Cocktails, Caviar and Diapers

by Duke, Renee

  Back to conversation. “I’d love another sherry, Barbara. Did you know I’ve decided to go to the Beaux Arts? I had an amazing experience today. I’ve got an Austrian painter living in my maid’s room. He encouraged me to apply to the top atelier[24], to Chastel’s studio. I put into a portfolio all those drawings I did with Anne Willan for the cookbook that never came out and some nude studies from Brussels and he accepted me as an International student. I couldn’t believe it, I’m so excited I can hardly believe it!”

  Etienne looks amazed and pleased. As I speak, a sudden awareness comes over me of the new world I’m going into, something like black turtleneck sweaters, coal fires, black coffee and cheap red wine. Contentment.

  “But Andrée,” he says. “That is wonderful. I have a little flat next to the Beaux Arts and I would love to have you see my work when you are on the Left Bank.”

  He enters my new world. To hell with Evans.

  “If you are a student,” he continues, “You must speak to fellow students like me with the familiar form. Use the tu[25].”

  I can feel the blush coming from my toes. He’s flirting with an old woman of thirty-five. I must say, he seems ten years older rather than ten years younger. Can’t take all this. I want to take it home and gloat over my little successes.

  “Barbara darling, I simply must go. This has been absolutely delightful.” That sounds right, if artificial.

  “Etienne, it’s been fun meeting you. I hope to see you someday on the Left Bank.”

  “May I telephone you, Andrée?”

  “Of course.” I look at him for a minute and I’m very glad we’ve met. We smile in silence. Now out I go. I’ll just try and looked pleased, not overwhelmed with joy. He makes me feel special again, part of Paris.

  Come on, Mother Goose, Old Woman who Lives in a Shoe, try not to knock over any precious objects on the way out. Scarf, coat, umbrella. I’m off. I’ll run down the stairs. French elevators take too long.

  ***

  The misty rain drifts over the black asphalt. I walk patent leather streets. It’s getting dark early now and the reflections from the store windows make brilliant splashes on the sidewalk. Art Galleries line the Faubourg St. Honoré and I walk in and out, looking at the paintings, drinking in the color.

  The first day at the Beaux Arts I was suddenly rejected by the office. Too old. Thirty was too old. I went to the little café across the street for coffee. My luck was good. I met a French architect who said he would vouch for me–that I wouldn’t die–then he hugged me, filled out the papers and I never saw him again. I keep thinking of it, how lucky I am, this always happens to me. When everything looks terrible, I am saved.

  When I think of that first day at the atelier, I’m embarrassed. I was in such fear and trembling, so much French, going so fast. I blanked out and started to talk Spanish. Chastel[26], our teacher, was there. Johann stood near me in the huge room while I did a tiny oil painting of the nude model.

  “You use too many colors!” shouted Chastel, thin and intense.

  “That’s the way I see it, it’s the way the light breaks up on the body. I want to paint light.”

  “So do we all,” he replied,” but first you must be master of three; red, blue and yellow. They can be all cool or all hot or all greyed, whatever you like, but there must be balance, a control of three colors.” All my earlier teaching and feeling for oil painting went up in the air but I was willing to try.

  I haven’t figured it out yet but it’s interesting. Painfully and methodically, I break up the picture into three colors. It’s like learning a new serve in tennis. The painters who’ve made it, the ones on this street, can give me ideas.

  I’m drunk on color. Chastel’s system is so French and methodical, I’m not sure I agree but if I look carefully at these paintings, I can see that most French painters use the three color system.

  What a wonderful old street, the Faubourg St. Honoré. It is full of luxury and excitement. Evans must be somewhere in this neighborhood, I feel it. He likes old stones and luxury.

  So what! I think of Etienne. His wise French face, a whole glamour I attach to him because he is French. Stendahl wrote on love, that it is like a branch under water with crystals slowly attaching to it, you don’t see the person and the process continues. I let it happen. This is a love affair I know I’m creating. Soon I’ll let it carry me away, so that its intensity will take away from the dark rooted sorrow of my failures with Evans.

  Long ago in Puerto Rico, I let myself become one with nature, to wake up refreshed. I shall do the same again. Propriety and social mores can set the boundaries. I will set out on the path of my first liaison with no second thoughts, acceptance of the ups and downs and the eventual end. Who knows? A day at a time.

  The smell of a damp November twilight in Paris steals over me. I walk up the Champs Elysee and look towards the park of the Tuileries. The trees look dark. Past them is the river Seine and just past that, Etienne’s place. I’m part of something in Paris. A love affair is meant for Paris. No one should be alone here. Hah! I’m not alone anymore!

  The street lights flash on and I run back to my car. I’ll get home to the children, it will be warm and bright.

  The traffic is terrible on the Faubourg. I’ll try the deceptive speed of the Champs Elysee and the quai by the Tuileries. If I’m lucky, it won’t be too bad at the Louvre and I’ll cross through the palace. Scenic route. Wish I had a radio. We never got one because Evans’ father said they caused accidents. Then he died in a car crash.

  Traffic jam. The Frenchman next to me picks his nose. What scenery for a traffic jam! I peer out the window and look up at the sculptures on the Louvre palace, where there’s something new each time.

