One Summer in Montmartre

by Teagan Kearney

  He wasn't thinking of the children though, he was preoccupied with Hélène's portrait. Painting her had been effortless, and he'd captured more than the beauty of her youth and innocence. He'd caught the directness and lack of artifice in her gaze.

  Yesterday had been her last sitting. The background needed some touching up, and he could finish that without her, but he was reluctant to complete the work, wanting to delay the final moment as long as possible. Guiseppe had dropped in last night. They'd drunk wine and discussed inspiration, muses and the struggle for recognition till the early hours of the morning.

  Why had Hélène mentioned she'd be at the Moulin this afternoon? Was it the prattle of a country girl impressed with the goings on in the big city, or had she let it slip because she wanted him to know? He took out his watch and checked the time. He had time enough to make the one o'clock train, but what was the point in going? He'd sensed a certain intensity in her this last week‒nothing he could define‒and hadn't responded in any way or said one word to her which might be misinterpreted. Everything else aside, he had needed her present to finish the painting, and he hadn't want to frighten her away.

  Last night Giuseppe had convinced him that falling in love with models was an accepted hazard of the profession, but in the light of day he knew his fixation with Hélène was out of control. His feelings for her weren't fading one bit; was it possible she had feelings for him? She sat so quiet, an air of expectancy about her, as he arranged her hair. The satin of her skin under his fingers, he knew he was taking advantage, but had been incapable of restraining himself. Occasionally he made a few weak attempts to persuade himself it was for the painting, but the attempt at self-deception failed. He touched her because he wanted her, and this was as much contact as he would ever have. At times, keeping the barrier he'd erected between them was almost intolerable.

  He sat brooding until the last minute before grabbing his coat and rushing out. His feet automatically took control as he strode along, his mind turning over various ways to open a conversation with her, assuming he bumped into her. Of course, she'd be there with Louise. And the baby. Probably the husband too. What was the man's name?

  He was so absorbed in thinking of Hélène, he'd walked halfway down the Rue de la Pépinière before he saw the way was blocked. There'd been an accident and a crowd had instantly gathered, a few to help, but most to gawp. He pushed forward, but people eager to see the mishap were jammed so tightly together he wondered if it would be quicker to go back and find another route rather than continue.

  Luc decided he was too far into the crowd and it would be easier to keep going. A horse had taken fright when a horseless carriage, with its noise and smoke, came charging towards it. Terrified, the animal had reared, and the driver lost control of the reins. The carriage overturned, with the driver trapped underneath, and the horse dragged both some distance before a bystander had the wit to grab the horse's bridle, and stop its frantic distress. Someone was screaming for a doctor.

  As he reached the spot where the accident had happened, he paused‒his eye drawn for a second by the drama‒but he was too driven by his desire for Hélène to spare the scene more than a cursory glance. He continued to wiggle and, when necessary, push and shove his way through the packed crowd. The more obstructions he met, the more pressing became his need to catch the train. If Hélène was there, arriving after they'd left would be pointless. At one time Louise might have stayed late to dance, but not since she'd had the baby.

  After a frantic effort where time stretched till he wondered if he'd ever break free of the moving crush of people, he exited the mass of onlookers. And like someone chased by demons, he ran for every breath he was worth. He didn't bother about how much time he had before the train departed; he knew it would be close. Familiar with central Paris, he took as many short cuts as he could, dashing along and nearly twisting his ankle on the ancient cobble stones of one narrow alley. One thought possessed him: Hélène.

  By the time the station came in sight, sweat ran down his back, his handkerchief was soaked from mopping his face, he'd undone half of his shirt buttons and was carrying his jacket. The long queue at the ticket office gave him time to cool down, but the shuffling forward, the waiting, the checking his watch every two seconds was unbearable. He caught sight of the train belching steam as light-hearted groups of passengers boarded.

  Feverish thoughts, glimmerings of ideas chased through his brain, but he pushed them aside. He had to get to the Moulin. He had to be on that train.

