Jerusalem Maiden (28 page)

T
he late midday meal at Raysel's had just ended. Reluctant to go to their hot, crowded rooms, the residents lingered over a second cup of black coffee and gossiped about a young woman who had been vague about the details of her life. Someone reported that he had checked her trunk, but found only indecent lingerie.

Esther's scalp under her wig itched as if a tribe of lice nested in it. She rose to leave the table. She must be careful with her letters. Her neighbors might enter her room in her absence, might root through her valise and drawers. This was Jerusalem and Jaffa all over again. Prying was a Jewish entitlement; there were no boundaries between an individual and the
klal
. Never knowing where the next trouble or persecution might strike, wary Jews felt compelled to know whether a secret had the potential to damage them.

Esther was at the door when a matronly woman's voice stopped her. “Where does a young woman like you go by herself ?”

Esther stifled her annoyance. “Upstairs,” she replied.

“Your children must be crying for you.”

“My children are well taken care of by my large family.”

“But you're in Paris looking for a no-good adventure?”

“It's your dirty mind assuming that.” Esther rushed up the stairs. Who'd conferred a total stranger with the right to judge her, to dictate the path she should walk in?

Before hiding her letters under the rafters, she reread the one from Hanna. Dvora played outside every day, getting sun, and Eliyahu sang the Shabbat blessing for “
the fruit of the vine
.” Gershon's health was perfect, no coughing at night. The sisters-in-law were kind, their kitchens open to Hanna anytime.

Even if her children weren't crying for her, Esther's throat tightened as she fought her own cry for them. And she read more in Hanna's letter: without bragging, her sister's triumphs were written into every sentence. Esther tried to suppress her jealousy; her sister was in high spirits, and in that regard, Esther had done a mitzvah, giving the poor Hanna a purpose.

She reached for the family photograph, but the cold, flat glass was no substitute for her children's warm arms and bell-like voices. She kissed each of the three small faces. When she returned home, she would be a better mother to Dvora. She would read with her daughter rather than criticize her immersion in books. Her vision blurred with pooled tears, Esther looked at Nathan, his kind eyes gazing solemnly at her. Had Dvora been a boy, she told him silently, Dvora would have been considered an
eeluy
.

The air in her room was suffocating, and the itch in Esther's scalp intensified. The window failed to invite any breeze, while the roof 's zinc attracted the sun—only to have the wooden beams underneath trap the heat until the attic became the inside of an oven. In Jaffa, cinder blocks as thick as the length of a man's arm insulated her house, and Esther could splash water on the tile floors to further cool the rooms. She yanked off her wig, changed into her old clothes, and tied on her
tichel
. In her old outfit she may draw attention the way a pauper did, but it gave her back the anonymity the elegant Esther couldn't have. She'd just had the soles of her sandals replaced after weeks of walking in them, and, although stiff, they were fit for crossing town. With
Les Misérables
tucked in her satchel, she went out toward the Seine, where she hoped to find a cool spot.

Roaming flocks of geese soiling the grass frustrated her plans, and anglers had commandeered the shade under the weeping willows, sluggishly casting their lines. Esther crossed the small Île Saint-Louis to the Left Bank. To the east, a herd of goats grazed in the rolling meadow, to the right the maze of alleys of the Latin Quarter twisted, cramped with cafés and what she now knew were brothels. Keeping to the shaded side of the street, she walked uphill toward Montparnasse.

A star-like intersection had been turned into a tiny oasis, in the center of which the lavender bloom of a jacaranda tree shadowed a wooden bench. Esther sat down, her feet resting on a carpet of fallen petals, and studied the expanse of a large glass window on the sixth floor of a red brick building. An artist must be working there right now.

She dozed off, envisioning herself up in that studio, and was awakened by the calls of porters. A steel arm cantilevered from the roof hauled a giant piece of marble with ropes. As two men leaned outside the studio window and manipulated the ropes, Esther speculated about the sculpture that might emerge from the piece: A mother and child embracing? A prisoner curled up in agony? When the marble had finally been pulled inside, she rose and walked on. One day she would climb the steps to that atelier to see what the artist had done with his marble.

