One Summer in Montmartre

by Teagan Kearney

  Many of his artist friends slept with their models, but for the most part it happened when they and the women were young. Several, including Manet and Cezanne had married their muses, settling down to enjoy marriage and family life. Luc, on the other hand, had married and had a family first, losing his sanity later.

  These days the whole affair seemed a mirage, a dream. He'd seen the painting in the studio and chosen to exhibit it, but when Émilie looked at it, he'd forgotten she was the one person who understood his art. As one of his best pieces, it had to be shown, but if Émilie ever caught the tiniest glimpse of how obsessed he'd been with Hélène for that brief period, she might never forgive him. Surely this nervousness stemmed from anxiety about the reception of his work? He had to remain calm.

  "Hey, Luc!" A hand slapped him on the back.

  "Ah, De Nittis!"

  "Are you preparing for the lion's den?"

  "No, I've been in already. I needed a little fresh air."

  "Well, lead on. I shall take courage behind your back!" his friend laughed.

  Luc relaxed. He was letting the pressure get to him. He had to keep things in perspective.

  When he rejoined Émilie, she was standing in front of Hélène's portrait, talking with Madame Manet. By the bright expression on the woman's face, Luc could tell the topic of conversation was Émilie's pregnancy.

  "Congratulations, M'sieur Marteille!" Madame Manet smiled at him, running her gaze over the three exhibits. "Wonderful! Wonderful!" She gestured grandly in the direction of the wall. "I love them."

  "Merci, Madame." Luc made her a polite bow. "Coming from you that is indeed a compliment."

  "We'll meet later," she murmured to Émilie, sailing off to mingle with the crowd.

  "So, did you sleep with her?" Émilie leaned in, speaking softly and pointing to the portrait. Luc felt a rush of adrenaline. His heart sped faster, his breath came quicker. His work had betrayed him, but he respected his wife too much to pretend he misunderstood her meaning.

  "No. Émilie! I never sleep with my models." His voice was a jagged uneven whisper. "I've never broken that vow to you." At least he could say that with honesty, he thought. "Émilie, please. I promise you on my life. On the life of my children."

  "I believe you, but that doesn't mean you didn't fall in love with her." She looked at him for a long moment, and his stomach sank at the hostile glare she gave him. "This is exquisite," she moved over to inspect the still life. "Please, don't sell it. I will ask Papa to buy it for me. I love it." She spoke as if the preceding conversation had never taken place and returned to surveying Luc's paintings. "I think these are the best you have done so far."

  Luc's shoulders relaxed. He wanted to be acknowledged as a painter of worth, to achieve success in his field, but it was Émilie whose conclusions he valued above any other. She'd had faith in him as an artist since the first time she'd seen his work.

  "Thank you, chérie."

  "So, anything sold?"

  Luc turned, smiling at the speaker, Renoir. He was flattered when these older, more well-known artists spoke to him as an equal. "Yes. Émilie's father will be buying one."

  They laughed. Artists appreciated their rich relatives, especially the generous ones.

  "Well, our families are very important to us," Renoir nodded, beaming at Émilie, "but our mistress is more important."

  Émilie's eyebrows rose. "You share a mistress?" She cast a sideways glance at Luc who stared transfixed at Renoir. "You must tell me her name so I may call on her."

  "Art, my dear lady! Art, the creative impulse, is the most demanding mistress a man can have."

  The three of them laughed at his joke. Luc laughed the hardest.

  Renoir leaned forward and winked at Émilie. "But surely, my dear, you must be aware she's a very jealous demanding mistress who doesn't like to share."

  Chapter Twenty-One

  In this world everything tends towards entropy. You have to work hard to stay in the same place, for the fact is, there is no standing still. You may think you are pausing, resting, but everything around you is changing, corrupting, un-becoming. We have this one second in which to live, experience and fulfill our desires. Yet all endings mark a beginning.

