A Friend in Paris

by Jennie Goutet

  But then she left him.

  Mishou patted his hand again after he’d finished his plate in silence. “I bought some éclairs.”

  Ben wasn’t at the art studio today. April didn’t know why, but fortunately the class was taking a break from the portrait painting to work on charcoal sketches of movement and she would not need him. There was an empty seat next to a girl named Penelope, one of the few French students in this school geared toward foreigners because the classes were mainly taught in English. Her first impression of Penelope hadn’t been one of an overly warm person. Whether this was the typical French personality or simply Penelope’s own style, April didn’t know.

  “Is this seat taken?” April asked her.

  Penelope shook her head, her eyes on the sketchpad before her.

  April sat down and took out her own blank pad to begin sketching the model, who posed in the front of the room, only to change positions each minute. After examining the model’s overall physique, April quickly captured the movement with expert strokes, and at the end of the second sketch, Penelope stopped her work and leaned over.

  “You’re quick,” Penelope said. “I’ve not been able to study it fast enough to get that much detail.”

  “I’ve been studying this my whole life. My father was an artist, and he taught me from an early age.” April continued drawing, her eyes darting from the figure to her page.

  Penelope went back to sketching, but April could see her looking over at her work from time to time. April was accustomed to the attention. She’d worked hard at honing her skill, and though she did have natural talent, it helped that her father had her drawing from the moment she could hold a crayon. If she had a gift, it was her job to grow it and use it well.

  “Excuse me, class.” Françoise called everyone to attention, and April noticed for the first time her teacher was not alone. An older gentleman had made his way into the studio and was examining the students’ paintings, one by one, that were hanging on the shelves nailed into the walls. He turned to face the class and put his hands behind his back, looking like a benevolent father.

  “I’m happy to introduce to you my art teacher, Mr. Chambourd, a respected maître at the École des Beaux-Arts in Paris and a member of the Académie,” Françoise said. “He runs a studio there and has decided to honor us with his presence and, I suppose, to see how his former pupil is doing in carrying on his instructions.” Mr. Chambourd didn’t look like he could be very much older than April’s art teacher. “Now, I shall give you the fruitless advice to carry on as if he were not here.” Everyone laughed.

  The advice was indeed in vain, because as much as April attempted to continue her sketch uninterrupted, she couldn’t help but risk surreptitious glances to where the maître was to see whether he was looking at her own completed painting, April à Paris. Finally, he did stand in front of it, even picked it up to look at it more closely, then put it down without a word and moved to the next one. April felt her heart sink.

  “I wonder what he’s doing here,” Penelope whispered, deciding, it seemed, to let down her reserve and take April into her confidence. “He’s very well-known in France. He’s part of the Académie, and it’s a huge deal that he’s here.”

  April opened her eyes at that. “I’ve not heard of him. I can’t imagine why he’s here, but I do hope he sees something he likes.” She smiled at Penelope. “Look. I think he’s examining your painting, isn’t he?”

  Penelope craned her head, then sank down. “He is. I feel sick.”

  “No, don’t,” April said. “It’s very good. Your attention to lines and contrasts is amazing.”

  “Ah, merci.” Then, as if the words were pulled from her, Penelope added, “I’ve noticed your work too and admit to being a little jealous.”

  April laughed and shook her head. “No need.” A movement at the door caught her eye. “Who is that, do you think?” A young man, whose hair had not been recently trimmed but whose clothes were tailor-made, leaned against the doorframe looking completely at ease, though he was standing in front of a room full of strangers.

  “Oh.” Penelope’s voice shot up a pitch, causing April to turn to her. Penelope’s face lit up as she soaked in the sight of the newcomer. That she knew him, or at least recognized him, was evident. “That’s Arthur. He’s my…he’s my friend. Part of our circle of friends, though he’s the latest addition and has only been a member of our group for the last year.” Penelope leaned in. “He’s a brilliant artist. Unbelievable. He must have accompanied Mr. Chambourd, although if he knew of it in advance, he didn’t tell me.”

  Biting her lip, Penelope stood and seemed to gather her confidence around her like a cloak. It was an unusual look for Penelope, this need to garner her courage because, as much as April had found her a bit cold in the weeks she had known her—until today, that is—Penelope had always appeared supremely confident.

  Penelope walked toward Arthur at the door, and April watched as he stood upright and smiled. A seductive smile, she thought. As if he knows what it’s capable of. The feelings Penelope had for him, that were so patent when she and April had been talking, now disappeared, and the face she held up for him to kiss was nonchalant. Penelope spoke to him for a few minutes, nodding her head toward Mr. Chambourd.

  April was impressed. She would need to learn how to be that relaxed with men. As it was, she was completely transparent. Though she’d been told she was pretty, and didn’t appear to be all that bad when she looked in the mirror, there were never any men falling over themselves to ask her out—at least not anyone appealing. French women had a reputation for exuding self-confidence around men, and now April could see it was true.