Passing by the ceramic workshop she hadn't visited since her first week, she paused, then entered the cool backyard.

The face of the woman she had met lit up. “You never came back!” she exclaimed with more enthusiasm than seemed necessary. She rummaged through a pile. “See how great it came out?”

The tight decorations Esther had sketched, a cross between the Moorish and Armenian styles she had known in Jerusalem, sparkled with fresh colors. “I only scribbled a bit,” Esther said. “You painted it beautifully.”

“Call me Jeanne. And my husband must speak to you.” Before Esther could ask what he could possibly have to say to her, Jeanne coned her hand by her mouth. “Vincent! She's here!”

The artisan Esther had seen five weeks earlier appeared from the wisteria-blanketed shack. He wiped his mouth with a gingham napkin, then blew his nose with the force of Joshua's trumpet that had brought down the walls of Jericho.

“We got this large commission to do a chalet. Many kitchens, many baths. You draw, Jeanne color.” It took Esther a moment to comprehend that the man was offering to employ her. She broke into sweat. He went on, “Everyone paints boring country landscape. Silly bales of hay. Stupid roosters. No fine details.” He pointed at the tile she was holding, which she knew showed far less white background than the tiles on the table. “You'll do hundreds of these. And you'll work fast.
Oui?
New designs. Lots of decorations.
Oui?
”

“I'm here for only a few more weeks—” The tile slid from Esther's damp hand and shattered on the stepping stone. She stared at the pieces, horrified. “I'm so sorry—” Her face hot, she gathered her skirt and bent to the ground. Should she offer to pay for the tile?

But Jeanne tugged at her shirt to rise and handed her an apron. “Forget it. Can you start now? We have a lot to do.”

It would be the first time she'd be paid since Miss Landau had sold her handiwork overseas. If she was frugal, the money might cover her expenses here; perhaps even leave some to buy gifts for her children. The largest doll for Dvora. An automobile with moving wheels for Gershon. A music box for Eliyahu—

“Maybe I could sketch some tiles,” Esther said, barely containing her excitement. “But only in the afternoons.”

Back in her attic, Esther gazed in the small mirror. At Vincent's, she would be doing art, but rendering abstracts and decorations had always been permitted. Happiness flooded her. Something big was happening. With a smile on her face, Esther lifted her scissors and chopped off one clump of hair after another until it was short all around. She rinsed her face and neck in the bowl and splashed water on her short hair to flatten it.

T
he Metro was the miracle of underground travel, Mlle Thibaux had promised when she gave Esther directions to her home. Scanning the cavity of the cathedral-size station, Esther mumbled a prayer before permitting herself to be swallowed alive into the belly of the earth. Her trepidation dissipated as the train glided along oiled tracks under the streets of Paris, although she couldn't figure out where the air was coming from or why the engine smoke didn't choke the passengers. At the end of the ride, she recited
Birkat Hagomel
.

The quiet, clean street near the Bois de Boulogne had pocket gardens behind grillwork fences suggesting small havens. The palm-size sign on Mlle Thibaux's building indicated that it had gas heat and even running water. Moments later, Esther entered a parlor with a high ceiling edged with gilded moldings. A mosaic of paintings hanging close to one another covered the entire wall above the sofa.

“It's beautiful here,” Esther said, taking in a small flowering garden just outside the window. “No less than I expected.”

“I own this flat, whereas married women aren't allowed to own anything,” Mlle Thibaux said, smiling.

Esther touched the piano. “I'd love to hear you play again—” She stopped as she recognized the color blocks of Cézanne's palette knife. She stepped closer to the wall of paintings. “Matisse, Renoir, Picasso, Monet, Chagall, Modigliani,” she called out the signatures. “Did you own all these in Jerusalem?”

“They were stored here in Paris, of course. They weren't expensive then, and my benefactor indulged me, thinking it a harmless hobby. Now that Modigliani and Renoir have died, the value of their work has increased.”

“I bought a study painting by Picasso,” Esther said. “Unfinished.”

Mlle Thibaux laughed. “He's the only living artist in town who's not starving. His work now fetches a good sum.”

“My painting was thrown in with some junk. It's mostly in blue.”

