One Summer in Montmartre

by Teagan Kearney

  "Here," Louise rummaged in a draw for pen and paper and wrote down an address "is his home address in case he's left the studio." She scribbled a bit more. "And these are the directions to his house, but please God, you won't need them."

  "I won't be long, you'll see. I shan't stop till I find him," she promised her cousin. She tucked the piece of paper into her blouse and gave Louise a quick hug.

  "Tell him it's urgent," Louise called after her as she ran down the stairs.

  Evening was coming on and the light deepened as Hélène left. She walked to and from Luc's studio by herself regularly, but had never been out alone this late in the day. Ignoring her anxiety, and with the incentive of Benoît's piteous cries echoing in her ears, she ran back through the same streets she'd already walked twice that day. She ignored the looks people gave her and prayed that Luc would be at the studio. Louise was depending on her.

  Hélène hurried along the road, disturbing thoughts buzzing in her head. Louise had never said one word about Luc paying for Collette's services. Why not? Pierre must know. It wasn't a secret was it? And how usual was it for artists to help out their models? Her cousin had modeled for Luc for at least two years. She didn't know if it was usual for artists to keep the same model for such a long time.

  The roads were filled mostly with workers who were hurrying home to families and hot meals. Hélène envied them the comfort that awaited them; she too had been in the same situation not long ago. How frail everything is, she thought. One sentence, one word, one moment, and your life changes forever; instead of peace and comfort, you had pain and loss. No, she wouldn't think in that way. She'd tell Luc the problem and he would get the doctor. It would turn out to be nothing but a small fever, and as Irene said, Benoît would soon be fine.

  She ran up the stairs to Luc's studio at the top of the building. Knocking loudly, and putting her ear to the door, she listened for any sound of movement inside, but only heard her own loud breathing. Answer the door, she prayed, but after knocking hard several more times her heart sank as she realized the studio was empty.

  She dug out the crumpled bit of paper with the directions to Luc's house. But what if he'd gone out to the cafes he frequented before returning home? Perhaps he'd said something to the landlady, Madame LaGrange, an old woman who often hovered about spying on her tenants.

  "I have to make sure everything's in order," she'd told Hélène one day when she caught the woman standing halfway up the stairs near his studio.

  Hélène hurried downstairs and knocked on her door. After a minute or two of impatient waiting, the door opened a crack.

  "Oui?" The landlady peered at Hélène sourly. "What do you want?"

  "I'm looking for M'sieur Marteille, the artist who has the studio upstairs. Do you know where he is?"

  "You're one of his models, aren't you?"

  "Yes, but it's really urgent. I have to find him. I need a doctor."

  "Oh, what's wrong? You don't look sick." An acquisitive gleam flashed in her eye at the thought of obtaining a juicy piece of gossip about her artist tenant.

  "It's my nephew. He's newborn, and he's fallen ill with a fever."

  Sympathy must have softened the old woman's heart as she opened the door wider. "He left not long ago. You've not missed him by much."

  "Oh, thank you. Do you know which direction he took?" Hélène hoped he'd gone home, and she wouldn't have to go searching through Montmartre's numerous cafes. She'd heard tales of the riotous Parisian night life from Louise.

  "He headed home." The old woman looked at her with sympathy. "You should go before it gets too dark," she said. "If you cut through the park, it'll take you half the time than if you go by the main roads. Enter through the main entrance, walk straight on, and you'll see the signs for Rue Murillo. It'll be on the right, and will bring you out near his house."

  "You've been so helpful." Hélène leaned forward and surprised the woman by giving her a quick peck on the cheek. "Thank you."

  When she came out of Luc's building the sun was setting in a blaze of crimson across the sky and there were fewer people on the streets. She walked fast, keeping to the main road, but didn't run. Benoit's health was at stake, and she wanted to be sure she didn't get lost. The built-up quarter of Montmartre was soon behind her, and she could see the park ahead on the left, trees and bushes clumping together in the dusky twilight. Large houses set in residential gardens spread along the other side of the road into the distance.

