Читать книгу Madame Picasso - Anne Girard - Страница 11
ОглавлениеSaturday evening at the Moulin Rouge, Eva was busier with mending than she had been the first night. She waited with needle and thread just offstage, behind the edge of the heavy red velvet curtain, with her fingers trembling. She so very much needed to get this right.
“Be quicker about it than you were last night!” Mistinguett growled, thrusting a torn stocking at Eva as a wardrobe assistant approached them bearing a long-handled hairbrush to smooth the star’s hair back into a tight mahogany wave. “What are you staring at, you imbecile? Sew!” she barked when Eva did not move quickly enough.
Shaken from the moment, Eva realized that she had been transfixed by the glamorous star. She hadn’t noticed how openly she was staring until she caught a glimpse of Sylvette standing behind her, wearing a stricken expression. Quickly, Eva cast her own gaze downward and set back to work. It was easy enough to fix the tear, and Eva quickly offered the stocking back up to Mistinguett, who snatched it from her without a backward glance or a thank-you.
After the music began again and the actress burst onstage to thunderous applause, Eva tucked the needle and thread into the pocket of her skirt and peered out past the heavy curtain.
He hadn’t been there during the first act but he was there now. Picasso sat at the front table, along with the same group of boisterous Spaniards. Tonight, however, she saw that Monsieur Oller, the barrel-chested owner of the Moulin Rouge, was seated prominently beside him. He wore a stiff black suit and bow tie, with a heavy gold watch chain over his chest, and he and Picasso were conversing intensely with each other, heads together. Eva was duly impressed, but she knew she shouldn’t be surprised that the two appeared to be well acquainted.
Eva scanned the tables around him looking again for a girl who might be Picasso’s companion. It occurred to her that there just may well be a Madame Picasso, and she cringed at the thought. She realized then that she knew so little about him other than that his strange new style of painting had set the French capital on its ear. He was a bohemian renegade, and he was the talk of the town. Although there were several young women in the row behind him giggling and pointing sheepishly at the handsome young man, there was no woman seated prominently nearby him. Eva shook her head and smiled in self-reproach. Someone like Picasso was so far beyond her reach, even for a fantasy.
Busy with mending, Eva returned to her work, and by the time she managed to steal another glance, Picasso and his band of friends were gone.
Near midnight, after the show was over and they had returned to their room, Sylvette brushed out her long hair and sighed. Eva lay back against the pillow wearing her mother’s bright yellow kimono, the only bit of her mother she had brought away from Vincennes. She was watching the nightly ritual and thinking about the evening.
“She will have me fired, too, won’t she?” Eva asked, speaking of Mistinguett.
The fear and the possibility had been on her mind all day.
Sylvette stopped brushing her hair and glanced at Eva through the mirror’s reflection. “Not if she feels loyalty to you.”
“How on earth am I going to accomplish that?”
“A gift, perhaps?”
“I have nothing someone like her would value.”
“Where did you get that kimono?”
“My mother brought it with her from Poland. Her own mother made it.”
Sylvette turned around on the stool. “It really is lovely. And just the sort of exotic thing Mistinguett likes. Make her a gift of it.”
“It’s the only thing of my mother’s I have with me.” Eva again felt the swell of betrayal toward her parents. The days she had spent with them—the good ones, and far fewer bad—seemed sharper now in her mind since she no longer had them in her life. From her mother, she had taken a kimono, and from her father, a pinch of his pipe tobacco that she had sewn into one of the sleeves so that when she wore it, she would be reminded of them both.
“Well, then that’s a pity,” Sylvette replied. “Because I can think of no other way. I suppose it comes down to whether you want to live in the past, or secure your future. You said being here in Paris meant everything to you.”
“Of course it does.”
“You can always make another kimono. You won’t ever have another chance at a place like the Moulin Rouge.”
It would not be the same, of course, but Sylvette was right. After all, it was really just a robe and Eva could not afford not to make an offering in order to secure her job. She was beginning to understand that maturing really did mean letting go of a great many things from one’s youth, and Paris could not protect her from the reality in that.
