‘So, show me how you like it,’ he insisted as he handed her a teaspoon and stood back so that she could continue.
Bel waited for the water to boil on the small hob, not wanting to admit she had never made a cup of coffee in her life. The servants performed this task at home.
‘Do you have cups?’ she ventured.
‘Of course,’ he said, reaching into a cupboard and pulling out two enamel mugs. ‘My apologies that they are not made of delicate china. But the coffee will taste the same anyway.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed nervously, as she spooned some coffee into the mugs.
‘Actually, mademoiselle,’ he said with a gentle smile, as he reached up to a shelf and pulled down a small silver pot, ‘we use this to make coffee here.’
Bel blushed in embarrassment at her mistake as he transferred the coffee grounds from the mugs to the pot and added hot water. ‘So, once this has brewed, we will sit together and talk.’
A few minutes later Laurent led her back into the studio, where Margarida was already sitting at a bench, working on her sculpture. Picking up a sketch pad, he guided her to the trestle table and benches where they had sat for lunch before, and pulled the curtain closed behind them.
‘Please, sit there.’ He indicated that she should sit opposite him. So’ – he lifted his mug – ‘you will talk to me of your life in Brazil.’
Bel stared at him in surprise. ‘Why would you wish me to talk of Brazil?’
‘Because, mademoiselle, currently you sit facing me like a beam of wood stiff with the tension of holding up a roof for one hundred years. I want you to relax, so that I can see the muscles in your face soften, your lips lose their tension and your eyes light up. If I cannot, then the sculpture will be the worse for it. Do you understand?’
‘I . . . I think so,’ Bel replied.
‘You don’t seem convinced. So I will try to explain,’ he said. ‘Many people think that the art of sculpture is only about the outer, physical shell of a human being. And indeed on a technical level, they would be right. But any great sculptor knows the art of producing a good likeness relies on interpreting the essence of the object they are portraying.’
Bel looked at him uncertainly. ‘I see.’
‘To use a simple example,’ he continued, ‘if I was sculpting a young girl, and I saw in her eyes that she had a soft heart that bled for others, perhaps I would place an animal, such as a dove, in her hands. I would have her cupping it tenderly. However, if I noticed another woman’s greed, perhaps I would place a showy bracelet on her wrist, or a large ring on her finger. So’ – Laurent opened the sketch pad, his pencil poised – ‘you will talk to me and I will sketch you as you do. Tell me, where did you grow up?’
‘For most of my childhood, on a farm in the mountains,’ Bel answered, and the image of the fazenda she loved immediately brought a smile to her lips. ‘We kept horses, and in the mornings I would ride across the hills, or take a swim in the lake.’
‘It sounds idyllic,’ Laurent interjected as his pencil danced across the sheet of paper.
‘It was,’ Bel agreed. ‘But then we moved to Rio, into a house at the bottom of Corcovado Mountain. The Cristo will one day be erected at the top of it. Although it is beautiful, and far grander than our fazenda, the mountain which rises up behind it means it is dark. Sometimes when I’m there, I feel’ – she paused as she tried to find the right words – ‘as if I can’t breathe.’
‘And how do you feel being here in Paris?’ he queried. ‘It too is a big city. Trapped, like in Rio?’
‘Oh no.’ Bel shook her head, the frown that had appeared on her forehead disappearing immediately. ‘I love this city, especially the streets of Montparnasse.’
‘Hmm, then I would surmise that it is not your location that affects you, but more your state of mind. Paris too can be very claustrophobic, yet you say you love it here.’
‘You’re right, of course,’ she admitted. ‘It is more to do with the life I live in Rio than the city itself.’
Laurent continued with his sketching as he observed her expression. ‘And what is wrong with that life?’
‘Nothing. I mean . . .’ Bel struggled to find the words to explain. ‘I am very fortunate. I have an extremely privileged life. This time next year, I will be married. I will live in a beautiful house and have all a woman could want.’
‘Then why do I see unhappiness in your eyes as you talk of your future? Could it be – as you hinted the first time we met – because your marriage is an arrangement of the head and not of the heart?’
