The Seven Sisters

by Lucinda Riley

  Having taken a number of wrong turns, finally their driver turned left into the entrance of a large, rambling house.

  ‘This is it.’ Heitor climbed out of the car immediately, his eyes alight with expectation. As Bel followed him through the gardens, she saw a wiry figure sporting a head of unruly grey hair and a long beard emerge from the side of the house, clad in a clay-spattered smock. She watched as the two men shook hands and began to talk earnestly together. She hovered some distance away, not wishing to interrupt their conversation, and it was a few minutes before Heitor seemed to remember she was there.

  ‘Senhorita,’ he said, turning to her. ‘My apologies. It is always a great moment when you have the pleasure of meeting someone in person with whom you have only corresponded by letter previously. May I present Professor Paul Landowski. Professor, this is Senhorita Izabela Bonifacio.’

  Landowski reached out his hand and raised her fingers to his lips. ‘Enchanté.’ Then he looked down at her hand, and to Bel’s surprise, began to gently trace its contours with his own fingertips. ‘Mademoiselle, why, you have the most beautiful fingers. Does she not, Monsieur da Silva Costa?’

  ‘I regret I’ve never noticed them before,’ answered Heitor. ‘But yes, senhor, you are right.’

  ‘Now, down to business, monsieur,’ said Landowski, letting go of Bel’s hand. ‘I will show you my atelier, and then we will discuss your vision of the Christ in more detail.’

  Bel followed the two men through the garden, noting that the foliage seemed still asleep – green but with no flowers visible yet – whereas in her homeland, the vibrant colours of the native plants decorated the landscape all year round.

  Landowski led them into a high, barn-like structure that sat at the end of the garden, the sides of it constructed from walls of glass to let in the light. A young man sat bent over a workbench in a corner of the airy space, working on a clay bust. He didn’t even look up as they entered, so intently focused was he on his task.

  ‘I’m working on a provisional sculpture of Sun Yat-sen and am struggling to perfect his eyes. They are, of course, a very different shape to our own western ones,’ Landowski stated. ‘My assistant is seeing if he can improve on my efforts.’

  ‘You work mostly in clay or stone, Professor Landowski?’ Heitor asked.

  ‘Whichever the client desires. Have you any idea what you wish for your Christ?’

  ‘I have thought of bronze, of course, but I’m concerned that Our Lord will wear a greenish hue as the bronze ages in the wind and the rain. And besides, I wish all of Rio to look up and see Him wearing light-coloured robes rather than dark ones.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Landowski. ‘But if you are talking about thirty metres, I think that a stone statue of that height and size will be impossible to drag up a mountainside, let alone erect when you get there.’

  ‘Of course,’ Heitor agreed. ‘Which is why, with the interior architectural structure I hope to finalise while I’m in Europe, I believe the Cristo’s outer shell must be cast in a mould, and then rebuilt piece by piece in Rio.’

  ‘Well, if you’ve seen enough in here, we will retire to the house and study the sketches I have made. Mademoiselle,’ Landowski said, turning his attention to Bel, ‘are you content to amuse yourself in the atelier while we two men talk? Or would you be more comfortable in the drawing room with my wife?’

  ‘I would be very happy here, thank you, monsieur,’ said Bel. ‘It’s a privilege to see the workings of your atelier.’

  ‘I’m sure if you ask him nicely, my assistant may rouse himself from Sun Yat-sen’s eyeball and provide you with some refreshment.’ Landowski nodded pointedly in the direction of the young man, then left the atelier with Heitor.

  The assistant, however, seemed oblivious to her presence as she wandered around, wishing she could move closer to watch what he was doing, but not wanting to disturb him. On the far side of the main workspace was an enormous oven, presumably used for firing the clay. To her left were two partitioned-off rooms: one a very basic washroom, also containing a large sink with bags of clay stacked up the walls around it; the other a small windowless kitchen. She moved into the main atelier and glanced out of the back window, where she saw a number of enormous stone boulders of different shapes and sizes, presumably to be used by Landowski when he was sculpting in the future.

