A Paris Apartment (17 page)

There was a closing dinner for them, too, in New York. April didn’t go of course, she was unconnected to the deal and only barely connected to Troy. But he went and then showed up unannounced at April’s apartment. When she opened the door she found Troy leaning against the far wall, hair tousled and lips curled into an easy, slow smile. Shit, April thought then. He was incalculably better-looking when he was a little bit undone.

Troy stayed over that night, and things happened to a degree April had never before experienced despite having a reasonable number of experiences to compare against. It wasn’t merely the
deed
. Of course they did plenty of that, but they laughed and talked and relished each other until the sun rose across their city. They couldn’t see the sunrise, April’s old place not being exactly known for its views. Nonetheless, together they felt the light pour over them. April knew then she was done: There was no going back to a life without him, for a time at least.

The problem with Singapore was that April could not blame Willow, not really. She understood exactly how this went. And she was afraid it’d go that way in London, too.

“April?” Birdie said. “You still there?”

“Yes. Sorry. I’m in a shop—it’s a little crowded…”

April crammed the scarf into her tote yet continued to feel suffocated, as if it were still wound tightly around her neck. The smell and colors (those
macarons
; pink, orange, yellow, white) began to swirl around her like a bad, sugar-fueled trip. Voices sounded like foghorns, circus-like people bustled past.

“Birdie, I have to go,” she said. “I’m not supposed to use a phone in here. I’ll call you later.”

April turned, disoriented. It took a minute to locate the front door.

“Pardon,” April said as she battled her way through the shop.
“Pardonnez-moi.”

Someone called her name. April burst through the door. The bell continued to jangle overhead as she moved down the sidewalk. Trying to catch her breath, she slumped out of view, around the corner from the patisserie’s glass-fronted entrance. She slid down the ancient, stone edifice; heaving and gasping but unable to catch her breath, each inhale slipping through her rib cage like water through a sieve.

Chapitre XXVIII

“April,” said a voice.

She shook her head.

“April!”

Someone pawed her shoulder. April opened her mouth to scream, and hoisted her handbag into the air, hoping to fend off the attacker.

“Avril!”

She stopped abruptly as the purse continued its momentum, ultimately knocking her in the skull.

April recoiled at the hit. She then looked up at the floppy-haired man standing above her. He wore a half-grin she could only barely make out through the hair hanging over her own face, not to mention the shock of almost concussing herself.

“Oh,” she said. “Luc. Hi.”

“You look flushed. Also, you are seated on the ground. I hate to ask the obvious, but are you all right?”

Was she all right? It was the unanswerable question.

“Bonjour,” she said and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry. I did not see you there. You scared me.”

“It appears I do this a lot. Is everything okay? You seem distraught.”

“Nope!” she said, voice breaking. “Not distraught! I’m fine! Just fine!”

April attempted to stand as gracefully as one could after being collapsed against a patisserie wielding a quilted Chanel handbag as a weapon.

“If you’re sure—”

“Totally! How’s it going?”

“It is
going
,” he said and smirked. Of course he smirked. “Well, I have to say, I am glad to have bumped into you. I’ve a bundle of terrific news right here in my bag. I was en route to share it with you when I noticed a strange but lovely woman sprinting out of a shop.”

“I wasn’t sprinting. It was more of a fast shuffle.”

“You have a funny way of viewing things. In any case life is looking up for fair Marthe.” Luc pulled a stack of papers from his shoulder bag. “She has a new apartment! No more frozen water basins! These are tied in yellow, which I think connotes positive developments for our Madame de Florian. Or perhaps I’m reading too much into it.”

“The diaries?” April laughed, though mostly because it was easier than crying. “You have them for me?”

“Of course. I said you could read them. Did I not make that clear?”

Luc handed her the papers. She clutched them wordlessly.

“In which we meet Boldini,” he said, grinning even wider.

April held them to her body, still bewildered by everything that had transpired in the last seven minutes, or what might be transpiring across the Channel. She shook her head, trying to clear it all away.

“Is everything all right?” Luc asked a third time. “You look rather upset.”

