April In Paris, 1921

by Tessa Lunney

  ‘Of course not! Good grief. No, I mean, can you be sure to . . . to . . .’ He looked almost embarrassed. He straightened his shoulders and took both of my hands. ‘It’s been wonderful to have you here. I’ve been missing a true friend – all I have are colleagues, contacts and casual concubines.’

  ‘A hellish triumvirate.’

  ‘Quite. So don’t just send the column. Write to me as well.’

  ‘I’ll be too busy.’ The horn sounded and I kissed him quickly. ‘Come and visit me instead!’

  ‘I’ll be at the Ritz!’ He waved with his hat as the train pulled out of the station. Then he was gone. I was on my way to Paris.

  2

  All By Myself

  IT WAS THE FIRST TIME I had seen the English countryside out of uniform. There were no troop trains and no barricades, no convoys of khaki trucks or beautiful, doomed horses as they cantered to the coast. It was the pure Kentish countryside as the tracks rolled on to Dover. Fields fallow with winter and fog that settled close to the ground. Villagers that bustled around their little station, porters too young to have fought, women in faded black dresses selling newspapers and currant buns. Then Dover, seagulls crying into the ships’ horns, the sea grey, then blue, then black as we left the train for the ferry to Calais. Every time I had crossed that channel before, it was towards the guns. On a clear day you could hear them even before you sailed, their boom over the clack of the wheels as the train rolled towards them. Only the clamour of London could drown out their peal of doom. Now all we heard were the waves lapping against the ship and the gulls that followed us over. I went outside to the bracing air and breathed in big lungfuls. No tears on my face, no cordite in my memory. Just soft, salty sea air.

  A shiver ran through us when we docked. We were in France! Tricolores hung on the jetty, on every platform. The dining car of the Blue Train didn’t offer ham sandwiches and custard but baguette au jambon and crème brûlée. I was too excited to eat. I nibbled at cheese and biscuits, sipped at some strange-tasting red wine and stared out of the window. I knew these fields so well. All the rubble, the squat little huts, the profusion of poppies like blood spots in the sun – these were all still there, no one had blown them up or knocked them down. Young men took their young women to the places where they’d fought; old women took their old men to see the shallow graves of their sons. The train emptied as couple after couple drifted onto the fields for a battlefield tour. I overheard them; they proclaimed at how the fields looked stripped, pocked, full of metal still. I couldn’t see it. I saw only that all the boys were gone, the nurses and cooks, the horses and dogs. I saw the stillness, the absence of hurry and schnell, the absence of uniforms. I heard nothing but ordinary civilian sounds, the murmuring song of quiet conversations, porters and postcard sellers, the occasional toot of a tour guide – no yells, no shells, no orders bellowed from the end of the platform. The sun touched the field stubble and lingered, coaxing the crop to grow. Birds weaved in loops; swallows and sparrows and crows, they called into the empty air. My heart was full. It was a struggle to keep my eyes from filling as well.

  Thank heaven for Paris. The train pulled into Gare du Nord with a sigh of smoke and steel. Uniformed porters, so smart in their red and gold, hurried up to the unloaded trunks. Flower girls and newspaper boys gathered in a semicircle and yelled in their broad French. Bearded old men and crisp young women, nannies with toddlers, and languid couples in silk and wool clipped over the platform into their own Parisian lives. I wanted to savour this moment and just watch from the carriage window. I wanted to jump out and kiss all the porters and street sellers. I controlled myself and hopped discreetly from the train to my trunk, from my trunk to a cab, from my cab to rue Delambre, Montparnasse.

  My new home.

  The cab driver just smiled when I gave him the address. It was already a favourite place for foreigners. Rue Delambre was the street with Café du Dôme and Café de la Rotonde across the boulevard, with studios and bars and bookshops full of writers, artists and bohemian tourists. My skin tingled as we wound through the streets. All the ordinary things struck me again as wonderful – all the signs were in French! You could buy baguettes in every bakery! Well-dressed couples drank their coffee on the street! – so obvious, so novel, I’d seen it all before but somehow it felt new. It wasn’t until I saw the advertisements for Dubonnet and Gitanes, the booksellers by the Seine, those markers of daily life, that I fully understood: now I live in Paris. I was there for myself, by myself. All the smells that wafted in through the window, of fresh bread, old wine, unwashed beggar, burnt sugar, salt, fat. All the sounds of French yelled, muttered, sung and laughed. Even the men on the street corners, dignified in their wheelchairs, tin cup in one hand, nodding at each centime and franc that rattled their metal – it was just them, and me, and all the other war refuse, human flotsam and political jetsam that could only be saved by Paris.