  She paused under the grand arch above the main gates. Following Louise's directions would take her half an hour longer than cutting through the park. Claude would have chosen the longer safer route rather than the shorter riskier one. He was dependable, never giving into impulse, doing everything with careful attention. Claude did make mistakes, but it wasn't because he'd not thought things through—it was one the qualities she loved in him.

  She thought of the extra time needed for fetching the doctor and returning to Louise's apartment, then hurried through the main gates. There were a few gas lights here and there providing enough light to spot the sign for Rue Murillo, and her shortcut, without any trouble. She hesitated glancing nervously around.

  A narrow band of pale blue, the last of the daylight, was fading fast over towards the west, and above, the first stars appeared. The shadows were lengthening, but Hélène didn't have the luxury of time. If the encroaching darkness appeared more menacing, she'd have to remember it was her nerves. Shadows didn't hurt you. Taking a deep breath, and thinking of Louise and Benoît, she offered a fleeting prayer to St. Leonard and set off, her footsteps echoing along the darkening path.

  Chapter Nine

  In this world, it is said there is danger at every step, but no one can go through life thinking in this manner. Instead, we have to trust that when our foot touches the earth, it will be there to hold us. Nonetheless, tragedies and accidents, big and small, do happen.

  Paris, July 2007

  Anna sensed the panic, waiting, poised, ready to slice through her sanity.

  "Over by the entrance." François took her arm and pointed at the Basilica. "Look, there."

  Ingrid and Jean Paul were deep in conversation, standing in the warm shadows of a decorated stone archway. She felt stupid she hadn't seen them. One minute she was fine, a tourist on a quaint quest, the next, a neurotic middle aged female having a full-blown fit of hysterics. In public. She really needed to get a grip on her fears.

  "Of course. Sorry, I—"

  "Anna," he smiled at her. "You must relax. This is Paris."

  She said nothing, allowing him to hold her arm and guide her over to the cathedral. He let go as they followed Ingrid and Jean Paul into the dim coolness. The interior of the church with its ceiling paintings, stained glass windows, and statues offering benediction from their niches surpassed her expectations. She looked around in wonderment and awe. Centuries of worship had imbued the sacred space with stillness and tranquility.

  The silence soothed her, and she appreciated François following her lead as she meandered towards the front altar. She stopped, François close behind her, as a line of nuns emerged from a side door, walked out in front of them and proceeded to arrange themselves for choir practice. Anna slid into a nearby pew; François followed suit.

  As the pure sound of the nuns' harmonies filled the church, her mundane concerns dropped away and her heart filled with the beauty of their adoration of the Divine. If only life were this straightforward, she reflected, feeling for a moment the pull of a life free from hankering and lamenting for material desires, with the promise of eternal bliss after death.

  After the choir finished and filed out, their cheeks flushed with effort, and silence ruled once more, she went over to one of the black metal candle stands adorned with stalactites of wax. Lighting a candle, she placed it in an empty candle holder, and knelt on the green padded step.

  After she'd left home for uni, Anna had ceased attending church altogether. In fact, she hadn't thought much abou
t life and death until the foundations of her protected world shattered with unexpected tragedy. Since then, she hadn't found spirituality, or comfort, in the formal religion of her childhood. But she had learned how precious hope is, no matter how small or ephemeral, when you thought the world a hopeless place. She offered the candle with a prayer for Jeremy's soul.

  François didn't kneel, but took a candle, lighting and placing it next to hers. He remained standing, lost in his own thoughts.

  Half an hour later, as they stepped out on to the forecourt of the Basilica, they were unexpectedly blinded by the sunlight.

  As their eyesight adjusted, the noise from the city, unheard inside, reminded Anna that life flowed on unremittingly around them. She headed over to a look-out point enjoying the light breeze cooling her skin. The deep green of the squares and parks below stood out like oases in the concrete and stone desert of the city. Viewed from above, people bustling through the importance of their daily lives appeared as tiny moving dots.

