The Seven Sisters

by Lucinda Riley

  Maria Georgiana, in awe of the woman who was so famous in Brazilian society, nodded in assent. ‘If you think it suitable, senhora, then I will follow your lead.’

  ‘So,’ Margarida said, kissing Bel on both cheeks in the French way as she stood to take her leave of the apartment, ‘I will arrive with the car next Monday and we will go together to the school.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Bel whispered gratefully to Margarida as mother and daughter made their way to the door.

  ‘I promise, Izabela, it suits me very well too,’ she whispered back. ‘Ciao, chérie,’ Margarida called out, mixing up her languages in her farewell. Which, Bel thought, only added to her air of sophistication.

  Heitor arrived home that evening triumphant.

  ‘I have asked the maid to bring champagne to the drawing room. For I have great news which I wish to celebrate with my family.’

  Once the champagne had been dispensed, Heitor stood with his glass poised.

  ‘After discussions with Senhor Levy, Senhor Oswald and Senhor Caquot, I went today to see Professor Landowski. And I offered him the commission to sculpt the Cristo. I will sign the contract with him next week.’

  ‘Pai, that is wonderful news!’ Maria Elisa exclaimed. ‘I’m happy that you’ve finally made your decision.’

  ‘And I’m happy that I know in my heart that Landowski is the right choice. My dear’ – Heitor turned to Maria Georgiana – ‘we must invite him and his charming wife to dinner very soon so that you can meet him. He will feature very heavily in my life in the coming months.’

  ‘Congratulations, Senhor da Silva Costa,’ said Bel, wishing to voice her support. ‘I think it is an excellent decision.’

  ‘I appreciate your enthusiasm,’ Heitor said, smiling at her.

  20

  On Monday morning at ten o’clock, Bel, who had already been in her coat for over an hour waiting at the drawing room window, saw the gleaming Delage drive up to the front entrance of the apartment building.

  ‘Senhorita Margarida’s here,’ she announced to Maria Georgiana and the boys.

  ‘Izabela, you are expected back at four o’clock sharp,’ called Maria Georgiana to Bel’s disappearing back as she walked swiftly from the room, barely able to contain her eagerness to escape.

  ‘I promise I won’t be late, Senhora da Silva Costa,’ she called back, as Maria Elisa waylaid her in the hall.

  ‘Enjoy your morning, and take care.’

  ‘Of course I will, I have Margarida with me.’

  ‘Yes, and from my impression, it is like releasing two hungry lions from their cages.’ Maria Elisa raised her eyebrows. ‘Have fun, dearest Bel.’

  Bel took the lift to the ground floor and found Margarida waiting for her in the lobby.

  ‘Come, we are already late. Tomorrow we must set off earlier. Professor Paquet will make an example of both of us if we arrive after he does,’ Margarida said as they walked out to the Delage and clambered into the back.

  As the car pulled away, Bel studied Margarida, who was wearing a plain navy skirt and a simple poplin blouse, whereas she herself was dressed as if she was taking tea at the Ritz.

  ‘I apologise. I should have warned you,’ said Margarida, noticing Bel’s clothing too. ‘The Beaux-Arts is full of starving artists who don’t take kindly to rich girls such as us in the classes. Even though I’m sure we are among the few who pay the tutors’ wages,’ she added with a smile, flicking a stray lock of her brown, shiny bob behind her ear.

  ‘I understand,’ sighed Bel. ‘Although it’s important that I leave Senhora da Silva Costa under the impression that the class is only full of well-bred young ladies.’

  At this, Margarida threw back her head and laughed. ‘Bel, I’m warning you, apart from an elderly maiden aunt, and another . . . person, who I believe is female but has hair as short as a man’s and, I swear, a moustache to match, we are the only girls in the class!’

  ‘So your mother doesn’t mind? Presumably she must know how it is there?’

  ‘Perhaps not completely how it is,’ Margarida answered honestly. ‘But as you know, she’s a great believer in female equality. And therefore she thinks it’s healthy for me to learn to fight my battles in a male-dominated environment. Besides, I’m on an arts scholarship paid for by the Brazilian Government. I must attend the best school there is,’ she said with a shrug.