  Paris, July 2007

  Anna stirred the crystals of brown sugar, watching as they merged into the slow whirlpool she was creating on the creamy froth that sat atop her latte. The distant hum of traffic barely registered. She was dreamy, set apart from the early morning crispness that surrounded her as Parisians and tourists alike stepped out to face the new day. Part of her still lay in François's arms. The memory of François, his smell, his touch, being that intimate with someone other than Greg, had set her adrift. She remembered his profile as he lay back on the pillows and the smoothness of his skin. Yes, sex was a powerful urge. No wonder religion and society kept it under strict wraps.

  She reflected on what she knew about Luc Marteille, no longer judging him so harshly. Who knew what desires drove him? She hardly understood her own motivations, let alone someone who had been dead for over a hundred years, although human desires remained pretty much the same. She sighed‒part satisfaction, part regret‒and picked up a croissant, not in the least bit surprised to find it soft, light and melting in her mouth. She was at peace.

  Ingrid's broken French and Jean Paul's fluid responses announced their imminent arrival, their voices louder as they approached. But she didn't turn, not wanting to end her enjoyment of the moment

  "Good morning, Madame Anna." Jean Paul made a modest bow, his sing-song English making her smile.

  "Bonjour, Maman," chimed Ingrid.

  Gosh, what a beauty, thought Anna looking at her daughter's glowing skin, slender figure and auburn curls, a flaming halo in the morning sunlight. "Bonjour, mes enfants," she responded, stressing 'enfants'.

  "What are your plans for this morning?" Jean Paul inquired hesitantly. He studied his feet, penitent and reluctant to meet her gaze.

  "I have to collect my letter, Luc's letter that is, from the Musée, and have my last viewing of Hélène's portrait. We're both packed and ready to check out, aren't we Ingrid?" She preferred the pair of them take off by themselves seeing it was their final morning. Plus, she and François could, I don't know, she thought, talk? Be two adults together?

  "Yep," Ingrid moved closer to Jean Paul. "All that's left is to open the door and grab the bags."

  "And if I have time, I might take a walk along the Seine." Was she making it too obvious that she would prefer they went off by themselves?

  "That's perfect, mum. Jean Paul and I will come with you if that's all right?" Ingrid's eyes flicked from her mother to Jean Paul seeking confirmation.

  "Why wouldn't it be?" The one time she didn't want them around! "Don't you two want to spend time by yourselves?" She hoped she sounded non-committal.

  Jean Paul lent forward conspiratorially. "We hope to show you we are not irresponsible. That we are truly sorry for upsetting you and returning late."

  They nodded, their red-gold and brown-gold heads bobbing vigorously.

  "Oh," she replied. "You mean responsible today, don't you?"

  The youngsters looked offended at the tartness of her tone, and she could see Ingrid smothering the retort that danced on the edge of her tongue. Anna hid the pleasure she was enjoying at having the upper hand.

  "Bonjour, Anna." François's voice broke the silence. "How are you on this beautiful morning?"

  Anna turned her attention away from the two youngsters. "I'm fine. Very fine indeed." Oops, that slipped out too quick. She avoided making eye contact with François. "Sit, children."

  François spotted a waiter and signaled him over as he sat down next to Anna amid a clattering of chairs scraping and settling as the group arranged itself at the table.

  "Ingrid and Jean Paul were telling me how they're joining us for the whole morning. They're feeling guilty for the inconvenience they put us through last night," Anna informed François, noting what
thoughtful brown eyes he had, how they lightened with humor as he spoke.

  "How considerate."

  Ingrid and Jean Paul sat facing them, their backs straight and heads slightly bowed, as if hauled before two school principals. During breakfast François informed the young pair it was more of a punishment than anything else if the four of them had to pass the entire morning together. He gave them half the morning by themselves and gave instructions to meet up at 11 o'clock at the Pont Royal. He teased his nephew there'd be plenty of time to focus on him after Anna and Ingrid left. Love-sick puppies needed a lot of tender loving care.

  Jean Paul and Ingrid tolerated every jibe. Ingrid wanted a quick trip to the boutiques; Jean Paul wanted to take her to the Eiffel Tower. So they left, arguing in lover's fashion over where to go, simply so they could make up later.

  After they disappeared around the corner François leaned towards Anna. "And how are you? I mean, really, how are you?" His tone was hesitant, his eyes questioning.