The next afternoon, Eva and Sylvette were in the dressing room as the actresses and dancers slowly filed in past the racks of costumes and the littered makeup tables. Their faces were yet to be painted, and they were still wearing their street clothes. The girls who graced the stage at the Moulin Rouge all possessed an air of confidence, and Eva studied them with awe.
She had told Madame Léautaud she had no ambitions for the stage but of course that was not entirely true. What girl would not relish being the center of attention, adored and desired by audiences filled with handsome young men? Eva thought of Picasso and felt her cheeks warm. He fascinated her—for his celebrity, of course, but also for his bravado, and for the sensuality that seemed to pulse through him even when she saw him at a distance. She had never known anyone like him. She couldn’t tell Sylvette they had briefly met. Sylvette wouldn’t believe her, anyway. Besides, a man like Picasso—least of all a famous one—would never have real interest in a girl like Eva. Or so she thought. Steady, predictable Louis was the best she would likely ever have.
Poor, dear Lodwicz. Eva would never love him. Not if he were the last man on earth. If she wanted to settle for that sort of life, she could have stayed in Vincennes and married old Monsieur Fix.
“What the devil do you think you’re doing in here?”
Mistinguett’s harsh tone startled Eva, and the door slammed like an exclamation mark. Mistinguett stormed across the dressing room toward Eva, who had come in early to keep Sylvette company as she prepared for the show. Eva glanced up from Sylvette’s makeup table at the actress who stood with a half-full glass of champagne in one hand and the bottle in the other. Sylvette’s face paled as she shot to her feet.
“And what the deuce are you wearing?” Mistinguett asked, scanning Sylvette from head to toe.
Eva had brought the kimono to the Moulin Rouge that afternoon and, while they waited for the actors to arrive, Sylvette had playfully tried it on.
“It’s a kimono,” Sylvette volunteered sheepishly as Mistinguett poured more champagne from the bottle. “Isn’t it a lovely thing? It’s from the Orient. So exotic, sewn by monks! It has been in Marcelle’s family for years.”
“Is that true?” Mistinguett asked Eva suspiciously as she sipped from her glass.
“Of course it’s true,” Sylvette inserted.
“How did your family come by such exquisite fabric?” she asked as she set the bottle down, then reached out to finger the silk as though it were something precious.
“My grandfather brought it back from a trip to Osaka.”
“I would love to go somewhere so enchanting.” Mistinguett sighed as her lips turned up in a winsome smile—the firm wall of her hauteur slipping just slightly.
“Me, too,” Eva replied, meaning it, since she had never been anywhere but here to Paris.
“May I try it on?” she asked. Her tone was beginning to sound surprisingly friendly.
“Of course!” Sylvette intervened again, slipping off the kimono and handing it to the star.
Mistinguett slipped into the luxurious garment with the grace of a dancer, then sank into her own makeup chair. As she fingered the sleeve, she looked at Eva.
“How much would you take for it?”
“Oh, it’s not for sale but—”
“Everything has a price, chérie. So does everyone.”
“I don’t feel that way,” Eva bravely countered.
“You will one day, after you have been in Paris for a while...Martine, is it?”
“Marcelle. But my real name is Eva. Eva Gouel.”
She was not certain why, but suddenly Eva felt compelled to tell the truth. Perhaps it was because she knew Mistinguett had also created a new persona. It was something they shared.
In response, Mistinguett smiled. “I changed my name, too, when I first arrived here in the city. My real name is Jeanne Bourgeois. My mother was a seamstress on the Îsle de France, but I shall deny that to my death if you tell anyone. Perhaps that is why I like you. You should think about keeping your real name. It’s rather pretty. You’re actually quite a lovely creature yourself, with such a delicate face. Like a little geisha.” She smiled at Eva as she began to paint her own face with stage makeup. “Yes, that’s it, a mysterious Osaka geisha who hides everything behind her shyness. Especially because of the kimono. Take care around here, Eva. Or Marcelle—or you’ll be eaten alive.”