  I park illegally on the sidewalk in front of my door. What if he telephones while I’m parking the car legally? What’s a parking ticket? I push the front door buzzer and the door opens. Like Punch and Judy, the concierge pokes her head out of her little apartment to check on me. The powerful smell of leek soup drifts out into the ancient hallway.

  “Bonsoir, Madame.”

  “Bonsoir Madame.”

  We sing out the password with tight fake smiles.

  The children’s bicycles have been in the way again. I’ll get up the stairs as fast as I can. I feel the smooth banister under my hand. Here I always swing around, leaning out around the curve. I like the mirror, set like panes of glass on this landing. The glass is ancient and ripples, like glass in a carnival mirror. Tip–toe past this apartment, where all the water from my washing machine went through her ceiling several weeks ago and the plaster fell onto her dining room table while the water oozed out the sides. Evans and I got her a very expensive umbrella from Dior, giggling about the joke. We also had the room redone. I still feel guilty and American about it.

  Ah! The dog hears me coming. I unlock the huge wooden door. Is the phone ringing? No.

  “Hello Cleo, hi Matthew baby, give Mummy a hug, hi darlings!” Our usual joyous reunion by the door, the au-pair girl suddenly deserted.

  “Joan, has anyone called?” She shakes her head, smiles. She’s different from the girls I usually get. I wanted a nice person to listen to Matthew’s endless stream of conversation, not a maid to suit Evans.

  “I’ll take over, Joan, thanks.”

  It’s been a long time since I’ve enjoyed the children so much. No strain. We play all our games, read Patsy and Dick Scary’s bunny book and sing prayers, spending precious minutes hugging each other. Cuddly. Good smelling. I put out their lights and feel good inside.

  While the lights are out, I’ll paint a picture, playing with bright orange and blue acrylic paint. No third color. Tough. I’ll paint the Palais Royal, my palace, with its bare branches against old stones and the tarpaulin sailing out over the roof like a clipper ship. It looks so good, I’ll not bother to look at it with the lights on.

  The phone rings. I pick it up quickly so that the children will not be disturbed.

  “
Hello, Andrée?”

  “Yes!” It’s Etienne. I’ll be as nonchalant as I can, considering I have been cooking up a mad love affair in my mind all day.

  “This is Etienne. I promised to call you ...”

  We chat. The room is still in darkness. Cleo, our poodle, rubs against me as I lean against the big old desk, propping myself on my elbows to watch the moon rise over the buildings. We talk easily, considering the amount of effort I am putting in to being amusing. We’ll see each other at 2, tomorrow. Obviously, not for lunch.

  I feel creative in a way I have never felt, when we hang up. Barriers erase on me doing as I please. With the lights still off, I think I’ll try a fine-pen drawing of the park, palace and tarpaulin and then get to sleep. Tomorrow, a new world!

  The next morning, work in the studio is going very well. The smell of turpentine rises around me and I’m only able to find a place by the black pot-bellied stove, next to the model. She’s a nice American girl, unused to having a group of people staring at her nude body.

  No one speaks English in the studio. A tall thin Israeli boy is squatting on his knees beside my rickety stool. His black-rimmed glasses perch on the end of his nose and his eyes, intelligent and piercing, look small through the thick prescription lens. Haven’t seen him before. I work on my drawing, rip it off, begin another. He jabs at the paper, blotching it with ink.

  “It gives?”

  ‘Sure, it gives a lot of things.” Strange way of talking. He has an accent in English. Something about him is delightful.

  “What style do you have there?”

  “Mine. Chastel can’t understand me, I like to tell stories in my paintings. Do you know Francis Bacon?”

  “Somewhat. Why?”

  “He is my master. The one I follow.”

  “Tais-toi[27]!” shouts one of the French painters.

  “Eh, bien, merde! Espèce de con, tais-toi, toi mêeme[28]!” shouts another.

  Don’t understand it all but I’d better shut up. Looks like we’re not supposed to chat while the model is posing. The strong language is great! I feel in touch with the real France. The Beaux Arts has a reputation.

  After four hours of drawing, I run home across the bridge and into the Louvre. My paintbox bangs against my leg and my hair whips into my eyes. I jump up and down on the balls of my feet at the light. I’m a student and I don’t have to act thirty-five anymore. I’m a student and I’m meeting an artistic man. I also seem to have a friend whom I can talk to, in an abbreviated sort of way. I can never say anything to Johann, although, who knows?

  Thoughts rattle around in my brain like the paint tubes and brushes in the box. What shall I wear? I must look pretty but Left Bank. Jock’s black ciré raincoat over the orange Harris tweed suit should do it.

  Quick, up my stairs, two at a time. Rush in, hug Matthew and pat Cleo. Get the turpentine off my hands… eat. No, impossible. Joan in charge. I think I’ll go the long way to his place, through the metro. His directions were vague. I’m not sure I have the right stop, so I’ll allow plenty of time to get lost.

  I run down my street, Rue de Montpensier, named after a famous mistress of a king. Slow down by the railings at the Comédie. There’s a small line waiting for theatre tickets, students like me! They smile as I run a pencil along the railings.