Bel was silent as the heat rose to her cheeks, betraying the truth Laurent had just spoken.
‘Monsieur Brouilly, you don’t understand,’ she said eventually. ‘Things are different in Rio. It is my father’s wish that I make a good marriage. My fiancé is from one of the highest-placed families in Brazil. And besides,’ she added despairingly, ‘I have no talent like you with which to earn a living. I am completely dependent on my father and, soon, on my husband for everything I have.’
‘Yes, mademoiselle, I understand and sympathise with your plight. But sadly,’ he sighed, ‘it is only you who can do anything to change it.’ He put his pencil down and contemplated his sketches for several minutes while Bel sat tensely, unsettled and frustrated by their conversation.
Finally, Laurent looked up. ‘Well, seeing these, I can assure you that you could earn your own living as an artist’s model in Montparnasse. Not only do you have a beautiful face, but underneath the layers you wear on your body, I’m sure you are the very epitome of womanhood.’
As his eyes swept over her, Bel felt once more a strange heat spreading up from her chest and into her face.
‘Why so embarrassed?’ he asked her. ‘Here in Paris, we celebrate the beauty of the female form. After all, we are all born naked, and it’s only society that dictates we wear clothes. And of course, the weather in Paris in the winter,’ he chuckled, looking up at the clock. ‘And don’t worry,’ he added, appraising her once more, ‘I will be sculpting you in exactly what you are wearing today. It is perfect.’
Bel nodded silently in relief.
‘So, now that I have forced you to reveal your inner soul, it is already noon. I will prepare some bread and cheese and bring you some wine as your reward.’
Laurent collected the coffee cups and walked across the studio in the direction of the kitchen, pausing to ask Margarida if she would join them for lunch too.
‘Thank you,’ she answered, and left her sculpture to wash the clay from her hands. Bel sat alone, gazing out of the window at the beds of lavender, feeling shaken and vulnerable. Somehow, Laurent had coaxed her to reveal her true feelings about the future.
‘Are you all right, Izabela?’ Margarida came to sit next to her and placed a hand on her shoulder, her expression one of concern. ‘I heard snippets of your conversation. I hope Monsieur Brouilly didn’t push you too far in his quest to portray you honestly. And I hope,’ she said, lowering her voice, ‘that it really was out of professional motives.’
‘What do you mean?’
But Margarida had no time to reply as Laurent arrived with the tray.
Bel sat quietly during lunch, listening to Margarida and Laurent chat about their mutual acquaintances and gossip about the latest antics of the colourful crowd they knew.
‘Cocteau has set up a back room in a building on the Rue de Châteaudun, and invites his cronies there to drink cocktails that he has made and named himself. I hear they are lethal,’ said Laurent as he took a large gulp of wine. ‘They say his new fad is holding séances.’
‘What are they?’ Bel asked, fascinated.
‘It’s when you try to contact the dead,’ clarified Margarida. ‘Not something that would ever appeal to me,’ she said with a shudder.
‘He’s also indulging in group hypnosis sessions, to see if it’s possible to reach the subconscious mind. Now that I would be interested in. The human psyche fascinates me almost as much as its p
hysical form.’ Laurent glanced at Bel. ‘As you might have realised this morning, mademoiselle. Now, it is time to return to work. While I place a chair in the corner of the atelier where the light is best, I suggest you take a short walk in the gardens. For once I begin, I shall insist you are still, like the stone I will work from.’
‘I shall accompany her, Monsieur Brouilly. I too need to breathe some fresh air,’ said Margarida. ‘Come, Izabela.’
The two women stood up, left the atelier and went into the gardens, where they stood by the voluptuously scented beds of lavender.
‘The only sound I can hear is the buzzing of the bees that are stealing the nectar.’ Margarida sighed in pleasure as she took Bel’s arm and crooked her own into it. ‘Are you sure you are all right, Izabela?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ Bel confirmed, her tension calmed by the lunchtime wine.
‘Well, just promise me you won’t allow him to make you feel uncomfortable.’
