April tried not to smirk. Wait for the doctors to work their magic. This was Richard Potter’s entire game plan. It seemed naïve to a twenty-first-century brain, but her father was still of the generation who thought doctors were infallible. It was not like the people April’s age, all those moms eschewing vaccinations, the breast cancer patients favoring holistic treatments in Mexico instead of radiation at the Mayo Clinic.
“Oh, Dad,” April said and sighed, the weight of nineteen years beginning to slide off her shoulders. “All this time I felt—”
April stopped herself. All this time she felt—what? Abandoned. Yes, abandoned and alone. But that didn’t matter anymore.
“You felt what, April?”
“I felt you were trying your best.” April didn’t believe it until that very second, but it was progress. She never imagined she’d feel that way at all. “You were doing what you thought was the best for your family.”
She said it a second time, more to herself than to her father. Remember this, April. Remember this feeling. April wasn’t sure if she’d ever fully shed the decades of resentment but for the first time she saw a way out. She understood why her father acted as he had. April’s only wish was that she’d gotten there sooner.
“I understand, Dad,” April said. She took hold of his hands again. “One hundred percent. You were there for Mom, which meant you were there for us. You continued to love her in a way no one else could. I’m glad she was married to you.”
Her father smiled again. He was almost downright giddy, on a Richard Potter scale anyway. April couldn’t wait to tell Brian. And a little part of her couldn’t wait to tell Troy. He would be amazed—by the conversation, her father’s smiles, all of it.
April scooted the chair closer to her dad and looped both arms around his shoulders. His bones felt poky and brittle beneath her hold. Still, he smelled like himself. A million memories piled on her at once, some happy, some sad, but altogether they reminded April she was home. She could go to New York or Paris, but she would always be from right there.
“I love you,” April said when she was finally strong enough to pull away. “And thank you. For this.” She pointed around the kitchen, though it was not the house she meant. “For everything.”
“Yes. Well.” Richard blushed, having achieved his maximum level of emotional output. He plucked an old, yellowed handkerchief from his chest pocket and passed it April’s way. “Now that we’re being open and forthright, perhaps you can answer a question for me. Sweetheart. Why don’t you care for my coffee selection?”
“What?” April said, spitting out a laugh. “No, it’s fine, I just—”
“April.”
“Okay, fine. You know what? How could I care for your coffee selection when you don’t even have one? Seriously, Dad. Sanka? I can get better coffee at an airport.”
“Well la-de-da, my high-falutin’ daughter.” He winked. “Well, there is a Starbucks within walking distance. Shall we go? Will it suffice for the fancy Parisian?”
“Good grief,” she said and stood. “You sound like Brian.”
“Lucky kid. Come on.” He jerked his head toward the door.
“Let me grab some money.”
April walked over to her tote bag, which sat atop an oven burner that hadn’t been used in twenty years. She pushed aside a folder filled with Marthe’s entries to find her wallet.
Then she stopped.
“Actually, Dad.” Instead of her wallet, April lifted the journals from her purse. “Before we go I want to show you something I’ve been working on. I mean, if you’re interested.”
“Of course I’m interested! You rarely say a peep about your job even though it’s one of the most fascinating out there. I’m so proud of you, April. So extremely proud.”
“Thanks. Though, really, it’s just any old job most of the time. But this Paris project is different. The story has completely enraptured me.” April pulled out the first set of entries. “This woman, she kind of looks like Mom, actually. Fair warning—she’s a tad bawdy at times, but”— April grinned wide, as if smiling with her entire body—“I know you’re going to love her, too.”
Chapitre LXIII
Paris, 31 December 1898
It’s the end of a year when much has gone wrong, yet it all ended up right.
When I informed Boldini he was going to be a father he unraveled. He threw things and cursed. He said I tricked him into parenthood. I stood there, smiling meekly, trying not to cry, while he threatened to decimate the portrait he’d completed of me. Naturally, when I told him I approved of its disposal (that dress! The god-awful dress!), he immediately made plans for a public exhibition.
