by M. J. Rose
“That the lamps all over Paris are blazing and we’re carefree lovers living in the city of lights.”
His voice sounded as melancholy as I felt. Such a small wish, yet such an impossible one.
Sometimes at my great-grandmother’s, her “friends,” as she referred to the men who frequented her salon, would flirt with me, the way Grigori flirted and I would try to enjoy it. Wasn’t a girl supposed to? But I never did. I sensed the sadness beneath the outward show of gaiety. I had real affection for Grigori. Yes, his moods and aborted efforts at seduction took their toll. But he was my penance for Timur. I’d hurt one soldier; I couldn’t hurt another. And so yes, I would go out with him and drink champagne and bring him back to my room once more and give him what encouragement I could. I owed that to him, just like I felt I owed it to the men at Grand-mère’s to endure their flirting. They’d fought for us. Been damaged for us. Lost brothers and friends for us. Would be scarred for life for us. The least I could do was smile and drink or laugh with them. Let Grigori kiss me and smooth my hair and whisper promises he couldn’t keep. That was the hardest part, to witness his failure over and over. At least with Grand-mère’s friends, it couldn’t go further because, as her granddaughter, I was ultimately off-limits. Yes, they thought I was her granddaughter. Since she looked to be only about sixty—and young for that age—we kept it a secret that she was my great-grandmother.
No one would accept she was closer to ninety. Just as Grigori couldn’t accept he’d ever be healed, which is why he rejected Anna’s potions and brews. In our war-torn world, no one believed in enchantments. They thought witches and spells and conjurers were the stuff of fairy tales. The only mystery anyone believed in was ghosts. And only because memories of the war’s endless dead haunted the living.
Chapter 8
Grigori and I never drank any champagne because we’d only gone a few blocks in the dark, moonless city when the heavens opened and a heavy rain poured down on us. We ran back to the Palais.
Our puddle splashing wasn’t gleeful. It depressed me and reminded me of the futility of trying to get out from under the clouds of war, even for a few drinks at a café.
At my door, Grigori leaned forward and kissed me. I’d enjoyed his attentions before, but that evening, his lips pressed too hard on mine, his beard scratched my face, and the scent of his cologne, mixed with a lingering cigar, made me queasy. When he didn’t suggest coming to my room for a drink, I didn’t press him. Not until I’d dried off and pulled my nightgown on, and then just before I got into bed and slipped Madame Alouette’s crystal over my head, did I realize why.
I preferred even the frightening possibility of hearing Jean Luc to engaging with Grigori. Rather than Grigori’s touch, I chose to feel the crystal against my skin. Instead of listening to a man who was my friend and who I might be able to help, I wanted to listen to the dead soldier far beyond help.
Lying in bed, my head cushioned by a thick feather pillow, I tried to draw a picture of what the amulet’s soldier looked like, but could cull no clues from his voice. I closed my eyes and waited to see if an image would reveal itself, but none did. I lay there alone, in the quiet of my body under the covers, and experienced a curious anxiety. Would he come if I called him? Could I entice him? And most of all, why did I want to?
I tried, but after what seemed like a long time, gave up and was falling asleep when I finally felt a warm breeze. Impossibly, because there were no windows in my basement apartment.
“Jean Luc?”
Yes. I’m here.
“I’m glad.”
I was lonely.
“I was too. Till you got here.” Despite myself, I smiled.
But now neither of us is. How is this possible? We don’t even know each other. I would have remembered if we’d met.
“No, we don’t know each other. But I used to read your columns about art. I was a young girl playing with stones and metal . . . I wanted to change the way women wore jewelry and have my pieces viewed as art. The way you spoke about artistic endeavor . . .” I shrugged. “It’s hard to explain what your writing meant to me. You said the things I thought. I feel as if I’ve known you for a long time.”
Then me being with you is all right?
“Yes,” I whispered into the darkness.
