‘I think I do frighten you, mademoiselle.’ Laurent smiled at her sympathetically.
‘I think that perhaps I have a lot to learn about Paris, monsieur,’ she replied.
‘I’m sure that’s true. So, maybe you can see me as your instructor in the ways of the avant-garde. Ah, I see the two wanderers have returned,’ he said, glancing over her shoulder through the window. ‘The professor is smiling – always a good sign.’
Bel watched as the two men entered the studio, still deep in conversation. Laurent busied himself collecting the remnants of lunch and piling them onto a tray, and Bel hurriedly added her wine glass to it, worrying that Heitor would disapprove.
‘Senhorita,’ Heitor said when he saw her. ‘I apologise for keeping you so long, but Professor Landowski and I had much to talk about.’
‘Not at all,’ Bel replied quickly. ‘Monsieur Brouilly has been explaining the . . . fundamentals of sculpture to me.’
‘Good, good.’ Bel could see Heitor was distracted as he immediately turned back to Landowski. ‘So, I visit Florence next week and then travel on to Munich. I will be back in Paris on the twenty-fifth, after which I will be in contact.’
‘Of course,’ Landowski agreed. ‘You may feel that my ideas and style are not suitable for your needs. But whatever you decide, I admire your bravery and determination to execute such a difficult project. And I would certainly enjoy the challenge of being a part of it.’
The two men shook hands, and Heitor turned to walk out of the atelier, with Bel following suit.
‘Monsieur da Silva Costa, before you leave, I have a favour to ask of you,’ said Laurent suddenly.
‘And what might that be?’ Heitor asked, turning towards him.
‘I would like to sculpt your ward, Mademoiselle Izabela. She has the most exquisite features and I want to see if I can do them justice.’
Heitor paused uncertainly. ‘I admit I’m not sure what to say. It is a very flattering offer, is it not, Izabela? And if you were my own daughter I would feel more able to answer in the affirmative. But . . .’
‘You have heard the stories of the many disreputable Parisian artists, and what they expect from their models.’ Professor Landowski smiled knowingly. ‘But I can assure you, Monsieur da Silva Costa, that I can vouch for Brouilly. Not only is he a talented sculptor who I believe has the capacity to be a great one, but he is right under my roof. Therefore I can personally guarantee mademoiselle’s safety.’
‘Thank you, professor. I will talk to my wife and contact you when we’re back from Munich,’ agreed Heitor.
‘Then I will wait to hear from you,’ said Laurent. He turned to Bel. ‘Au revoir, mademoiselle.’
Both Bel and Heitor were silent on the journey home, lost in their own thoughts. As the car skirted Montparnasse, Bel felt a thrill running through her veins. Even though her impromptu lunch with Laurent Brouilly had unsettled her, on many different levels she felt truly alive for the first time in her life.
19
Contrary to her thoughts before she’d set sail for Europe – when the idea of visiting Italy, the land of her forefathers, had filled her with excitement – as she packed the following day to travel to Florence, she was loath to leave.
Even when she arrived in the city she’d dreamed of visiting, and saw the spectacular domed roof of the great Duomo from the window of her hotel suite, smelt the aroma of garlic and fresh herbs wafting up from the picturesque restaurants on the street below, her pulse did not rise in the way she’d imagined.
And a few days later, when they took a train to Rome, and she and Maria Elisa dropped coins in the Trevi Fountain, then visited the Colosseum where the brave gladiators had fought for their lives in the vast arena, she felt a vague air of disinterest.
She had left her heart behind in Paris.
That Sunday in Rome, she joined thousands of her fellow Catholics in Saint Peter’s Square for the Pope’s weekly Mass. She knelt down, her black lace mantilla covering her face, looked up at the tiny figure dressed in white on the balcony and gazed at the saints that stood on pedestals all around the square. As she queued with the hundreds of others who were praying and reciting rosaries while waiting to receive the Host, Bel too asked God to bless her family and friends. And then sent up a fervent prayer of her own.
Please, please let Senhor Heitor not forget to ask about my sculpture, and please let me meet Laurent Brouilly again . . .
