Moonlight Over Paris (22 page)

“It's too late to change our minds. We'd be the only ones there without costumes,” Mrs. Fitzgerald said evenly, her eyes fixed on a point at the far side of the restaurant.

“Gerald and Sara don't have costumes,” he countered.

“We're actually planning on changing. Just so you know,” Sara said mildly.

“And we've been out every night this week already. Can't we just have a quiet evening at home?” Mrs. Fitzgerald asked, her voice beginning to quaver. “Just the two of us?”

Mr. Fitzgerald glared at his wife, the air between them fairly simmering, before he stood up so abruptly that his chair tipped over. “I'm going for a walk.”

“I had better go,” Mrs. Fitzgerald said, and she hurriedly kissed Sara goodnight before rushing after her husband. Together, nearly embracing, they gingerly negotiated the distance
between the table and restaurant entrance, and as they vanished from sight Mrs. Fitzgerald began to cry.

“Well,” Sara said presently. “I do apologize. Poor Zelda has been feeling a little lonely, what with Scott being so preoccupied with the new book, and Nanny being so zealous in her care of the child.”

“They weren't at their best tonight,” Gerald agreed.

“When are they
ever
at their best?” Agnes said abruptly. “This is the third time I've met them, and it's always the same. He ends up sodden with drink, she's miserable because of it, and the evening ends in tears. So undignified.”

“Agnes is right,” said Gerald. “I like them—how can you not like them?—but they do have a way of wearing you down.”

“I know,” said Sara, “but they're so young, and—”

“Remember how they woke us all up, even the children, in St.-Cloud last spring? That's what I mean.”

Sara sighed, remembering. “We scarcely knew them—I think we'd met them once or twice before, but that was all. And then one night—”

“One
morning
,” Gerald corrected.

“One morning, it must have been three o'clock at least, there they were, in our garden, tossing pebbles at the bedroom windows and shouting at us to come down, come let them in. Come get dressed and go out with them. And something about their being booked to sail on the
Lusitania
? So silly. Of course it woke the children, and all the servants, and then the dogs started barking . . .”

“I've known people like that before,” Agnes said, her expression suddenly grave. “Always their own worst enemies.”

“Who, Auntie A?”

“Dimitri's relations. And look what happened to them. First against the wall when the revolution came.”

A
S DINNER CAME
to an end, the Fitzgeralds still hadn't reappeared, and Gerald declared himself tired of waiting.

“We're off home to change. We'll see you there.”

It was a short ride to the Théâtre de la Cigale in Pigalle, where the ball was being held. Neither of them spoke much on the fifteen-minute journey, and Helena could only suppose that her aunt was, like her, feeling a little exhausted by the Fitzgeralds' carryings-on at dinner. It had been a strange, somewhat fractured evening so far, and she could only hope it improved once they arrived at the theater.

Helena hadn't thought to ask Agnes who was hosting the ball—it wasn't the Comte de Beaumont, who was known for the extravagance of his parties, and it wasn't any of the other artistic or literary luminaries in her aunt's circle. She didn't recognize anyone in the crowd that was milling about the entrance, and compared to Agnes's usual set of friends it seemed rather a young crowd.

Very likely it was a student ball, then, for that would explain the incredibly risqué costumes on many of the guests. One young woman who passed by, shivering, was naked apart from a layer of gold paint and a few strategically placed feathers.

Without quite meaning to, Helena found herself separated from her aunt, but there weren't so many guests that she'd never be able to find her again. Instead she wandered around the theater, which had been cleared of seats for the occasion, and discovered Étienne and Mathilde in a matter of minutes. Étienne was dressed as the Sun King, Louis Quatorze, and looked terribly handsome in his golden suit and powdered wig.

“Where on earth did you get that costume?”

“I've a friend who's a dresser at the Opéra. Isn't it perfect?”

“It is. I especially like the—”

The compliment died on her lips, for just then, at the very periphery of her vision, she caught sight of a flash of auburn hair. She turned her head, and her heart stuttered in recognition.

It was Sam, wearing his ordinary clothes, without even a mask or funny hat to offer the appearance of fitting in. Sam, standing with strangers, one of them a young and fashionably dressed woman. She was laughing at something he'd said, her hand clutching at his jacket sleeve, and though her eyes were hidden by a silly little mask Helena could tell the girl was gazing up at him adoringly.

Of course it was no business of hers that he was here. There was no reason, even, for their paths to cross. He had his friends, and she had hers. She would not allow herself to be jealous of the woman who stood at his side and touched his arm in such a familiar, knowing way.

“Will you dance with me?” she asked Étienne, and he took her by the hand and led her to the front of the theater. Onstage, a band was playing American jazz music, and though the rhythm was infectious the dance itself was unfamiliar to her.