“What a find! One day, his detractors will admit their mistake in deserting him in his blue period. It represents his foul mood and glum view of the world.”

“My painting isn't glum. It's even hopeful,” Esther said, as an image of the mother turning toward her son came to her mind.

“Keep buying anything you fancy and can afford.” Mlle Thibaux's eyes lit up. “This is a very exciting time for art in Paris. There's a new wave of artists, the
avant-garde
, that will revolutionize the way the West views art.”

How wonderful to own such a wall of paintings, even if most of the pictures showed idols. Esther was admiring the art, not the subjects. Perhaps if she was even more frugal with her new income she would be able to buy more—

“Come, I want to show you something.”

Esther followed Mlle Thibaux to the bedroom. There, between two tall curtained windows, hung Esther's painting of Me'ah She'arim preparing for Shabbat. It was better than she had remembered. She leaned closer, recalling each fine brushstroke. She could feel the pull of the string bag containing the precious food for Shabbat and smell the soap-soaked steam wafting from the
mikveh
. Soon, she would hear Aba chanting
nigunim
at their table.

“An idealized version of life.” She straightened up. “We knew only suffering under the lawlessness of the Ottomans' rule: the kidnapping of boys by the army, the food and water shortages, the corruption of an administration stuck for four hundred years.”

“Your people relied on God for protection. That's what has made their resilience so amazing. And haven't they prevailed?” Mlle Thibaux added wistfully, “I miss Jerusalem and its beauty.”

Jerusalem, Esther's city. Only a day's journey from Jaffa, she thought, yet, wrapped in motherhood, she had kept away from its beauty and spirituality. Upon her return, she would take Dvora there to show her the sights and reclaim both the city's and her daughter's hearts.

“I knew no other world then. I had seen only a few pictures of Jaffa and Paris.”

“That's what makes this painting uniquely original. It's the expression of a child who sees only the moment unfiltered through the mesh of politics, economics, religion or personal strife. Your untrained eye captured its essence.” Mlle Thibaux pointed at the top of the painting. “You painted this in winter, when the air is transparent and the sky is as clear as glass. You show richness of detail in that pure light. Every fine weed is seen, even from a distance.”

“You're too generous with your praise.” Yet the wall of paintings in the parlor testified to Mlle Thibaux's sound artistic judgment. Esther averted her eyes, and her breath caught.

On the nightstand, in an oval frame, was a photograph of Pierre. Ten years after she had last seen him, he smiled at her. The brightness in his eyes shot directly into her heart. Like most of the men she'd seen in France, he had grown a mustache.

As though she hadn't noticed the blood drain from Esther's face, Mlle Thibaux looped her arm in hers and led her back to the parlor. “I've got a basket ready for our picnic in Bois de Boulogne. All kosher, including the plates.” She smiled. “And Monday we'll finally start studying the Louvre.”

“Finally.” Esther threw her hands toward heaven. “Three more weeks and I'll be heading home.”

That night, in her dream, she drew seashells, scallops and starfish on tiles for a Turkish bath. Somehow, Jeanne had already painted the tiles in blue and green, and Esther was gluing them to the bottom of a bath as large as a
mikveh
's. She was naked in water as warm as the Mediterranean's, its color cerulean blue as if a paintbrush had been rinsed in it. An instant later, the cerulean wash became eyes—
Pierre's eyes
—and she was looking at them while copulating with him! His head bobbing out of the water, his mustache glistening, he sucked on her nipples. She was shocked; she had never imagined a grown man would do that. And her first thought wasn't of sin, but surprise that Pierre had come up from the South of France and found her at this construction site.

Gasping for air, she hit the surface of her dream and woke up. She put her hand against her flesh to still the pulse in her loins. But as if they had minds of their own, her fingers dug deeper and she was swept up in a raging spasm that left her bewildered and sobbing with fear.

Her heart still beating, drenched in sweat, she rose and went to the window. She removed her damp nightgown and stood naked in the dark, letting her burning skin cool in the chill dawn air. She looked at the sky.
Hashem, you have my soul, but what do you want from my poor body? Hasn't it fulfilled the decree of ‘Be fruitful and multiply' by giving You three children? What's the purpose of this new test I'm failing?