‘I won’t,’ Bel reassured her. ‘Isn’t it strange?’ she said as they walked slowly along the edge of the garden, enclosed by a neatly clipped cypress hedge. ‘Even though, with its wealth of flora and fauna, Brazil has the same beauty, the energy and atmosphere in France is so different. At home, I find it difficult to be contemplative, to be at peace with myself. And yet here, even in the heart of Montparnasse, I am somehow able to do so. To see myself clearly.’ Margarida shrugged. ‘Now, we must return to the atelier so that Monsieur Brouilly can begin his masterpiece.’
Three hours later, in the car on the way home, Bel found she was exhausted. For what had felt like an eternity, she had sat on a chair, her hands on her knees, her fingers displayed exactly as Laurent had placed them.
Rather than feeling sensuous, she had felt like a maiden aunt, whose likeness was to be captured in sepia tones with a camera. Now her back ached from sitting upright for so long and her neck felt stiff. And if she’d dared to even twitch one of her fingers to move it to a more comfortable position, Laurent noticed. He would stand up from behind the chunk of stone he was working with, and move towards her to replace the hand exactly as he’d originally positioned it.
‘Izabela, wake up, querida. We’ve arrived at your apartment.’
She jumped, embarrassed that Margarida had caught her dozing.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, as she roused herself and the chauffeur opened the car door. ‘I didn’t realise it would be so tiring.’
‘It’s been a long, hard day for you, in all senses. Everything is new to you, and that in itself is exhausting. Are you up to coming to the atelier tomorrow?’
‘Of course,’ said Bel staunchly as she climbed out of the car. ‘Goodnight, Margarida. See you at ten.’
That night, as she excused herself from the usual round of cards that ensued after dinner, and laid her head thankfully on the pillow, Bel decided Laurent’s suggestion of her earning her crust as an artist’s model would not be as easy an option as she’d first presumed.
23
For the next three weeks, Bel accompanied Margarida every morning to Landowski’s atelier in Boulogne-Billancourt. On a couple of occasions, Heitor da Silva Costa came with them, hitching a lift with a new set of designs and drawings for his Christ.
‘Landowski is making yet another model for me as we try to refine it,’ he’d say, and then hurry out of the car the minute they arrived, in anticipation of seeing whether Landowski had completed the new version.
Landowski, issued with a further list of small alterations which required him to make a further model, would sit mumbling under his breath at his workbench.
‘That crazy Brazilian. How I wish I’d never agreed to be a part of his impossible dream.’
But it was said affectionately, and with implicit admiration for the scale of the project.
And slowly, Bel’s own project began to progress as her likeness took shape under the sensitive fingers of Laurent. She became adept at disappearing into her own imagination while she sat motionless. Most of her thoughts centred around Laurent, whom she watched constantly out of the corner of her eye, deep in concentration as he chipped away at the stone with a claw hammer and riffler.
One particularly hot July morning, Landowski’s hand fell on Laurent’s shoulder as he worked.
‘I have just returned from delivering my latest version of the Christ to Monsieur da Silva Costa’s office in Paris,’ Landowski growled. ‘And now, the mad Brazilian has asked me to make a four-metre scale model of it, which he wishes me to begin immediately. I will need your help, Brouilly, so no more playing with your sculpture of the beautiful lady. You have one more day to finish her.’
‘Yes, professor, of course,’ he answered, throwing Bel a look of resignation.
Bel tried not to show the utter despair she felt at his words. Then Landowski moved towards her and Bel felt his appraising eyes upon her.
‘So,’ he said eventually, ‘you can start by casting mademoiselle’s beautiful, long fingers. I will need a model to work from for Christ’s hands, and they must be as sensitive and as elegant as hers. They will embrace and protect all His children beneath Him and cannot be the calloused, clumsy hands of a man.’
‘Yes, professor,’ Laurent replied obediently.
Landowski took Bel’s hand and drew her up from the chair. He walked her over to the bench and placed her hand sideways upon its surface, so that her little finger rested against it. He then stretched her fingers out and closed them together, placing her thumb along the edge of her palm.