“It's the Charleston!” Étienne shouted in her ear. “I'll show you what to do!”

He took her left hand in his and set his left hand at her back, and then he showed her how to step back and forth, then kick from side to side, then pull away so their arms were outstretched and there was room enough for diagonal kicks between them. All this was accomplished lightly and speedily, with turns at each rotation, and in no time at all she had mastered the basic steps and was dancing as gaily as anyone else there.

They danced for ages, song after song after song, stopping only when the band announced they were taking a break. Mathilde had gone off with someone she knew from the École des Beaux-Arts, so Helena was alone, waiting for Étienne to return with some drinks, when Sam came over and sat next to her.

“Hello,” she said, and offered a careful smile. “I hadn't realized you were coming. I wouldn't have thought you'd be interested.”

“I'm not, to be honest. I got strong-armed into it by a friend at work. His wife's younger sister is visiting, so they asked me to keep her company.”

“Ah,” Helena said. “Are you having a good time?” Of course she didn't really care, but it was polite to ask.

“Not really. She's a nice enough girl but dull as . . . well, you know. Dull as a twenty-two-year-old from the Midwest, I guess you could say.”

She thought, but was too well-bred to say, that such a girl was exactly what he deserved. A dull, dutiful, and obedient girl who would never ask him questions or push at him or expect anything more than dinner and a chaste kiss at the door.

“I miss you,” he said. “I feel as if we never see one another anymore.”

She wouldn't look up. Couldn't, else risk him seeing, and understanding, everything. So she inspected the flaking paint on her frock and then, once she could be certain her voice was steady, she answered. “I've been busy with school. Preparing my work for the Salon des Indépendants.”

“When is it?”

“The vernissage is next Saturday,” she said evenly.

She waited for him to say he would be there, or that he
should have liked to be there but was busy with work or some other obligation, but he remained silent.

Étienne reappeared just then, fortunately with a tall glass of seltzer for her, and he and Sam shook hands and greeted one another warmly. She gulped nearly all of it down, then, feeling much restored, resolved that she would dance some more.

“Étienne and I are off to dance again,” she announced.

“And I had better get back to my friends.” With this he bent his head, kissed her cheek quickly, and disappeared into the crowd.

She spent the rest of the evening dancing with Étienne's friends, with men she knew from the academy, and even with a few strangers. Every time she looked over their shoulders, her eyes searching the room, she found Sam, and his gaze was invariably fixed on her.

She danced and danced, and then, not long after midnight, the instep strap broke on her left shoe. Étienne and Mathilde were set on staying, so she wished them good night and went in search of her aunt. She found Agnes sitting with the Murphys, who were dressed as South American deities; Gerald told her the names, which contained an alarming number of consonants, and which she promptly forgot.

“Would you mind if we went home?” she asked Agnes. “The strap on my shoe is broken, and I'm feeling quite tired.”

“Of course we can go. Did you say good night to Sam? I saw you talking with him earlier.”

“No . . . he was busy with his friends.”

As they departed, she couldn't help but look over her shoulder one last time. He was watching her, just as he'd done all evening, but rather than wave good-bye she turned her back and followed Agnes into the night.

L
ater, when the ordeal of the opening reception was done and she could think clearly again, she'd feel badly about the lie she was about to tell her aunt. But not today.

“Étienne is feeling nervous about the vernissage,” she announced as she and Agnes were finishing their lunch. “I told him I'd go over with him a little early. Do you mind?”

“Not at all. What time do you want me there?”

“The invitations say six o'clock, but no one is ever on time for these things. Any time after that is fine.”

“You and Étienne will take a taxi? Promise?”

“I promise.”

They would do nothing of the sort, for Étienne was God only knew where, and she was going to make the journey on the Métro, contrary to her aunt's wishes. If the Salon des Indépendants weren't being held at such a distance from the city center she'd have happily walked, or even taken a taxi. Most years it took place at the Grand Palais, but this spring it was being held at the Palais de Bois, a good three and a half miles distant.

On any other day, she'd have been happy to make the journey
with Agnes, but her aunt was so transparently delighted by Helena's inclusion in the Salon that she all but burst into applause every time their paths crossed. It didn't matter that the Salon was a nonjuried exhibition that anyone might enter; simply the fact that Helena's painting would be seen alongside the works of established artists was enough to delight Agnes's generous heart.

The afternoon crept by in glacial fashion, with little for Helena to do beyond fret and pace. At four o'clock she began to get ready, and by half past four she was ready to depart.

As she said good-bye to Agnes and walked north across the Pont Louis-Philippe, Helena found herself wishing that she had planned to meet up with Étienne or Mathilde, for they would understand and likely be just as nervous, too. It was too late for a change of plans, however, for she'd no idea where either friend was that afternoon. There was nothing for it but to get on the Métro and see for herself where her painting had ended up.

