“Thanks,” D’Arcy said, touched by his understanding.
“And you’re right,” he said. “The photos are similar. But only if you’re looking for similarities. Here.” He handed her an envelope, in which she saw negatives, square and oversized, that must have been taken on an old Rolleiflex camera.
“There’s a lightbox in there.” Josh pointed to the salon.
D’Arcy walked through, snapping on the light, bending down with the loupe, scanning each one. They were all of the same man—Dan Hallworth—in U.S. Army uniform. A couple more of the girl, Victorine, including some at what looked like a picnic, a stream of water behind her, as well as a peculiarly twisted tree, like the ones painted into the panels in the room. A tree that looked as if it were reaching out to D’Arcy, pleading to her. She stepped back from the lightbox.
“If you googled her,” she said suddenly, to cover her attack of the heebie-jeebies, “then you must know if it is her. You would have seen pictures of her on the net. I know she’s sixty years older now but if she is Jessica May, she must look similar.”
“She said she’d see you,” Josh said, not answering her question. “But she’s my client, D’Arcy. I have to look out for her. If you ask her something and she doesn’t want to answer, you can’t push her, okay?”
“You know, don’t you?” D’Arcy felt a shiver prickle her skin, a mixture of both excitement and fear.
“It’s not my place to tell you.”
“I think you might be the only man in the world who’d put his client’s interests over making one of the biggest discoveries in the art world for years.”
Josh started to speak but she held up her hand. “I meant it as a compliment,” she said. “I can see why she has you as her agent.”
He studied her face. “Are you going to ask her about your mother too?”
“Of course,” D’Arcy said breezily, as if that were of small concern in the light of the other revelation that might be made.
“She has a sitting room up there. Second door on the left.”
D’Arcy ascended the staircase, one half of her brain buzzing. What if the photographer really was Jessica May? What would D’Arcy do with that knowledge? Quiz her on the thinking behind every photograph from 1943 through to the present day at the very least. Ask her why she’d chosen to vanish. Tell her that the world needed to know she was still alive, needed to remember work that was so very important when it was taken, and was still important now, not just artistically, but in jolting the memory of a world that seemed too ready to fight at any provocation. The Photographer was a renowned artist; Jessica May could, once again, be similarly acclaimed.
D’Arcy stopped before the door to settle herself before she knocked, knowing it was most likely she would say none of that. Instead, she would probably stare open-mouthed and be too awed to speak. If it were true.
“Entrez!” a voice that was lighter and clearer than D’Arcy expected called out.
D’Arcy pushed open the door and came face to face with a woman who still held the trappings of a beautiful face in the cheekbones, only slightly attenuated by the lines age had etched into them, and in the large brown eyes. The woman smiled at D’Arcy from her chair, a warm smile, one that belonged in this place of beauty and exuberance.
“Thank you for taking such good care of my work,” the woman said in the voice that wasn’t at all blurred or slowed by age. “I’m sorry you expected more of it to have been packed. We did get someone in to begin the process but I found I couldn’t trust him to handle it the way I prefer. By all accounts, you’re doing a vastly better job.”
“Thank you,” D’Arcy said. “It honestly doesn’t feel much like work. Being so close to your photographs is what every art historian dreams of. I’ve been fed extremely well. The chateau is magnificent. And Josh has been very…” She felt herself blush a little. “Kind.”
The photographer nodded and D’Arcy noticed another smile settle on her lips. “He is kind. People don’t think so because he seems like such a serious person but sometimes you just have to be patient with people and let them reveal themselves to you. The same way you wouldn’t rush past a photograph in an exhibition; you’d take time to consider it and study it from every angle before you made a decision.”
D’Arcy didn’t know what to say in response. Was the photographer asking her to take her time before she did anything rash? Or saying that Josh was worthy of time? It didn’t matter though; D’Arcy didn’t have time because she was leaving at the end of next week. “Josh said I could come to see you,” she said instead.