  Number 21 had a pale four-storey façade with the attic on top like a metal hat. Long windows looked onto the street, framed with shutters and baskets for window pots. Bertie had organised, through his contacts, a cheap little studio for me. I knew from the price that it would be on the top floor – I was to live in the little metal hat.

  A stout old woman with a fed-up expression greeted my knock. She jangled the keys on her belt, handed me one, and directed two boys from the street to carry my trunk. She looked me up and down and sighed, but never said a word to me. What on earth had Bertie told her? The boys, in between cursing each other as they heaved my trunk upstairs, were more forthcoming.

  ‘You’re the blonde Australienne?’

  ‘There’s only one blonde Australienne.’

  ‘You’re a war hero.’

  ‘And a wealthy mademoiselle in disguise.’

  ‘And a writer! Will you write about the war?’

  ‘Where is Australia? Is it as far as Marseille?’

  ‘As far as the Dardanelles? My father fought there—’

  ‘I have a cousin from Marseille, it took her three days to get to Paris!’

  ‘My father never came back from the war . . . he’s a hero too.’

  All this was exchanged in rapid patter. They made such a racket that people poked their heads out of their doors to look. Most were mothers, who gave a cursory glance and ‘Bonjour’ and popped back inside. This way I found out where the bathroom was – on the third floor, just a toilet and a sink – with a toilet on the ground floor as well. A young man, not much older than the boys, lounged in his doorway and smoked, his waistcoat open and his sleeves rolled up. He gave unwanted directions to the two boys and winked at me.

  Finally we reached the top floor. There was nothing in my flat but a saggy old bed. One wall held two windows that, due to the low roof, reached from the floor almost to the ceiling. I opened them and found they had a little sill but otherwise dropped straight to the street. I tipped the boys and sent them off, kicked off my shoes, swung my legs over the sill and lit a cigarette. The view over the city stretched on and on, over chimneypots and attics, over the Luxembourg Gardens and the Sorbonne to my right, to my left over streetlamps and metal roofs to the Eiffel Tower. The light was silver and the city shone with rain under a changeable sky. Paris stretched in front of me and all I could do was worship her winding ways. I leant back against the window frame and smoked.

  Bright, laughing people walked down my street to the cafés. They wore parrot-coloured scarves and long coats slick with sudden showers; they wore enormous hats or no hats at all; they spoke loudly and their feet seemed to skip over the footpath. Some of them even waved up to me, complete strangers. The Rotonde’s tables spilt up the street and around the corner, each chair full, the lamps and heaters from the restaurant keeping the patrons as warm as the wine. I never even made it inside, that first evening. I was hailed by an American who’d seen my feet dangling over my windowsill – ‘Look! Hey, leggy lady! Hello! Do you drink champagne? Pink champagne? Of course you do . . .’ No chaperones, no invitation
s, no introductions. We were all here for the same reason. We were all here to escape dull parents and scant options and bad memories. We were all here to explore art, music, sex and travel. We had already begun, just by being here, just by sharing a drink with a handsome stranger for no other reason than fun. Father’s bluster and Mother’s frown were very far away. Bloodied bodies and uniforms were just as lost. My stomach fluttered with excitement, bubbles, kisses and a feeling that I was flying.

  I felt alive.

  THEN IT WAS APRIL, with soft light on the chestnut blossoms shaken over tables by the breeze. The squalls of winter rain had faded and the sun said hello for more than a minute at a time. On the street people had swapped their heavy winter coats, left over from the war, for more colourful, carefree models. I saw ankles and necks again, unwrapped from boots and scarves. Café heaters were not turned on until dusk and we could sit outside without shivering. In the patisseries, fresh strawberries – ‘From my grandmother’s hothouse, mademoiselle, very sweet’ – appeared on the fruit tarts. Sparrows and swallows returned to their nests in the eaves, awnings and boulevard branches. They sang into the dawn, earlier and earlier each day. As I stumbled home from bohemian nightcaps in poky studios, I found myself greeting them more often.