  As the car turned onto the Avenue Montaigne and began its journey towards the Pont de l’Alma, Margarida studied Bel. ‘My mother tells me that you’re engaged to marry Gustavo Aires Cabral. I’m surprised he let you loose in Paris.’

  ‘Yes, I am engaged, but Gustavo wished me to see Europe for myself before I become his wife. He himself came here eight years ago.’

  ‘So, we must make the short time you have here as exhilarating as possible. And Izabela, I am trusting you to repeat none of what you will see and hear today to anyone. My mother believes I have lessons at the Beaux-Arts until four this afternoon. This . . . is not quite the truth,’ she admitted.

  ‘I see. So, where do you go to instead?’ Bel asked tentatively.

  ‘To Montparnasse, to meet my friends for lunch, but you must swear you will never breathe a word.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Bel confirmed, almost beside herself with excitement at Margarida’s confession.

  ‘And the people I know . . . well,’ she sighed, ‘they are quite extreme. You may be shocked.’

  ‘I’ve already been warned by someone who knows,’ Bel confirmed, staring out of the window as they crossed the Seine.

  ‘Surely not Senhora da Silva Costa?’ They both shared a chuckle.

  ‘No, it was a young sculptor I met at Professor Landowski’s atelier when I visited with Senhor da Silva Costa.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Laurent Brouilly.’

  ‘Really!’ said Margarida, raising an eyebrow. ‘I know him, or at least I’ve met him a few times in Montparnasse. He occasionally comes into the school to teach us when Professor Landowski is otherwise engaged. He’s a beautiful man.’

  Bel took a deep breath. ‘He has asked to sculpt me,’ she revealed, relieved to be able to share her inner excitement at the compliment.

  ‘Has he really? Then you should feel honoured. I’ve heard our Monsieur Brouilly is extremely particular about his choice of sitters. He was the star pupil at the Beaux-Arts and he’s tipped for big things in the future.’ Margarida looked at Bel with new admiration. ‘Well, Izabela, you are a dark horse,’ she remarked as the car pulled up in a side street.

  ‘Where is the school?’ asked Bel, looking around.

  ‘Two streets away, but I don’t like the other students to see me arrive in such luxury, when many of them have walked several kilometres to get here and have probably eaten no breakfast,’ she explained. ‘Come on.’

  The entrance to the Beaux-Arts school was set back behind the busts of the great French artists Pierre Paul Puget and Nicolas Poussin and accessed through an elaborate wrought-iron gate. The two of them stepped through it and crossed the symmetrical courtyard which was enclosed by elegant pale-stone buildings. The tall arched windows running along the ground floor were reminiscent of the holy cloisters which were rumoured to have originally stood there.

  Once through the main door, they walked across the echoing entrance hall, full of the chatter of young people. A slim young woman brushed past them.

  ‘Margarida, she’s wearing trousers!’ Bel exclaimed.

  ‘Yes, many of the female students here do,’ Margarida said. ‘Can you imagine either of us arriving to take tea at the Copacabana Palace dans notre pantalon! Now, we’re in here today.’

  The two of them walked into an airy classroom, the huge windows throwing shards of light onto the rows of wooden benches. Other students were filing in and sitting down with notebooks and pencils.

  Bel was confused. ‘Where do we sculpt? And no one is in a smock.’

  ‘This is not a sculpting class, it is’ – Margarida
opened her notebook and checked the timetable – ‘the technique of stone sculpting. In other words, we are learning the theory, but in the future we will have the chance to put it into practice.’

  A middle-aged man – who, from the state of his wild, wiry hair, bloodshot eyes and a few days of stubble, looked as if he had simply climbed out of bed and walked straight into the classroom – arrived at the front of the room.

  ‘Bon matin, mesdames et messieurs. Today, I will introduce you to the tools needed to create a sculpture from stone,’ he announced to the class. ‘So . . .’ The man opened a wooden box and began to place what looked to Bel like instruments of torture upon the desk. ‘This is a point chisel, which is used to rough out the stone by knocking off large portions. Once you are happy with the general shape, you will use something like this, a toothed chisel, also known as a claw chisel. You will see the many indentations which create grooved lines. We do this to add texture to the stone . . .’