  Having exhausted all immediate avenues of distraction, Bel spotted a rickety wooden chair and went to sit herself down on it. She watched the assistant, his head bent, working with total concentration. Ten minutes later, as the clock struck noon, he wiped his hands on his work shirt and abruptly looked up.

  ‘Lunch,’ he announced, and for the first time, he looked directly at Bel and smiled. ‘Bonjour, mademoiselle.’

  Because his head had been lowered up until then, Bel had not been able to see his features. But as he smiled at her she felt a strange tipping in her stomach.

  ‘Bonjour.’ She smiled back at him shyly. He stood up and walked over to her and she too stood at his approach.

  ‘Forgive me, mademoiselle, for ignoring you,’ he said, speaking in French, ‘but I was concentrating on an eyeball and it is very delicate work.’ He stopped a metre away from her and studied her intently. ‘Have we met before? You seem familiar.’

  ‘No, I’m afraid that is impossible. I’ve only recently arrived from Rio de Janeiro.’

  ‘Then I am mistaken.’ He nodded thoughtfully. ‘I will not shake your hand, as my own is covered in clay. Excuse me for a few moments while I go and clean myself up.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Bel, her voice seeming to come out as no more than a forced whisper. She had stood up perfectly easily as he’d walked over to greet her, but now, as he disappeared into the room with the sink, she sat down abruptly, feeling dizzy and breathless. She wondered if she was coming down with the chill that Maria Elisa and her mother had been suffering from.

  Five minutes later, the young man reappeared, divested of his smock and clad in a clean shirt. Her fingers moved a few centimetres forward of their own volition, instinctively wishing to run themselves through his long, wavy chestnut hair, to stroke the pale skin of his cheek, trace the shape of his perfect aquiline nose, and the full pink lips concealing his even white teeth. The faraway expression in his green eyes reminded her of Heitor’s: physically here, but with his inner thoughts elsewhere.

  Bel suddenly realised that his lips were moving and a sound was coming out of his mouth. She realised he was asking her name. Shocked at her own reaction to his presence, she dragged herself out of her daydream, trying to pull herself together and speak lucidly in French.

  ‘Mademoiselle, are you feeling well? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘My apologies, I was . . . elsewhere. My name is Izabela, Izabela Bonifacio.’

  ‘Ah, like the old Queen of Spain,’ the assistant nodded.

  ‘And the late Princess of Brazil,’ she interjected quickly.

  ‘I regret to admit I know very little about your country and its history. Apart from the fact they rival us here in believing they produce the best cup of coffee.’

  ‘Certainly the best beans at least,’ she said defensively. ‘Obviously, I know a lot about your country,’ she said, wondering if she was sounding as witless as she felt.

  ‘Yes. Our art and culture have crossed the globe over many hundreds of years, whereas yours is still to emerge. And I have no doubt it will,’ he added. ‘Now, as you seem to have been abandoned by the professor and your friend the architect, perhaps I can offer you some lunch while you tell me more about Brazil.’

  ‘I . . .’ Bel glanced out of the window, vaguely nervous about the inappropriateness of the situation. She had never met this man in her life and she was alone with him. If her father or her fiancé could see her now . . .

  The young man saw her concern and waved it away with a dismissive flick of his hand. ‘I can guarantee they will forget all about you while they are deep in discussion. And they
may be gone for hours. So, if you do not wish to starve, please, sit yourself down at that table over there and I will prepare our lunch.’

  The young man turned from her and began to walk across the atelier towards the kitchen she had glimpsed earlier.

  ‘Pardon me, monsieur, but what is your name?’

  He stopped and turned. ‘Forgive me, how rude I am. My name is Laurent, Laurent Brouilly.’

  Bel sat down at the rough wooden bench placed in a small alcove in a corner of the room. A small chuckle escaped from her lips as she thought of the circumstances she found herself in. Alone with a young man, and not only that, one who was currently preparing lunch for them both. She had never seen Pai enter their kitchen, let alone prepare a meal.

  A few minutes later, Laurent came towards her carrying a tray loaded with two sticks of the delicious freshly baked French bread she so loved, two hunks of strong-smelling French cheese, an earthenware jug and two glasses.

