Читать книгу Montparnasse - Thierry Sagnier - Страница 14

Chapter 9

Kiki’s real name was Alice Ernestine Prin. James Johnson found it rather prosaic for someone who caused such turbulence in others’ lives. She was 18 years old, from a poor background in Burgundy. Her accent—guttural, clipped, and rural—gave her away and bespoke minimal schooling. She’d arrived in Paris at age 12, attended the lycée briefly, and like many girls of her age and lack of credentials, had started working a year after that, repairing soldiers’ boots in a shoe factory. Then she worked in a boulangerie, but being covered with flour and tending ovens did not suit her disposition, so she ran away. Penniless, she modeled for a sculptor. That ended when her mother, who had apprenticed her at the bakery, forced her way into the artist’s studio and threatened the man with a lawsuit for assaut contre la moralité d’un mineur. Johnson thought the immorality lay in a mother’s willingness to sell her child’s labor, an accepted principle of the French working class.

A week earlier, as Johnson sat at his usual table at the Rotonde, Kiki had arrived with several friends and, after minimal encouragement, had proceeded to act out scenes of her childhood, taking on by turn the role of her mother, the sculptor, and Kiki-the-child. The sculptor she portrayed as old, bent over and toothless, her mother as raging, herself as a winsome innocent. She was a good comédienne, and her audience had roared with laughter, then bought her several rounds of drinks and dinner, which she gulped down.

That same night, Johnson also got to witness Kiki furious. One of her inebriated friends, a tall gangly woman whom he’d never seen at the Rotonde before, shouted to the entourage: “I’ll bet you didn’t know that Kiki’s got no poils sur son zizi.” It took him a moment to translate what may have been one of Kiki’s deepest secrets: she had no pubic hair.

A thunderous silence followed this announcement. Kiki rose from her chair, eyes flashing green fire. She slowly approached the drunken woman, looking very menacing indeed, and might have struck her had a young man not interceded. He grabbed Kiki by the elbow, whispered something in her ear which brought a smile, a laugh, and a passing of the storm.

The young man’s name was Maurice Mendjizky. He was Polish, and a painter, and Kiki’s lover. It galled Johnson that the man who took pleasure in her favors spoke a French even more abominable than his own.

The next evening, once again at the Rotonde, Johnson had ordered the assiette de charcuterie, a plate of cold meats with bread. Kiki had swept by his table, picked up the breadbasket without a word, and marched out the door with it. A few minutes later, she returned the empty basket, placed it before him with a charming smile, lifted his wineglass and took a healthy sip from it, patted him on the shoulder, kissed his cheek and said, “Merci.”

Johnson immediately forgave her the Polish lover.