  She understood. He would take his cue from her. As a gentleman, he was assessing her manner towards him before revealing his thoughts. Anna blushed. She tried to control it, raising her hands to cover her confusion.

  He reached out and took her hands away from her face, tilting her chin so she had to look up at him. "Last night was a gift. A gift for me because it showed me I can feel after my Lucie's death. But also a gift for you. You've learned you cannot shut off your emotions. I'm well acquainted with that numbness, that empty place where you do not have to suffer. But for you to truly live, that ice must thaw, and melt. That place of grief, it is not life."

  Slow tears trickled down her cheeks. He was right. Whatever had happened between them, whatever the future held, she realized the universe, Fate, whatever you called it, had stepped in. She offered a silent thanks to Luc. Without the search for his story, she would never have come to Paris, would never have met François. She would not have been as fully alive as she was now.

  "Thank you, François. Thank you."

  He folded a napkin and carefully dabbed her face.

  She placed her hand over his. "I won't forget you, François." She couldn't say any more.

  They had come together, and whatever was in store for them, their paths in life were separating, but a dam had been breached. She was different. She'd returned to life. Jeremy's smiling face flickered before her inner eye. He wouldn't have resented her enjoying life.

  "Come, chérie." He stood and smiled at her.

  She gathered her bag, and hooking her arm through his, smiled back at him. They were good with each other. Nothing complicated; this was understood, and it wasn't a problem. "Allons y," she said liking his peal of laughter at her French.

  Arm in arm, two friends, two conspirators, they merged into the pedestrian traffic and set off for the Musée des Impressionists.

  "Ah, Madame, Monsieur." Monsieur Battignon, sporting an incongruous red and black striped tie, dabbed at his forehead with a large handkerchief for the day was warming significantly, and inside the museum the air was close. "The letter! Ah, oui! You are correct". He beamed at her. "It has been verified by Monsieur Trochard of the Louvre archives, and, yes, it appears" he expelled his excitement like the air rushing out of a balloon in one exultant burst, "your letter was written by," he paused, milking the moment for impact, "none other than Luc Marteille himself."

  Anna's instincts had told her right from the moment Mr. Bentonly had placed his discovery in her hand, that the letter was authentic, but it was tremendous to have it verified. She gave the curator a big smile.

  "Congratulations," François said.

  "I wonder if I might make a gift of his letter to the Musée? I'll send you the original after I return to England." She heard François's indrawn breath, but she had made her decision. She wanted to give something back to Paris. The city had revived something precious‒the wonder of being alive‒and reciprocation was more than important, it was necessary. She glanced at François. Surprise and approval.

  "Of course, Madame," the curator stuttered, overcome by the heady gift of a new letter. "Um, there are a few forms. And, er, after you send the original, we will issue a certificate of authenticity. Er, please follow me, and you can sign the necessary papers right away." He bustled off as if afraid she'd change her mind if he delayed.

  After the official signing over of the letter was complete, they went for one last look at Luc's paintings.

  "Whenever I wish to remember you, I can come here and look at your letter and Luc's paintings, can't I?" François joked, "You're my Hélène."

  She elbowed him in the ribs. "Are all Frenchman as hopelessly romantic as you," she grinned at him. "What do you suppose Luc would have thought if he saw the future and knew that strangers would be picking over his life?" she asked.

  "Perhaps he'd be pleased because it wouldn't be happening unless he'd achieved the success he sought."

  "Well, we've gained more understanding of the man, haven't we?"

  François put his arms around her, held her close and kissed the top of her head. He smelled of musky cedar wood; she breathed in deep so she might remember.

  Standing in front of the portrait of Hélène, she experienced a closeness to Luc. She hadn't thought it could be so easy to seek something‒satisfaction, pleasure, comfort, she wasn't sure what‒outside her marriage. All it had taken was a particular set of circumstances, as could happen at any time to anyone, and her moral compass had located a new north.

  And the question of Greg remained. Did they have a future? How much was she willing to invest towards that particular future? What she did know was that she hadn't foreseen participating in an episode like last night. And if it meant something, it would have to affect her relationship with Greg. She stroked François's arm. He smiled. She smiled back. So comfortable, so uncomplicated. No expectations; enough for the moment.