The photographer nodded. “I want to photograph you.” She said it as if that were the subject of their meeting. “I thought I needed to do it formally. But I’ve changed my mind. I might take some shots of you every now and again when you’re working, or in the garden. If you don’t mind.”
“But why…?” D’Arcy began.
“Call it a whim. A beautiful young woman who’s at the age when she has the whole world ahead of her, when the decisions she makes will either be the best or hardest to live with in the years to come.”
The words settled on D’Arcy like a fur coat in summer. “That sounds ominous.”
“Only if you make the wrong decisions.”
“Did you?” D’Arcy couldn’t stop herself asking.
The photographer nodded. “They were both the worst and best decisions I could have made.”
It was the moment to ask. And the words came out in a rush. “Are you Jessica May? The Children series has definite echoes of her work and—”
“I have an attic full of Jessica May’s photographs. Of course I’m Jessica May.” She said it as though it had never been in question. “But you can call me Jess.”
D’Arcy gaped, just as she’d worried she might, but it was more at the casual way the revelation had been disclosed. After taking so much trouble for so many years to hide who she was, Jessica May was, in just a couple of offhand sentences, giving up the secret of the photographer’s identity. “Wow,” D’Arcy managed at last. She shook her head. “Sorry, it’s just…incredible.”
“I doubt that many people would care. Not anymore.” The photographer—Jess—pulled herself out of her chair, gripping the arms for support, and walked carefully over to the window.
“Are you kidding? Of course people will care. I care.”
“That’s very sweet of you.”
She spoke as if D’Arcy were being polite, or doing her a favor. Not as if D’Arcy was reacting with genuine excitement about meeting a woman who was a hero of the art world, if the art world could ever be thought of as having heroes. “But why me?” D’Arcy blurted. “And why now? Why would you choose a complete stranger to tell that to?”
“I told Josh this morning too. Of course, he’d worked it out for himself after a night spent searching for photographs of Jessica May in the 1940s.”
It was not an explanation, not at all. And there was still the question of the Victorine Hallworth in the photograph. So D’Arcy tried again. “I don’t understand why you would hide it. But there was also, among your war photographs—”
Jess interrupted. “Yes, Josh tells me you know quite a bit about my war work. That you have an interest in it, even. He mentioned a documentary that you wanted to make.”
D’Arcy would kill Josh when she went downstairs. As if Jessica May would have any interest in D’Arcy’s childish attempts at filmmaking. “I can’t make it now,” she said dismissively, as if it didn’t matter. “I didn’t get the fellowship that I wanted. It was a fellowship named after you, actually. Another in a series of very strange coincidences.”
This time, D’Arcy waited for Jess to say something about Victorine: I once knew your mother…But she didn’t. She appraised D’Arcy instead, as if weighing her up, seeing what she was made of. What would she find? Little of substance. Air, whimsy, fluff. All things light and fleeting.
And D’Arcy didn’t know what came over her in that moment, a foolish
desire to prove herself, to show Jessica May, photographer extraordinaire, that D’Arcy was worthy of the confidence she’d been gifted. “Can I…can I…” D’Arcy almost clamped her mouth shut—Josh would kill her this time—but out it came. “Can I film you? Even though the fellowship people didn’t think so, I actually can make documentaries; I can give you my résumé if you like. My degree is in art and media; media because of my mother, art because of me. I took every unit in filmmaking that I could at uni and I used to crew on documentaries occasionally and I loved it. I haven’t made a documentary for a very long time but I’d like to make one of you. If you’ll let me.”
D’Arcy expected the woman in front of her to laugh. How preposterous was it that D’Arcy, an amateur, would suggest making a documentary about a woman who would have film crews the world over salivating at the prospect? She’d done no research, no planning, would be extremely limited by the little equipment she had with her for sound and production quality. “I’d love to ask you questions, to tell your story,” D’Arcy finished falteringly. “I bet it’s worth telling.”
“It would mean revealing to the world who I am. I’ve rather liked being someone else for the past sixty years.” Jess turned to face D’Arcy, the expression on her face indecipherable.