  He set it down on the table, before drawing a piece of old curtain that ran on a track nailed to the ceiling. ‘To keep the dust from the atelier off our food,’ he explained as he emptied the contents of the tray onto the bare boards of the table. Then he poured a generous amount of a pale yellow liquid into the two glasses and passed one to her.

  ‘You drink wine with bread and cheese alone?’ she marvelled.

  ‘Mademoiselle, we are French. We drink wine with anything, at any time.’ He smiled as he lifted his glass towards her. ‘Santé,’ he said, as he raised his glass to hers.

  Laurent took a hearty gulp of the wine, and she too took a tentative sip. She watched as he tore a chunk off the baguette, prised it open with his fingers then proceeded to fill it with slices of cheese. Not wishing to ask where the plates were, she followed suit.

  Never had such a plain menu tasted so delicious, she thought with pleasure. Although, instead of wolfing down the food in large bites as Laurent did, Bel took a more ladylike approach and tore off small pieces of bread and cheese with her fingers before placing them in her mouth. And all the time, his eyes seemed to be on her.

  ‘What are you staring at?’ she asked him eventually, uncomfortable under his constant gaze.

  ‘You,’ he answered, draining his wine glass and pouring himself more.

  ‘Why?’

  He took a further mouthful then shrugged in the uniquely Gallic way Bel had come to recognise from her study of Parisians on the street below her window. ‘Because, Mademoiselle Izabela, you are quite glorious to look at.’

  However inappropriate, her stomach somersaulted at his comment.

  ‘Don’t look so horrified, mademoiselle. I’m sure a woman such as you has been told this a thousand times? You must be used to people staring at you.’

  Bel thought about this and supposed that yes, she did attract many admiring glances. But none had ever felt as intense as his.

  ‘Have you ever been painted? Or maybe sculpted?’ he asked.

  ‘Once, when I was a child – my father commissioned my portrait.’

  ‘I’m surprised. I would have thought they’d have been queuing up in Montparnasse to paint you.’

  ‘I’ve been in Paris for less than a week, monsieur, and I haven’t been out anywhere so far.’

  ‘Well, having discovered you, I’m of the mind to keep you all to myself, and let none of those rogues and vagabonds near you,’ he said with a wide grin.

  ‘I would love to go and visit Montparnasse,’ Bel sighed, ‘but I doubt I would ever be allowed.’

  ‘Of course,’ he agreed. ‘Parents across Paris would prefer their daughters to be drowned in the river rather than lose their virtue and their hearts on the Left Bank. Where are you staying?’

  ‘In an apartment on Avenue de Marigny, just off the Champs-Élysées. I’m here as a guest of the da Silva Costa family. They are my guardians.’

  ‘And are they not eager to embrace all Paris has to offer?’

  ‘No.’ Bel thought he was being serious, until she saw his playful expression.

  ‘Well, as a true artist knows, every rule is there to be broken, every barrier to be pulled down. We have one life, mademoiselle, and we must live it as we choose.’

  Bel remained silent, but the euphoria of finally finding someone who felt as she did was almost too much for her and tears pricked her eyes. Laurent noticed immediately.

  ‘Why do you cry?’

  ‘In Brazil, life is very different. We obey the rules.’

  ‘I understand, mademoiselle,’ he said softly. ‘And I can see already that you have agreed to one of them.’ Laurent indicated the engagement ring on her finger. ‘You are due to be married?’

  ‘Yes, when I return home from my time in Europe.’

  ‘And you are happy about this match?’

  Bel was taken aback by his direct approach. This man was a stranger who knew next to nothing about her, and yet they were sharing wine, bread and cheese – and intimacies – as though they had known each other all their lives. If this was the Bohemian way, Bel decided she wanted to embrace it wholeheartedly.

  ‘Gustavo, my fiancé, will make a loyal and caring husband,’ she replied carefully. ‘And besides, I think that often marriage is not just about love,’ she lied.

