The Velvet Hours (14 page)

Paris 1898

H
e painted the first brushstrokes using a neutral shade of gray. He began with the top of her head, painting the outline of her profile, the sharp line of her nose, the edge of her lips, and the soft curve of her chin.

His brush was no longer just an extension of his hand, but also his mind and his imagination. He had fallen into the dreamlike state of painting—his own private séance with the canvas and the paint.

He drew the length of her neck, the expanse of her broad shoulders. He painted in a few feather-like strokes to suggest where he would later create her voluminous sleeves. In long, quick gestures he articulated the elegant, slim length of her arm that rested on the side of the love seat, her tapered fingers opening like a fan.

He applied these first brushstrokes with a robust energy, solely to capture the curve of her body. Even though he had yet to apply the colors that would come later—the pink of her dress, the flush of
her skin, the opalescent pearls glimmering around her neck—the rough outline of Marthe's portrait captured her essence. She appeared swanlike, with one bared shoulder and a plunging neckline that revealed her full breasts. The pose was not so much a statement as it was an invitation to touch her, caress her. To feel the heat that Boldini would create when he began to actually paint her skin.

November 1939

W
hat I learned from Alex during my last visit with him was that his family's apartment was not above their shop on the Rue des Écouffes as I expected, but actually in the sixteenth arrondissement.

“Like many of the Jewish middle class, we've since moved out of the Marais,” he told me. “It's just too crowded now with families like Solomon's who've just arrived. Belleville is the same . . .” He looked into her eyes realizing that she was probably unfamiliar with the changes the community had undergone in the past few years. “But we've kept the shop there. The rent is inexpensive, and for our wealthier clients, we take the books to their homes so they can view them privately.

“It's a bit inconvenient to meet near us, but perhaps we could find a place in between. Do you know the Café Saint Georges? It's across
from the old Adolphe Thiers estate. It might be a good meeting place since it's not far from your grandmother's.”

“The one with the large red awning?” I asked. I was certain I had passed it on occasion. “Doesn't it look right onto the square?”

“Exactly.” He smiled.

Just before I left the store, he gathered enough courage to ask me if I might meet him at the café.

“Perhaps next time you visit your grandmother, we could meet for a coffee before I go to work . . .” I felt his hand graze lightly over the sleeve of my coat. Even through the cloth, his touch penetrated into my skin. I shivered, as if he had nearly ignited something inside.

“I would like that . . . very much.” I could feel my face becoming flushed. “I plan to visit her on Wednesday. Finally I'm learning about the artist who painted her. I've been waiting for months to hear the details.”

He laughed. “
The Picture of Dorian Gray 
. . .”

I smiled. “I think Oscar Wilde would have been deeply amused by my grandmother. She's certainly witty enough to have entertained him.”

“In all matters but love . . .”

“Yes, I fear he would have preferred you in that regard,” I teased.

“Well, Solange, I look forward to Wednesday.” He walked me out the door.

“Wednesday,” I said.

He came closer and kissed me on both cheeks, and for the rest of the afternoon I held on to the sensation of his lips brushing against my skin. Like a girl holding a butterfly between cupped hands.

*   *   *

On Wednesday morning, I found Alex already at a table outside the café. It was November and although the air was damp, nearly all the tables were occupied. He was wearing a dark navy suit and a gray
cap pulled over his black hair. A copy of
Le Monde
was spread out over the table. His face was buried in the newspaper.

“Alex?”

He looked up and quickly shuffled the paper.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I got caught up in the headlines . . .”

I pulled out a chair and sat down.

He folded his newspaper and looked up at me again. “Well, I'm glad to see you. You're far better for my eyes than what I was just reading in the paper.”

I smiled and began to unfasten the buttons of my coat.

“Thank you,” I laughed. “That's fine praise, indeed.”

His eyes brightened, amused.

I looked around the café. The tables were filled with men in gray overcoats and caps. Some were already smoking their first cigarette of the morning, now that their coffee cups were empty.

“Do you come here often?” I asked.

“Yes, I like the fact that it's far enough from home. I rarely run into anyone I know, and I can sit and read without any distraction.” A small sigh escaped from his lips. “It's not pleasant to have to share the paper with my father and constantly hear all his thoughts of what might happen next with Hitler. The war has made everyone on edge.”

“I understand,” I said as I readjusted my scarf. “My father and I spend most of our time together glued to the radio.”

“You don't hear the worst of it on the radio . . .” He took a sip from his water glass. “Solomon is my father's true news report. He received a letter the other day from his brother back in Berlin. They write in code to each other to fool the censors. What he wrote was alarming.”

