“Can you believe all this time and he was right there?” Leonie raised her voice as if speaking to her grand-tante. “I must have walked by that café a hundred times.”
“You spoke to him?” Aimée asked.
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing at first. He just looked at me, bemused, and then told the girl he’d have her money next week, which was not what she wanted to hear. She practically took the door off its hinges on her way out.”
Leonie noticed the color had drained from Aimée’s face. There was something unsettling in her expression. “Your brother’s nice enough,” she said as if his niceness was what was at stake. “He came over directly and said he was sorry he’d forgotten such a lovely face.” Leonie smiled. “I told him he didn’t owe me a sous, that that girl had confused me for someone else. He offered to buy me a drink, said it was the least he could do.”
“Did he?” Aimée tried to picture the Henri she remembered drinking spirits with Leonie, or the redheaded model. She couldn’t.
“I had one glass and told him I had to get on home. He said he’d walk me, but I insisted on going alone.”
“What was he like? I feel he must have changed a great deal.”
Leonie shrugged. “Gentlemanly, but sober. He didn’t talk much. I had to fill in all those blank spaces that are so uncomfortable when conversing with someone you don’t know.”
Aimée got up and walked to the window. “Do you know where he lives?”
“No, I couldn’t think how to ask.” Leonie went to Aimée. From behind, she put her steady arms around her. “Don’t worry, love. We know where to find him now.”
* * *
The Place de Clichy was busy with foot traffic. Steam rose from the damp pavement under Aimée’s feet. The rain had stopped, but the wind picked up and pushed massive gray clouds across the sky. They made Aimée dizzy. Everything felt too close, the clouds, the people bumping her on all sides, her dress, her hat, her shoes, even her skin seemed to be suffocating her. Earlier, she’d stepped right into traffic and was nearly run over.
It was a relief to see Leonie standing on the corner of the rue de Clichy.
“This wind is ferocious!” Leonie shouted, holding on to her hat strings. “Come, it’s this way.”
She linked arms with Aimée and steered her down a boulevard lined with gateways that led into dark, narrow courtyards. They stepped around the marchand de fruits, past the draper’s shop and the herbalist, both holding tight to each other, Leonie out of excitement, Aimée for sheer stability.
She’d dropped her spoon at breakfast, then had considerable trouble with the pins in her hair, and couldn’t seem to fasten her boots. It was ridiculous, her flustered insecurity, this giddy, feverish anticipation.
Eventually, the large, glass shop windows gave way to smaller, darker ones. The street grew narrower, the buildings tight together. They stopped in front of a small café with a sign above the door that read Café Gravois. Aimée glanced through the densely paned window and immediately snapped around.
“I can’t go in there,” she said.
“Of course you can’t.” Leonie pulled her into a dark doorway. Far away a clock bell tolled the hour. “But, I can.” She righted Aimée’s hat, which had blown sideways. “That redhead said he dines here nightly. If he’s not here already, he’ll be here shortly. Wait for me. I’ll tell him there’s someone who wants to see him and bring him out.”
Aimée shook her head. “I can’t do this. Not here.”
She stood frozen with misgiving. All day she’d been nervous, but also thrilled. What she felt now was cold dread, a fear that her love would be dug up from where she’d buried it, brushed off and shown for what it really was: a lonely, one-sided affair. A fatuous, silly girl’s fantasy.
“Here’s as good a place as any. He’s your brother. I don’t know the circumstances of his parting, but if I had me a brother, I would want to see him and set things right,” Leonie said with hands on her sturdy hips.
Aimée wished that none of this was happening. What if he didn’t want to see her? What if he walked away?
“Ask to sit for him,” Aimée said impulsively.
“What?”
“Tell him you need work. Ask to model for him.”
Leonie dropped her hands. “He doesn’t pay,” she said flatly.
“I’ll pay you.”
Both girls were silent.
Aimée lowered her head. “I’m afraid he won’t want to see me.”
It upset Leonie, seeing Aimée so unraveled. Usually, her friend was as strong as she, and Leonie preferred a strong woman to a weak one. Aimée was not someone she was prepared to take care of.
“I don’t see what good will come of my sitting for him,” she said.
“You can see what he’s like, tell me about him. I just need more time.”
Something felt amiss to Leonie, but she agreed.
Aimée took her friend’s hand and kissed it. “Thank you,” she said.
Leonie shrugged, and together they stepped back into the wind.
Chapter 10
While Leonie modeled for Henri, Aimée spent her days at the Académie Julian, and in the garden of a rich client of Édouard’s who hired her to do a portrait of his wife. Édouard had arranged it before he went to Argenteuil, and Aimée was grateful for the distraction, even if her mind was always in that café.
At dusk on an evening in June, Aimée left Monsieur Chevalier’s verdant summer garden, where she’d spent all afternoon failing to please the man. Somehow he thought it was possible for his hideous wife to look pretty in pastel, which it was not. Agitated, Aimée sent her supplies home in the carriage and left on foot.
It was a warm, clear evening. All day she had felt an aching restlessness. She walked toward the rue de Clichy, and this time, when she came to the Café Gravois, she did not duck into a doorway. She stood right in front of the café window feeling impulsive, as if she might do, or say, anything. The stone necklace felt weighty against her skin. She knew it was superstitious, but she hadn’t taken it off since she found Henri’s painting.
It only took a minute to spot him. He wore the same collarless waistcoat he’d worn years ago, and she’d recognize the stoop of his shoulders anywhere.
Everything fell away then, sounds, smells, even the pitiful moan of a drunk slumped over in a nearby doorway. Through the streaked window, Aimée could see Henri’s hands. They were unusually small, especially compared to her papa’s, but that place that flared out between his wrist and thumb, wide and strong, had always gotten to her. One of his hands rested on the table, while the other gripped the spoon he dipped into his soup. His head was bent over his bowl so she couldn’t see his face, but his hair was the same pale brown, although longer and curlier than she remembered.