Alas, I could not have all the flames thrown my way without shooting a few back in return. So I confronted him about Jeanne. I told him I knew he betrayed me by painting my one true enemy. He never asked permission. He never told me the truth!
Boldini was, to put it mildly, unmoved by my cries. Instead of rushing to my side and begging forgiveness, he sniffed, rubbed a hand over his wiry, skewed hair, and asked a question.
“Whom did I paint yesterday?”
“However should I know?” I replied, gripping my belly, pretending to grow woozy for theatrical effect.
“Whom did I paint today? Whom will I paint tomorrow?”
“I am not your appointment keeper! Truly, Boldini, it would serve you to be more organized. You might find life a little easier—”
“Do I inform you of every commission I take? Do you know which people in this city, in London, have paid my bills?”
“Well, no—”
“Then why on earth should you know I painted Jeanne Hugo? She is just another commission. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“That’s not the point!” I shouted. “That is clearly not the point! Jeanne Hugo Daudet Charcot is not merely another commission, and you know it. It is an entirely different story.”
“Marthe, you have so many different stories not even you can keep track of them all.” He turned toward his easel.
Without thinking, I picked up a pencil and flung it at the back of his head.
“Please leave,” he said without turning around. “I have many things to consider with this news. I must do it in private.”
Humiliated and close to tears, I shuffled toward the front door. I should tell him about Jean-Baptiste, I thought then. His reaction to that news could not have been worse. I paused in the doorway for a second and opened my mouth, ready to take it all back.
“Boldini,” I said, my tongue and throat dry. “About the baby.”
“Just go,” he said. “I don’t want another word from you.”
* * *
So I went. In the end, it was good I left. I am back in his graces (for now!—it’s always for now!) More important, he is intent on being a respectable father for my new baby girl, our sweet Béatrice!
Oh my Béa … where do I start? Bringing her into the world was traumatic. I never thought I could write about it, or address it in any form. But, here I sit, able to put words to page. It is only because the girl is such a muffin. She is so sweet and perfect it erases most of the treachery I went through when she arrived.
Born just a week ago, on Christmas Eve, Béa came crashing into this world in a most unceremonious fashion. It is truly a miracle she is with us now. After all those days of emménagogues, of trying to bleed away the hint of her, when they told me I would lose her at delivery I truly thought I would die too.
Two days before Christmas Eve the contractions began. If the buildup was supposed to be slow, if it was supposed to start weak and rise to a crescendo of agony, it did not happen that way for me. The agony arrived straightaway. The contractions came with the force of a train, ripping through my gut and up my spine, each one a jolt of feverish pain.
Marguérite said I was being a weakling. She’d attended many a birth and in the last few years had somehow transformed into the de facto midwife of the Folies set. According to her, she’
d never heard such screams, such dirty words from a lady. Now that it’s over I think she’d never heard such screams because she’d never been with a person in such pain.
I labored for the better part of two days in Boldini’s studio, the man fretting and pacing around me. Before long, neither one of us could stand it. Marguérite banished him to another room.
Dr. Pozzi arrived sometime during the second day. By then, time was lost for me. When he inspected the baby’s position a grim look passed over his face. This was a double footling breech, he told us. It was why my contractions were so difficult, why the baby could not get out.
The pain intensified. They fed me morphine to calm my frayed nerves. Marguérite said it instantly relaxed me but I did not feel a change. The contractions failed to lessen. It did not get any easier for Dr. Pozzi to extract the baby.
When it came time, I hardly had the strength to push. Even though Marguérite and Boldini stood over my shoulder, coaxing me on, I weakened and grew disoriented. Dr. Pozzi instructed me to bear down. I tried, but my muscles slackened. I felt nothing.
“I’m going to have to pull this baby out,” Pozzi announced. “The mother is spent. She’s lost too much blood.”
“Do whatever you need to,” Boldini said.