From Rome, having met with the sculptors he’d come to see and studied many of the famous works of art on display in the city, Heitor was leaving to go to Munich. His aim was to view the colossal Bavaria statue, fashioned entirely in bronze and innovatively constructed from four enormous sections of metal fused together.
‘I feel it may provide inspiration for my current project, as the construction challenges bear many similarities to those I face with the Cristo,’ he’d told Bel when she’d questioned him over dinner one night.
For reasons Bel did not know or understand, Heitor had now decided that the rest of the da Silva Costa family would not accompany him on the long journey to Munich. Instead, they were returning to Paris, where the two boys had a tutor waiting for them.
As they boarded the sleeper train at Roma Termini station to begin the overnight journey to Paris, Bel could only breathe a sigh of relief.
‘You seem brighter tonight,’ Maria Elisa commented as she climbed up into her red velvet-covered cot in their shared couchette. ‘You were so quiet in Italy, it was like you were somewhere else.’
‘I’m looking forward to returning to Paris,’ Bel answered non-committally.
As Bel climbed into her own cot, Maria Elisa’s head appeared over the edge of the bunk above. ‘I’m just saying you seem different, Bel, that’s all.’
‘Do I? I don’t believe I am. In what way?’
‘Like you’re . . . I don’t know . . .’ Maria Elisa sighed. ‘As if you’re daydreaming all the time. Anyway, I too am looking forward to seeing Paris properly this time. We’ll enjoy it together, won’t we?’
Bel reached for the hand that Maria Elisa had offered and squeezed it. ‘Yes, of course we will.’
Apartment 4
48, Avenue de Marigny
Paris
France
9th April 1928
Dearest Mãe and Pai,
Well, here I am back in Paris after Italy. (I hope you received the letter I wrote to you from there.) Maria Elisa and her mother are feeling much better than they were when we were last here, so we have spent the past few days enjoying the sights of the city. We have been to the Louvre and seen the Mona Lisa, to the Sacré-Cœur in an area called Montmartre, where Monet, Cézanne and many other of the great French painters have lived and worked, and we have strolled in the magnificent Tuileries Garden and climbed to the top of the Arc de Triomphe. There are so many other sights still left to see – the Eiffel Tower being one of them – that I’m sure I will never become bored.
Just walking along the streets here is an experience, and Mãe, you would love the shops! The streets nearby contain the salons of many of the great French designers, and I have an appointment for my first wedding dress fitting, as Senhora Aires Cabral suggested, at the house of Lanvin in the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré.
The women here are so chic, and even if they can only afford to buy from a department store, like Le Bon Marché, they are still turned out as stylishly as the rich. And the food . . . Pai, I must tell you that your daughter has eaten escargots, little snails cooked in garlic, butter and herbs. You must coax them out of their shells with tiny forks. I found them delicious, although I must admit the frogs’ legs were not to my taste.
At night, the city does not seem to sleep, and from my window I can hear the sound of a jazz orchestra playing from the hotel across the street. This kind of music is played in many places in Paris, and Senhor da Silva Costa has said we can go and listen one night, in a respectable establishment, of course.
I am well and very
happy, and am trying to make the most of this wonderful opportunity I’ve been given and not waste a second of it. The da Silva Costas have been very kind, although Senhor da Silva Costa has been in Germany for the past ten days, and will return tonight.
I have also met a young Brazilian woman from Rio, who came here for tea with her mother two days ago. Her name is Margarida Lopes de Almeida and you may recognise her mother’s name, for she is Julia Lopes de Almeida, who has earned great acclaim as a writer in Brazil. Margarida is here on a scholarship, granted by the Escola Nacional de Belas Artes in Rio, and is presently in Paris learning the technique of sculpture. She has told me there are courses that run at the École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts and I was thinking that I might try my hand at one. I have become very interested in the subject, due to Senhor da Silva Costa’s influence.
I will write again next week, but for now, I send you love and kisses across the sea.