“I shall bear that in mind.” Eva smiled shyly.
“See that you do.”
“Mademoiselle Mistinguett! Five minutes!” a stagehand called out past the closed door, warning of the opening act.
“You are welcome to borrow it, anytime you like, though,” Eva said.
The actress slowly rose and slipped out of the kimono as artfully and elegantly as she had donned it. As they spoke further, she transformed herself into Titine, a comical stage vagabond, a character she had invented. “Perhaps in such a garment Maurice would actually notice me for a change.”
They both knew she meant the handsome young singer Maurice Chevalier, who had clearly captured Mistinguett’s attention, yet so far seemed to have eluded her charms.
“Besides, I don’t borrow things, chérie—only, on occasion, other women’s men. I have never found one worth keeping, anyway.”
A few moments later, Mistinguett clopped onto the stage as the comical vagabond Titine, wearing mismatched boots, an overcoat and a beret. When she was gone, Eva and Sylvette glanced at each other, and Eva dared herself to take a sip from Mistinguett’s champagne glass. Sylvette drank a swallow straight from the expensive bottle, then both of them broke out in peels of laughter.
* * *
It was no surprise to either girl when Mistinguett, in a swirl of diaphanous peach-colored chiffon, needed to be helped offstage after her final number that evening. She’d clearly had far too much to drink at intermission and throughout the night. How she had managed to make it through her vagabond number and then her tango with Maurice, Sylvette and Eva could not guess.
Eva and Sylvette watched from the wings as the final cancan was being danced to raucous hoots and hollers from the crowd. They hoped they could intercept Mistinguett as she exited the stage before Madame Léautaud—or worse yet, Monsieur Oller—could see her staggering. Eva wasn’t exactly certain why, but she was beginning to grow fond of the temperamental star, who was clearly more complex than she at first had seemed.
Offstage, Mistinguett sank onto the velveteen-covered divan across from her dressing table, leaned back and promptly vomited. Sylvette dove to press the actress forward, but the delicate skirt of Mistinguett’s tango costume bore the brunt nonetheless.
“Pour l’amour de Dieu!” Eva cried.
“Quick, find her something else to wear!” Sylvette called out as she frantically wiped the small amount of vomit with a scarf. “Monsieur Oller always comes backstage to congratulate everyone after the performance and he usually brings guests. We could all be sacked for this!”
Eva felt a mounting panic. She couldn’t lose this job, not when she’d only just gotten it.
“Grab your kimono while I get her out of the costume! And shake some perfume on it to block that horrendous odor!”
Mistinguett was moaning and had seemed for a moment not to know where she was.
“I need more champagne,” she mumbled.
“What you need is a café and a bath,” Sylvette snapped. “Eva, go tell the stagehand to bring a café as quickly as he can! In the meantime, I’ll help her change.”
Eva ran off and returned a few minutes later bearing a cup of coffee. Mistinguett was sitting more alertly and wearing Eva’s yellow kimono. The fabric draped around her body in waves and fit her far better than it ever had Eva. She felt her heart squeeze with longing and regret for all she had given up in a life with her family, and now, at this awkward moment, she dearly missed her mother especially.
“Marcelle, can the costume be cleaned? It’s such delicate chiffon,” Mistinguett asked sadly as she rubbed her temple.
“I am a seamstress, not a laundress.”
“Handiwork is handiwork,” she snapped back uncharitably as panic took control.
Eva knew she could clean it since her mother had patiently taught her that a combination of baking soda and French Javelle water would work even on the most delicate fabric. Tears pricked the backs of her eyes at the memory. But she knew she deserved to feel sad. Eva certainly no longer deserved her family’s love for the way she had left them. Perhaps she could make a difference that would somehow begin to make amends. “I will have it good as new for the show tomorrow,” she promised as Mistinguett sipped from the demitasse of coffee, her pale face brightening slowly.
