by Claude Izner
He hastily looked in the cupboards and wardrobes and in the two desks. All empty. He pulled out the drawers of a dresser and when he was pushing them back felt the top one stick. He pulled it right out and placed it on the floor, and fished out a crumpled piece of paper, which he scarcely had time to stuff into his pocket before the concierge reappeared.
‘I don’t think it’ll be suitable after all – too many negative vibrations,’ he told the man who, as soon as Victor’s back was turned, tapped his forefinger against his temple.
Out in the street, he smoothed out his find. It was a piece of headed paper:
HOTEL ROSALIE
Owner Señora P. Caicedo, Proprietor
CALI
Victor sat beside the Bassin de l’Arsenal, comtemplating Odette’s envelope marked Private that rested on his knees. The spidery handwriting danced before his eyes and he closed them for a moment, pretending that the city had disappeared and that he was floating in space. Inner landscapes appeared to him, as tangible as the real world. The pieces of the jigsaw were gradually falling into place. He opened the envelope. He already knew what it contained, but he wanted to make sure. There it was – the letter sent by Odette from Paris on 29th July 1889 to her dear husband, Monsieur Armand de Valois, Geologist with the Inter-Oceanic Canal Company, care of Señora Caicedo, Hotel Rosalie, Cali, Colombia.
He compared the address with the one on the headed paper he’d found at the Turners’: ‘Caicedo…Hotel Rosalie…Cali…’ The words rang in his ears and he was plagued by a new set of questions. Was Monsieur Turner Armand de Valois? Nothing could be easier than faking one’s own death. Had someone been buried in his place? Over the past ten years two-thirds of the twenty thousand or so French people who landed in Panama had succumbed to yellow fever – not to mention all the other nationalities. Procuring a corpse wouldn’t present too much of a problem. Moreover, the concierge had stressed that Turner walked with a limp, and Odette had once confided to him that her husband wore a lift in his shoe to rectify this congenital defect.
He put the papers away and glanced up at the pneumatic clock: it was six thirty.
Victor was early. He sauntered along the Rue Fontaine, stopping to read a music programme – Concerts des Incohérents – in the window of a brasserie owned by a certain Carpentier. He examined himself in the glass, tamed a rebellious lock of hair and straightened his hat. Arriving at 36a, he crossed a courtyard where an acacia tree was growing and nearly collided with Kenji.
‘We’re free to look around on our own. I have the key.’
The place was an old print works and full of rusty presses, cartons and boxes. Victor made an effort to imagine it all cleaned up and repainted, without the clutter, and what he saw was a vast studio with the not inconsiderable luxury of running water. There was an alcove blocked off by a machine for polishing lithographic stones that could be transformed into a bedroom. He liked the place, and thinking about it made him forget his worries. The low rent dispelled any lingering doubts he might have had. The question now was how to go about convincing Tasha? The simplest way would be to let her continue living at Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette while he renovated it, and then give her a surprise. Pleased with this solution, which didn’t commit him to any immediate action, he tried to open a window but the catch came away in his hand. Kenji watched him with dismay, worried by his silence.
‘You look troubled.’ He was tempted to come out with an appropriate Eastern proverb: ‘When the cuckoo builds his nest, his chant will become a melody,’ but decided it was best to keep quiet.
‘I was thinking about the work that needs to be done. We must make sure there are no leaks in the roof.’
Kenji’s face lit up; there was still every reason to be hopeful. Naturally, it would be some time before Victor’s young friend could move in there, but he was determined, he could wait. Buoyant, he looked towards the alcove and said: ‘Don’t you think this recess would make a nice kitchen?’
Slowly and deliberately Tasha slipped out of her underwear. Unable to contain himself, Victor slid his hands under her camisole.
‘I love you, let me help,’ he whispered.
She played along, allowing him to strip her naked. He led her over to the bed, where she pressed her body tightly against his.
He couldn’t wait. He must try to sell her the idea of the studio now or he’d never have the courage.
‘I visited a place today. A room for just the two of us. It’s big – you could paint there.’