  "I have to get to Montmartre. It's a family emergency," he muttered, elbowing and pleading his way to the front of the queue, oblivious to the complaints and disbelieving looks thrown at him. He arrived at the front, and was reaching for his ticket from the painstakingly slow clerk, when he heard one long piercing blast on a whistle; the train signaling its departure.

  Chapter Thirteen

  When you're young and in love, you are unaware that precious moments of sweet bliss may not appear often in life. And when they do, there is no guarantee they will last. But because of them, and regardless of the frequently later occurring heartaches, life is always richer.

  Paris, July 2007

  Before they left home, Ingrid had extracted a promise from her mother that they would visit a few designer shops when they were in Paris. She had her birthday money and was intent on buying at least one designer item—even if that item was the tiniest of handkerchiefs.

  "Rue du Faubourg, St. Honoré!" Ingrid's voice was that of a pilgrim who had located the Holy Grail. "This is Paradise!"

  Anna smiled. The simple pleasure of being alone with Ingrid was enough. Her daughter's gaze fastened first on one shop, then another and another, and she let Ingrid take the lead as they meandered among the chic shoppers on Paris's most exclusive street. Anna did her best to ignore being treated like an oversized accessory.

  "There's one thing more I need." Ingrid linked her arm through her mother's, a wistful please mummy I want expression on her face. "A credit card with a balance the size of Paris Hilton's."

  "Possibly in your next incarnation, eh?" But Ingrid didn't hear. She had stopped in front of a shop window, her jaw dropping lower by the second.

  The previous night's argument had ended with Ingrid hugging her mother and apologizing for being such a brat. That was Ingrid, volatile and passionate, everything near the surface but over and forgotten in a flash. They'd hugged tight and gone to sleep friends. Jeremy and Ingrid. Chalk and cheese. She had felt complete with her two children but when Jeremy died a part of her heart had been amputated.

  Anna had woken that morning with her pillow wet. She'd lain there, without moving, eyes closed, holding on to the fleeting picture of Jeremy, trying to stay in the dream-memory as it faded.

  It had been cold and raining, and Jeremy had been at his new secondary school for a month. He, with the other boys of his year, looked small and frail compared to the gigantic fifth and sixth formers.

  The minute he climbed into the car she saw something was wrong. He wasn't as clever as Ingrid when it came to dissembling.

  "I'm not well. I don't want to go to football tonight."

  "What's wrong?"

  "I have a stomach ache."

  "Okay." Her gut instinct told her that wasn't the problem, but as it was rare for Jeremy to complain about being sick, she accepted his excuse—for the moment.

  As soon as they got home, he dug a crumpled envelope out of his backpack, dropping it on the table. "I'm going upstairs. You've got to sign that."

  "Okay. I'll be up shortly. Are you well enough to have some soup?"

  "Yes, please." He climbed the stairs, his footsteps heavy and slow.

  She opened the letter.

  To: Mr. and Mrs. Seeger.

  This is to inform you that your child Jeremy Seeger will be in detention for the next week due to misbehavior in the playground.

  Please sign below and return the slip to the school office.

  Mr. Loksley
.

  What kind of misbehavior in the playground warranted a letter and detention? When she brought him up the soup and bread, she couldn't believe he'd changed into his pajamas and lay reading a book in bed. Whatever had occurred must be serious.

  He put the book aside and sat up, waiting for the inevitable questioning. "Sorry, Mum."

  "Tell me what this is about." She laid the tray on his lap.

  "I punched someone."

  She waited to see if he'd say more but he started eating. Whatever the problem, it hadn't affected his appetite. She waited till the bowl was empty. Growing boys were in better moods on full stomachs.

  "Thanks, Mum."

  "I'm not angry but I do want you to tell me what happened."

  Jeremy tightened his lips.

  "How can I help if I don't understand why you hit that boy?"

  He sighed. "You're not going to stop till I tell you, are you?"

  Anna smiled. "That's because I love you and care for you and need to know you're safe."