  Ingrid and Jean Paul were leaning over the bridge and watching the river, his arm around her waist as Anna and François approached.

  Anna peered over the bridge. "What's so fascinating?" she asked.

  "We're deciding which houseboat we want to live on. We fancy that one, with the flowers in those crazy pots." Ingrid pointed at the most exuberantly decorated boat, before giving her mother a big hug. "I can't thank you enough for bringing me here, Mum. I've had the best time. Paris is wonderful!" She directed her smile at Jean Paul.

  "Let's walk." said François.

  Ingrid and Jean Paul's quick back and forth banter, punctuated by giggles, drifted back as Anna and François followed the young couple off the bridge. The sky was blue, the air warm on the skin, and the leaves of the trees shimmered and sparkled in the sunlight. The Seine flowed alongside, small choppy waves ruffling its surface.

  François walked by her side, attentive yet careful not to touch. "You remember I told you about my life's ambition?" François asked.

  "Your boat? I would have thought that as an estate agent, you must have desired to build something grand?"

  "No, quite the opposite. The truth is I have planned the route I will sail and changed it many times. First to Gibraltar, the Azores, across the Atlantic‒I'd skip Panama‒go to Rio, and yes, I promised myself the challenge of Cape Horn, up to Hawaii, over to Tahiti, Samoa, Australia and back via India, and South Africa's Cape of Good Hope."

  "Wow!" She watched as his eyes took on a far-away look. He was there already. For one brief second he carried her with him. On a yacht, what an adventure it would be—wild seas and wild wind. She blinked the images away. No, that wasn't her dream, but she was conscious of the infectious pull such a voyage exerted.

  Anna had the urge to reach out and link arms with him, regardless of what Ingrid and Jean Paul might think. But she didn't. She accepted this was how you conducted an affair. A couple enjoyed intimacy when alone, but practiced deceit in front of the world. She didn't think she could tolerate being divided that way for long.

  "After Jean Paul goes home," he continued, "I
shall go and stay on Ma Belle, and see what happens. I'm keen to start work."

  She recognized the anticipation on his face.

  "Yes, Anna. We have both benefitted. It's not been one-sided."

  They strolled, silent companions, comfortable with not talking as the life of the city continued around them.

  After a taxi deposited them back at the Place du Tertre, they headed for the hotel.

  François touched Anna's arm slowing her down and letting the young couple go ahead. "I'm no good at goodbyes, Anna." His mouth drew down at the corners; he shrugged.

  She smiled at the gesture. "It's okay."

  "Jean Paul is going with you to the airport but…," he trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished.

  Anna gave him a small smile. "Yes, that might be, um, how shall we say, awkward?"

  They laughed.

  It was easy to laugh with François. How had she ever thought he was standoffish?

  He looked ahead. Ingrid and Jean Paul had disappeared into the hotel. He cupped Anna's face in his hands, bent and kissed her full on the lips.

  She leaned into him, resting her head on his chest. Her emotions welled up and she let the tears fall.

  He wiped them away with a tender hand. "So this is my real goodbye to you, Anna."

  "Au revoir and thank you, François. Thank you for everything."

  They were both aware of tides shifting. Finding each other had been an unexpected gift, but the river of life was taking them in different directions. And that was how it had to be. Hand in hand, they walked towards the hotel.

  Once they crossed the threshold and were inside, Anna knew that would be it. This, whatever this was, would be in the past: it would be over. She took a deep breath and paused for a second as they arrived at the entrance. They stood close, arms touching, as a group of tourists, chittering like excited parrots, streamed around them. Their fingers loosened and fell softly apart.

  In no time, the porter carried out their suitcases and put them into the boot of the waiting taxi. Anna sat in the front seat while Jean Paul and Ingrid curled up together in the back. She hardly noticed the noise and hustle of the traffic as their taxi driver, hell-bent on breaking a Guinness book speed record, darted through gaps in the traffic, braking sharply and weaving between lanes as if on skates. Anna was in-between. In-between what had gone before and what would happen next. She was suspended, outside normality, but strangely enough without anxiety. Jeremy smiled at her. She smiled back.