I promised to try harder. Marguérite fed me more morphine. The pain finally left me. All I felt was pressure, the pushing and pulling beneath me, as though my loins were taffy. My head was so light I thought it might float right off my neck. At one point Marguerite carried dirty sheets into the other room. I was surprised to see them soaked red with blood.
Somewhere in the haze, Dr. Pozzi’s voice rang through.
“It’s the baby or the mother,” he said. “We can only save one.”
“The mother!” Boldini shouted.
“Yes!” Marguérite agreed. “Of course you always save the mother! What is wrong with you? Every doctor knows this. There will always be more babies.”
I screamed.
“Save the baby!” I screeched. “Only save the baby!”
Pozzi put a cloth soaked with ether over my face while I struggled and squirmed beneath his hand.
“We need to knock her out,” he said to someone. “I cannot have her causing this distraction.”
Instantly I faded away, only to wake up in time to see Pozzi pull a limp, blue baby girl from my body. I thought she was dead. I knew she was dead. I wailed in horror.
“No!” I cried. “Not my baby girl! Please, not my baby girl.”
Then, there was movement.
The baby wiggled a toe or bent her knee. She did something to indicate all was not lost. Suddenly a commotion erupted. Pozzi, Boldini, and Marguérite spoke at once. People shouted, then came the sound of skin on skin. Someone placed a baby on my chest. A live baby. She looked up at me. She blinked her eyes.
Oh, I am sobbing now just to think of it!
This was my Béatrice, survivor of death. It was a miracle of God, though the good doctor played no small role. If it wasn’t for Pozzi slapping the life back into her, Béa wouldn’t be here. I am so grateful to him for saving both the baby and the mother to enjoy her.
It took several days for us all to recover, even Boldini! He spent many long hours at the morgue, inspecting the bodies, trying to lift his spirits. I wonder what might’ve happened had Béa not survived. Could Boldini still tolerate this pastime of his? I would like to think the answer is no.
Béa is such a sweet child. The perfect baby, really! She hardly ever cries, and her appetite is not so voracious as to completely abuse my nipples. The little girl knows me. She knows I am her maman and loves to look up at me, staring intently with her dark brown eyes. It’s funny. They say all babies are born with blue eyes. Not my girl, not my Béa.
I cannot believe how scared I was to become a mother, to make this large jump into another life. Now that she’s here everything is different. I love her, Boldini loves her, and we adore each other. What began as an imaginable fiasco turned into something grand. As I look ahead into the new year, one that will close out a century, I feel optimistic for the first time in a long, long while. I have a lot to learn about children. Needless to say, so does Boldini! Alas, I think we will all get along just fine.
Chapitre LXIV
Paris, 1 July 1900
They say Jean-Baptiste Charcot has been busy sailing the Indian Ocean for the last year and that he’s due home any day. If this is true, I daresay he won’t recognize his city. Paris has been overtaken by the Exposition Universelle. I hardly recognize it myself!
Naturally, like the dutiful Parisians we are, we attempted to beat the prior world’s fair, the 1889 version which gave us the dubious La Tour Eiffel, that hideous iron lady. It is now 1900—a new century! What better place to display every modernization known to man than at L’Exposition? And I do mean every. If there is an advancement or experiment you wish to see, it can be found at the fair! There are X-ray machines and wireless telegraphy and even films with sound (no ether firebombs this time), plus automobile exhibits galore.
Naturally, for every salient, important exhibition sure to change the world, there are five completely inane. Of the hundred thousand demonstrations, at least half should’ve stayed inside the brain of the demonstrator! Surely the “Exhibit of American Negroes” did not need to come to fruition. And those silly “flying machines”? Really!
Paris doesn’t even look like Paris but instead a lady heavy-handed with makeup. The powers that be couldn’t let our lovely buildings stand for themselves. Oh, poor Haussmann! All that architectural genius only to have his work covered by facades! We look like a fat, overly made-up, overblown Venice. Le Comte took me to Venice twice, and it’s nothing spectacular.