‘You did what?’
He felt her body tense, but he went on calmly, running his fingers gently over her breasts.
‘The rent is very reasonable; you could easily afford it. I’ll take care of the furnishings…Are you upset?’
‘How big is big?’ she murmured.
Victor woke up in the middle of the night, anxious about the investigation. Tasha was asleep, her arms hugging a pillow. He dragged on his underwear. She groaned and he leant over and brushed her cheek with his lips. She had given in – they would visit the studio the next day.
He sat at his desk and lit the lamp. He wanted to carry out a little experiment in graphology. He unfolded the letter Denise had received, smoothing it down with his hand, and beside it he placed the letter signed by Zénobie and the anonymous note received by Madame de Brix.
He would examine, for instance, how all the Ts were crossed. He wasn’t imagining it! They were all crossed with the same downward flourish! The Ns looked like Us and the As like little porticos, and the writing slanted heavily to the left.
All three messages had been penned by the same hand.
Chapter Nine
A grass snake was warming itself, coiled on a smooth stone, when two black monsters with pointed noses trampled the grass around its safe haven, causing it to slither into a bush.
The shoes hesitated and stopped. A shrill voice rang out: ‘I saw a snake!’
‘You’re imagining things, Elisa. This is Paris, not Senegal!’
The shoes trudged off again. They belonged to a boy of barely sixteen wearing sideburns and a peaked cap to make him look tougher. A young slip of a girl with a scared expression on her face was stumbling behind him.
‘How’ll we find our way out of here?’ she asked, tugging at her skirt, which had caught on some brambles.
‘I know this place like the back of my hand – it’s a first-rate hideout when the coppers are about. There’s an old geezer kips here, but he’s always in his cups so…’
‘Ferdinand! An animal!’
‘It’s only a tomcat, come on.’
He dragged her over to a crumbling wall where a recess was concealed by a tangle of clematis tumbling from a projection above.
‘It couldn’t be better! A real little love nest!’
He pulled off his jacket and laid it out on the grass. The girl shrank back.
‘You’re mad! It’s all wet!’
He grabbed her face and crushed his mouth against hers as hard as he could to prove his manliness. After a few seconds she pulled away.
‘You’re hurting me,’ she said, in a plaintive tone.
Exasperated, he pushed her away.
‘Make up your mind, will you! Do you want to or not? You said you did.’
‘I know, it’s just…I’m scared, all right?’
‘You’re scared of everything! Snakes, cats, bushes!’
‘It hurts the first time, and…what if I get big?’
He scoffed.
‘You’re not big now, that’s for sure! Flat as a pancake. Why I wouldn’t be surprised if there was nothing under that blouse of yours. Seeing as it’s like that, I’m off. There’s plenty of others, that Jenny for instance, she wouldn’t say no, and at least she’s got some padding!’
He snatched his jacket and slung it over his shoulder.
‘Don’t leave me here, Ferdinand. Don’t you love me any more?’
Glowering, he aimed a kick at a stone, which went flying.
‘Lov
e isn’t just canoodling.’
‘Do you promise you’ll be gentle?’ she murmured, nestling up to his chest.
He spread out his jacket again and pushed the girl to the ground, smothering her in kisses as he grappled with the buttons on her blouse. They were rolling around, out of breath, when the boy’s foot struck something protruding from the ground. He let out a howl.
‘What was that?’
He tugged furiously at the object that had scratched his ankle and fell over backwards contemplating his haul with astonishment. It was an umbrella. The girl shrieked with laughter.
‘Oh, so it’s funny, is it?’
‘That’s a first-class brolly that is. See the handle, it could be ivory. Do you reckon I can keep it? Well, do you? Are you deaf or what, Ferdinand?’
The boy was frozen, his face twisted in horror and disbelief. Slowly, the girl looked down to the place he was staring at, right next to her, beneath a lilac bush. It took a few seconds for the scream that began in her throat to reach her mouth.
The five pinkish dots with pearly white edges in the middle of a green pool were not flowers.