I looked down at the table, quietly.

“They rounded up a whole street. Men, women, and children, all carted away somewhere.”

I grew pale. “That's horrible, Alex.”

“I know . . .” He stopped and shook his head. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't tell you these things. If you find the radio upsetting, this is so much worse . . .”

He shook his head. “What do you say, we make a promise not to talk about the war this morning. Let's try to forget it for at least an hour . . . I'm so tired of all the energy I spend imagining what's going to happen tomorrow, next week, in a month's time . . . What a joy it would be to have a coffee with a pretty girl and imagine nothing except how nice it would be to hold her hand.”

I could feel my cheeks grow warm.

“And now I've made you turn the color of your scarf!”

I laughed.

“I like you in red.” He smiled. “It becomes you.”

My fingers touched the edge of my scarf. “Thank you.” This morning I had made a concentrated effort on my appearance. All of my grandmother's talk about her makeup and clothes had inspired me to make the most of my features. I thought the red of my scarf would be a striking contrast against my dark hair and eyes. I was glad it seemed to have pleased him.

“What would you like?” He motioned for the waiter's attention.

“Just a coffee . . .” I wasn't particularly hungry. I had felt butterflies in my stomach since I had gotten up that morning.

“And another cup for me,” he told the waiter before the man vanished inside.

“So . . . ,” he said as he leaned into the table. “You go to your grandmother's a few times a week?”

“Yes.” I smiled. “The strange thing is, I only met her for the first time last year. Before that, I didn't even know she existed . . .”

“Really?” His eyes widened. “How unusual your family is, Solange. You arrive at our bookstore holding two rare and valuable Jewish books, and you tell Papa and me that you only recently learned you were half Jewish. And now an unknown grandmother appears in
your life . . .” He leaned closer. “I wonder what will be revealed to you next?”

“I don't know . . .” I was amused that he saw any part of my life to be of such interest. I had always believed it to be rather dull.

“Well, my grandmother is certainly a character . . . I think that's why my father waited so long to introduce her to me. He kept her hidden because he was embarrassed by her, but since my mother's death, he was at a loss on how to keep me occupied.” I touched my napkin briefly. “I suppose knowing that I wanted to be a writer, he thought she might provide some good source material for me . . .” I laughed. “It does sound crazy, though. There is so much more to my family than I had previously known.”

“It's all rather fascinating to me, really. I know too much about every member of my family . . . not just my father, but my aunts, my cousins . . . their husbands and wives. Your family is far more interesting.”

I looked at him and smiled. Hours before, I could hardly button my coat or tie my scarf around my neck, I was so nervous Alex would find me boring and that I'd have nothing to say. But here I was sitting across from him with his eyes bright upon me.

“Tell me about your grandmother, Solange . . . Tell me about your writing . . .” A big smile swept over his face. “Why, just tell me everything about you!” He placed his hands around his coffee and laughed.

“How much time do I have?” I asked as I lifted the cup to my lips. Small puffs of steam floated between my breath and the coffee. And as I raised my eyes, his own were staring back at me.

November 1939

I
told him everything Marthe had shared with me so far. The story of her bleak childhood. Her relationship with Charles. And now the beginning seeds of the Boldini painting.

“A woman of the night, how wonderfully scandalous.” An impish grin crossed his face.

“Hardly,” I said.

“A courtesan, then?”

I laughed. “She doesn't seem to have kept her dance card quite that full over the years.”

“I'm intrigued.” He leaned in closer. “Another one of your family's many secrets.”

“Isn't that the truth?” I nodded my head, agreeing with him.

“Yes . . . but I think I'm still going to insist that owning the Barcelona Haggadah to be the biggest.”

I smiled. “Who knew that my mother was in possession of
something so rare and valuable. I suspect it's worth more than all the other contents of our apartment.”

“I've never seen your apartment,” he teased.

“One of these days I should invite you, and if you're very good, I'll even take down the Haggadah and show it one more time.”

His eyes flickered. I had never flirted before, but I was surprised how naturally I took to it. Perhaps it was my grandmother's influence.

“I'd like that very much,” he said as his fingers reached out and grazed my own. Just the slightest touch of his skin against mine made me tingle from head to toe.

My mind traveled to Marthe and the butterflies embroidered in the silk above her headboard, the emerald clasp around her neck. The feeling of the first signs of attraction, I was beginning to recognize, was always accompanied by the sensation of wings.