I felt the warmth between my breasts, where the talisman lay. Had I been more awake I might have been nervous, but instead, I allowed the sensation to lull and comfort me, relaxing in its embrace. After the warmth encircled me, it seemed to enter me, heating not just my skin but my blood. Heating not just my blood but my bones. These were the sensations I’d always hoped Grigori might rouse in me, but he hadn’t.
Was this what lovers were supposed to experience?
Yes.
Only a whisper, I heard his voice all throughout my body. As if the word were being said inside of me, in my blood, against my skin.
Yes. This is what we would have been together.
Almost as if he were the puppeteer and I the marionette, Jean Luc’s voice moved my hand to rest in between my legs and my thighs clamped, trapping it there. I rocked against the pressure.
Yes.
The pressure became a rhythm. The rhythm a dance. The dance a slow build of sensations, growing, growing in intensity until my whole body reduced to a few inches of flesh, until my whole body began to vibrate and shudder and pulsate with pleasure. Jean Luc moved my hand faster and faster until sparks leapt into a fire burning inside of me. Flames, bright orange flames, the colors of fire opals, burst, exploded, shaking me at my core.
My breathing slowing, drifting off to sleep on waves of pleasure, I heard him say yes, again and again, and I fell asleep with his warm hand on mine. Sure of it.
I woke up in the morning convinced I’d dreamed it all. And wouldn’t have doubted myself except the talisman I’d put on before I went to sleep was no longer around my neck, lying between my breasts when I rose.
The unhooked chain, shaped into a crescent, with the talisman nested inside the curve like a single star hanging on the moon, sat on my bedside table.
I had no memory of having removed it, much less taking the time to configure it into a design. Anxiously, I looked over at the key in the lock in the door. Had Grigori come into my room? Somehow been the one to induce my nighttime abandon? I raced to the door and tried it.
No, still locked. What’s more, the bolt Monsieur Orloff had installed so I could rest easy was thrown. It could not have been opened from the outside even with a key.
Since no one had come into my room, there existed only two possible explanations: either I’d removed the talisman and configured it in that curious design, or Jean Luc had.
But he wasn’t real. The soldier was a manifestation of my mind. A mind overwhelmed by war and sadness and grief and guilt. Even if I were to entertain the idea that his spectral form existed and was capable of such a thing, how would he know the symbol of La Lune? For the necklace was arranged in the exact crescent motif she’d adopted and all of her descendants throughout time were born with, imprinted on our skin. I bore two such marks: the one I’d been born with that hid in a dimple at the small of my back, a faint blemish, a simple birthmark unless you understood its significance, and another on the fleshy part of my thumb, the result of an accident with a sharp engraving tool.
When I arrived at the shop that morning, Monsieur Orloff was waiting impatiently. He needed to visit the stonecutter, but wanted to speak to me before he left. After issuing some instructions, he donned his hat and departed. Locking the door after him, I went into the workshop.
The studio at La Fantaisie Russe was Monsieur’s realm, and while I felt privileged to put on my jeweler’s glasses, sit at my station, and work alongside him, I was always a little bit relieved when there alone.
Monsieur Orloff was indeed a magician when it came to jeweled creations. His reputation was imp
eccable, as might be expected for someone taught by the master Fabergé. Monsieur created the same kind of exquisite enamel pieces his mentor’s studio was known for; from gem-encrusted picture frames to desk sets and decorative boxes of all sizes. He also excelled at objets d’art made from onyx and jade, amethyst and quartz. My favorites were the bouquets. Until you touched them, you believed you were looking at a crystal vase filled with water and cut flowers. You even began to smell the sweet scent flowers give off. But it was all illusion created with gemstones and enamel.
In Paris, Monsieur Orloff took his art to new heights using trompe l’oeil techniques to manufacture creatures of the seas and skies. A most delicate bumblebee made of gold, yellow and white diamonds, and slices of onyx sat on one of the creamy pearls in a necklace. A small fish, pavéd with tsavorite, rubies, and emeralds, swam between the aquamarines in a diadem.