“You are a wonder, Eva. I’m sorry I misjudged you. All right, I’ve said it,” Mistinguett murmured just as the dressing room door burst open.
Wreathed in a plume of cigar smoke, a group of young, dark-haired men strode in led by the stout, white-haired Joseph Oller, clenching a cigar between his teeth. Though the owner’s presence was predictable after the show, tonight the girls were all a bit startled by it. Eva and Sylvette stepped back as Mistinguett rose from her divan. The length of the yellow kimono fell around her like a pool of water, hugging the ample curves of her tall willowy frame.
“I brought a few gentlemen I would like you to meet. Mistinguett, may I present the noted poet Guillaume Apollinaire, his friend Ramón Pichot, and this is the man of the moment here in Paris, the artist Pablo Picasso.”
Eva felt a jolt of surprise seeing him. Standing at the back of the room, she was hidden by the piles of costume pieces, shoes and hats. Nevertheless, she felt a tremor surge through her and she reached out her hands behind herself to clutch a dressing table for support. It wouldn’t do at all to go weak-kneed now.
Picasso was as alluring as she remembered, and in the evening’s buttery-rich gaslight, he appeared even more exotic with those great coal-black eyes above a cleverly quirked half smile.
Unlike the last time she had seen him, tonight Picasso looked every bit the confident and celebrated artist. He was wearing neatly creased black trousers, a black sweater that seemed to hug his tight chest and broad back and well-polished black shoes. A forelock of hair that fell untamed onto his forehead was the single element that hinted at what his dark eyes promised.
“Monsieur Picasso, it is a delight,” Mistinguett said flirtatiously.
As she extended a feathery hand to him, the elegant sleeve of the kimono slipped back from her wrist revealing her slim, pale forearm. Eva did not believe anyone had a right to be quite so beautiful.
“What the devil have you got on?” Oller huffed with exaggerated indignation. “You don’t receive gentlemen in a dressing gown like that! Monsieur Picasso, Monsieur Apollinaire, Monsieur Pichot, my apologies. Apparently, my star here—”
“I was fitting her new costume,” Eva blurted, hearing her own voice tumble out as though it had come from someone else.
An awkward silence pulsed through the group as Oller scowled at her. “A costume? That?”
“Yes, for a geisha number I’m working on,” Mistinguett responded with a believable smile, retrieving the moment.
Eva felt her face flush as she stepped back, bumping into the dressing table. She heard the bottles clatter behind her and gripped the top of the table again to steady them. She felt as though she would collapse from embarrassment.
“That is definitely creative,” Oller at last proclaimed. He clenched the cigar in his teeth more tightly and his smile lengthened.
Finally across the room, Eva’s gaze met Picasso’s.
As the chatter about the geisha act faded to the background, Eva watched Picasso close the distance between them.
“So we meet again,” he said with a seductive half smile. She felt her body weaken. “Clearly, it is fate.”
“But we have not really met, have we?”
“It was my great mistake not to have asked your name the last time.”
“I am Marcelle.”
“And I am Picasso.”
“Yes, I know,” she said, smiling awkwardly at her own response.
“But did you know also, mademoiselle, that I am going to paint you?”
“Are you?” she asked as the others continued to talk and laugh, which helped to shelter their quiet conversation. Eva had been thrown off balance by his bold declaration and she was doing her best to hide that fact.
“Oh, most definitely.”
“And when might that be, Monsieur Picasso?” She bit back a soft laugh, suddenly enjoying their flirtation.
“Tonight, if you shall permit me,” he answered. “I am too inspired by your beauty to wait any longer than that.”
Eva caught a glimpse then of the very tall man beyond Picasso who had been introduced as Guillaume Apollinaire—a man she had always wanted to meet because of his evocative poetry. But at the moment there really was no one in the room but Pablo Picasso—even if his advances sounded like lines from a penny novella.
“So then tell me, is Marcelle your real name, or just the one you use in Paris?” Picasso asked her beneath the chatter of the others around them. “So many people I meet here want to be someone different.”
