  “Know that for a fact, do you?” His expression was keen and interested.

  “Let’s say I’ve seen enough of them to do me.”

  “We’re wrapping up soon,”
he said, and for the first time I thought he looked not just serious but worried. “A delicate time. But I have good cards to play, so into the breach!”

  My heart sank. He’d almost convinced me that he had everything in hand and a plan for every eventuality, but it’s a sure sign of trouble when Uncle Lastings turns to military metaphors. I assumed that the same held true for Claude, and that night I waited for Jules after the performance, time I spent pacing back and forth and considering one course of action then another.

  Although I didn’t feel I owed my uncle very much, I didn’t want to endanger him unnecessarily. On the other hand, I not only liked Jules, I had also promised his sister I would watch out for him. Then there was Inessa with her beautiful face and her dangerous guardian. What I right about her? Was I right about Alexi? Was Uncle Lastings? What if I was wrong or if Jules didn’t believe me? Such thoughts made for an unpleasant evening.

  I loitered behind a news and advertising kiosk as it neared time for the performance to end. Right on time, a taxi slowed and parked at the head of the stage door alley across from me. I caught a glimpse of Alexi when his lighter flared for a cigarette. Not five minutes later, Inessa emerged and scrambled into the taxi. I waited until they drove off, then crossed the street and tapped on the stage door.

  “Bon soir, Francis,” said Jacques, the old doorman. He jokingly asked if I already missed my machine. We chatted for a minute or two before I could ask if Jules had left.

  “Not yet, not yet,” Jacques said. He proceeded to regale me with an account of how the little slips and mishaps of the new operator for my machine had added to the general hilarity of the performance. As our run continued, more and more of the audience had found humor in the piece to our director’s distress—and profit.

  Shortly, Jules came down with Hector, my replacement. We all shook hands, and I offered to buy them a drink. It was only after we’d talked about the machines and the half-finalized plans for a provincial tour, and Hector had departed, that Jules and I set out for our rooms. “Would you go on the tour if it materializes?” I asked. After much thought, this was the best opening I could manage.

  “Depends. I’m not sure Inessa wants to continue.”

  “Human Hope is not a role with much scope,” I agreed. “But has she enough French for a better part?”

  “Her French is good. It’s always been good. She is not uneducated.”

  This was an unwelcome confirmation of my uncle’s theory. “Yet at first her language seemed very uncertain.”

  “That was Alexi’s idea entirely. To create mystery and build interest.”

  “Without having her actually perform onstage?”

  “Yes. You were always a little suspicious about that, weren’t you, Francis?”

  We passed beneath a streetlight and, though his tone was resentful, I saw that his face was drawn, his eyes melancholy. As far as I knew, he had not hit a bad patch since he started working with Les Mortes Immortels. That decided me. “I am worried about Inessa with this portrait business, because I’ve met one of the men involved. He is a scoundrel named Claude Roleau, a part-time antiques dealer. He is apparently in partnership with Alexi. They’ve amassed a considerable number of portraits from the best contemporary artists. Those works are bound to be valuable.”

  There was no response from Jules. I decided to let this information sink in.

  “They will become more valuable yet if she makes a big theatrical success,” he said after a moment, but his tone was thoughtful.

  “Very true. But Roleau is not overly patient, and I am guessing that Alexi is not, either. They’ll be set to profit whether Inessa gets a good role or not. I suspect that a theatrical career is to be her share. And if she doesn’t get one, where will she be then?”

  “She has loyal friends.”

  Now it was my turn to be silent.

  After a minute or two, he said, “She will not leave Alexi, though she is half afraid of him. I have already suggested.”

  Another grim confirmation of Uncle Lastings’s theory. “Naturally, she cares about her brother.”

  “Yes, only natural,” he said, but there was a weariness in his voice that told me he did not believe it.

  “Get her away from Paris,” I said impulsively. “Alexi may be too poor to follow you, because I know for a fact that even the nightly taxi is paid for by his partner. And, Jules, Alexi has other, more dangerous, friends. I’ve seen him with a bunch of gangsterish Russian exiles.”

  “The whole Russian contingent is mourning Mother Russia,” Jules observed.

  “Inessa, too?”

  He shook his head. “Inessa wants to stay in Paris. The thing is, she really does have a brother, a younger brother. They were orphaned when their parents were sentenced to something called ‘minus six’ and died in exile in Irbit. Alexi was a local Bolshevik functionary, and he took them under his protection. He had a chance to get to the West, but somehow Inessa and Pavel were separated during the trip. Although there’s no reason to think so, she’s convinced that Pavel’s here somewhere, and she’s set her heart on finding him.”

