Pictures of the Past
Page 6
“Excusez-moi. Soyez prudent,” the man at the desk had admonished him when he heard the slight knock of Taylor’s heel against the frame.
“Oh, sorry, sorry,” he was quick to say. “It didn’t fall. It was leaning precariously. No harm done. I’ll set it right again.” But as he bent to just readjust its position, he was immediately captured by it. “Sir, may I put it here?”
There was an open easel, likely there for this very purpose, and so without waiting for an answer, Taylor placed the painting gently on display at eye level, as Francois, having witnessed this last part of the exchange, came toward him.
Taylor had been drawn to the painting immediately, as if it were a play for which he arrived late and he was anxious to take his seat. The painter had not only illustrated a poignant moment in time, but had touched his audience with an unmistakable impression that they had come in at the middle of the story, that they needed to know the beginning and to follow it through to the end. Francois translated the title for him, as “Girl at the Beach,” and Taylor understood that the artist meant for the central point of view to be that of the little redheaded girl sitting to the far left of the canvas at a beach café table, with possibly her young mother, or more likely an older sibling. Sitting close together in their turn-of-the-century attire, the pair reminded Taylor of those in Auguste Renoir’s Two Sisters, the colors equally as vibrant as that master’s. They are watching a group of young couples dancing. Perhaps the little girl’s fascination with the scene is because she is envious of their age and wishes she could be part of the fun, but more likely she is trying to understand the exchanged looks she is witnessing. A handsome young man, his arm around the waist of his partner, is not focusing on her eyes, but is staring instead beyond her shoulder directly at the older sister, the longing in his eyes unmistakable, as is the desire in hers.
Taylor was so moved by the painting that he turned to Francois and insisted that this was the one—and Francois could only concur with his choice. Taylor knew that this painting would be the beginning of his collection—that he would present it as a gift to Emily upon his return.
Speaking to the artist’s representative, Francois explained that his young American tourist was interested in the painting, but would need a good price in exchange for extending the artist’s reputation to Chicago in the United States. Of course, the dealer was anxious to reduce his inventory and even Francois was surprised at the modest price he named.
Although Taylor would have liked to have had the painting in his possession immediately, would happily have carried it carefully through the crowded walkways of the fair, instead, they arranged for the painting to be delivered to the Hôtel de Crillon the following morning, at which time a remittance would be left with the hotel cashier.
Taylor’s guide, well aware that they were running late, rushed him along. Even without the purchase, they had to delicately maneuver the crowded promenade of the exposition area, as many people were heading in the opposite direction to enjoy the evening at the fair.
When they finally reached the restaurant where the conference would have its opening dinner, Taylor found it to be a dark and weathered-looking place, not at all worthy of the accolades that Francois had advanced. But once they were led past the maître d’s stand in a dimly lit alcove, it opened into the most elegantly appointed space, with an adjacent sunroom of glass panes and wrought iron moldings.
He was greeted with a strong hand patting the top of his shoulder in a friendly gesture. “Hello, young Mr. Woodmere.” He recognized immediately his father’s friend and colleague, Emanuel Berger. With his thick German accent, he was exactly as his father had described, not tall, perhaps five feet eight, and with a full build that might have seemed plump, if not contained by the perfect fit of a finely tailored suit, which gave him a distinguished appearance. He had a broad moustache and thick hair, both black, with graying strands. His face had a friendly character, handsome, but with the lines of the trials of life.
Taylor had taken time to prepare himself to address each man at the conference with an individual comment. But just as he was beginning to inquire about the business climate in Berlin, Emanuel’s attention shifted away from Taylor. Now Emanuel held out his hand to a young lady who had just entered the room. Perhaps because of his own movements or perhaps alerted by the sweet floral hints of her perfume, Emanuel could see immediately that Taylor’s attention was diverted, as well. Beneath the shade of his moustache, Emanuel’s broad smile was evident. He was used to this reaction. “And may I introduce to you my daughter, Sarah.”
Taylor felt as if someone had pulled on his heart, as if he were frozen, mesmerized by her beautiful face, paralyzed by the brilliance of her blond hair, which was embellished by a topaz rhinestone comb, lifting one side of her coiffure in a stylish curl to reveal a small, perfect ear.
“Sarah, I would like you to meet Mr. Taylor Woodmere, from Chicago.”
She held out her hand to him, but he did not see it. He could only focus on the shimmering blue pools of her eyes. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Woodmere. I am Sarah Berger.” When he did not respond, she said, “I apologize. Is my English perhaps unintelligible?”
He was shaken from his trance by the soft, pleasing touch of her hand. “Oh no, my God, you…I mean your English…is perfect.” Taking her hand without moving his gaze from her eyes, he repeated, “Yes, perfect.”
Emanuel, sensing he had become invisible, laughed, and seamlessly moved to another circle of colleagues.
“I am glad you think it is perfect,” Sarah said. “At home we have an English tutor…for Papa and Mama and me. Father has insisted on that since I was twelve years old. He wants us to be able to travel to England and feel as at home as we do in France, because we know French. Here my family has not just business associates, but friends and relatives, and so we come often.”
