Luncheon of the Boating Party

by Susan Vreeland

  “Faster, faster,” they shouted back.

  “Thank God,” Auguste said.

  “I’m bringing him luck,” Paul shouted.

  “If he falls out,” Pierre said, “another boat could run him over.”

  “That’s one man who knows how to squeeze the most into one life,” Angèle said.

  “Not one life. Nine,” Auguste said. “Like a tomcat.”

  The fourth and fifth series started together. Fournaise explained that the fourth series flying green pennants, Gustave’s class, was the largest of the centerboards and leeboards, above six tons, and the fifth series, two oceangoing yachts with fixed keels, were considered the fastest. Those two, Miss Jane and Miss Helen, had sailed from England for this race. “That may spell trouble, two of them.”

  “Why, monsieur?” Aline asked.

  “One might run interference so the other can win,” Fournaise said.

  Auguste could feel the breeze getting skittish. Gustave had a good start in the Inès, but so did Le Palais, Jupiter, and Le Rouge-et-Noir, the three others flying green pennants. Of all the boats, if Le Palais, Gustave’s longtime rival, took the lead, that might topple his spirit. In his recent mood shifts, Gustave might get so discouraged he wouldn’t sail well. Miss Jane, flying a white pennant, pulled ahead of all of them, with Miss Helen close behind.

  Auguste ventured a comment to Aline. “See how Gustave’s boat is gaff-rigged? That gives him more sail on a short mast, and that’s an advantage.”

  She didn’t respond. Why couldn’t women be more straightforward? Like men. Or like Alphonsine. She never played games. But then, she was more than a decade older than Aline. Aline had some growing up to do. Well, fine. He would watch the race.

  “Plus vite, Inès!” Auguste shouted when Gustave came within earshot. Gustave glanced up but was more intent on watching the angle of sails of the lead boats, Le Dragon in Raoul’s series; Jupiter, which had a long record of wins; Le Palais, supported by the group that commandeered the tables under the arbor; Le Rouge-et-Noir, the biggest boat; Raoul in Le Capitaine; Guy in his périssoire with that handkerchief of a sail; and the two English boats.

  “Eight boats to pass. I just don’t know,” Auguste said. “Aline, you were born near the source of this river. You must have some influence with the river goddess.”

  “Sequana!” Her expression brightened and she gave him a genuine smile.

  Aha! He had reached her. Relief poured out of him.

  “Then it’s up to you,” he said. “Start praying.”

  She grinned and put her palms together.

  Gustave set his course with his sail in tight to overtake Miss Helen with her sail way out, and slid past her close to the far bank. Auguste saw that Miss Helen needed to tack soon, and heard the captain shout, “Hey, skipper, I need some sea room.”

  Gustave ignored him, and Miss Helen had to let out sail in order to avoid the bank until after the Inès passed.

  “Good man! He does have his heart into it,” Auguste said.

  When all the boats had passed under the bridge, the group boarded the launch which motored upwind, hugging the eastern bank, and overtaking the sailboats which had to zigzag against the wind.

  “I’m worried about Paul,” Pierre said. “Can you stay just ahead of him so we can see if he falls out?”

  “I have to stay ahead of the lead boat,” Fournaise said.

  The racers crossed tacks, maneuvering for each other’s wind. Two kilometers down the course, Auguste felt the wind shift and that left some boats in irons, their sails flapping. Gustave noticed and trimmed his sail, but Miss Jane was still in the lead by a fair distance.

  Auguste saw the tall dredger along the windward bank cut off the wind of some boats. Raoul hugged the opposite bank until the mudflats, which snagged some boats whose captains didn’t raise their centerboards. The huge Rouge-et-Noir sailed right alongside the dredge but didn’t lose much speed because her mast was so tall. She cut a deep hollow on her leeward side and Gustave sailed right into it, riding her wind shadow with just a meter of space between their hulls.

  “What’s he doing that for?” Fournaise said.

  “He’s pinning her and making her skipper nervous,” Pierre said. “If Le Rouge-et-Noir decides to let out any more mainsail, her boom could get fouled in Gustave’s shrouds.”