  He proceeded to relate how a boy from the year above had been picking on him and his new friends since the very first day. The boy, Brian, big for his age and aggressive, had started out pushing them when they went to the toilet or when he saw them in the lunch queue. Within days this had progressed to following them around at break times, calling them names, shoving them into walls, and demanding money—the worst offence. Alex, who was smaller than Jeremy, had been punched in the stomach and collapsed wheezing on the floor when he stood up for himself.

  So Jeremy had hatched a plan, persuading his friends to follow his lead. He'd lured Brian into the toilets, and when he accosted Jeremy ordering him to hand over his money, Alex and Charlie, who'd sneaked up behind Brian, kicked him hard in the backs of his knees. As he collapsed, lurching forward, Jeremy had punched him right on the nose. Brian had fallen sideways and hit his head on the side of the stall. The three boys had told their side of the story, being honest as to the reasons for the incident, and they'd been given detention for a week.

  "Jeremy, when things like that start to happen, you have to tell someone. Anyone. Parents, teachers, any adult you trust. That's what we're here for. To help when things go wrong."

  He looked at her, his chin tilted up, a mischievous glint in his eye. "We sort this stuff out ourselves."

  "Jeremy … promise me."

  "Okay, next time, I will. Promise. But Brian won't be bothering us or anyone else for a long time."

  She knew he shouldn't have taken matters into his own hands, but she was glad he'd stood up for himself and his friends. After that she thought of him as her little knight in shining armor.

  Ingrid's fingers squeezed Anna's arm. "Oooh! Those names! Gucci! Chanel! Lanvin, Givenchy, Yves Saint Laurent, Christian Lacroix, and Dior! Oooh! It's not Paradise. I've died and gone to Heaven." Ingrid rolled her eyes at her mother. "You know, I don't mind that we've no time for Versailles or the Louvre. I'm happy with Montmartre," she gestured along the street, "and this."

  "I wonder how much different this street would have looked in Luc's day?"

  "Luc?" Ingrid raised her eyebrows.

  "Luc Marteille. The reason we're here."

  "Oh, that Luc." Ingrid dismissed him.

  Anna thought that right now Jean Paul might be in second place if Ingrid had to choose between love and shopping.

  "Yes, I need to do more research. Find some photos." She peered up at an ornate metal balcony. "I'm positive a number of the older buildings around here are from that period."

  "François will be able to tell you," Ingrid said. "Ask him."

  Anna continued to be annoyed at being obliged to spend time with François, in spite of images‒the frank assessing stares he continued to give her when he thought she wasn't looking, how laughter at one of Jean Paul's jokes took years off him‒intruding at odd moments.

  They had arranged to meet outside their hotel after lunch and would pass the afternoon at the Musée. The archivist was going to bring out Luc's letters, at least those in their possession, and François would translate them for her. She would focus on the letters and do her best to disregard his unwanted presence which, although she wasn't sure how it had happened, now appeared necessary to her research.

  "Mum, stop! In here!"

  Anna had wandered ahead, lost in contemplation of ideas for paintings she might undertake when home, completely ignoring the shop windows, but Ingrid was a guided missile, homing in on her target. Nothing deterred her. She towed her mother into the Dior shop. Anna's back ached and her legs hurt, but she didn't protest. There was no point. To refuse Ingrid at this point would result in a nuclear explosion. She followed Ingrid wondering if Luc Marteille's daughter had wound him around her little finger as easily.

  "But you don't wear powder!" Anna hissed in Ingrid's ear as her daughter examined an exquisite small powder compact.

  "No, but grandma does," Ingrid hissed back. The sales assistant informed them of the price in a haughty voice as her gaze lingered on Ingrid's curls.

  Half an hour later, back on the bustling street, Ingrid was ecstatic with her purchase. Nestling in its exclusive box and elegantly designed wrapping paper, she'd tucked her purchase away in the depths of her bag.

  Anna was touched at Ingrid's kind-heartedness in remembering her grandmother. This child of hers was full of surprises. When at last the shopping was finished, Ingrid had bought a skimpy hand knitted jumper and matching scarf in bright rainbow colors, after begging the last fifty euros off her mother.