The golden rays had managed to filter through the grime-encrusted window panes to cast a shimmering, stippled light on the floor. Like a Seurat painting, thought Tasha, as she walked around the studio. At first, she had been put off by the state of the place, but now she had begun to picture it in her mind’s eye she was feeling very excited. My easel can go here, a plinth for the model there, and a drawing board over there. And later on the engraving materials in that corner. I wonder whether the press still works.
She stopped in front of the stone sink. A tap was dripping. Running water! No more need to make fifty trips to the pump in the corridor!
‘And in the alcove a double mattress, the biggest we can find. Farewell, bed of nails, rest in peace, your day is done!’ exclaimed Victor.
‘Hey! Not so fast! I’m not made of money, you know!’
‘I told you I’d pay for the furniture, and any work that needs doing, naturally. I’d love to install a water closet. I realise it’s a minor consideration, but…’
As he outlined his plans, she recalled her previous lover Hans, a painter from Berlin. She had ended the affair not just because he was married, but because of his meddling in her artistic career. Should she distance herself from Victor now simply because he was trying to make life easier for her? He’d shown great generosity in allowing her to enjoy her independence, and so far had never tried to influence her style of painting. What danger could there be in accepting an arrangement that was clearly beneficial to her? She had insisted on paying the rent, but gouache was so expensive. Even if she cut back on food and clothes, would she be able to afford everything?
‘Well?’
‘I think the answer’s…yes!’
He gave her a long, drawn-out kiss.
‘You’ll paint your masterpiece here,’ he whispered.
‘Not before time. My poor canvases will soon be covered in mould. I’ve discovered a new leak.’
‘This can’t go on – not with all this rain. Listen, I have an idea.’
‘Not another one! You’re beginning to make me nervous.’
‘Why not store your canvases at my place? Since you’re leaving the attic anyway, we can stick them in the dining room for the moment. I’ll move that mammoth table out of the way.’
‘But…what about Kenji?’
‘Kenji couldn’t care less how I arrange the furniture in my apartment. We could do it today. The shop will be closed in the afternoon because of the Mid-Lent processions. If you agree, I’ll hire Madame Pignot’s cart.’
She chewed her thumbnail. Was he trying to force her hand?
‘But this apartment is not nearly ready to move into yet.’
‘You can come and see your paintings whenever you like, and it’ll give you a good excuse to come and see me.’
‘Oh, you!’ she exclaimed, planting a kiss on his cheek.
The carnival was in full swing. After making a series of detours, the carriage finally came to a halt, hemmed in by a masked parade on the corner of Boulevards Saint-German and Saint-Michel.
‘Can’t go any further with all these Shrovetiders,’ the cabman grumbled.
‘This’ll be fine,’ said Victor.
They pushed their way through an oncoming procession of princes and paupers as unruly as an end-of-year student pageant. It was impossible for any vehicle to pass. Crowds of rowdy youths were letting off steam, dancing and singing. Tasha and Victor were sprinkled with confetti and swept along by the human tide until they reached the Soleil d’Or where they made a dash for the doorway, laughing.
‘Are you fleeing the Mid-Lent processions?’
Ninon greeted them in the basement, dressed in her usual mid-length gloves and a cherry-red dress that showed off her curvaceous figure to advantage. Maurice Laumier was barking out contradicting orders to a couple of wretched apprentices who didn’t know whether they were coming or going.
‘No, no, no! It’s crooked! Lift it on the left! Not too much! Now the right, the right! Oh, for crying out loud!’
The two apprentices, precariously balanced on a couple of stools, were trying their best to hang a picture measuring ten foot by twenty. They almost dropped it.
Laumier threw up his arms in despair, shouting, ‘What did I do to deserve you two idiots? You’re wrecking my exhibition!’
He kicked some chairs, stepped on an open box of nails, upturning it, and let out a great roar followed by a barrage of abuse as he hopped up and down on one leg.