  “No. It’s his clever way to keep up his own speed passing the dredge,” Auguste said. Just past the dredge, Gustave began his tack in the Inès. “See?”

  “A bold move,” Fournaise said.

  The wind shifted again. Gustave tacked instantly. The cumbersome Rouge-et-Noir couldn’t stay ahead. Le Dragon fumbled the tack. The Inès took it to starboard. “Good going!” Auguste shouted.

  Now he was trailing Jupiter, Le Capitaine, and Le Palais, which were behind Miss Jane and Guy’s périssoire looking like a matchstick compared to the big boats. The Inès and Jupiter were headed to cross courses. Neither was giving way.

  “Are they going to crash?” Aline cried.

  Pierre scratched his beard. “Possibly.”

  Auguste gave him a look. “What a thing to say.”

  The boats missed each other by an arm’s length.

  “He’s got bravado, our man Gustave,” Pierre said.

  “He’s got skill,” Auguste added.

  At the point of the island, two boats were forced down the commercial channel and had to come about to maneuver into the eastern channel.

  “Ohé,” Auguste shouted. “Now Raoul only has to catch Le Dragon to win his series.” Whatever tack Raoul took, there was Paul leaning far out over the water to keep them stable with the boat heeled sharply, its sails full.

  Le Palais was on a broad reach. Her boom, extended way out on her port side, caught on a hazard pole marking an underwater obstacle which yanked the boat around and plunged the bow into the muddy bank.

  “Sacrebleu!” Fournaise said. “He knew that was there.”

  Le Palais lay crosswise to the river, a danger to other boats. Her crew scurried to disentangle the boom and push off from the bank. Jupiter, sailing wing on wing, both sails out wide on opposite sides of the boat, had to haul in quickly to avoid Le Palais, and lost her wind. The Inès, coming up fast behind, nearly clipped the stern of Le Palais as he passed. The skipper of Le Palais shouted angrily at Gustave.

  “Gustave is sailing like he owns the river,” Auguste said.

  “Well, he does, at least a stretch of the bank,” Alphonsine said.

  Now the Inès and Jupiter were bow to bow. One and then the other crept ahead. All four larger boats overtook Guy’s périssoire. The Inès left Jupiter behind and was gaining on Le Capitaine and Miss Jane.

  “It’s just a horse race now,” Fournaise said.

  They disembarked at the dock and found Charles Ephrussi in his top hat.

  “Just in time, Charles. Just in time,” Auguste said.

  The Inès came alongside Le Capitaine, so far heeled to windward that Paul was getting quite a ride, bending backward over the rail and getting splashed full in the face.

  “He can’t stand to be in a race without being right in the river,” Jules said.

  “Fly, Gustave! Fly, Inès!” Alphonsine called.

  “Raoul, get your ass moving!” Angèle shouted.

  The Inès pulled ahead across the invisible finish line. Cheers on both banks were deafening. Miss Jane was close behind, then Jupiter, and Raoul and Paul in Le Capitaine. Paul thrust both fists into the air and shouted, “Just call me Monsieur Bonne Fortune!”

  “Some are born great, some achieve greatness, some have greatness thrrrust upon them!” Jules shouted back, his fist in the air.

  Angèle and Pierre began the song “Le roi des régates,” proclaiming Gustave the king of the regatta to whom even the frigates must salute, and the crowd joined in.

  The skipper and crew of Miss Jane were the first to shake Gustave’s hand. Alphonse fils was ready with an uncorked bottle of champagne for Gustave and Rao
ul and Paul, who upended it right over his mouth.

  “I figure the course required about twenty tacks, wouldn’t you say?” Alphonse asked.

  Gustave blew air out of his mouth. “It felt like forty.”

  The supporters of Le Palais cheered when it arrived, its bow muddy, but Henri, the skipper, was obviously humiliated. Word of the mishap spread quickly and Henri’s crowd retreated under the arbor.

  The president of the Cercle de la Voile à Paris mounted the platform and gave out the medals. The skipper of Miss Jane, Guy, Raoul, and Gustave each received one hundred francs and a silver medal for winning their series, and Gustave received the Prix d’honneur, an objet d’art valued at five hundred francs, the president announced. As Gustave held aloft an ornate silver cup mounted on an onyx base, Henri, the captain of Le Palais, put one foot on the platform and held up a bottle of brandy.