‘There, you will cast mademoiselle’s hands like this. You know how the model looks, Brouilly. Try to make it as close to that as you can. And also, cast Mademoiselle Margarida’s hands at the same time. She too has elegant fingers. I shall compare how they will look on our Christ.’
‘Of course,’ said Laurent. ‘But may we begin tomorrow morning? Mademoiselle Izabela must be weary after a long day sitting for me.’
‘If mademoiselle can bear it, I wish it to be done now. Then the casts will be dry by tomorrow morning and I will have something to work with. I’m sure you don’t mind, mademoiselle?’ Landowski glanced at her as if her reply was irrelevant anyway.
She shook her head. ‘I would be honoured, professor.’
‘Now,’ Laurent said, once he’d coated her hands in the white plaster of Paris paste. ‘You have to swear to me you will not move even a cuticle until this has set. Otherwise we will have to start all over again.’
Bel sat, trying to ignore an irritating itch on her left palm, and watched Laurent go through the same process with Margarida. When he’d finished with her too, he checked the clock and gently tapped the plaster that was setting around Bel’s hands.
‘Another fifteen minutes will do it,’ he said, and then he chuckled. ‘If only I had a camera to take a photograph of the two of you sitting there with your hands coated in white plaster. It is a strange sight indeed. Now, please excuse me while I leave you to find a drink of water. Don’t worry, mesdemoiselles, I shall be back eventually . . . before nightfall.’ He winked at them and walked in the direction of the kitchen.
The two girls looked at each other, their lips twitching to giggle at how ridiculous they both must look, but desperately refraining, knowing that any physical movement might reverberate through their hands.
‘Perhaps one day, we’ll look up at Corcovado and remember this moment,’ mused Margarida with a smile.
‘I certainly will do so,’ replied Bel wistfully.
It took only a few minutes of delicate and, as Bel thought afterwards, dangerous work for Laurent to make tiny slits along her hands with a sharp knife, then gently ease the cast away from her pre-greased fingers. When he had finished, he looked at the casts laid on the table in satisfaction. ‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘The professor will be pleased. How do you think your hands look in plaster?’ he asked her as he began the same process of removal on Margarida.
‘Not at all like mine,’ said Bel as she studied the white shapes. ‘May I now
go and wash them?’
‘Yes. The soap and the scrubbing brush are beside the sink,’ he advised her.
When Bel returned, feeling better now she’d cleared the grease and plaster dust from her hands, Laurent was frowning at a finger which had broken off as he’d removed Margarida’s cast.
‘I’m sure it’s salvageable,’ he said. ‘There will be a slight hairline crack on the joint, but it should be good enough.’
Margarida then disappeared to wash her hands and Laurent began to clear up the atelier for the night. ‘It is a pity the professor needs my help urgently. I still have a lot to do on your sculpture, but at least I have your fingers now,’ he added wryly.
‘We must leave,’ said Margarida as she reappeared. ‘My driver has been waiting for hours and Mademoiselle Bel’s guardian will wonder where she’s got to.’
‘Tell her that I’ve kidnapped their ward and I don’t wish to return her until my sculpture is finished,’ Laurent joked as the girls collected their hats and made towards the door. ‘Izabela, are you not forgetting something?’ Laurent called to her just as she’d stepped outside. He dangled her engagement ring on the end of his little finger. ‘Perhaps we should replace this where it belongs, lest others suspect you removed it on purpose,’ he said as she walked back into the atelier towards him. ‘Here, I shall put it on for you.’ Laurent took her hand in his and slid the ring back into place, staring intently into her eyes. ‘There, you are reunited. À bientôt, mademoiselle. And do not worry, I will find a way for us to continue with your sculpture.’
The girls left the atelier, climbed into the car and set off on their journey back to central Paris. Bel gazed out of the window, feeling miserable.
‘Izabela?’
She turned and saw that Margarida was watching her thoughtfully.
‘May I ask you a personal question?’
‘I think so,’ she said cautiously.
‘Well, it’s in two parts really. You remember I overheard you talking with Laurent when he was sketching you, and you voiced your fears about returning to Rio and marrying your fiancé?’
The Seven Sisters Page 22