  As the tutor continued to talk through each tool and its function, Bel sat listening intently. But although her French was excellent, he spoke so fast that she had difficulty keeping up with him. Many of the words were also technical expressions that she struggled to understand.

  In the end, she gave up and amused herself by studying her fellow classmates. A more raggle-taggle bunch of young men she had never seen, with their strange clothes, their overlong moustaches, and what must have been a current trend amongst artists: their beards and wild heads of hair. Bel chanced a glance towards her neighbour, and saw that underneath his facial hair, he was probably not much older than she. A rancid smell of unwashed bodies and clothes emanated from the room and Bel sat feeling conspicuous in her finery.

  She mused on the irony that in Rio she had considered herself rather a rebel, with her discreet but passionate support for women’s rights and her lack of interest in material possessions. And above all, her complete antipathy when it came to netting herself a good catch for a husband.

  But here . . . Bel realised she felt like a prim princess from a bygone age, transplanted into a world that had left the rules of society far behind. It was obvious that no one in this room cared a fig for convention; in fact, she thought, perhaps they felt it their duty to do all in their power to fight against it.

  As the teacher announced the end of the class, and the students gathered their notebooks and began to leave the room, Bel felt out of her depth.

  ‘You look pale,’ Margarida said, studying her. ‘Are you feeling quite well, Izabela?’

  ‘I think the room must be stuffy,’ she lied as she followed Margarida out of the classroom.

  ‘And smelly, yes?’ Margarida giggled. ‘Don’t worry, you get used to it. I’m sorry if that class was not a good introduction for you. I promise the practical lessons are far more exciting. Now, we shall take a walk together and find some lunch?’

  Bel was glad to be out on the streets, and as they walked along the Rue Bonaparte in the direction of Montparnasse, she listened as Margarida chatted about her time in Europe.

  ‘I’ve only been here in Paris for six months, but it already feels like home. I was away in Italy for three years, and will be here for another two. I think it will be hard to go back to Brazil after more than five years in Europe.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ agreed Bel with feeling, as the streets began to narrow and they passed cafés teeming with customers sitting at small wooden tables outside, shaded from the midday sun by colourful parasols. The air was heavy with the rich aromas of tobacco, coffee and alcohol.

  ‘What is that liquid in small glasses that everybody seems to be drinking?’ she asked Margarida.

  ‘Oh, it’s called absinthe. All the artists drink it because it’s cheap and very strong. Personally, I think it tastes disgusting.’

  While a few men glanced appreciatively in their direction, here their status as two unaccompanied ladies without an older chaperone did not raise so much as an eyebrow of disapproval. Nobody cares, Bel thought, her mood lifting at the heady reality of being in Montparnasse for the first time.

  ‘We’ll go to La Closerie des Lilas,’ Margarida announced, ‘and if we’re lucky, you may see some familiar faces there.’

  Margarida indicated a café that looked similar to the ones they had just passed and, after weaving a path between the heaving outdoor tables that were crammed together on the wide pavement in front of it, she led Bel inside. Speaking in rapid French to the waiter, Margarida was shown to a table in the front corner of the room by the window.

  ‘Now,’ she said as they sat down on the leather-covered banquette, ‘this is the best vantage point from which to watch as the residents of Montparnasse go about their business. And we will see how long it takes them to spot you,’ Margarida added.

  ‘Why me?’ Bel asked.

  ‘Because, chérie, you are astoundingly beautiful. And as a woman, there is no better currency to trade with in Montparnasse than that. I give them ten minutes before they are over here, eager to know who you are.’

  ‘You know many of them?’ Bel asked in awe.

  ‘Oh yes. It’s a surprisingly small community here, and everyone knows everybody else.’

  Their attention was caught by a man with swept-back grey hair who was moving towards a grand piano, cheered on by the table he had arisen from. He sat down and began to play. The entire café fell silent and Bel too listened spellbound, as the wonderful piece of music slowly, tantalisingly, built to a crescendo. As the final note hovered in the air, a roar of appreciation went up and the man was cheered and stamped back to his table.