  After a month my routine was established (well, as much as one could have a routine in Montparnasse). Each night I would head out into the city for a party. I would wear my most extravagant outfit, offset only by the pencil and notebook in my purse. Society reporters are professional partygoers. I wrote tactful, tasteful tidbits that had as much relation to reality as Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Actually, Alice was like a philosophical discussion at a party with drunk five-year-olds, and so had more reality than anything I would write for Bertie. Here’s an example:

  Who would have thought that Lady Langborough sang opera? She delighted the assembled guests at railway heiress Miss Cordelia McNeill’s twenty-third birthday party on Saturday night. Lady L wore a beaded silver dress, with silver shoes and long silver gloves, and sang as clearly as the bell she so perfectly resembled. And what better tribute to Paris, this city that continues to give us joy and delight? The sweet, sad sounds of Puccini’s La Bohème was a touching present for her friend, Miss McNeill. Miss McNeill herself was radiant in pink silk chiffon layers that made her as ethereal as the spring dawn over the city . . .

  And so on. It was all just detail sewn together with bits of fluff. If I were being truthful, I’d write something like this:

  Lady Langborough – the self-styled title of Jane Hotham of Boston – tortured us all with her sentimental rendition of Mimi’s aria from La Bohème. Although no individual note was off-key, the effect was decidedly out of tune. It was clear that the Lady felt starving artists to be as real as fairies or mermaids. She needed only to walk three blocks north or south of her gilded perch to find the Mimis still dying of consumption – but why let reality ruin a solid performance? For solid it was. All Puccini’s airy lightness was quashed by good, honest commonsense, in good, honest, tweeds and button boots. But at least she had commonsense, which is more than could be said for the host, Miss McNeill, who clearly couldn’t see that every guest was only there to partake of some of her father’s money . . .

  But of course, that would mean I would never be invited to another party. While that was tempting, the independence that this job bought me was too valuable. I made meticulous notes on the dresses, food and the layout of the sumptuous apartments. I asked so many questions that the hosts thought I was genuinely interested in where they bought their rugs and who was related to whom. Usually the best bit of the party was when I found the prettiest young man and retired to bedroom or back room – or once even a stairwell – with a bottle of champagne for a swift game of hunt-the-slipper. I added ‘spice’, as the parties were ‘not nearly so lively’ when I wasn’t around. People performed for me, apparently. Heaven help them when I was absent.

  If I had been to an aristocratic party, the type I wrote about for Bertie, then at midnight I would perform my Cinderella act and disappear, usually to Montmartre for jazz or back into Montparnasse for late-night gin and giggles. If the party started in Montparnasse . . . well, I would come home whenever the artistic talk or political dancing or licentious party games would release me. I would rise just before midday, sometimes entangled with a bright young thing and sometimes deliciously alone, and rattle down to my favourite breakfast café for multiple cups of coffee. I would write up my notes in the afternoon and each Wednesday send them express post to arrive, by Thursday, to Bertie in London. One invitation would lead to the next, one party to another, the days brightening and lightening as we floated towards summer. I was untethered and delirious on French wine, scurrilous talk, and the view from my little garret. I slipped into this city as though I had never left. As though it had always been home.

  3

  April Showers

  ONE NIGHT, just as the sun was setting, I wandered down to the Rotonde. I had no party and no plan, just a wish for a drink in company. I put on a simple dress, a deep red silk with a low square neckline and a long waist-sash that fluttered as I walked. It was still just cold enough to wear boots, so I wore my black suede pair along with a black faux-astrakhan coat with shawl collar and large cuffs, and a deep red cloche over my bob. No jewellery other than a dripping red heart brooch pinned to the coat; I was only hopping down to my local, after all.

  The café was usually full of all my new friends, artists and writers and muses and tourists, but this evening I knew only one person. She carried her native California with her in her big blue eyes and breezy attitude, but went forward in her chosen artistic milieu by electing to be known only by her mother’s maiden name, North. Her work was all talk but her talk was all smiles and sweet gossip. She was enthusiastic about everything and everyone, and was always at a footpath table with a drink. I waved to her and she waved me over.