Your loving daughter,
Izabela
Bel put down her ink pen on the writing desk, stretched and looked out of the window. In the past few days, the trees below her had blossomed and were now covered in delicate pink flowers. When a breeze blew, they fell like scented rain onto the pavements, covering them in a layer of petals.
She looked at the clock on the desk and saw it was just past four in the afternoon. She had already written to Loen telling her of Italy and there was plenty of time to pen a third letter to Gustavo before changing for dinner. But Bel was disinclined to do so, for she found it so difficult to match the loving sentiments of the letters she received every few days from him.
Perhaps she would write later, she thought, as she stood up and wandered to the coffee table, absent-mindedly placing a bonbon in her mouth and chewing it. The apartment was quiet, although she could hear the hum of the boys’ voices, busy with their lessons next door in the dining room. Maria Georgiana and Maria Elisa were both taking their afternoon naps.
Heitor, she’d been told, would be back from Munich in time for dinner with the family, and Bel would be glad of his presence. She knew she’d have to contain her eagerness to remind him about Laurent and his wish to sculpt her for a day or so, but at least the appearance of Margarida Lopes de Almeida in the apartment had cheered her up. As Margarida and Maria Elisa’s mothers had chatted, the two girls had also talked. And in Margarida, Bel had sensed a kindred spirit.
‘Have you been to Montparnasse?’ Bel had asked quietly as they sat drinking tea.
‘Yes, many times,’ Margarida had whispered to her. ‘But you mustn’t tell anyone. We both know that Montparnasse is not the place for well-brought-up young ladies.’
Margarida had promised to come back and visit her again soon, and share details of the sculpture course she was taking at the Beaux-Arts school.
‘Surely Senhor da Silva Costa cannot disapprove, given that Professor Landowski would be one of your tutors?’ Margarida had added as she’d left. ‘À bientôt, Izabela.’
Heitor duly arrived home later that evening, looking grey and exhausted from his long journey. Bel listened as he expanded on the delights of Bavaria, the statue he’d seen in Germany. But he also told them ominous tales of the rise of the National Socialist German Workers’ party, under a man called Adolf Hitler.
‘Have you decided on who you will choose to make your sculpture of the Cristo?’ asked Bel, as the maid placed generous slices of tarte Tatin in front of each of them.
‘I have thought of nothing else on my long journey back to Paris,’ answered Heitor, ‘and I am still leaning towards Landowski, since his work displays such perfect artistic balance. It is modern, but has a simplicity and a timeless quality that I think would work well for the project.’
‘I am glad you feel that,’ Bel ventured. ‘Having met him and been to his atelier, I liked his realistic approach. And his technical skill is obvious to anyone.’
‘Well, it’s not obvious to someone who has never seen it,’ grumbled Maria Georgiana, as she sat at Heitor’s side. ‘Perhaps you will allow me too to meet the man who will design the outer vision of your precious Cristo?’
‘Of course, my dear,’ Heitor agreed swiftly. ‘If that is what I finally decide.’
‘I thought his assistant was very accomplished too,’ said Bel, desperately trying to prompt Heitor’s memory.
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘And now, you must excuse me, for I am truly exhausted from my travels.’
Disappointed, Bel watched Heitor as he left the room, and noted the grim expression on Maria Georgiana’s face.
‘Well, it seems your father, yet again, is retiring for the night with the Cristo rather than his family. No matter,’ she said to the children as she picked up her spoon to finish her dessert, ‘we will play a game of cards together after supper.’
Later that night in bed, Bel mused on the state of the da Silva Costas’ marriage. And on that of her own parents. In a few short months, she would find herself wedded as they were. And it seemed more and more to her that marriage was simply about tolerance, and acceptance of the other’s faults. Maria Georgiana clearly felt sidelined and ignored as her husband poured all his energy and attention into his project. And her own mother, against her wishes, had moved from her beloved fazenda to Rio to accommodate her husband’s lust for upward social mobility.
Bel turned restlessly on her pillows, wondering whether this was all she too had ahead of her. And if it was, it made it all the more imperative that she should meet with Laurent Brouilly again as soon as possible.