  He looked at her for a while before he sighed and shook his head. ‘Mademoiselle, a life without love is like a Frenchman without his wine, or a human being without oxygen. But,’ he sighed, ‘maybe you’re right. Some people accept the lack of it and are prepared to settle for other things, such as wealth and status. But me, no.’ Laurent shook his head. ‘I could never sacrifice myself on the altar of materialism. If I’m to spend my life with another, I want to wake up every morning and stare into the eyes of the woman I love. I am surprised you are prepared to settle for less. Already I can see the passionate heart that beats inside you.’

  ‘Please, monsieur . . .’

  ‘Forgive me, mademoiselle, I go too far. So, enough! But I would very much like to have the honour of sculpting you. Would you object if I asked Monsieur da Silva Costa if I can practise my art using you as a model?’

  ‘You can ask him, but I couldn’t . . .’ Bel, blushing from embarrassment, did not know how to phrase the sentence.

  ‘No, mademoiselle,’ said Laurent, reading her mind. ‘Rest assured I will not be asking you to remove your clothes. At least, not yet,’ he added.

  Bel was rendered speechless at the intimate insinuation. It thrilled and frightened her in equal measure. ‘Where do you live?’ she asked, desperate to change the subject.

  ‘Like any true artist, I rent an attic room, along with six others, situated in the alleyways of Montparnasse.’

  ‘You work for Professor Landowski?’

  ‘I wouldn’t quite use that expression, because I’m paid only in food and wine,’ Laurent corrected her. ‘And if the attic I rent with the others in Montparnasse is too crowded, he allows me to sleep here sometimes on a pallet. I am learning my craft, and there is no finer teacher than Landowski. As the Surrealists are experimenting in painting, Landowski is doing the same in sculpture with Art Deco. He is moving forward from the busy, overly fussy works of the past. He was my professor at the École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts and when he chose me to be his assistant, I was delighted to take up his offer.’

  ‘Where is your family from?’ Bel asked.

  ‘Why would that be of interest?’ Laurent chuckled. ‘Next you will ask me which social class I come from! You see, Mademoiselle Izabela, all of us artists here in Paris are simply who we are; we throw away our past and live only for the day. We are defined by our talent, not our heritage. But since you ask,’ he said, taking a gulp of wine, ‘I will tell you. My family comes from a noble lineage and has a chateau near Versailles. If I hadn’t walked away from them and the life they wished for me as their oldest son, I would be Le Comte Quebedeaux Brouilly by now. However, since my father announced that he would cut me out of his will when I told him I wished to become a sculptor, as
I said before, now I’m simply me. I have not a centime to my name, and anything I earn in the future will only come from these very hands.’

  He eyed her, but she said nothing. What could she say when her entire life was based on all the values he’d just derided?

  ‘Perhaps you’re surprised? But I promise there are many of us who are the same in Paris. And at least my father didn’t have to deal with the ignominy of his son being a homosexual, as several of my acquaintances’ fathers have had to.’

  Bel stared at him, horrified that he would even voice such a thought. ‘But it’s illegal!’ she couldn’t help exclaiming.

  He tilted his head to one side and studied her. ‘And because bigoted regimes make it so, does that mean it’s wrong?’

  ‘I . . . I don’t know,’ she floundered, falling silent and trying to regain her composure.

  ‘Forgive me, mademoiselle, I fear I have shocked you.’

  Bel saw the glint in his eye and could tell he was enjoying doing so.

  Another sip of wine emboldened her. ‘So, Monsieur Brouilly, you have made it clear that you don’t care about money or material possessions? You are happy to live on thin air?’

  ‘Yes, at least for now, while I’m young and fit and living in the centre of the world here in Paris. However, I accept that when I’m old and infirm, and have never earned money from my sculptures, then yes, I might regret my actions. Many of my artist friends have kind benefactors who help them while they are struggling. However, as many of these benefactors are ugly dowagers who expect the young artist they’re supporting to gratify them in other ways, that is not the route for me. It’s little better than whoring, and I will not be a part of it.’

  Again, Bel was shocked at the openness with which he spoke such words. Of course she’d heard of the brothels at home in Lapa, where men would go to have their physical appetites quenched, but it would never be spoken of in open company. And certainly not by a man to a respectable woman.