  “Paris isn’t going away. She could return when it’s safe.”

  When he hesitated, I said impulsively, “In the meantime, couldn’t we make a search for her brother?”

  A pause that I took to be a sign he was considering the idea. “Paris is enormous.”

  “We’d get as much information from Inessa as possible, and if we can’t find the boy ourselves—we can hire a detective. There are such people.”

  Jules stopped and laid his hand on my shoulder. “You are good for me, Francis. I get discouraged sometimes, pursued by le chien noir. You make everything sound simple.”

  “What we need to do is simple: get Inessa away from Alexi and his partner. Doing it is what’s difficult. We need to make a plan. We need to find an opportunity when she is out of his sight.”

  “We’ll need to convince Inessa, first,” he said.

  “You do that,” I said, as Uncle Lastings’s words popped into my mind, “and let me think about an exit strategy.”

  Chapter Seven

  Inessa wouldn’t hear of leaving, although she did not seem at all surprised to learn that Alexi had a dubious partner. “Alexi knows how to survive,” she said indifferently. “He will not let himself be cheated.”

  That was hardly my worry. “There are also his Russian associates, dangerous types.”

  She made a little face. “Russia is full of dangerous types,” she said.

  I suspected that was true, but when she added that she had a “duty to the theater,” I wondered if she had been infected by our director’s pretensions. Or if she was less fond of Jules than she seemed, or, a ghastly thought, more enamored of Alexi than was reasonable. No matter what we said, the only thing that caught her imagination was the notion of a detective. “That is a good idea,” she said first in Russian, then in French.

  Jules declared that he would find someone for her. “There are agencies,” he explained. “Possibly your brother had contact with one of the international relief outfits or with the police. And certainly he must have an identity card. An investigator will know how to search.”

  “Whoever we hire will need information,” I said. “A photo would be good.”

  At this, Inessa opened her hands and let them drop. “All gone.” She spoke rapidly in Russian in a voice heavy with sorrow. In her native language, her voice seemed lower and more expressive, as if she might really have theatrical talent, developed or not. Jules put his arm around her, and she collected herself. “My brother’s name is Pavel, Pavel Lagunov. He would be thirteen now. I last saw him two years ago. Then he was close to my height. Blond with brown eyes and very, very thin and pale. But we were starving at the time. Maybe in Paris, he is plump and rosy. Maybe he is happy, maybe he—”

  “Anything distinctive?” Ju
les interrupted, his face troubled. I could tell that her hopes, so unlikely, gave him pain. “A scar, a birthmark?”

  She thought a moment. “He’d had his appendix out. So a scar there. And a birthmark, yes. Small on his left, no, his right shoulder blade. Not too big. The size of a strawberry.”

  “What about his features,” I asked. “Is there a family resemblance?” Which was to my mind the politest way of asking if he was as beautiful as she was.

  She immediately shook her head. “Oh, no, Pavel has a face like an angel. Tres beau!”

  While I wondered if she could really be so oblivious to her own appearance, she continued, “Pavel’s very bright and musical. He plays both violin and piano. Maybe he, too, is working in the theater, with music, with people who will protect him.” In her distress, she wrung her hands then wiped her eyes.

  “And have you been looking for him? You and Alexi?” I asked.

  Her faced changed. “Not Alexi. Alexi will never help—and he has his eye on me always. He would rather never see Pavel again. It is Alexi who left him behind. It is Alexi who did not pay for a second ticket. ‘He will be on the ship,’ he promised me. ‘It is not safe to go all together.’ When we were at sea, I learned the truth, that I might be of use to him, but Pavel might grow to be a danger. That was his thought, though he pretended it was all an accident.”

  Inessa struggled to control herself, and Jules took her hand. She gave him a weak smile. “When we were hungry and homeless, Pavel and me, we used to joke that if we were separated, we’d meet in Paris. Now here I am. If Pavel is alive, he is here or he will come. I must stay.”

  “Your name has been in the newspapers and magazines,” I suggested. “And on posters. Wouldn’t he have noticed, if he is here?”

  She shook her head. “It is such a small show. And poor Pavel did not have as much education as me, not with the war and then the revolution. I doubt he can read French, though he speaks it, yes. We had a French governess.” She took a turn around the room before crying, “He might be here! He must be here! He is changed, I know it, just as I am changed. We are not in rags and starving and bones front and back. We might miss each other on the street or pass each other by on the Metro! I’m so afraid that will happen. I cannot leave without finding him.”