  ‘I’ve never heard anything quite like that,’ said Bel, breathless with enjoyment. ‘And who was the pianist? He is truly inspired.’

  ‘Querida, that was Ravel himself, and the piece he was playing is called Boléro. It hasn’t even had its official premiere yet, so we’re honoured indeed to hear it. Now, what shall we order for lunch?’

  Margarida had been correct in her assumption that they would not be left alone for long. A stream of men, ranging from young to very old, came to their table and greeted her, then promptly enquired who her beautiful companion was.

  ‘Ah, another dark-eyed and hot-blooded woman from that exotic land of yours,’ commented one gentleman, who Bel was sure was wearing lipstick.

  The men would pause and stare at her face until she knew she was blushing as pink as the radishes in her untouched chef’s salad. She was far too exhilarated to eat.

  ‘Yes, I can paint you,’ some would say languidly, ‘and I will immortalise your beauty forever. Margarida knows where my studio is.’ Then the artist concerned would give a small bow and leave the table. Every few minutes, a waiter would appear with a glass of strange-coloured liquid, and announce ‘with the compliments of the gentleman at table six . . .’

  ‘Of course, you will pose for none of them,’ said Margarida pragmatically. ‘They are all Surrealists, which means they will only capture the essence of you and not your physical form. In all likelihood, your image would turn out to be a red flame of passion, with your breast in one corner and your eye in the other!’ she giggled. ‘Try this one, it’s grenadine. I like it.’ Margarida proffered a glass full of scarlet-coloured liquid, then said suddenly, ‘Izabela, quickly! Look over there by the door.’

  Bel drew her uncertain gaze from the glass in front of her and turned it towards the entrance of the café. ‘You know who it is?’ asked Margarida.

  ‘Yes,’ she breathed as she took in the slight figure and dark wavy hair of the man Margarida was indicating. ‘It’s Jean Cocteau.’

  ‘Indeed, the prince of the avant-garde. He’s a fascinating, albeit sensitive, man.’

  ‘You know him?’ said Bel.

  ‘A little, I suppose,’ shrugged Margarida. ‘Sometimes he’s asked me to play the piano in here.’

  As Bel focused her attention on Monsieur Cocteau, she didn’t notice a young man emerge from the melee in the café and make his way over to their table.

&n
bsp; ‘Mademoiselle Margarida, I have missed your presence for too long. And Mademoiselle Izabela, is it not?’

  Bel dragged her gaze back from the Cocteau table and looked up, straight into the eyes of Laurent Brouilly. Her heart began to beat hard against her chest at the sight of him.

  ‘Yes. My apologies, Monsieur Brouilly, I was miles away.’

  ‘Mademoiselle Izabela, you were feasting your eyes on a far more fascinating personage than myself,’ he said as he smiled at her. ‘I didn’t realise that you two ladies knew each other.’

  ‘We’ve only recently begun to,’ explained Margarida. ‘I am helping to introduce Izabela to the delights of Montparnasse.’

  ‘Which I’m sure she appreciates very well.’ Laurent cast Bel a glance that said he clearly remembered every word of their last conversation.

  ‘As you can imagine, every artist in the café has begged to paint her,’ continued Margarida. ‘But of course, I’ve told her to beware.’

  ‘Well, for that I must thank you. Because as Mademoiselle Izabela knows, she was promised to me first. I’m happy that you have preserved her artistic virtue for me,’ Laurent said with a smile.

  Perhaps it was the alcohol, or the excitement of simply being a part of this incredible new world, but Bel shivered in pleasure at his words.

  A deeply tanned young man had appeared simultaneously with Laurent and now stepped forward to make a request.

  ‘Mademoiselle Margarida, we at Monsieur Cocteau’s table are asking for you to entertain us with your marvellous skill on the piano. He is asking for his favourite. You know the one?’

  ‘Yes.’ With a quick glance at the clock that hung over the central bar, Margarida acquiesced. ‘I would be honoured, although I could never match up to the superb keystrokes of Monsieur Ravel,’ she announced as she stood and bowed her head in the direction of Ravel’s table.

  Bel watched Margarida as she swept through the crowd and sat down on the stool which Ravel himself had only recently vacated. A cheer went up from around the room.