“I don’t know.” April sighed. “I truly don’t.” Her marriage, this man appearing from nowhere, the pressure of trying to do right by Marthe—it was no wonder April needed a wall for support. Part of her wanted to fall back into it. “Well, thanks for the journals. Glad we bumped into each other. It saved you a trip. See you soon.”

She turned and commenced speed-walking in the opposite direction. Cognizant of Luc’s trailing presence behind her, April used little caution in propelling herself onward, stepping into the street whenever someone blocked her way, even if it put her directly in the path of hell-bent Parisians on motorbikes.

“You’re going to be flattened like a pancake,” Luc called, exerting minimal effort to match her pace. “Salut! Wait up. Talk to me.”

Grabbing her bicep, Luc pulled April off the street and led her between two green iron gates. She blinked. Suddenly the wind was gone, along with the sounds of the motorbikes and people jostling past.

“Where are we?” April asked, letting her arm slacken in Luc’s hand.

She looked up at the windows above, their boxes exploding with pinks and reds and oranges. Ivy-covered walls surrounded them. Beneath their feet, a stone path. At the end of the path, a bench. April stalked toward it through the undergrowth.

“A courtyard,” Luc said. “A place to rest.”

“It’s beautiful,” April said as she sat down on the bench. Another thing she loved about Paris: The city held immeasurable places for solitude, countless side rooms into which to duck. Paris was a destination, yes, but with a thousand little journeys of its own.

“Indeed,” Luc said. “Quite beautiful.” He remained standing, almost daring her to get up and refuse the respite he suggested. That would be just like her, non? But his tone was so gentle April found herself glad to relax, happy to take the comfort he offered.

This moment. It was getting too soft.

“Well,” April said, trying to muster some grumpiness from the bench. “I hope we’re not on someone’s private property. I don’t want to get arrested.”

“We’re fine. If anyone asks, we’re here to see a dentist who’s in that building.”

April thought of her own dentist then, with his cheesy furniture and fish tank and fake wood counter. She pictured his narrow hallway and the small metal elevator that worked only on Tuesdays.

“Even going to the dentist is exciting in this city,” April said wantonly.

“Long day already, Madame Vogt? You seem beleaguered.”

“Merci. ‘Beleaguered.’ You’re too kind. And, yes. Long day. Long week. Long month. Longer even still.”

Luc said nothing. April scratched her left arm.

“You don’t need to babysit me, you know,” she said.

April expected him to sit beside her, and in fact a small part of her wanted him to. But there Luc remained, standing in a well-worn spot on the stone path, hands on his hips, sunlight shooting through his black hair.

“What is so rough about it?” Luc asked. “This day?”

“Just my assistant.” April shook her head. “She called. And. She’s great. I love her. But sometimes she’s a teensy bit of a pain in the ass.”

“She must be French.”

April snorted. “No. Not French. I’m not being fair. She’s a fantastic assistant. It’s a long story. And actually not even about her at all. Never mind, it’s stupid. All of it.”

Luc nodded. He would not push further.

“Do you need a minute alone?” he asked.

“I don’t think so. But feel free to go.”

He pointed to the journals. “I find if I’m agitated, reading is a good escape.”

“Ah, you are very wise. For a Frenchman,” April said, trying not to smile. “Now that you mention it, an excellent suggestion.”

Suddenly the wind picked up again. Luc’s hair flapped against his forehead and the tips of April’s ears began to sting. She looped the scarf back around her neck.

“Well, I shall see you soon,” Luc said. “Enjoy the journals.”

“Thank you, Luc. Again. For everything.”

“It is entirely my pleasure. Anything to make a pretty girl smile.”

With a little salute, Luc winked, spun around, and walked out of the courtyard, carefree and ever casual, never once turning back toward her.

April watched as he paused at the gate to light a cigarette. The wind pushed the smoke, and the hint of his cologne, back toward April. Though filtered through distance and the remnants of tree blossoms still hanging on the branches, it was almost as though Luc were still there. April shifted on the cracked stone bench and waited for the wind to die back down. While pigeons picked at the seeds by her feet she untied the first stack. She had not yet read a word, but April was already smiling.