D’Arcy almost smacked her palm to her forehead. Why did she speak before thinking through all the issues? All she’d been focused on was the filming and the putting together of a narrative. Not on what would happen to it after she’d finished. “I don’t have to show it to anyone if you’d prefer…” Her voice trailed lamely away. Then she shook her head. “This…” She waved her arm around to signify the chateau and Jess’s work and the larger truth of who Jess was. “And you are extraordinary. Why wouldn’t you want to tell everyone?”
There was a long silence, the buzz and hum of the garden below them the only sound in the room. Jess eventually spoke. “There are some people I should speak to first.” Then Jessica May turned a smile toward D’Arcy that was striking, but it also held a kind of sadness that made D’Arcy move suddenly to her side and touch her hand. “I suppose I can’t very well expect to photograph you if I won’t return the favor,” Jess finished, then she waited as if she expected D’Arcy to say something, but D’Arcy didn’t speak.
“You’re supposed to say, Oh, you don’t have to if you’d rather not,” Jess said, smiling more naturally this time. “But I can tell that you don’t do false politeness. So yes, you can film a documentary. But, as I said, there are others I would need to talk to before you could show it to anyone. Would you give me some time?”
“Of course.” D’Arcy grinned at last and tried not to bounce up and down like a child. “If I say this is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me would you think I was completely ridiculous?”
Jess laughed. “I would be very flattered. Thank you for coming to see me. If you do notice me around with my camera, try to ignore me. And come back when you want to interview me. You have free rein to film anything you choose in the meantime.”
She was dismissed. Which was just as well because she wasn’t sure how much longer she could be so demure in the face of something so incredible. As D’Arcy walked out of the room, her eye caught a photograph propped on a table, directly in Jess’s line of sight. Two people, the moment before they kissed, love for one another caught as recognizably on their faces as the fact that they had eyelashes or noses. It was an imperfect photograph of an intensely private moment, real beyond anything D’Arcy had ever seen in all of the posed and photoshopped and cropped pictures that dominated contemporary life. It was the kind of picture that made D’Arcy want to reach into the frame and extract the two people so that they could have the kiss the photographer had forever prevented them from sharing. At the same time, she wanted the draft from the door to tip the frame over so it would fall face down and D’Arcy would no longer be able to see it—the man was the same one from the photograph with Victorine. Dan Hallworth. And the woman was Jessica May.
D’Arcy walked back down the stairs slowly, exhilaration flooding out of her like a waterfall. There, in front of her eyes, where there had been the photograph of moments before, was the question Jess had so carefully not answered: why, after all this time, would Jessica May reveal herself to D’Arcy? And the realization—that D’Arcy hadn’t actually asked about Victorine—carried like deceit in her stomach.
D’Arcy stopped walking and held on to the banister. There was something linking D’Arcy to Jess, a link that began in that photograph of D’Arcy’s mother and continued on to Dan Hallworth. She knew it as surely as she knew that Jessica had somehow bewitched her—with discussions about being photographed, with permission to film documentaries—into not asking about Victorine. And she also knew that her mother had once had a black-and-white photograph on her dresser of a woman wearing a khaki uniform, arms heaped with flowers, the city of Paris just discernible in the background. The photograph had mysteriously vanished one day after D’Arcy had asked her mother about it but D’Arcy now knew that the woman sitting atop Victorine’s dresser had been Jessica May.
D’Arcy felt as if she were being lured little by little into a forest, as if a trail had been laid for her the moment she stepped foot into the chateau and she could do nothing but continue inexorably on into the gloaming. It was impossible for her to see the image of Dan Hallworth and Victorine Hallworth embracing as depicting anything other than the closeness of a father and daughter. And the photograph on Jess’s dresser showed that same Dan Hallworth with Jessica May, both clearly in love. Were they Victorine’s parents? And why would Victorine have kept it a secret, why would she have become so estranged from her own parents?
D’Arcy shivered and opened her eyes. She would work some more, and she would think. And then she would make a decision, one way or another, about what, if anything, she should ask her mother.