His magnificent Spanish accent and his potent gaze had swiftly shut down all of her defenses. How could he have guessed?
“I haven’t quite decided that yet,” she answered, trying her best to sound nonchalant.
“Care is good. Caution, less so.”
“You speak now only of names when you speak of caution?” she asked coyly.
“I speak of whatever moves you not to take too much care with me, mademoiselle,” he said huskily. “Perhaps I should have asked your given name.”
Saints be preserved, but he was quick with a parry! Clever, forthright and handsome. She was not at all certain she could keep up but it was exciting to try. Especially with those huge black eyes seizing all of her attention and making her blush.
“If you must know, it’s Eva—a most unglamorous Eva Céleste Gouel,” she confessed.
Picasso gently placed a hand at the low point of her back. No one in the room noticed the gesture, which made the moment even more deliciously intimate.
“When I slip out of the dressing room, follow me a moment later,” he said matter-of-factly in a way that made it beyond her power to object. She felt herself grow excited by the danger of his request.
It seemed only a moment later that Picasso was clutching her hand tightly and they were running together like children through the lamplit streets up toward the foot of Montmartre, the glorious vista of Paris and all of the city lights shining brightly behind them.
Laughing and holding hands, they trudged up the many steep steps of the rue Foyatier. Then they hurried across the rue Lepic and down the cobblestoned rue Ravignan toward the artist’s enclave at the Bateau-Lavoir.
Picasso squeezed Eva’s hand when they finally arrived at the ramshackle building in the center of a sloping square, lush with rustling chestnut trees. She knew this shabby old place, with its sagging roof full of filthy glass skylights, was a haven to impoverished painters, models and thieves. She and Louis had passed by it many times on their way to Au Lapin Agile or la Maison Rose. She had found it distinctive, too, and even a little charming, because it seemed constantly peppered with pigeons, stray cats and fat gold leaves.
There was usually a crowd of Spaniards gathered there, sitting on overturned crates and stools, one of them invariably strumming out a tune on a battered old guitar. But tonight they were alone. Only the gaslight from the streetlamps kept them company.
“You are stunning,” Picasso said.
It took all of her effort not to squirm childishly beneath his potent stare. He smelled faintly of pipe tobacco, wine and the distinctive scent of his maleness. The combination was strangely intoxicating, and Eva could feel that her throat had gone dry. He looked at her with a rich expression of expectation. Yet it was not rude or arrogant. She felt the inevitability in it.
“You do know how to flatter a girl,” she said. Her knees were impossibly weak. “More men in Paris really should learn how to do that.”
“It is a thoroughly Spanish trait, mademoiselle, I assure you,” he said as he encircled her with his arms. Then he pulled her back with him against the crumbling wall of the house, pressing himself up against her. Eva gasped as he covered her mouth with his.
A soft moan escaped his lips and Eva squeezed her eyes shut. She was fighting a dizziness that was engulfing her as they kissed, as she felt his rigid body against her wanting more. Her defenses crumbled and a moment later he was clutching her hand tightly in his own again and leading her inside the old house.
Someone was cooking in one of the studios and the strong aroma of spices was sensual and inviting. The floorboards and stairs creaked beneath their footsteps as they made their way through sounds of guitar music and chatter behind closed doors. All of it—this odd place, her innocence and desire—mixed together in her mind along with the excitement and fear of something she had never done before, disarming her. It was then, as if he sensed it, that he squeezed her hand more tightly, warm, powerful and commanding. His touch reassured her and eased the fear. Eva let him lead her the rest of the way. She wanted to be here, she reminded herself. She had come away willingly.
Picasso’s studio was at the end of a corridor. He turned a doorknob and pressed back the door, which made a long, low squeal. Then he held out his arm with a gallant flourish, issuing her inside.
Eva took two steps and was stopped by the profusion of work that lay scattered before her. The room, with giant windows and peeling plaster walls, was littered with canvases, large and small ones, hanging in a riotous jumble on the walls. The color, the light and the clutter, all of it together, made her gasp. Her hand flew to her lips but not in time to stifle the sound of surprise. Picasso bit back another smile, which he meant for her to see.