For all the delightful whimsy in his work, Monsieur Orloff was a suspicious man who smiled only at his wife and regarded everyone who entered the store as a potential bother. It was no wonder Anna handled sales while her husband remained behind the scenes.
At his workstation that morning, he’d left an unfinished miniature easel only eight inches high. The gold frame was complete, and he was in the process of creating the design he’d soon pack with enamel.
By eleven, I’d completed my daily requirement of four trench watches and pulled out Jean Luc’s talisman, glad Monsieur was still out so I could make the finishing touches while I was alone.
After a final polishing, I filled in some of the spaces between the gold wrapping with ancient jet. Once driftwood, jet fossilizes and becomes coal in a process that, according to scientists, takes over a million years. Unlike diamonds, which form in the same manner, jet is a soft stone. My book of gems says jet can be used to protect against evil and psychic attacks as well as enhance spiritual quests. Until that morning, I had incorporated it into my designs solely because of its ability to help those grieving by bringing deep-rooted sadness to the surface where it can be calmed and healed with comfort. But suddenly, I was more interested in its properties that enhanced spiritual quests. Would adding the jet help me reach Jean Luc?
No, I chided myself. He wasn’t real. There was no spirit to reach. No magick to help me connect to this ghost. I was overindulging in some romantic notion brought on by all the books I was reading. Between Wharton’s stories, The Phantom of the Opera, The Picture of Dorian Gray, and Poe’s tales, I was becoming too morbid and susceptible.
Turning my attention back to the jet, I inserted another piece in a triangular space. Although it’s dull when harvested, polishing jet turns it into a dark mirror. I always thought that also made it ideal for mourning jewelry. While the black stone honors the dead, looking into its reflective surface, you see yourself, the one left behind. Both a memorial and a reminder that we must go on living.
One of jet’s oddest properties, which I thought could explain why my talismans became conduits, was that, when rubbed on fabric, the stone becomes electrically charged. That spark, I believed, brought the piece to life.
Done with the talisman I would be keeping, I slipped it around my neck. Then I chose another rock crystal orb and went to work creating a new amulet, the one I would give to Madame Alouette.
Since I’d promised it for that evening, I didn’t stop to lunch with Anna but instead went out on a hunt.
The Palais was like a small village where we all knew one another. During lunchtime there were always children playing in the gardens. Without any trouble, I spotted one whose hair was the same shade of dark brown as Jean Luc’s. For a few sous and a piece of chocolate, Ricard was happy to let me cut a small lock.
Back in the studio, ashamed of myself for the deception I was planning and exhilarated at the same time, I set to crafting a piece similar to the one hiding under my dress.
I inserted the crystal segments into the vise, etched Jean Luc’s name and birth and death dates and the symbols into the crystal, positioned the lock of hair, and sprinkled peridot dust. Then, to save time, I used a gold binding made of chain so it wouldn’t need polishing. Guilt tempered my elation that I was going to be able to keep the talisman that connected me to Jean Luc while not disappointing his mother.
I worked without stopping all afternoon. Finally, after soldering a gold ring to the top of the crystal, I hung the egg on a length of silk cord and looked at the clock. I’d finished a half hour before Madame Alouette was expected. Taking up another trench watch, I awaited her arrival. The phone ringing interrupted my work.
“It’s Madame Alouette,” she said. “I’m going to be late. I ran into some complications with some last touches on a mask. And now I’m afraid I won’t make it there and back in time for the soldier who is coming to pick it up. Can I come at six thirty?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, but we close at six and Monsieur Orloff won’t allow me to keep the store open past that.”
“Not even for a half hour?”
She sounded so tired and unhappy, I asked her if she’d like me to bring her the talisman after I closed up.
I didn’t mind going out of my way. I’d be glad to get the appointment over with.