*   *   *

We made a date to meet again a few days later. I gave him the address of our apartment and told him to come by after ten a.m. when I knew my father would already be at the pharmacy.

That morning I had tried not to appear suspicious to my father, as I knew I could not tell him I was inviting a young man back to our apartment even if it was just to give him a second opportunity to look at a very rare and valuable book.

I said good-bye to my father and began to straighten the apartment so it appeared as neat as possible. The day before, I had attempted to do some dusting, but I still needed to fluff the couch pillows, hide the piles of paperwork on my father's desk, and run downstairs to the florist to buy a fresh bouquet.

With only fifteen minutes to spare before Alex was to arrive, I arranged the roses I had bought and quickly went into the bathroom to fix my hair, apply a little lipstick, and slip into my favorite blue wool dress.

It was ten fifteen when I heard him buzz the main door downstairs.

*   *   *

His footsteps sounded like the most beautiful percussion. We were on the fifth floor, and with every landing I could hear him getting closer.

But it was only after I could hear his escalating breath that I stepped out from the open door.

“Solange,” he said. He was clutching a bouquet of violets. “No elevator?”

I laughed.

“You are worth the climb,” he said as he tried to catch his breath. I was now standing in the hallway in my favorite dress, my hair tied back. At the last minute, I had tied a black silk ribbon behind my hair. I had never bothered with such a feminine detail before.

“I'm so sorry, and we're on the top floor,” I apologized.

“There is no need for regrets,” he said, smiling at me. I saw his eyes take note of the nice shape the dress made of my figure, as well as the ribbon in my hair. “How lovely you look.”

“Thank you.” I blushed. I pushed back against the door. “Please, Alex, our apartment is very modest, but come in.”

*   *   *

My mother's bookshelves were in the first room when one entered our apartment. An extensive wooden tower took up the entire wall.

“It's wonderful to be greeted by books,” Alex said sweetly. “Your home looks very similar to ours.”

I smiled. “That makes me happy to know we have something else in common.

“Would you like something to drink?” I offered.

Alex shook his head and I came closer to him.

“The Haggadah is safely tucked away on the highest shelf. Let me get a chair.”

He chuckled. “I like your form of security, Solange. Hardly the most foolproof . . . yet I doubt there are a lot of thieves that would know you're in possession of a rare fourteenth-century Haggadah.” He looked at me and smiled. “I think the biggest risk of that would be my father, but I doubt he could make it up the five flights of stairs to read it.”

I laughed. “I'll just get a chair from the kitchen.”

“Let me help you.” He followed me to the next room. The smell from the bouquet of violets he had brought still lingered on his clothes.

I gave him a chair to take back and place closer to the shelf so I could climb on it to reach the top shelf.

“I'll hold it for you, so you're steady,” he offered sweetly.

After thanking him, I stood on top of the chair to retrieve the book. It was heavy, and I knew I had to be careful. Alex's father had treated it with such care and respect when he was handling the pages. I wanted to make sure I treated it the same.

“Are you okay?” he asked. His hands were tight around the seat of the chair.

“Yes, I just want to make sure I have a good grip on it.”

Slowly I came down from the chair, clutching the centuries-old Haggadah in my hands.

*   *   *

We did not speak as I brought it to the dining room table and laid it carefully on the flat surface. It was as if the object itself demanded a reverent pause before we opened its pages.

It seemed strange to look at it now, knowing the backstory of the couple who had created it. The Haggadah had only looked ancient and mysterious to me before, but now it also contained a love story. Two people who had spent decades together working to make something
that was not only a testament to the longevity of the Jewish people and their exodus from Egypt, but also their own relationship. The book now appeared more beautiful to me than ever.

I could sense he wanted me to be the first to touch it. So I reached delicately for the far left corner of the old book and opened it again.

The vellum had yellowed to the color of wheat. I could almost hear the whisk of the scribe's feather quill against the parchment as I looked at the care with which each letter was applied.

“It's difficult to imagine how painstaking this all was before the printing press,” Alex said softly. “We are so spoiled now.”

He touched the edge of the page as if connecting with something he knew had a soul.

“Back then, the vellum had to be lightly ruled and the layout ensured before the quill nib ever touched the parchment. Any mistake was costly because the materials could only be procured at considerable expense.”

“I can imagine,” I said softly.

“But whereas Rabbi Avram's skill inscribing the prayers took time and patience, truly it's his wife's talent that makes this so unique.”

He turned a few pages until he found one of the illuminated paintings.

“She not only knew how to paint. Even more incredible, she knew how to work with gold. Very few people possessed that skill then, much less a woman.”