  ‘Oh, honey,’ she breathed, ‘it’s just fabulous. I mean, I only know Manuelle, who once almost modelled for me, but she’s Picasso’s current model, and he’s so generous, I just . . .’ North couldn’t stop gushing, even by her effusive standards.

  A series of tables had been pushed together and in the middle of this gathering sat Pablo Picasso. Picasso was shorter than the other men around him. He was broad-shouldered and his hands moved often, with energy and confidence, as he spoke. His eyes were the most arresting. Huge and dark, they pinned his companion to his sentence, they took in the group in one big swallow. For any café habitué, as I was fast becoming, aperitifs with Picasso was the very height of fashionable bohemian society, the inmost of the in-crowd. The café group drank and chatted, sometimes with Picasso and sometimes among themselves. They shared cigarettes and kisses and dipped their fingers into little bowls of olives that were scattered around the tables. As I stood next to North, I was included in Picasso’s gaze. He spoke to someone next to him and nodded at me.

  ‘Oh, oh, Kiki, Manuelle wants to speak with you,’ said North, excitedly patting my arm. She pointed to a lovely woman, all dark hair and dark eyes and glowing olive skin. Manuelle waved me over with a smile. I weaved through the tables and pulled up a chair next to her.

  ‘Tell me,’ she purred – I hadn’t understood how a person could purr until I heard that deep, burred voice roll from her rosebud lips, ‘tell us who you are, what you do, where you’re from. We want to know everything.’

  ‘I’m Kiki—’

  ‘You’re the Australienne?’ a man opposite cut in. ‘The blonde Australienne, you must be her – Max, this is the Australienne.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The blonde Australienne.’

  ‘Ah, the other Kiki! Bonjour! So wonderful to meet you.’ He took my hand and kissed it. ‘I’m Max.’

  ‘I’m Jean,’ said my first interrupter. He took my other hand and kissed it, so both my arms were stretched across the table.

  ‘Manuelle, feed Kiki a sip of rosé,’ said Max, ‘we require he
r hands for the moment.’

  Manuelle poured a tipple down my throat, cleaning up the spilt drops with her soft fingers.

  ‘Now, Kiki,’ said Jean, ‘tell us what brings you all the way to Paris.’

  ‘Freedom,’ I said.

  ‘Perfect!’ cried Max. ‘She will do.’

  ‘Paris is the home of liberté!’ said Jean. ‘Mademoiselle, you have come to the right place.’

  ‘I know I have.’ I couldn’t imitate Manuelle’s purr, but my bright accent with its Australian twang delighted them. They laughed and imitated me, still holding my hands. Both men were handsome, slender and dark-haired, Jean with a cheeky look, Max wide-eyed like a romantic poet. Both, scandalously, had German accents, though while Max’s was obvious, Jean’s was only noticeable when he spoke a German name. They instructed Manuelle to feed me and interrogated me on my living circumstances, my work, my opinions on art. I was clearly being interviewed for the post of bohemian groupie, but in the midst of it – quelle horreur! – we ran out of wine. They finally let go of my hands to chase up a waiter to order more.

  It was dark and the lights all around the corner of Boulevard Montparnasse glowed. Everyone huddled into their coats and chatted, except for North, who was somewhat agog. I winked at her. Manuelle touched my arm.

  ‘Have you met Pablo?’ she asked.

  I held my breath as I faced Picasso. I thought I would feel skewered, like a pinned butterfly, but his eyes held laughter, as though we shared the most marvellous joke, just the two of us.

  ‘A pleasure to meet you. Kiki, is it?’

  I smiled. ‘It’s my Paris name.’

  ‘She’s Australian,’ said Manuelle.

  ‘Kiki Kangaroo,’ said Picasso. He looked at my face with such intensity it was as though I could feel his gaze. I’d thought it must’ve been his taste for brothels, but perhaps this was how he got his reputation as a ladies’ man. Such intense attention was unusual and I wasn’t sure if I was nervous or excited. He reached over and turned my face this way and that. Manuelle raised her eyebrows but he just grunted.