Helena had never been on the Paris underground trains, but as a frequent tram rider she had a good idea of what was expected. The station entrance was only a few minutes' walk away, its distinctive Art Nouveau canopy and sign quite impossible to miss. She sprung for a first-class ticket, which was ten centimes dearer than a second-class fare, and descended to the westbound platform.

The Metro didn't seem terribly different from the Underground back home, which she'd used often; her parents hadn't minded, just as long as she'd had a footman or maid with her. Nearly every wall was tiled in white, which helped to brighten the dimly lit halls and corridors, and scores of eye-catching advertising posters lined both sides of the platform.

She didn't have long to wait for a train, and though it was near the end of the workday and the second-class carriages were becoming crowded, there were plenty of empty seats in the first-class carriage she boarded. It was odd to sit by a window and see only darkness beyond, and if she were bothered by enclosed spaces it might have been disturbing; as it was, the relative quiet and solitude of her journey was exactly what she needed.

Porte Maillot was at the end of the line, at the border between Paris proper and Neuilly-sur-Seine, and the station was all but empty as she climbed the stairs to the exit. Blinking a little in the late afternoon sun, she looked around, trying to find her bearings, and then descended again to the ticket hall to ask for directions to the Palais de Bois.

Fortunately it wasn't far, just a short walk across the edge of the Bois de Boulogne, and as the afternoon was warm and sunny this final part of her journey helped to further steady her nerves.

She'd been furnished with one ticket by virtue of her membership in the Société des Artistes Indépendants, the only prerequisite for inclusion in the Salon, and this she handed to a waiting attendant in return for the exhibition catalog.

Pausing just inside the entrance, she searched through the catalog for her name, an easy enough task given that artists were listed alphabetically by surname. She found it on page 242.

Parr (Helena), née à Londres (Angleterre)—Anglaise—51, quai de Bourbon, 4e.

2602
—
Femme de fermier
—600 fr.

It was far from her best work, and she knew it, but it was too late to change her mind. At least Maître Czerny had deemed one of her paintings good enough for inclusion in the Salon, and she could now say she'd had her work displayed at an exhibition in Paris. That was something, after all.

The one other time she'd seen her name in print had been the announcement of her engagement in the
Times
more than a decade before. It was strange and wonderful to read her name, her true artist's identity and not the triple-barreled dynastic surname she'd always thought rather pretentious, and below it to see the title of a painting that she had created—and even a price. Six hundred francs was a great deal of money for a work by a totally unknown artist, but perhaps someone, apart from Aunt Agnes, might like the portrait enough to buy it.

She edged a little farther into the exhibition hall, rather surprised at how modest it was compared to the luxuriously decorated Grand Palais, where the Salon had been held the year before. The building had the air of something temporary, and while she was uncertain of its history it felt rather like a remnant of a past exposition or world's fair.

Approaching an interior wall, she was surprised to discover that it consisted of nothing more than a wooden frame covered in burlap. The light was wonderful, however, with many clerestory windows and skylights, and the paintings had been arranged sensitively, with a reasonable amount of space between the canvases.

It came as no surprise when, upon entering the first large room of the exhibition, she found her own face staring back at her. Étienne's portrait of
La femme dorée
had been given a wall of its own, and as it was by far the largest canvas in the room,
and arguably the most striking, it was attracting a great deal of attention.

She came a little closer, but rather than push to the front, to stand by her friend, she hovered at the edge of the crowd, a little nervous that someone would recognize her as Étienne's model. But no one made the connection, much to her relief, not even when Étienne beckoned her to his side.

He had never looked more handsome, or more happy, and she prayed that tonight would be the moment when her friend received the acclaim he was due. A glass of champagne in his hand, a half-wilted gardenia in his buttonhole, he embraced her dramatically and managed to spill most of his drink down the front of her frock.

“
Désolé
,
ma belle
—but it is champagne, and champagne never leaves a stain.”

“I'm so proud of you. Just look at the admirers. People are standing ten deep to catch a glimpse of the extraordinary portrait by Étienne Moreau.”

“I disagree—it is you they have come to see. The most beautiful woman at this exhibition. Have you found your painting yet?” he asked.

“No. This is as far as I've got.”

“Me, too. Do you want me to come with you?”

“Of course not. You stay here and enjoy your success. I'll look for Mathilde's, too.”

“Come back as soon as you've found it. Promise?”

“I promise. Though it might take a while.” She flipped to the back of the catalog and held it open for his inspection. “There are more than thirty-five hundred paintings on display here. Wish me luck!”

She found Mathilde's a quarter hour later, and to her relief
it had been hung at eye level on a wall that was well lighted; her friend would be pleased. The painting, of children playing in a garden, was attracting some favorable attention, though nothing like the same level of excitement as Étienne's.