  “Armagnac Cames,” Henri said. “But not just any Armagnac.” He draped the bottle in his boat’s flag and held it out to Gustave.

  “Take it quick,” Angèle shouted.

  “Ah, it’s Clos de Moutouguet,” Gustave announced and held up the bottle. “Two objets d’art. Merci beaucoup!” he said with a broad smile.

  When they stepped down from the platform away from the congratulating crowd, Auguste saw Gustave slip his winnings into Louise’s apron pocket.

  After much slapping of backs, they pulled three tables together on the lower terrace and Louise served caviar on small glass plates with tiny mother-of-pearl spoons. “This is to be eaten with contemplation—”

  “And champagne!” Aline said as Anne brought out a tray of crystal stemware. “Champagne from home!”

  Everyone watched Charles lay the bowl of the spoon on his tongue and close his mouth, his little finger extended. When he said, “As fine as any in Odessa,” Louise nodded definitively, one nod.

  Gustave, Raoul, and Paul received congratulations from everyone in the restaurant and on the promenade. Paul was beaming through it all, singing snatches of canotier songs.

  “They’re not the only ones to be congratulated,” Ellen said. She waited for their attention. “I’ve been accepted to the new Théâtre des Arts, a true literary theater that will change everything. It will be dark during performances so there won’t be any moving around. No promenoirs.”

  “How are men going to find their women of the evening?” Angèle asked.

  “They won’t. They sit in one spot and listen to the play.”

  “Unbelievable,” Raoul said.

  “The plays will either be by new writers or foreigners. For Ibsen’s A Doll’s House, we’ll have real furniture onstage, real food. Even the style of acting will be realistic, just how people really speak.”

  “An artistic revolution,” Jules said.

  “This is certainly worth a piece in Le Figaro,” Raoul said. “It could be the start of my life as a theater critic.”

  “All in good time, Baron,” Louise said as she laid down a platter of couliabac, salmon with mushrooms and dill baked in brioche dough. “First you can be a critic of the cuisine de la Maison Fournaise.”

  “This originated in Russia, you know,” Charles said.

  Fournaise himself laid down a second platter. “It’s one of my favorites. It’s folded with crêpes and tapioca and covered with a velouté sauce. She started yesterday. I’m going to have to join you.” He sat at the head of the table and served it. “Go lightly. There’s more to come.”

  “I’ve never known anything like this existed,” Aline said.

  Louise watched Charles take a bite. At the first forkful, he emitted such a loud moan of pleasure that she clapped her hands over her mouth and left.

  Gustave announced his move to Petit Gennevilliers. “After I get settled I’m going to sail the Inès to Le Havre.”

  “You mean our local races are too easy for you?” Auguste asked.

  Gustave’s cheeks colored. It was good to see him happy for a change.

  Soon Louise and Anne brought out the second platter. “Boeuf Richelieu in Madeira sauce,” Louise announced.

  “Mamma mia,” Antonio said.

  “The couliabac was for Gustave, for taking honors, because his boat swims like a fish,” Louise said. “The beef is for Auguste. You have to guess why.”

  Auguste admired the roast surrounded by braised lettuce hearts, château potatoes, baked tomatoes, and stuffed mushroom caps. How carefully she’d laid out everything, alternating colors to make a pattern on the enormous oval platter.

  “The platter is a palette! You paint with food, madame,” he said.

  Père Fournaise uncorked a bottle of Chateau-Yquem and poured.

  Auguste ate and drank heartily, and began to relax. Raoul pretended to paint his plate with his fork, screwing up his face and splattering the imaginary paint. Aline and Alphonsine laughed together uproariously. He loved to watch both of them equally. How he wished he could be two men.

  He had more things on his mind than women, though. There was still the issue of what he would do now. There would always be that issue. Some days what he chose to do wouldn’t make a smidgen of difference, and other days his whole life might change. Tonight might be one such time.

  The dessert was poires Belle Hélène, pears poached in vanilla syrup served on vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce and brandy. It slid coolly down his throat while Angèle sang the Amours divins aria from Offenbach’s La Belle Hélène. Fitting. Not only was the dessert the rage on the boulevards when the operetta opened, but it was his favorite operetta.