I left the Palais and headed toward the river. Under a peach-colored sky turning twilight blue, I passed over the bridge and continued through Saint-Germain and cut across the Luxembourg Gardens. Paris wore a veil that summer. Like any woman in mourning, she never took it off in public, but her beauty was still visible behind the fine black mesh. Especially by her river and in her parks. For a moment here or there you didn’t see her misery but her irrepressible joie de vivre.
That evening, the plane and chestnut trees were in heavy leaf and the flowers in full bloom. Children too young to be preoccupied by war played in the grass with one another, running around pedestrians, chasing balls, crying out with laughter.
The stroll gave me time to think about what message I would give Madame Alouette from her son, for surely the talisman wouldn’t work and I’d need to fake the results.
Passing the fountain, I stopped to watch a group of four little boys sailing toy boats, focusing on their progress, serious about the race. Had Madame Alouette brought Jean Luc here? Did he remember days he’d spent innocently playing? In that netherworld where he hovered, how far could his mind travel? Would he know I’d tricked his mother? Would he be upset? And the most important question of all: What was I doing? Why was I holding on to his talisman?
Once I exited the park, it was only a few blocks more to 70 bis rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, the Tin Nose shop, as it was known. Outside the building, a small sign identified Anna Coleman Ladd’s studio by its formal name, the Red Cross Studio for Portrait Masks—a division of the French Bureau for Reeducation of the Mutilated.
I was about to ring the bell when the concierge appeared, helping a soldier out to the street. Moving haltingly, the young uniformed officer made his way across the cobblestones. When he saw me, he started and pulled back and then, as if remembering something, smiled and continued forward.
“Bonsoir,” I said.
“Bonsoir, bonsoir,” he sang back enthusiastically, and doffed his cap to me with a grand gesture.
I smiled, not sure why his greeting was so ebullient. I must have looked surprised because he answered my unasked question.
“Mademoiselle, you are the first stranger in four months to look at me without grimacing and looking away.”
“Ah,” I said, now realizing. “So you’ve come from the studio?”
“Yes.” He tapped his cheek, and I heard the hollow sound of his knuckles on metal.
“I didn’t notice you were wearing a mask,” I said sincerely.
“I know. I could tell. Isn’t it wonderful!”
Tears welled up in my eyes.
“Don’t,” he said. “I’m one of the lucky ones.”
I nodded, not trusting myself
to speak. No one was lucky. They called it the Great War, but that implied worthiness and grandeur, not violence and helplessness and the utter waste and devastation our country, our city, our people endured.
Like so many buildings in Paris, the gates at number 70 opened into a courtyard. Since the war, many of them had returned to seed with no one to take care of them. Most of the men were off at the front, and women were forced to take on more of the jobs they left unfilled. Ministering to trees, bushes, and flowers was now a luxury few could afford.
But number 70 was well tended. Ivy and wisteria twisted up the sides of the building and grew around the bases of the many classical Greek and Roman sculptures. Brightly colored geraniums filled window boxes on almost every sill, and dozens of old olive trees grew in mossy terra-cotta pots.
I was nervous about what I was about to do, and so for a moment, before making my way upstairs, I paused in the courtyard, breathing in the calming, cool green scent.
After climbing five stories, I opened the door into a large studio full of activity, tall windows, and a bank of skylights, but it was the wall of faces, ghostly and immovable, that stopped me from taking another step. Each haunted stare represented a man who’d lost part of himself in battle.
The numbers of men who’d died and were wounded were abstractions. We read them in the paper, little black marks separated by commas, or we learned a name, one at a time, from a client or neighbor. Sometimes we saw a grainy photograph. But here were dozens of specific, sightless faces staring out at me, reminding me of the disfigurement and loss, the waste and the travesty of the war.
“Mademoiselle? Can I help you?”
I turned to find a young woman wearing a white smock.
“I’m here to see Madame Alouette.”
She offered me a seat on the bench under the masks and went to fetch her. While I waited, I took in the studio, which was surprisingly cheery, with vases of flowers and brightly colored posters of American and French flags.