Finally, after the longest twenty minutes of her life, Helena ran her painting to ground. It had been hung high on the wall in one of the final rooms of the Salon, in a dark corner with very little light, and in the time she spent hovering at the room's entrance not one person took a second look or even seemed to notice it.

It was silly to stay, not when there were so many other works to see and admire, so she forced herself to turn around and leave the farmer's wife behind. It came as a great relief when, only two rooms along, she found the Murphys, standing among a small crowd of admirers who had come to see Gerald's latest painting. It was the one of clockworks that he'd begun in Antibes the summer before, and was so enormous that it took up an entire wall.

“Helena! Look, Gerald—Helena is here.”

“Wonderful! We were looking for your painting, but no luck yet. Have you come across it?”

“Yes. It's back that way, the second room on. It's rather hidden, though. Luck of the draw, I suppose.”

“You should be very proud all the same,” Sara said loyally.

“Thank you. And congratulations, Gerald—I should have said so right away. I love the painting.”

“Thank you. We'll see you later, won't we? At the party?”

“Of course. I suppose I had better try to find my aunt. Until later, then.”

Not in any particular rush, she wandered back through the exhibition hall, trying to absorb what she saw, although
the sheer volume of work made it difficult to take everything in. Helena was standing in front of a small canvas, a still life that combined pointillist techniques with Cubist perspectives, when she heard the familiar accent of Maître Czerny.

She looked around, mentally preparing herself for a brief conversation with her teacher, but he was nowhere in sight. Perhaps she had been mistaken. But then he spoke again, and it really was his voice, only it was coming from the other side of the wall. A wall that was made of air and stretched burlap.

He was speaking in English, with a man who had a vaguely Australian accent, and they were commiserating with one another over the general laziness and ineptitude of art students. It was nothing she hadn't already heard a hundred times. And then—

“Of course this year's crop of students was the worst yet. Nearly all of them hopeless—apart from Étienne Moreau. Did you see his work when you came in? Striking, very striking.”

“One out of how many?”

“Thirty to begin with, then a dozen or so by the end. I have to watch myself—can't scare off all of them.”

“Understood, my dear Fabritius.”

“The monied and hopeless are there to support the poor and talented—we know it, even if they don't.”

“As it has always been. One in a thousand, if that, has the talent to make a life of it. And yet we persevere.”

“If it hadn't been for Moreau I'd have gone mad, I tell you. Impossible to manage, like the best ones, but I think he'll go far.”

“And his fellow students?”

“I've forgotten their names already.”

They walked away, laughing gaily over Maître Czerny's last remark, and she simply stood and stared at the odd little still
life before her until all she could see were meaningless, formless dots, and still the words turned and turned in her head.

Monied and hopeless. One in a thousand. Forgotten their names already.

It was far too hot inside. She would faint if she stayed where she was. So she walked to the nearest exit, skirting the main rooms, praying to escape before anyone she knew found her.

She burst through the first door she came across, gulping in great breaths of cooling air, and when she felt a little steadier she walked to a nearby bench and sat down.

All along, she had been wrong. When she had believed she was progressing, improving, she had been wrong. When she had thought she might, possibly, have some small amount of talent, she had been wrong.

When her friends had told her that her work was good, they had been wrong. They had been lying to her, out of kindness no doubt, but still—it had all been a lie.

And the year she had begged for? The year in Paris she'd been so certain would transform her life? It had been a twelvemonth of delusions, nothing more.

“There you are.”

She didn't look up, couldn't look up. Not him.

Not Sam, not now.

“Why are you here?” she asked dully.

“Why am I here? How can you ask such a thing? I'm here because of you.”

“Oh,” she said. “Thank you.”

“Something's the matter. Did something happen in there?”

“Nothing happened,” she lied, and tried to remember what it felt like to smile. It was impossible, so she conjured up an approximation and pasted it to her face before turning to face him. “It was too warm inside.”

“I saw your painting. I'm proud of you.”

“Thank you.”

“We've all been looking for you—it's nearly time to go to the Murphys'.”

“What time is it?”

“It's just gone eight o'clock.”

She had been sitting on the bench for an hour and a half. The sun had nearly set, and she hadn't noticed.

He led her inside, where she endured the embraces and compliments of her aunt and friends, and then they were in the car and on the way to the Murphys' flat, and Sam would not leave off watching her, his concern impossible to ignore.

She would not speak of it with him, or with anyone else. She had made a fool of herself, but it wasn't a killing blow. It wasn't the sort of thing a person could die from, not unless they were very silly and self-involved.

Tomorrow she would figure out what she was meant to do—but tonight she would set it all aside, all of the heartache and disappointment, and she would be happy for her friends. For a few hours she would be happy, and then, in the morning, she would begin again.