  “All our women put the Queen of Sparta and Troy to shame,” Auguste said.

  “Isn’t it time to open the Armagnac?” Angèle asked, tipping her head onto Antonio’s shoulder. “Too much wine makes the skin blotchy.”

  “The perfect time,” Gustave said and poured slowly, all around.

  Charles raised his glass to look across it. “A fine mahogany color with an amber surface.” He brought it to his nose to smell the montant, the strongest aromas. “An abundant nose, not for the faint of heart.” He swirled it gently and watched it coat the glass. He raised it again for the second nose, the full bouquet. “Vanilla, plum, and spices.”

  Charles waited until everyone had enjoyed the aromas. “The perfect sip is always the first.”

  “You’re wrong,” Angèle said. “The perfect sip is the one you’re sipping.”

  They toasted Gustave. Charles sipped. “Ah, semisweet.”

  “With a long, deep aftertaste of prunes,” Raoul said. “A far sight better than your young brandy in that country cask, you’ll have to admit.”

  Fournaise took another sip, not willing to accede so quickly. After the third, he nodded. “D’accord.”

  Auguste almost laughed at them rinsing their gums as though it were a mouthwash. Someone behind him tapped him on the shoulder. He turned.

  “Jeanne!”

  Dressed as in the painting.

  “Ellen told me you were almost finished,” Jeanne said.

  “You came to pose?” He let that hang in the air. “I’ve done without you.”

  “Is it here?”

  “Yes.”

  Make her ask. Even though he was dying to see if the awning worked the way he needed it to, he wanted her to ask.

  “I’d like Joseph-Paul to see it.” She gestured to him standing off to the side. “After all, we’re going to have a big wedding in December.”

  She got the reaction she wanted, dropping that plum of information. Congratulations flew across the tables.

  Auguste was too full of the sensations of well-being to feel injured. He took another sip of the Armagnac before he said, “Félicitations,” kissed her blithely on the cheek, and shook Joseph’s hand.

  “Another toast,” Paul said, and poured two more glasses.

  “The painting, Auguste,” Jeanne said.

  “All right. The painting.”

  Fournaise and Alphonse carried it onto the platform with the back toward everyone
, and Gustave brought the easel. Chest out, chin raised, Fournaise commanded attention by his posture. People all over the grounds quieted. Gustave gave the nod, and they walked it around to set it on the easel.

  Applause burst forth from all sides and made him reel.

  “The awning!” several voices cried.

  “Holding out on us. You might have rolled it out the first day and saved ourselves some sunburn,” Angèle said.

  “I needed the light.”

  Gustave pumped his hand. “It works! We assume it’s attached to a building we can’t see. Bravo!”

  Looking at it now from a distance for the first time, he saw that the divergent diagonals of rail, table edge, and awning contained and united the figures as a group. “Why don’t simple answers occur to us in the beginning?”

  “Because we have to wrestle them out of some bedrock within,” Gustave said.

  “True indeed,” Jules said. “I’d venture to say the prodigious effort required is what makes any true artist suffer. As the bard says, With what he most enjoys, contented least. That necessity of torment sets the artist apart from the nonartist, in all fields.”

  They understood. Despite his principle that he wouldn’t do anything except out of pleasure, the vision had required such effort that anguish and emotional exhaustion were inevitable. He’d had no choice but to endure it in order to give the painting a future.

  “There hasn’t been such shimmering opulence in a painting since the Venetians,” Charles said.

  Jules nodded. “The whole thing is a symphony of colored vibrations. Thousands of tones and touches give form by the subtlest of gradations.”

  Swimming in a sea of compliments, Auguste let his pleasure swell and realized at the same time how physically exhausted he was, how tight in his muscles, how stiff his joints. But he’d had the idea always before him expressed moment by moment in the spirit of his friends, and that had sustained him. Nearly two months, eight luncheons, counting today’s, a couple dozen tubes of paint, five women, nine men, a mère and a père. The sight of everyone who had helped him flooded him with joy. For two months the models had been his and he had been theirs. He felt a culmination of his life this far.