He was compelled to extend this brief introduction into a lengthy conversation and so a barrage of topics sped through his brain, but in an unbelievably incoherent pattern, leaving him embarrassed and speechless for perhaps the first time in his life. He, who had been garrulous even as a toddler and had developed into a master conversationalist, a decorated debater in college, was momentarily incapable of formulating a single sentence that might initiate even the most mundane response about the fair weather.
It was Emanuel Berger, returning to them, who finally broke through Taylor’s dreamlike fugue to introduce him to other colleagues, and Sarah excused herself to allow her father to be the focus once more.
“Mr. Woodmere,” he said, approaching with two other distinguished gentlemen.
But Taylor, after a brief frown, an involuntary reaction to Sarah’s quick departure, responded respectfully, “Please, Herr Berger, I would be most comfortable as Taylor.”
“Oh, yes—that casual, American style surfaces already.”
“Perhaps that—but I will need everyone to see me as an individual and judge, themselves, if I am a worthy substitute for my father and grandfather.”
Emanuel Berger nodded his head, already warming to his friend’s son. “Then, Taylor, I would like you to meet Mr. Richard Hammersmith. He is one of our British colleagues. Richard, please. This is Addison Woodmere’s son, Taylor.”
Now Emanuel motioned toward the second man and continued. “And this is Monsieur Pierre Bouchet, our host for this evening.”
After shaking each of their hands, Taylor stepped back, bent his head pensively, and then addressed the British gentleman. “Yes, Crown Industries with—metal cookware and leather goods, two factories, one under construction.”
“Taylor, you have done your homework,” the man answered, putting his arm around the shoulder of Emanuel Berger. “As we discuss our international business relations, we are not naïve to problems that may lie ahead for our dear friend in Germany. We proceed with discussions as if all is normal—‘business as usual,’ but we assure Emanuel that whatever happens in his homeland, he will have a home with us.”
“You are right about that,” he acknowledged, and then his voice rose as he addressed the entire group. “Bonsoir, mes amis. Let us fill the wine glasses for our first toast for our conference.” He motioned for the waiter to begin pouring from his private stock, already displayed on a nearby table. Lifting his own glass high, he rotated his body in a semicircle. “To us—let us drink to our joint ventures promoting international commerce,” he began with a strong tone, but then added with his head lowered, “and let us pray for peace.” A brief silence followed and then more of the guests approached the small group, anxious to be introduced to the handsome young American representative.
Knowing the importance of first impressions, Taylor tried to be as cordial as possible—but he was more than distracted; he was desperate. Where had she gone? His guide, Francois, sensed his impatience. Francois, already, had become attuned to the rhythms of Taylor’s speech, and however impressed by his maturity, he sensed that Taylor had suddenly lost his focus and he thought he knew the reason. He could see Taylor scanning the room, just as he watched Taylor’s eyes when he first met Sarah. In support of his young charge, he became generous in his translations with the group, adding depth and sincerity to cover for him.
Soon Herman Lester, the Woodmere Industries manager from Chicago, came up to Taylor and greeted him enthusiastically, and then Francois excused himself. But Taylor was unable to process the words Herman was speaking, even though they were in his own language. Through the windows of the glass porch, Taylor had spotted Sarah just outside of the restaurant. He saw that she and some of the wives were eating hors d’oeuvres in the beautiful garden area, enjoying the coolness of the last hour before sunset.
He tried to concentrate on what Herman was saying, but it was almost impossible. “There have been some changes to meeting locations, due to the late opening of exhibits and so I have had these memorandums delivered to your room…”
“Herman, would you excuse me a moment?” Taylor was following Sarah’s movements over and in between the crowd of men in their suits. Herman, who had tried to ignore his odd actions, now turned to follow what Taylor was watching, and when he saw Sarah, he gave a sympathetic nod. Undoubtedly, he had been happy to meet Herr Berger’s daughter earlier in the evening; even a married man with three small children would have found that introduction pleasing.
“Yes, Taylor. Please, do what you need to do. We will have plenty of time to talk.” Taylor patted his shoulder, moving past him with the jaunty initial step and stride that football players take when called from the bench by the coach.
Taylor stopped first at the table where there were still unused wine glasses and open bottles from the toast. The waiters having moved on, he poured two fresh glasses himself. He needed a reason to approach her.
“Miss Berger,” he called, catching her attention, as she came back inside.
“Please call me Sarah,” she answered, accepting the wine he offered and then clinking glasses with him in a mock toast.
“I was thinking you were avoiding me,” he said.
She gave him a doubtful look. “Well, no, just being friendly. I am substituting for my mother, you must understand. She was too busy at home with a charity event to accompany Papa—and she knows how I love Paris.” She paused before continuing. “Nevertheless, I am sure you are teasing me. You have been quite occupied, yourself, Mr. Woodmere.” She smirked when she said it, knowing what he would want her to call him, and so she added, “Taylor,” without his needing to ask.