‘He’s one of life’s worriers,’ Ninon remarked. ‘He’s been like this since yesterday. Come on, Tasha, I’ll treat you to an anisette – it’ll give you a lift. Have I your permission to abduct her, Monsieur Legris?’
Without waiting for a reply, she led Tasha away.
‘I really can’t stand that dauber any longer! Do you know what he had the nerve to say to me last night when I left to go home at midnight! “We spend so little time together, my minx, I suggest you disguise yourself as a will o’ the wisp; you’d be a runaway success at the carnival.” It’s over! Finished! I’ve had enough. I’m free to model for you as of now if you like.’
Tasha felt her throat tighten and she took a deep breath.
‘No. I mean yes, once I’m settled in. I need to ask you a favour. Victor has offered to store my canvases at Rue des Saints-Pères, because – my room is practically covered in toadstools. Could you help us move them this afternoon?’
‘With pleasure. Anything to get away from brush-boy over there,’ she said, pointing at Maurice Laumier who had calmed down and was busy putting his shoe back on.
He stood up and limped cautiously the length of the piano.
‘Don’t bother commiserating!’ he berated the two cowering apprentices. ‘Would you deign to continue trying to hang that picture? Well! If it isn’t Monsieur Legris! You’ve joined the party I see.’
Victor nodded. He was studying one of Tasha’s paintings, a view of Paris at daybreak. An orangey sun emerging from the mist lit up the grey rooftops that bristled with chimney stacks like masts arising from the night.
‘We could call it Landscape as Seen by a Myopic Person Without Glasses,’ said Laumier, in a mocking voice.
‘I think she’s captured the quality of our sky superbly, with a singularity and poetry I admire,’ retorted Victor, making an effort to hide his irritation.
‘Sheer woolliness! She’d do better to practise proper drawing instead of inflicting her wishy-washy visions on us.’
‘Doesn’t Paul Gauguin, whose work you admire, insist on the importance of painting from memory as opposed to real life?’
‘I’ve elaborated my own theory. Real life takes priority over memory, but drawing comes first, second and third – which is why nothing can replace studio work.’
‘Then you’ll be glad to know that Tasha will soon have a studio of her own.’
Maurice L
aumier looked him up and down, sneering.
‘A kept woman, eh? So she finally got what she wanted. Are you planning to introduce her to photography too?’
‘If she wishes. Speaking of photography, do you know what Ingres said about it? “Photography is important, though one must never admit it.”’
Kenji’s eye lit first upon the extravagant wide-brimmed veiled hat, topped by a riot of violets and cherries and worn tilted back. His gaze moved downwards to the short, black cape and the crimson dress of a splendid brunette who approached him, preceded by a spicy Cuir de Russie perfume.
‘Are you Monsieur Kenji Mori?’ she asked matter-of-factly.
He bowed, mesmerised.
‘Delighted to meet you. My name is Ninon Delarme. Perhaps Tasha mentioned me to you?’
He shook his head, dumbstruck.
‘She didn’t? What an oversight. On the other hand, she spoke highly to me of your knowledge and refinement in matters of culture. She admires you a great deal.’
Kenji, stunned, opened his mouth and managed to murmur: ‘I had no idea.’
‘You were born in Japan and have travelled in the East. You’re just the man I’m looking for.’
‘I…Would you like to sit down?’
‘No. Standing is more intimate. I like to feel a current passing between me and my interlocutor,’ she said softly, lifting her veil.
Without seeming to have moved at all, she suddenly felt so close that Kenji found himself fervently hoping a customer wouldn’t walk in.
‘Monsieur Mori, you see before you a woman in distress. Since Tasha has revealed nothing about me, allow me to tell you that in spite of all appearances to the contrary I possess no fortune worth speaking of, and am thus obliged to earn my living. I work for an art review and have been commissioned to write an article on the subject of Japanese etchings. Do you own any?’
‘Why yes, of course!’ He exclaimed, his eyes shining. ‘I have some Hokusai, Utamaro and Kiyonaga all dating from between the late eighteenth and early nineteenth – the finest period.’