  Mr. Chambourd came to the doorway, all the while talking to the art teacher. After they’d kissed each other’s cheeks in farewell—what April had learned was called “les bises,” and which they pronounced, lay beez—Arthur then introduced Mr. Chambourd to Penelope. They spoke for another minute before the guests took their leave.

  Penelope returned to April’s side. “You have no idea what a huge thing it is for him to come visit our school. Arthur is in his atelier at the École des Beaux-Arts. I am so starstruck right now.”

  April turned to her in wonder. “If you are, you haven’t shown it very much. You were completely natural up there.”

  “Ha.” Penelope said. “That’s in the genes. We French women can hide what we feel as easily as we can breathe.”

  “Lucky for you,” April said. “I wear my heart on my sleeve, and it doesn’t always serve me well.”

  Penelope studied her face. “You blush easily, don’t you?”

  “Mmhmm.” April gave a nod. “No matter how hard I try, I can’t hide what I’m thinking.”

  Penelope picked up her sketchpad. “It’s not very practical, I’ll admit,” she said. “Other women will despise you for it, considering it a weakness. But the women who are sincere? The true friends? They will like you the better for it.” She looked at the empty doorway and appeared lost in thought. Her feelings for Arthur were perfectly clear to April, but she wondered if he had any idea.

  French women could indeed hide what they were feeling if they wanted to, and that was a mixed blessing.

  Chapter 4

  “I have an exciting announcement to make.” The class was settling in, and Françoise clapped her hands above the bustle. “Mr. Chambourd, who I introduced you to last Tuesday, is hosting an art gallery event for potential buyers. After examining your paintings—oh yes, he was here for a reason, but I couldn’t tell you until he was sure—he’s agreed to consider the best paintings from this class. He makes no promises that any will be included because the competition is stiff and his own students are vying for spots. The selling will be done by auction and they will start the bids high, which gives you a greater chance at earning something. The buyers are international, and the theme will be Paris.”

  Françoise looked around the room, her gaze settling on April. “April, I think you sho
uld submit your painting, which I believe is nearly finished. Of all the canvases he saw, he mentioned yours as being well suited to the theme.” All eyes turned to April, and her heart beat wildly. “However, don’t let it go to your head. I recommend you begin another one and submit the best of two for consideration.”

  Addressing the class, Françoise said, “Your portraits should be nearly completed now, so work hard and get them done. Our next assignment will be—you guessed it—Paris. Traditional Parisian architecture should be included in the painting, but they’re looking for a unique take on the City of Light.”

  The teacher took a moment to survey her class, her white coat buttoned wrong and covered with paint, but with a set of keen eyes under the cropped gray hair. “You are a talented group. I hope to see a few of your tableaux included.”

  Françoise turned then, and the class buzzed with excitement as everyone grabbed their canvases and art supplies and chose their stations. April was pink with pleasure. She tried to bite down her smile, but it was hard to make it disappear completely.

  Ben glanced at her when he took his place. “You can gloat. I’m jealous, but I’ll get over it.” His words were teasing, but his tone was off.

  April, at a loss for how to respond, finally said, “It doesn’t mean that mine will be chosen. You heard her say it. Stiff competition.”

  “So you say.” Ben picked up his brush and regarded her before leaning over to paint. Though she was used to his studied gaze by now, his frown disconcerted her. They had given up observing aloud what they saw now that the portraits were close to being finished, and she watched him in silence as he painted, putting her own finishing touches on his portrait. After a short while, his expression lightened, and she felt the mood shift.

  “Now the eyes are all wrong.” His tone matched the teasing words. “I’ll have to include the light of victory.”

  April laughed. “Stop it, Ben.”

  April walked up the Champs-Élysées and cut across one of the intersecting roads. The streets snaking off the main boulevard were narrower, with Chinese restaurants, small boutiques and functional stores that sold things like earbuds for hearing loss. It was not as nice as the broad avenue, but April found beauty in the teeming mass of humanity that stepped around construction sites, bought wrapped bouquets of flowers, and strolled out of the bakeries with fragrant baguettes under their arms. She considered her lunchtime options and settled for another croque monsieur. She really needed to eat better, but it was hard when she was so hungry and a little had to go a long way.

  At home, April headed to the only bench in the courtyard, a blissful spot that was partially concealed from prying eyes by a corner of hedges and potted plants. She sat down in silence to think. What could she paint next? The April in Paris painting represented everything that was important about this first trip overseas—this first trip that honored her father’s dying wish. It held so much emotion for her, it spilled over onto the canvas, and she wasn’t sure she could do better.

  She chewed her sandwich over the lump that rose in her throat, forcing it back down. There was no need to allow her emotions to carry her away. It had been a year, and this was a moment for celebrating. Her art teacher had mentioned her canvas in front of the class as a potential for the prestigious art gallery. She would honor her father’s memory best by painting.

  Swinging her feet, April took another bite and enjoyed the stillness, the early spring warmth of the sun, the bird that was chirping in one of the two trees on the other side of the courtyard. The door opened to her left, and she glanced up to see Lucas exit the building. Any hope that he might not notice her was lost when his gaze fixed on her.

