Читать книгу Montparnasse - Thierry Sagnier - Страница 20

Chapter 15

Frederick slept, making strange bubbling noises in his throat. He was agitated; Easter jolted awake when he flung out his left arm and struck her shoulder.

It was still dark outside but light was beginning to creep above the horizon. They had a corner room with two windows, and the view displayed the changing face of the city. To the left were the Champs Elysées, glowing with a million incandescent lights. To the right was a much smaller street lit by gas lanterns.

Easter rose quietly, looked out to see a lamplighter extinguishing flames with a long bamboo pole ending in a candlesnuffer. What a strange existence, to be responsible for clarity and darkness, she thought. The worker was an older man wearing a slouch cap. He shuffled from lamp to lamp with a worn gait, and his dexterity was admirable. There was only a small aperture through which he could thrust the pole and, with a deft twist of his wrist, smother the flame. She remembered reading that workmen who paint long bridges never cease their labor, beginning one end of the structure as soon as they finish the other. This fellow’s career, she thought, must be similar.

The morning before, she’d watched the boulangerie’s cart delivering baskets of breads and croissants to the hotel’s kitchen. Another truck brought flowers, still another, milk, eggs and butter.

A police vehicle sped by in silence, its distinctive siren hushed in deference to the hotel’s slumbering guests.

She looked at the clock, opened her diary and began to write.

*****

Paris, Thursday, April 24, 1919

It is shortly after 5 a.m. I have had only a few hours’ rest, but I love this city’s early morning stillness. Paris gathers its strength, stretches in anticipation of the day.

Things are right here. Not that I pretend to be French; I don’t. I am proud of my American-ness. Though many loathe admitting it, without the United States, there would be no France; or rather, there would be a France, but it would speak German—a repugnant thought.

I belong and have to let go certain of my ambitions already. For example, I realized yesterday, shortly after I saw James’s portraits hanging on the walls of his apartment, that I did not come to paint. I would like to, and will, but right now, I simply want to witness.

Frederick is stirring. Whatever is he dreaming of to cause such agitation? What do men dream of? Women and sex? Politics, wealth and power? War and conquest, or more mundane things, cufflinks and shirt studs, razors that shave properly and shoes that fit?

*****

She paused, put down her pen. Frederick had thrown off the blanket; she carefully draped it back over his sleeping form.

*****

How little I know him. Is it a wife’s duty to gentle a husband whose slumber is distraught? When he is first awake is when I like him best, without defenses and before he has marshalled pretensions of manhood. Thank God Frederick is not a vain popinjay, nor perpetually chasing skirts. Both Enid and Charlotte told me he does not fit the type, and he has never to my knowledge given even a passing glance to the pretty demoiselles strutting the boulevards. They look at him, though. Some ignore my presence and turn when he passes. Their admiring eyes are not lost on me. I am fortunate indeed to have found such a mate.

Why then do I harbor this lack of passion for him, this absence of desire? I like Frederick, and I am sure many lifelong relationships have begun and lasted on far less secure footing, but why don’t I have the feeling Enid described after her affair with the dance band mandolin player?

The night aboard La Savoie had everything to do with me and nothing to do with Frederick, save that he was there, available and willing.

Perhaps something is seriously wrong with me; a flaw I did not know how to recognize until marriage.

Now, Frederick is talking in his sleep; it is unintelligible.

The Rotonde was a noisy disappointment. The food was indifferent, the smoke and unmistakable aroma of unwashed bodies quite revolting. Frederick noted this immediately, of course. James was there with his thick-ankled model. They were quite chummy, holding hands like sweethearts.

She was rather cheap, what Father used to call an ‘overly made-up floozy.’ I wonder if what I have read of the modeling profession is true. Are they really just a step above prostitutes, these women who disrobe at the whim of a man with a brush?

I have made too much of the encounter with James. He is a handsome man, but no more so than Frederick. His mannerisms imply a proper upbringing and his sad eyes yearn to tell stories. His missing brother must be a painful weight to bear.

Now it is past dawn. Frederick’s eyes are open. I can feel them on my back. My “friend” has arrived. I am sure Frederick cannot be aware of this. Do men know of these things?

I shall take him to breakfast later and broach the idea of lengthening our stay.