The committee spent years determining this exposition’s clou, its signature building to compete with the La Tour Eiffel. Some even wanted to transform la tour itself. One faction suggested turning it into a 325-meter-tall woman with searchlights for eyes. During the fair, beams would shoot from her head and scan the crowds. In the end the committee came to its senses, slapped on a fresh coat of gold paint, and went to work constructing new buildings and bridges and palaces.
Today Béa and I attended the festivities with my dear friend Léon Blum. Boldini refused to go. He is interested only in the Olympic Games. It is, I suppose, preferable to corpse-viewing, although not by much. He says they will allow women to compete this year. Who has heard of such a thing? These are supposed to be athletic endeavors! Boldini’s favorite sport to watch is the ladies’ tug of war. For the men he prefers tennis.
Because he knew of Boldini’s exposition obstinacy, Léon Blum offered to escort Béa and me. Though I was pleased to be accompanied by such a learned and lettered man, going anywhere with M. Blum tends to feel like a statement. He is a Jew and a Socialist and about as pro-Dreyfusard as they come. It’s not that I outright disagree with Dreyfusard leanings. Indeed I was quite moved by Zola’s letter to the president. Poor M. Dreyfus! Jailed unjustly because he was a Jew! They are known to be a lying sort, but in this case the reputation did not seem to fit.
It is not that I care if I am mistaken for a pro-Dreyfusard. I merely do not want to be mistaken for one thing or another! In my line of work I must take caution when it comes to political stances. I cannot alienate my patrons. Nonetheless Blum is a dear man and was willing to take me where Boldini would not, which is all I ever really look for in another man. Aha!
Though Béa is now eighteen months old, she still has not learned to walk. A perfect reflection of her sweet disposition! She is contented to stay in one place and stare at the people around her. I am content to stare right back! She is so very beautiful. So serene! We are blessed to have a child who never cries. Boldini worries that she does not yet talk. I say, look at her father! He can go two weeks without saying a word to either of us. Sometimes I forget he is not her father by blood, so alike are they.
So on this day, my arm looped through Blum’s and Mademoiselle Béa in her carria
ge, we went through the turnstiles and out onto the main grounds to see what Paris had on display. The papers did not exaggerate the crowds, the chaos, the performances. An entire section of the city was devoted to reenacting Victor Hugo’s works.
The largest crowd was at the “Human Zoo.” Why the exposition needed two Negro displays was beyond me. The spectacle immediately disturbed Léon, of course. He is a kindhearted sort and created no small scene, shouting about the mistreatment of the “animals.” I glanced around sheepishly, not sure if I wanted to stand solidly by his side or sneak off in another direction.
That’s when I saw her across the way: Jeanne Hugo Daudet Charcot. The last of her last names sent goose bumps along my skin. I looked down at Béa and back up at Jeanne.
“I’ll be right back,” I said to Léon, who was not listening to me at all. Off I wheeled us toward Jeanne.
“Ah, Madame Charcot!” I said as I accidentally bumped into her shoe with the wheels of Béa’s carriage. “I thought you would be viewing the Victor Hugo exhibit.”
“I lived with Victor Hugo,” she said, staring ahead and refusing to make eye contact. “I’ve read his works a hundred times.”
“Well, how special for you. I guess it’s good you were orphaned and had such an amazing grandfather to raise you.”
“It was special for me. Quite special.”
This sent a fire through my veins the kind of which I’d not yet felt. Normally Jeanne snubbed me or pretended she didn’t recognize my face. Now she goaded. The woman was goading me!
“So, how is that husband of yours?” I asked. “I hear he hasn’t been in Paris for about two years and some change.”
I rammed the carriage into her boot again, forcing her to look down.
“I hope he is well,” I continued. “The last I saw him was … let me think … my daughter was born in December. So, about March of that year? April? It was around the time M. Boldini was making your portrait. You were away from your apartment often. And a lovely apartment it is! The parlor especially. The rugs are quite soft.”
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