“Well, perhaps, but…”
“And anyway didn’t I just meet you? …And didn’t I just meet, for instance, Monsieur Lester, your manager? And yet he is not chasing me to ask if I am ignoring him.”
She had the most intoxicating, naturally flirtatious manner, he thought. “You’re funny.”
“You think so?”
“Yes—and that is a gift. Funny in a foreign language, even. And, by the way, Monsieur Lester seemed very sympathetic to my cause.”
“And what cause is that, Mr. Taylor Woodmere?”
He had been standing at least two feet from her as they conversed, but now he moved closer, establishing a greater intimacy. “What cause? At the very least to capture your interest,” he said, taking her wine glass and placing it with his on a nearby table, so that he might be able to hold both of her hands as he continued to repeat his words. “At the very least, to capture your interest…at the very most, to win your affection.” He continued bringing her hands to his lips for a cursory kiss.
“Well, you are quite forward.”
“But it’s the French custom, isn’t it? I have seen it in the movies. I am just being polite.” Reluctantly, he let go of her hands.
She was trying to remain cool and composed, but the feel of his kiss on her hand had sent a warm shiver through her body. She tried to play with him to cover her reaction, cautious not to read too much into it. “So I am still wondering was there something specific that you wanted to discuss with me?”
“Well, I just wanted to tell you that…I love…” He had been drinking in the deep water-blue of her eyes and wasn’t even cognizant that he had begun saying those words, “I love,” aloud. He didn’t know where the sentence would go when the words were released. He understood it was premature to say “I love you,” but it was the only way to express what he felt. And now those two words, “I love,” were hanging there with no immediate object. It was too late to sweep them back out of the air and into his private consciousness and so he let them land on her attire. “I just wanted to tell you that I love your dress.”
“Why thank you. It is by Chanel. Do you know her in America? Coco Chanel. Very expensive, tres cher. Papa has allowed me this special treat because he knows that once we are back in Berlin, it will be a part of my mother’s wardrobe. I am lucky; we wear the same size.”
He said nothing and just looked at the way the black and cream gown followed the contours of her body, unaware that the colors and textures of the dress were the signature of the Chanel line. She held her dress out to the sides, grasping the fabric with her fingers as if she was about to curtsy, but instead she twirled around like a ballerina.
“It is beautiful,” he said. He suddenly remembered the comment he had advanced that led now to this action that was further intoxicating him, when he had started to say “I love you,” but had settled for “I love your dress.” And now, almost involuntarily, he began a sentence with “I was just wondering…” And again he did not know the appropriate words to follow. He wanted to say, “I was just wondering if you are tired of hearing that you have the sweetest smile?” or “I was wondering, do you know your hair smells like a fresh garden?” But everything he wanted to say was too forward, too personal, and so he just searched for anything to say, until he finally came up with what he thought might be an acceptable compliment. “I was wondering …if the designer were here now if she would ask you to be her professional model.”
Taylor had two goals in mind at this point—to remain by her side until they were called for dinner and to secure the seat next to her. When the announcement was made and the group moved toward the elegantly set table, he followed her in the direction of her father, who was standing behind a central chair and motioning for her to come to the one to his right. Taylor assisted in pulling out her chair and then moved to occupy the next seat, but he was frustrated by a calligraphed place card that said instead, “Monsieur Roger Lamont.” Discreetly, he backed away and he proceeded to check each card until
he located his. And to his delight, he found he was seated directly across from the irresistible Sarah Berger.
The following day, when the conference ended in the early afternoon, there was time for Taylor, with Francois, to accompany Sarah and her father to the Eiffel Tower and to ascend the structure with them for a spectacular view of the fair and the city beyond. This outing that was heaven for him, simply because he could be by her side, had actually been her idea.
“Have you seen the fair yet?” Sarah had asked at dinner the night before. He could barely concentrate on what she was saying, so absorbed he was in memorizing the details of her face, the contours of her neck and shoulders. When he responded that he had indeed been down the promenade, visiting just one building, she persisted. “No, have you really seen the fair—seen it from the Eiffel Tower? That is the only way.”
She was right. The view was breathtaking, but not the sites she was pointing out—the highlights of the fair, and then the famous landmarks of Paris—the Louvre, the Arc de Triomphe, the Seine snaking through the city. The view of her perfect face and figure framed by the strong rays of the afternoon sun was all he cared to see.
When they returned to the street level, Sarah pulled her father close to her and whispered something in his ear. And then she repeated it aloud to Taylor. “I am telling Papa that I think this tour has taken a toll on him and he looks tired and a bit out of breath.” She patted her father lovingly on his chest and kissed him on each cheek. “Papa, I would understand if you had enough for the day. Would you allow me please to have dinner with just Taylor this evening? We will be fine.”
He looked at her as the most loving parent, proud, yet cautious of his precious princess, as he considered his answer. “Well, of course, darling. I promised your mother not to overdo,” he said.