  They lunched at a small bistro after wandering down a side street and getting lost. This time, with Ingrid by her side, Anna was happy to explore.

  Ingrid moaned over the lack of choice for vegetarians and dropped a comment on how useful it was to have François around to order for them; but in the end they sat outside sipping coffee, people watching, and eating cheese sandwiches made with fresh crusty French batons, and salad.

  After they'd finished, Ingrid began glancing at her watch at regular intervals.

  "Thank you, darling," Anna said, trying not to smile.

  "Why? What have I done wrong?" Ingrid eyed her suspiciously.

  "For spending time with me when I'm fully aware you'd rather be enjoying Jean Paul's company. You really like him, don't you?"

  Ingrid looked at her mother, her features softening. "Like? Mum, I think I'm in love." She bent towards her mother, lowering her voice. "This might be it. I've never had feelings like this for anyone. I mean I love you and dad. And of course I love grandma and granddad, but this, Mum, this is something else."

  Anna said nothing of Jeremy's absence from the list. It wasn't the time or the place to remind Ingrid that she had lost a brother whom she also loved.

  "Mum, can I ask you something?" Ingrid asked.

  "Anything you want, darling. This morning, I'm yours."

  Ingrid paused, obviously thinking how to phrase her question. "Would you ever have an affair?"

  Anna gaped, open mouthed at her daughter before she burst out laughing.

  "I'm serious, Mum." Ingrid repeated the question with more confidence this time. "Would you ever have an affair?"

  "And who on earth would I have this affair with?" She stared at Ingrid in puzzlement. Her mouth dropped open as it dawned. "Are you asking me what I think you're asking me? Do you honestly think I'd have an affair with François? Someone I've known for barely more than a day?"

  Ingrid dropped her gaze under her mother's scrutiny. "Well, why didn't you tell Dad about him on the phone yesterday?"

  "Ingrid, you're eighteen. And I'm your mother. My life is not a soap opera to be discussed over lunch." She huffed, offended at her daughter's question. Honestly! What on earth went on inside Ingrid's head? Did the girl not know the difference between what she saw on television and reality?

  "I'm sorry Mum." Ingrid reached out taking hold of her mother's hand. "I didn't mean to upset you, but it's that I think you're, well, happier since we got here..." She left the
sentence unfinished.

  Anna relented. Her daughter had a lot of growing up left to do. "And do you think I'd tell you if I was?" she joked, but Ingrid was too busy checking her watch and Anna's remark went unheard.

  "Can we go, Mum? We're supposed to meet them at the hotel at 1.30 and Jean Paul might think I'm not coming."

  Anna felt a surge of warmth towards her daughter. Ingrid had always been an independent child racing to catch up with her older brother. Since she'd hit puberty, she guarded her privacy, rejecting Anna's advice, shutting her out and ignoring her attempts to find out what was going on at school, or with her friends. She hoped this pouring out of an intimate confidence marked a change. Their relationship was no longer that of parent and dependent child; Anna realized Ingrid wanted to be treated as an equal, a friend.

  "Well, we wouldn't want to keep Jean Paul waiting on tenterhooks for you, would we?" She reached over and kissed her daughter on the cheek. "But I insist that you come to the museum, Ingrid. You have to see the other Marteille paintings, especially Hélène's portrait."

  "Sure, Mum."

  Anna was suspicious of the speed and ease with which Ingrid agreed, but she had no intention of disrupting the mood. The morning had been exactly how she'd envisioned this trip with her daughter, though she'd thought Luc Marteille and not Dior would be the object of research.

  They had to rush and barely made it back on time. Jean Paul was pacing outside the hotel, but there was no sign of François.

  A sudden surge of resentment hit Anna at having to share Ingrid with people she considered strangers.

  "My oncle have business 'e must do," Jean Paul looked anxiously at Anna, "but 'e phone me and 'e will be 'ere soon."

  "Well, he's not here now is he?" That morning when he'd been absent, she'd found herself thinking of him, but at the moment he was a disruption to her plans.