“Bienvenida,” he said as he closed the door behind them.
The odor of paint and turpentine in the small space was bitingly strong.
Picasso’s smudged windows, full of badly painted panes, dominated the space and ushered in the silver light from a shimmering full moon. He lit an oil lamp on a table in the center of the room, illuminating the many canvases with mellow light.
Some of the works hung crookedly, some were straight—all vying for a cramped bit of space. Other canvases were propped against the walls, three-and four-deep; they were stacked on tables on top of loose pages filled with sketches. More were tossed onto the studio floor like litter, along with paint boxes, jars, squashed tubes of paint and rags. The sheer volume of work was astonishing. It seemed to Eva like a great creative explosion.
But there were finer details of the place that came into focus once Eva allowed herself to breathe in and see it all. There was a small wooden animal cage on the floor, and beside it were two roughly sculpted stone heads, perched on wooden pedestals, remarkable to her for how antiquarian they appeared. The only real piece of furniture, besides an easel, was a small iron-frame bed covered over with a pretty apple-green quilt embroidered with red roses and red fringe.
“You...live here?” she asked. She turned back to him and their eyes met.
“Once. But not any longer. Yet, it is still the place where my soul resides.”
Not quite knowing what he meant by that—or how to react to any of this evening—Eva picked up a sketch that was lying on the table. It was boldly erotic—two women open to an animal-like male figure with a dark forelock of hair. She had never seen anything so carnal and she felt embarrassed. Picasso looked at her unfazed.
“It is a satyr and his nymphs,” he said.
Eva glanced up at him, pressing back her naive shock. She could feel the hesitation in her own expression. “Is the satyr supposed to be...you?”
“If you wish.”
“I don’t understand.”
Picasso shrugged and flashed his disarmingly sheepish smile. It was a response of equivocation. “I see life differently,” he said with a charmingly casual simplicity.
“Clearly, you do.”
Oh, dear, she should not be here, she thought, no matter what she had told herself earlier. This place was cold and plain and it felt wildly dangerous. Eva was suddenly terrified of her own innocence—of displeasing him. But there must be a first time for everyone, her conscience silently argued, and her heart raced. Her first time, here now with a great artist, would be something she would never forget. She trembled and tried her best to look mature. She felt herself being drawn into him so powerfully that she couldn’t run even if she wanted to.
Eva pushed away the thoughts competing in her mind. Trying to buy time to process the moment, she focused on a stack of large canvases propped on the floor beneath the window. The collection of paintings had been done in rich shades of dark blues and grays, and the images at the center of each were absolutely haunting, gaunt, bereft characters. They were nothing at all like the charismatic, carefree man who had brought her here. Rather, they were people who all exemplified some dreadfully sad tale, and Eva could feel the human tragedy in each of them.
Eva knew nothing about art. But she knew what moved her. These were powerful images, all so raw, and very different from the Cubist works at the exhibition of a sort she was told he, too, painted. Her body reacted to the drama in these before her mind could. What did it mean that he could create in two such different styles? Was there a story? Her head throbbed with a jumble of questions and emotions and it made her feel insecure to wonder about them. Clearly there was more to Picasso than what he had allowed her so far to see.
Next in the stack of canvases was a portrait of a young, dark-haired man, clothed all in black with a glowing backdrop. His pale face, looking directly at the viewer, black eyes wide and plaintive, was rendered almost cadaverously white by the intense blue of the background. The face had a poignant sadness that drew her almost as profoundly as the women had.
“Yet like the satyr, that is me also,” Picasso said, breaking the silence between them. His tone suddenly was disarmingly tentative. She felt the vulnerability in it, which was something she certainly had not expected. “Another side of me.”