By the time Bel awoke the following morning, Heitor had already left for a meeting. She sighed with frustration that she’d missed her opportunity to remind him of Laurent’s request.
Her growing agitation over the situation didn’t go unnoticed by Maria Elisa that day, as they took lunch at the Ritz with Maria Georgiana, strolled down the Champs-Élysées and later attended Bel’s wedding dress fitting at the elegant salon of Jeanne Lanvin.
‘What is wrong with you, Bel? You’re acting as if you’re a tiger trapped in a snare,’ she complained. ‘You barely even took an interest in the drawings or the fabrics for your beautiful wedding gown, when most young ladies would give their eye teeth to have Madame Lanvin herself designing for them! Aren’t you enjoying Paris at all?’
‘Yes, yes, but . . .’
‘But what?’ asked Maria Elisa.
‘I just feel . . .’ Bel walked to the window in the drawing room as she tried to explain. ‘That there’s a world out there we’re not seeing.’
‘But Bel, we’ve seen everything there is to see in Paris! What more is there?’
Bel did her best to stem her irritation. If Maria Elisa didn’t know, then she couldn’t tell her. With a sigh, she turned round. ‘Nothing, nothing . . . As you said, we’ve seen everything in Paris. And you and your family have been most generous to me. I’m sorry. Perhaps I’m just missing home,’ Bel lied, taking the easiest route for an explanation.
‘Of course you are!’ Immediately, Maria Elisa’s sweet nature made her rush over to her friend. ‘How selfish of me, here with all my family, when you’re thousands of miles away from your own. And of course, Gustavo.’
Bel allowed herself to be taken into Maria Elisa’s comforting embrace.
‘I’m sure, if you wished, you could return home sooner,’ she added.
Bel, leaning her chin on her friend’s lace-covered shoulder, shook her head. ‘Thank you for your understanding, dearest Maria Elisa, but I’m sure I’ll be fine tomorrow.’
‘Well, Mãe has suggested that she employs a French tutor to come in for me every morning while the boys are studying their lessons. My French is dreadful, and as Pai has indicated that we could potentially be here for another year, I’d like to improve it. Yours is so much better than mine, Bel, but perhaps you’d like to join me in my classes? It would at least while away a few hours every day.’
The thought of anyone believing that a second in Paris was boring and needed to be filled furth
er depressed Bel.
‘Thank you, Maria Elisa. I’ll think about it.’
Having spent another restless night trying to accept that her time in Paris would continue as it was and that the delights it contained would never be hers to know, something happened the following day to restore Bel’s spirits.
Margarida Lopes de Almeida arrived for tea that afternoon, accompanied by her mother. She talked avidly about her sculpture classes at the Beaux-Arts school, and told Bel that she had enquired whether she too could join them.
‘Of course, having a fellow countrywoman at the lessons would make it so much more pleasant for me,’ Margarida said to Maria Georgiana, giving Bel a subtle nudge under the table as she spoke.
‘I didn’t realise you were interested in making sculptures, Izabela? I thought appreciating them was more to your taste?’ queried Maria Georgiana.
‘Oh, I loved sculpting when I took a short course in Rio,’ confirmed Bel, seeing the approving glance from Margarida. ‘I would enjoy a chance to learn from some of the best teachers in the world.’
‘Oh yes, Mãe,’ interrupted Maria Elisa. ‘Bel used to bore me senseless talking about her art lessons. And as her French is so superior to mine, perhaps it would benefit her more to take these sculpture classes Senhorita Margarida suggests than to sit with me while I massacre the language?’
Bel could have kissed her.
‘And of course,’ Margarida added, glancing at her mother, ‘it would mean that you would no longer have to escort me to school and then collect me every afternoon. I would have a companion with me and our driver can take us. You would have far more time to write your book, Mãe,’ she said encouragingly. ‘We would look after each other, wouldn’t we, Izabela?’ Margarida turned to her.
‘Yes, of course we would,’ Bel agreed hastily.
‘Well, as long as Senhora da Silva Costa is in agreement, I think that sounds like a very sensible idea,’ said Margarida’s mother.
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