  “There you are, April.” He spoke English with a strong accent and said her name Ah-preel. “I haven’t seen you in a few days. Have you been avoiding me?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Well you shouldn’t,” he shot back. “My grandmother rents your apartment, and you won’t find another place for that price in all of Paris. I’m not one you should try to avoid.”

  April thought it better to say nothing. She couldn’t eat any more, so she wrapped the remains of her sandwich in her napkin, picked up her bag and stood. “Have a good day, Lucas.” She walked past him, afraid he was going to grab her arm, but he didn’t. As she marched toward the door, the back of her neck prickled with awareness. It was only when the door closed behind her that she breathed more easily. The elevator was on the top floor, so she took the stairs.

  In less than a minute, the door opened again, and she turned. Lucas began climbing the steps behind her. “I thought you were going out,” she said. It took an effort to keep her voice calm.

  “No. I saw you out there from the window and came out to see you. Now that you’re coming inside, I’ve decided to come inside too.” He gestured up the stairs. “After you.”

  April reflected on what to do. The safety of her room was a couple floors up. She could lock the door. Even if he had a key, she also had a deadbolt. But a lot could happen on the stairs, especially as they got toward the last floor where there were only students like her, whose paths she rarely crossed. Maybe it was better to go back outside where there were people around.

  Just as she was debating, Lucas took a step closer. “I think you should go out with me.”

  “Lucas. Going out with you is the last thing I will do. I won’t get mixed up with my landlord.” Never mind the fact that you give me the creeps!

  “There are benefits to getting mixed up with your landlord,” he replied, his voice still urbane and teasing, but with an underlying threat that was hard to ignore. His persistence in pursuing her had crossed the line to stalking almost immediately after she moved in, and her own reaction to it quickly went from annoyance to something akin to fear. Most of the time, however, she thought she could handle it. He would not take things further—not when she knew who he was and where he lived.

  Lucas lifted his hand to brush her hair off her neck, and a door opened upstairs. April moved out of his reach and looked up the stairwell, trying to keep her face impassive. She could not let Lucas see any fear. Someone was coming, and that someone would be her salvation. She hoped the savior would be willing.

  It seemed an eternity as she heard the key in the lock and the muffled sounds of footsteps on the carpeted stairwell. Using the distraction, April stepped away from Lucas, who was listening, too, and didn’t make an effort to move toward her again. In another minute, Victor rounded the stairwell, his hand resting on the smooth brass railing.

  “Lucas,” he said, studying him with hard eyes. “Rien à faire?” April knew what that meant. Nothing to do? She appreciated his ironic tone and wished she could have his insouciance. She wasn’t sure, as a woman, she could ever be that carefree. Maybe there was some form of martial arts in China she could learn that would give her more protection.

  “What’s it to you?” Lucas retorted.

  Victor ignored him and turned his regard to April. “Bonjour, April,” he said, then switched to English. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about your painting. Do you have time now?”

  April managed a nod. “I do.” She couldn’t manage a smile, though. She was still standing stiffly, irritated, and with threads of fear that had begun to dissipate when she caught sight of Victor.

  “Well then.” Victor nodded to Lucas. “We won’t keep you.”

  That was smooth, thought April. But apparently not obvious enough for someone like Lucas, since he made no move to let her pass. Victor didn’t bat an eyelid and turned to her instead. “Shall we go to my place?”

  “How about a café?” she replied.

  He nodded, taking her elbow with his back to Lucas, and staying at her side until they reached the bottom step. A few more strides across the hallway, and they were at the door to the courtyard. He opened it and allowed her to pass through. “Well,” he said. “I’m surprised my coat is not burned off my back from the force of his glare.”

  April
couldn’t muster a smile. “He scares me.”

  “He’s not someone to get involved with,” Victor said.

  “An understatement,” April said. “Thank you for rescuing me.”

  “It’s my pleasure,” he replied. “And I want you to know that you can come knock on my door any time you feel threatened, day or night. I don’t keep normal business hours and often work from home, so you have a good chance of catching me.”

  “Thank you,” she said again. “This is the most relief I’ve felt since I moved in.”

  Victor didn’t know what had prompted him to offer his help, except for the fact that he couldn’t bear to let any girl be hounded by the likes of Lucas. He had been pleased to see April again after not running into her in over a week, but he hadn’t missed how tense she was or the threatening posture Lucas displayed when hanging over her. Why didn’t she just tell him to get lost?

  “Why do you encourage him?” he asked when they’d arrived at his favorite café, three doors down. It was one of the dwindling typical Parisian cafés, with small round tables and two chairs overlooking the street—a favorite with locals. They managed to get the last table outdoors.

  “Do you think I encourage him?” April’s eyes went wide, her voice leaded with irritation. “Do you think I have much choice in the matter? It took me two months to find a place to live because I don’t have a guarantor. Lucas keeps threatening to evict me if I’m not nice to him. On top of that, there’s the physical threat of his presence. I can walk away from him, but he follows. I can push him away if it comes to that, but he’s stronger. You have no idea what that’s like.” She sat back, blinking her eyes hard.