  Ah, I can just see me doing this with Evans. I’ve become so serious. Today Paris has a Bernard Buffet quality, leached of color, black twigs on the trees and a feeling of design to the streets rather than heaviness. A light yellow smog drifts through the air.

  The Metro folds me in to its white tiled corridors. I push a button by the map and lights on the station stops blink in different colors. I think I’ll do that again. And again.

  Now I hear a faint echo of an accordion. Couldn’t be here, it’s my imagination. No, in the far corner, there’s an accordion player. The tune follows me at all my stops and changes. At Châtelet, as I stand on the moving sidewalk, the yellow smog, smelling acrid, surrounds me in a haze. I’m in Beauty and the Beast by Cocteau. A dream world is taking me to my destination.

  The staircase ends and I’m jolted back to moving my legs. A nasal Algerian voice is singing about the streets of Paris, in the long corridor to my next subway line. The people move quietly, throw him a few centimes. Still dream-like.

  At Sèvres-Babylone I rise up into the world. The buildings here are still grey. This side hasn’t been cleaned yet by Malraux’s order for the Ministry of Cultural Affairs[29]. It has a sinister quality. The buildings seem very upright and closed in. Moral: I shouldn’t be doing this.

  I feel like running back. My raincoat crackles in the cold as I move my arms. I must look like a fool in a short boy’s raincoat. No, I am not going to do this to myself. I am not going to analyze myself to death. I want a love affair with a charming Frenchman and I’m going to have one. It’s exciting.

  I buzz open his door. Thank goodness his concierge is not as inquisitive as mine. Fifth floor walk-up! It won’t be just passion that makes me breathe deeply.

  “Etienne!” The welcome over, we circle his small workroom like prize fighters.

  I look at his drawings. Feel slightly out of it. All the excitement has made me sleepy. No, dopey. Concentrate. Drawings and drawings, it’s hard to understand what they are all about. He’s gifted. The Beaux Arts project for modular design and a great chair. Ho-hum. I’m not sure what this relates to. Am I to be his hidden inspiration?

  Now I find out he has a wife, they’re separated. I shall make it my mission to get them back together again. I wonder if that’s the way Evans’ girl got into it too? Well, that’s that. A cup of tea. By now I have to go to the john. Pull myself together.

  Back into the black raincoat, I had a nice platonic trip. I don’t know how people go about this sort of thing. If I’m older, am I supposed to start? What are the rules of the game? He kisses me goodbye and the black raincoat crackles and jumps. To hell with this French kissing on each cheek. I’ll really kiss him. Let’s go! I have to be home to take care of the children soon. Let’s go! Why, he’s got the idea! Could it be me, being led to that giant bed that fills the room? Yes, it is! Whatever happens with my charming French friend, at last I’m having a serious love affair.

  He’s a bit overwhelmed by my passion and so am I. I’ve only been in bed with Evans since the age of eighteen. This is great, this is wonderful, this is fun and a little silly. Should I have him take off my clothes or do I rip them off myself? Fortunately I came prepared.

  “Salut, Etienne!” Stand back and look at him for a moment. We grin at each other.

  “Turn around, I’ll undo your bra.” Solves that one. It would be nice if he kissed me on the nape of the neck. Ah, he thinks so too. I think I’ll just enjoy this, turn off the thinking machine and make him as happy as I know how. I really know so little. Does he guess that this worldly woman is worse off than any French virgin?

  “Etienne?”

  “Tais-toi.” This is why every girl should have a Frenchman in her life. Delightful, I feel incredibly happy lying on his bed, with the two of us, smiling at each other.

  He obviously knows what he is doing.

  Chapter 9: The Left Bank

  “Johann, why are you so disapproving? At least I am no longer sitting around with no one for me. You all have girlfriends. Why can’t I have a boyfriend?”

  “Because of Evans. You are married.” Johann sits cross legged on his bed, slightly hunched over to keep from hitting the sloping roof of my maid’s room. His face is long and mournful, his light blue eyes, cold. Son of an Austrian carpenter, he believes in the old virtues, for others.

  I met him at my painter friend Greta’s house in Austria, where he was helping her clear the snow off her path. When he came to Paris, we were the only people he knew and we decided that he should live in our maid’s room. If he could help me with heavy jobs, paint and refurbish the apartment, we felt he shouldn’t pay rent. He’s a talented and highly trained painter, just burs
ting out of his old ideas. Girls love him.

  “No, I’m not really married. He’s moved out. Why should I sit around and wait for him to decide what to do?” Johann’ s face can get so long. I think this is the last time we’ll talk about Etienne. The Israeli will give me good advice.

  “Johann, you seem to be getting into a new style. Your drawings are close to etchings.” Thin, large assed girls are drawn going up and down stairs. Faintly manneristic with Surreal overtones. This one looks like a swan lying on top of a girl. These look like two lesbians. I wonder what goes on in my upstairs maid’s room?

  “Yes, Andrée.” His voice has deepened to bass in Austrian self- assurance. “I can paint anything. Now I find a new style, for me, in the way of Fuchs. It gives a lot of things.” I think that phrase will become the password.