Chapitre XXIX

Paris, 15 October 1891

Well, it’s done. I’ve moved on. I’ve moved up! A new apartment!
Je l’adore!

If I must: It is small and not so far from the old place, in more ways than one. Yet it is mine and it is warm and there is (nearly) room for all my gowns. Best of all, it is free. Pierre would not hear of me paying for it out of my earnings.

Pierre, ah, Pierre. We had a delightful few weeks tooling around Paris, picking up gifts and jewelry, dining at the finest restaurants. But now he has departed to Argentina to deal with bat guano and ancillary matters. We are to marry when he returns, or so he’s decreed. Nothing can keep him from me, he says, except death. I’d never wish death upon the poor man, but I do hope he spends the rest of his days minding the guano.

Don’t misunderstand. Pierre is a perfectly lovely individual but not someone I want to wake up beside every morning. I do not want to kiss that big, bumpy nose or touch those furry little ears each night before bed. He is an agreeable chap, but I am not yet eighteen, therefore unready to clamp down and cut off the rest of my life, especially if he’s providing the suture.

Alas, I made many promises thus it will be quite the debacle when he returns. I can only hope he won’t. Based on what the girls in the old place said, men from South America never did. Of course, unlike theirs, my man was actually in South America in the first place.

The girls from
l’hôtel des femmes
 … Louise and Gabrielle and Aimée. I thought I would be sad to leave them. I expected to look back on our time with a mixture of smiles and tears. But as I packed my last trunk and slipped on my hat I was positively relieved to abandon that godforsaken place. When the girls gathered to bid me adieu I noticed how weathered they were, how utterly beaten down by this city and their occupations. Aimée in particular always looked beautiful to me. But when she moved into the dim light of the hallway for a final good-bye, the state of her face soured my insides. She looked old, crumpled. Makeup settled into her wrinkles like cracked mud in a dry riverbed.

The old woman was right when she predicted high demand for my room. In the days leading up to my departure she was constantly negotiating with potential occupants, squabbling and squawking like a drunken chicken. I was the first person to leave of my own volition instead of being kicked out or dying some horrible syphilitic death. As a result the old bag was extra grumpy. It gave me great pleasure to sashay past with an “Au ’voir” and an Émilie-patented wink.

I was all the way down the front steps, gone almost forever, when a gravelly little voice piped from beside a gas lamp.

“Jeanne Hugo?” the mouse-woman said.

I almost didn’t turn, certain my ears were playing tricks.

“Jeanne Hugo,” the voice said again. “Daudet?”

I flipped around, words at the top of my throat ready to fall out in the form of expletives. Then I recognized her, Marguérite, the waif who stood beside me at Jeanne’s wedding procession all those months ago. Her battered suitcase told me she was the warm body to fill my cold room.

“Bonjour!” I said and reintroduced myself. “So nice to see you again.”

Marguérite curtsied, of all things! Then she beamed up at me with that face—those perfect pink cheeks, her tiny white teeth, the large, wet, brown eyes. Here was a slip of a woman: tiny stature, tiny arms, tiny waist, tiny in every possible way except her bosom, which defied natural order. She looked like someone’s child. The rest of the girls looked as though they sprang from the cold, brown earth or were made in a factory under the most penurious of conditions. Marguerite was different. At that moment I felt the need to save her. I did not know I had it in me.

“Have you come for my room?” I asked.

“Yes I have. I was so pleased to find a place,” she said, sounding like a little queen and not a bedraggled urchin. “Now I need to find work.”

She glanced up the side of the building. My gaze followed and I caught a glimpse of Louise peering out her window. My heart skipped.

“My dear girl,” I said, sounding like a mother though I have but a year or two on her. “Are you sure this is what you want? This
hôtel
? These people? I am leaving, you see. There is a reason.”

“Am I sure?” She crinkled her face. “Well, my options are not exactly abundant.”

“We make our own options,” I said and reached into my purse. “I want you to have this.”

I pressed money into her hand.

“I can’t—”

“You can. Please, before you take a job or mire yourself in the vocations of these girls, consider the type of life you want. I hope this money gives you time to figure it out.”