Such two starkly different sides of the same man, Eva thought—a confident young painter, handsome and sensual, and yet something far more vulnerable—as she compared the whimsically erotic sketch on the table with this self-portrait. Picasso waited patiently for Eva to react, but instead she looked away and returned her attention to the rest of the canvases against the wall. The final painting at the back of the large stack bore an image of a man’s face and head, eyes closed, painted in profile. The figure was illuminated by the stark yellow glow from a single candle. There was a bullet wound visible at his temple.
Startled, Eva glanced back at Picasso. His wry smile had disappeared, replaced by something deeper and more somber. The anguish in his wide black eyes said that he had not wanted her to see this painting. Perhaps he had forgotten it was there.
“Who was he?” she asked cautiously.
“His name was Carlos Casagemas. We came to Paris together from Barcelona. He was my best friend...before he committed suicide,” Picasso replied grimly as he approached her. He changed the subject by putting his hands firmly on her upper arms and clamping them tightly.
There was tremendous force in his grip. He was holding on to her with possession now, and his face was full of a brooding sensuality. Eva could no longer think as the sound of her own heart pulsing filled her ears.
Picasso released one of Eva’s arms and began to slowly unbutton her white cotton blouse as he locked his gaze onto hers again. He was nothing like the boys she had known in Vincennes. Nothing at all like Louis. He pressed the full length of his body against her then as he had done outside. He breathed softly against her neck as his warm fingertips met the skin of her bare breast. He withdrew slightly and challenged her to look away from his gaze.
“I’m not an expert but the way you are staring at me right now is not how an artist properly assesses a model. I live with enough artists around me to know that much,” she nervously murmured. Yet the words came as a weak refrain. “Was that not, after all, why you invited me here, to model for you?”
She tried desperately to press back her deepening arousal. She glanced at the bed in the alcove. When she turned back, Picasso closed the gap between them with a sudden, sensual kiss and Eva moved willingly into his embrace.
His fingers ran over the hard point of one nipple and then the other as he kissed her more deeply, filling her mouth with his tongue.
“I want to see all of you,” he said in a throaty Spanish whisper.
Was it his fame, how shatteringly attractive he was or his surprise possession of her that was most alluring? She had not fully imagined any of this an hour ago as she had stood in the actress’s dressing room. What was happening was so forbidden—surely a sin. It was certainly wrong, yet she wanted it just as much as he did. They moved together as one—still kissing, touching, bound by each other—to the little bed in the corner of the room. Their kisses grew more urgent and Eva lost sight of the paintings, of their conversation, of all rational thought. The rough need flaring through Picasso’s warm lips finally took total control of her. She felt her body open to him even before either of them were bare. She was aware of the ache for him deep inside herself as he stripped off her skirt, her stockings, her camisole and her drawers, as he caressed her body, lingering skillfully on every tingling curve and rise of flesh. Please let me be good enough for him, she desperately thought.
He released himself from her for a moment to draw off his own clothes. Then, with moonlight shining through the window on him, he paused before her, naked and unashamed.
They did not speak further. There was no need for it.
Arched over her a moment later, yet still restrained, Picasso ran his hand along her supple body with the precision of a sculptor. His fingers were an artist’s tool moving deftly along the lines and curves of her. He moved until all of her senses were wildly alive, tender and achingly sensitive. She was trembling as his fingers finally found the untouched place between her legs. As he kissed her again Eva tasted a moan of desire deep in her own throat.
In the flickering light of the oil lamp, Picasso forced Eva to lie still beneath him. With exploring kisses and languorously patient caresses, his tongue moved as his fingers had done, until desire blotted out all of her remaining sense of reason, touching her in ways she had never even known how to fantasize about.
He finally clamped his hands on her hips to mount her, and the pleasure turned to a swift sharp pain in a place deep inside her. Only then did she remember how fragile innocence was. He was rough and frenzied with his own need, unaware still, in that passionate moment, of her virginity. She tried her best to open to him as he moved, but her body resisted and she arched her back as he pressed hard into her. A moment later as he groaned into her ear, the pain disappeared and she rocked with him into oblivion, forgetting everything else in the world but this dark-eyed stranger and how he had just now changed her life forever.