  "Believe it or not, much of Paris, as you see it today, was rebuilt a mere two hundred years ago." François indicated the city beyond Montmartre to where the Paris rooftops, sizzling in the summer heat, marched geometrically into the distance. "Your London burnt in the 1700's, we burnt our Paris in the 1900's."

  She imagined searing flames engulfing houses, people running for their lives.

  "At the end of the Franco-Prussian War, the people of Paris decided they didn't want the old government and set up their own in its place."

  She half listened as François mellow voice continued, letting her thoughts drift as he spoke.

  "The government objected and the two sides battled for days. But before the Communards lost, they set the city alight. So the Paris laid out before you is an architecturally elegant city—but has a hidden violent past."

  He was the perfect tourist guide, babbling on and full of interesting facts, but not requiring any spoken contribution. Nodding and making the occasional appropriate sounds were enough. She knew Jeremy would have loved this; the architecture, the magnificence, the history, and the people of the city. But no matter how many times they'd holidayed in France, they'd never had the urge to bring the children to the capital.

  The first time they visited France they'd hired a mobile home and gone touring for the summer holidays; Jeremy and Ingrid had been ecstatic as they let the road, or their fancy, lead them. They'd fallen in love with the west coast with its wide beaches, high domed skies and the wonderful feeling of freedom. At night they made bonfires on empty beaches, watching driftwood burn, talking, laughing and fantasizing about a journey that had no end.

  Late one evening as they motored through a forested stretch of the coast along a minor road, Greg spotted a track wide enough to explore in the mobile home. They hadn't gone far when they saw a parking space, far enough away from the road for them to be secluded, but not so far as to prevent a quick start the next day.

  Next morning, they awoke to bird song, and the forest looked so beguiling with the sun filtering through the green canopied shade, they decided to stop there for a day. In the cool of the late afternoon, when shadows had stretched long fingers along the ground, they went exploring. Jeremy begged them to play hide and seek. Night had fallen by the time they found him. Until the news of his death, those five hours had been the worst of her life. Anna's throat was hoarse with shouting when Jeremy finally heard her.

  He'd cried, putting his arms around her, and burying his head in the folds of her blouse, saying between sobs, he thought they'd left him. The next morning, they headed south for the sun and sand of the open beaches.

  A lump formed in her throat. As a distraction she pulled out her camera, not caring if she looked like typical tourist. Pointing the camera, she clicked away, thinking she might be able to use these for paintings when she returned home. And realized it was the second time that day she'd had an idea for her work. Jeremy's death had frozen her desire to paint, but here, in Paris, the urge to create was re-surfacing.

  "Are you hungry? Shall we go and have lunch?"

  "Yes, that sounds good," Anna agreed absentmindedly as her eye considered angles and shades of light and darkness.

  "There's a little place not far away you'll enjoy."

  She'd been so absorbed in her private thoughts at the same time as trying to listen to François's account of Paris's turbulent past, that they'd descended several steps before she realized Ingrid and Jean Paul weren't with them.

  "I have to go back for her," she told François, turning to go back up. "I can't leave her." Her voice shook as she spoke.

  "Why not? She's with Jean Paul." He stated this as if teaching a dull pupil an obvious fact. "He's probably sketching." He dismissed her worry with a wave of his hand

  Anna recalled the satchel Jean Paul had been carrying and paused before answering. Her tense worry, this constant need for reassurance regarding Ingrid's safety was verging on obsessive. It had been bearable at home, where she knew where Ingrid was and what she was doing, and if needed, could pick her up at a moment's notice. But here, in unfamiliar territory, fearful thoughts conjured themselves into existence, invading, upsetting her balance.

  "It's that…,"

  "Jean Paul is a reliable boy."

  Anna heard him sigh as he took out his mobile and dialed.

  "Don't worry. They'll be fine, you'll see." François fired off a barrage of French down the phone. When Jean Paul answered, their hands touched as he passed her the phone.

  "Mum," Ingrid's voice, confident, happy, sounded in her ear. "I'm going to stay and keep Jean Paul company. He's sketching. The views are fantastic. We'll meet up later. Love you. Bye."