Seventeen
Working and thinking consisted of not doing any actual work or any thinking at all. Instead, she studied the Children series once more until Josh walked outside and caught her. It was the first time she’d seen him since her meeting with Jess and she didn’t know what to say. So she prevaricated. “I suppose I should apologize for slacking off,” she said, “but I could honestly sit and look at these all day and continue to find something new. Aren’t you ever tempted to do that?”
He came to stand beside her, eyes resting on the photographs. “I guess I’ve made the mistake of taking this all for granted,” he said. “Of getting the business done because the emails and the phone calls always seem to be the most urgent. I can’t honestly remember the last time I stopped to look at any of the pictures for more than a minute.”
“You know that’s sacrilege and therefore punishable by having to spend the whole of tomorrow in a T-shirt and shorts instead of a business shirt and trousers,” she teased, trying to lighten the load she felt pressing on her heart from her conversation with Jess. “Or do you not own anything else?”
“I’m pretty sure that sawing wood while wearing a dress like yours isn’t exactly normal,” he said, his tone a statement rather than a jest. “So I’m not sure that my wardrobe choices should be the only ones coming under scrutiny.”
“Oh, this old thing?” she said, flipping the skirt a little to show off more of the amazing polka-dot petticoats underneath. “It’s at least fifty years old so if it hasn’t given up the ghost by now, I don’t think a little sawing is going to harm it.”
But it wasn’t Josh’s style to let her get away with flirty evasions. “So,” he said. And she knew he meant: So, you know that the photographer is Jessica May.
“So,” she repeated.
Then Célie appeared with a picnic basket. “Everything you need should be in here,” she said, smiling at Josh.
“Who are you picnicking with?” D’Arcy asked, voice light as if she didn’t care. Maybe he had a girlfriend? Someone coming to the chateau to picnic with him and spend the night. It would be the most romanti
c place to spend a dirty weekend. No wonder he hadn’t wanted to kiss her. D’Arcy felt her heart twist with what she was almost sure, even though she’d never felt it before, was jealousy.
“I’m picnicking with you, I hope,” he said. “Unless you’d prefer to saw. I’ll even get changed.” He actually smiled.
D’Arcy’s stomach contracted in response.
* * *
D’Arcy agreed to meet Josh in half an hour, which gave her enough time to find a hat from Célie and send her mother a text to say she was busy and would call later. Because she still had no idea what to ask her, what to say. Staring at photographs all morning hadn’t made anything any clearer.
When she met Josh downstairs, he was indeed much more casually dressed. “There’s a nice spot close to the canal,” he said to her. “It’s only a short walk.”
“I feel like a child skipping school,” she said as they started out on the gravel path. “As if someone from the museum is going to ring at any moment and catch me sipping wine under a chestnut tree rather than crating fragile photographs and talking to customs agents.”
“They’ll be asleep. Besides, it’s siesta time. We’ll work late tonight.”
Work. What if he was just being polite, would rather be writing up contracts but felt as if he had to show the Australian art handler around and be hospitable? “We don’t have to picnic if you’re busy,” she said.
“I know. I never do things I don’t want to do,” he said.
D’Arcy couldn’t resist. “Including having sex with women in mini-dresses when they throw themselves at you?”
Her reward was a laugh, like the one she’d heard the first day when she’d called him dashing. “Do you have a single shy bone in your body?” he asked.
“I don’t think I do,” D’Arcy replied honestly as they passed a row of Judas trees in lavishly pink flower. The busy sound of woodpeckers contrasted with the lazy circling of a lone hawk, and the brusque quacking of distant ducks. The air smelled better than the Buly 1803 shop ever could, a melange of pollens so heavy and diffuse it was impossible to separate the individual scents, more dangerously heady than cognac at midnight. They passed an elfin tree, dressed in a canopy of green as rounded as a crinoline skirt, but beneath the foliage D’Arcy could see the crone-like branches whorling and winding into grotesquely beautiful shapes.
The Paris Orphan Page 21