“Really?” I had noticed that a few of the pages had gold applied sparingly, but I had never thought much about it.

“Yes. A person had to not only have access to gold leaf, they also had to know how to prepare it for application. There were two ways to do that back then: either to apply gold specks very, very carefully with a brush, or to hammer the leaf and burnish it, dusting it onto the page after first applying glue. Rabbi Avram's wife was able to do both.”

The book now took on yet another layer of interest for me.

“How would she have mastered this?” I couldn't even begin to fathom where she might have learned to use gold like this.

“Funny you should ask that, Solange. That was exactly what I asked my father after you left that first afternoon.”

“Did he know the answer?”

“Yes. He said it was believed that her own father was a master illuminator and in private, he taught her everything he knew.”

“It makes the book that much more meaningful.” I took a deep breath. “To think how many relationships needed to be nurtured just for this book to exist and eventually make its way to Paris.”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “Even your mother's relationship with her father.”

I felt a shiver pass through me.

“And now your own connection with your mother.”

What he said was true. What I chose to keep to myself was that the book had also brought Alex into my life. I felt my mother in the room as we spoke. And I had never been more thankful that she had kept it safely tucked away on her shelves.

It had been quite a few days since I had the chance to go see my grandmother. I had to reschedule my last visit, on two separate occasions. For over a year, I had tried to see her at least twice a week, so this amount of time passing was something I knew would not go unnoticed by either of us.

While by now I considered myself to be quite close to her, it was still difficult to gauge her emotional connection to me. We existed as storyteller and audience. Even though she knew I was working on a novel based on her life, she never asked to see what I had written or expressed much interest in what I did outside our meetings. It was easy for me to see how she created a world for her and Charles that had no connection with the outside. And I could also understand how someone like her could have little interest in the fact that another war was raging throughout Europe.

I knew I would find her as I last saw her. A tall, slender woman who hennaed her hair and powdered her face. A strand of pearls around her throat. Sitting down to tell me about her dying lover and the painter who did not see her only as a commission, but also as a muse.

*   *   *

To soften what I suspected would be a chastisement, I brought her an extra-large bouquet of flowers. It was impossible to find good chocolate or coffee anymore, but one could always find flowers in Paris. I had spent the last two nights sleeping with the combined scents of the roses and violets, and it had made me think of Marthe. It was her apartment's perfume.

I buzzed the main doorbell and walked inside the marble interior. To my left, the door to the apartment of the concierge who lived on the ground floor was open. I had never noticed anyone there before, as that door was always closed. But today, I could see a young gentleman and his family bringing in their groceries. A few bags were left outside by the threshold, waiting for a pair of hands to carry them inside.

As I stood there with my bouquet waiting for the elevator to land, the young man came outside to retrieve the last remaining bags.

“Hello,” he said, looking up at me kindly. “Who are those beautiful flowers for?”

“My grandmother on the eighth floor.”

“Your grandmother . . .” I could see him mentally trying to place which of the apartments on the eighth floor had an older woman in it.

“Madame de Florian?” His voice sounded perplexed “I had no idea she had a granddaughter. Why, I had no idea she actually had ever been a mother, in fact.”

I smiled. “I can imagine your surprise.” I let out a small laugh. The elevator's cage had descended to the ground floor, but the man
had now placed the bags down on the floor and couldn't resist asking me a few more questions.

“My father was the original concierge for the building, and I inherited the position from him. And I must tell you, as a young boy, the few times I ever saw Madame de Florian leave the building, it left me breathless.”

I smiled. “I can imagine so.”

“Even now, when I catch the rare glimpse of her, she still looks beautiful. It's as if she's impervious to time.”

*   *   *

I knocked on the door of the apartment, holding the flowers in one hand.

“Madame is waiting,” Giselle said coolly as she opened the door.

“I apologize. I met the concierge in the lobby for the first time. He was quite friendly, and it was hard to break free.”

Giselle smiled now. “Ah, Gérard, a lovely boy.”

“He didn't say his name, but he said his father had been the concierge before.”

“And his father was even lovelier,” Giselle said softly. “God rest his soul.”

“But how nice the position was maintained within the family . . .”

“Yes,” Giselle answered quickly. “And it appears Gérard has inherited his father's discretion, which is a good thing. One never really wants a nosy concierge.”

I laughed. “No, I suppose not . . .”

Just as I was about to ask Giselle more about Gérard and his father, Marthe's voice fluttered through the air.

“Solange? Is that you?”

“Yes, I'm so sorry I'm late . . .”