  And the phone went dead. Ingrid had abandoned her. She could feel the emotional umbilical ties to her daughter stretching. She handed François his phone, and their hands touched again.

  "We can head for the Museum de Montmartre, the Impressionists and your Luc Marteille. And after, I know suitable place for lunch." He took her hand and tucked it under his arm.

  Why he thought it was acceptable to assume this intimacy with her, she didn't know. Probably it was a French thing. But without the anchor of Ingrid's presence, his physical touch was comforting, because it made her feel less alone. She let him take charge, and, as if they were a couple or a pair of old friends, they began their descent from the calm heights of Sacre Coeur.

  "So tell me something about Luc Marteille," François said when they were taking a short rest half way down the long flight of steps. "Isn't he a minor Impressionist artist?"

  Anna did her best to disregard the burning in her calves. She would have a relaxing soak in the tub when she returned to the hotel.

  "That's the thing. I thought I did have the major facts of his life." She looked out over the streets of Montmartre getting closer, noisier. "Luc was born in Rennes, brought up by his mother. They had to move to Brest and live with her brother's family after Luc's father died. He had a small inheritance and fell in love with Émilie de Soubignon, who had enough personal wealth to support his painting. They married and moved to Paris where they had three children, two boys and a girl. He also had a studio in Montmartre and exhibited his paintings along with many other artists at the first Impressionist's exhibition."

  "So what changed when the letter came to light?"

  "The letter's very intense, and he was obviously having, or had recently finished, a love affair with a woman called Hélène. It made me want to find out more. I'm not sure what my opinion of him as a man is anymore. Don't get me wrong, I'll always love my painting." She stopped, and dug her phone from the depths of her bag, and spent a minute finding the photo she'd taken. He studied the painting.

  "It's beautiful," he said.

  "This is Luc Marteille, that's his wife, Émilie, son, Guy, daughter Giselle, and the baby's name was Gustave." Anna scrolled down and showed him another photo, pointing to each individual as she spoke.

  Luc stared out, from the faded sepia photo, his ex
pression intense, one hand resting possessively on his wife's shoulder as she sat holding the baby; the children stood, straight backed, either side of their mother. They looked the epitome of a respectable middle class family.

  "May I?"

  Anna handed him the phone for a closer look, his fingers brushing hers as he took the phone.

  He peered at the screen. "A handsome family."

  "I'm not a prude, don't get me wrong, but I had this picture of a dedicated artist, good husband and father, and I have to say that my view of him, well, it's changed."

  François appeared amused by her comment. "Because he made love with another woman? And what is a prude?"

  From what she'd gleaned from films and books, people in France viewed extra-marital relationships with a different attitude from her more conservative standards.

  "A prude is someone who behaves strictly according to a moral code, and who thinks they are superior to those who don't follow the same rules."

  François looked quizzically at her. "Are you a prude?"

  "Please. Don't make fun of me." She gazed out over the city not far below; she could hear cars honking.

  "I wouldn't dare." He raised his arms as if in surrender.

  Oh! He was laughing at her! The quaint English woman with her outdated views.

  "And how many affairs did you have?" She regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth.

  "None. I was never unfaithful. I loved my wife too much." He stared at her coldly. "But I don't judge. You cannot pass judgment if you have not marched in another's place. Yes?"

  "I'm sorry."

  Embarrassed at her lack of control, she stared out at the city, unable to meet his gaze. They had managed a brief cordial détente, and she'd gone and put her foot in it; the barricades were up once more. He didn't look at her or reply, but set off at a sharp pace down the steps, and back into the hot bustling streets.

  The Musée De Montmartre bore no resemblance to the grand Musée d'Orsay which housed the most important and well-known Impressionist paintings. The museum was small, set in cobbled streets bordered with trees and shrubs, and they entered through a curved stone archway. The museum's focus was mostly with records of Montmartre's history, but it did possess an interesting collection of artworks.