She stood in full view, conscious of the tavern maid clearing empty dishes and the filthy cigar ends that littered the tables, but she looked only at Henri.
Then he looked up, right at her, and she quickly backed away, not sure if he’d seen her, and if he had, not sure he recognized her. She was halfway down the block when she heard her name, low and questioning. “Aimée?”
When she turned, he was only a few yards away. He wore no frock coat or hat, but his shirt was starched and his waistcoat buttoned up.
“Aimée?” he said again, as if still unsure.
“Hello, Henri.” A nervous, twitchy smile spread across her face. This simple greeting seemed, somehow, ridiculous.
“I was wondering when you’d come,” he said, his voice smooth, its seriousness achingly familiar.
“Oh?” Aimée dug her nails into her palms.
“Yes, ever since I first met Leonie.”
Aimée dropped her eyes to the cobblestones between them.
“Do your parents know?” he asked, and she looked up, hurt that he’d question her loyalty.
“No.”
They stood in silence, each wondering
what to say as the sun slipped away and the sky became a blanket of purple, smooth as velvet, one bright star appearing in its depths.
All those years together during their childhoods, all those hours painting in each other’s silence, didn’t make this any easier.
Finally, Aimée turned, slightly, as if she meant to leave, then turned back. “How did you know, when you met Leonie?” she asked.
Henri smiled, and it reminded her of that first time she’d seen his smile, how it transformed his face into something dear and lovable.
“I saw your painting.” He sounded amused at the obviousness of this. “At the salon.”
Aimée gave a short laugh. “Of course. That never occurred to me.”
“I wondered if it was a coincidence. But when Leonie asked if I was looking for a model, I was certain you were behind it.”
“Then why did you say yes?”
A lightness had sprung between them, a familiarity they’d slipped back into.
“Because she’s a find. I was shocked you were willing to give her up, when you could have easily come yourself.”
They moved closer as they spoke. Aimée could smell the wine on Henri’s breath and the slight scent of resin that came from his clothes. She glanced around the dark street. The gas lamps were being lit, breaking the night shadows into isolated pools of light.
“We’ve moved,” she said. “We had to leave Passy during the attack of the Communards. A shell exploded on the Madeleine. Shattered all our windows, took down every curtain and picture, covered everything in heaps of plaster.”
Henri slipped his hands into his high waistcoat pockets and tucked his elbows in like a bird tucking in its wings. “I went past the house a few years back,” he said, adding quickly, “I just wanted to see it again,” implying that he had not gone to see her.
“Why?” Aimée could hear her anger. “Why would you want to see it again?” When you didn’t want to see any of us.
The ease between them slipped away as quickly as it had arrived. Henri shrugged and looked down, the soft pouch of skin under his left eye fluttering. Aimée watched the small freckle near his cheekbone tremble and jump like a fly. It used to bother her, that leaping freckle, but now she hungered to press her finger against it, to still his nervousness, and feel how warm and real he was.
Henri glanced at the café door. “I should get back. The proprietress will think I’ve run off on the bill.”
“Yes, of course,” Aimée said, that small space between them vast and impassable.
Henri did not offer to see her home. “It’s getting dark,” he said. “You should get a cab.”
She nodded. “I will, thank you.”
He turned to go, and Aimée pressed her hands to her sides to keep them from flying out and hanging on to him. “May I come to your studio?” she asked. “I would like to see what you’re working on.”
Henri hesitated, and that hesitation cut straight into Aimée’s heart. “Leonie has the address,” he said.
In the doorway he turned. “I hate to ask you to be dishonest on my account”—he wouldn’t look at her—“but I would be immensely grateful if you did not mention this to your parents.”
Aimée tried to reply, but her throat was dry, and she couldn’t find her voice. All she could manage was a nod.
* * *
It was midmorning, and already the sun was scorching.
Aimée stepped off the rue de Calais into a small courtyard, pressing a gloved hand to her nose to block the nauseating stench of manure. The concierge stood in an open doorway fanning her apron and gazing at a flock of swallows rising from the rooftops.
“Pardon me,” Aimée said, and the woman pulled her gaze down, looking as if Aimée had spoiled the one peaceful moment she was likely to have all day. “I’m looking for Henri Savaray.”
The concierge wiped the sweat from her upper lip and flapped her apron at Aimée. “Three flights up.”
Aimée thanked her and headed for the stairs.
It had been a week since she’d seen Henri outside the café, a week in which she’d hardly slept or eaten. At times she wondered if the ghost of her imagination had become spectacularly real, that her desire had gotten the better of her mind, and Henri did not exist at all. She jumped slightly when he opened the door.
“This heat is going to do us in today, I’m afraid,” he said cheerfully.
Aimée smiled. Henri was certainly real. He was right in front of her. If she reached out, she could touch him. “Yes,” she said, stepping into the apartment. “It most certainly is.”
They were both deferential and reserved, as if she were a patron coming to view his work. Henri took care to move aside as Aimée looked at the paintings on the wall, and Aimée made sure her hand did not so much as brush up against his.
The paintings were mostly landscapes, the Fontainebleau, the Seine. Some were good, Aimée noted, but nothing exceptional. Girl in the Afternoon was there, so even that hadn’t sold. But Aimée was glad it hadn’t. It reminded her that Henri had been breathing her to life next to him too.
Behind her, she heard his shallow breath and the rustle of his trousers as he shifted his feet. The silence she used to hold so precious between them made her nervous now.
“How did you capture my likeness?” she asked, turning to Henri who stood directly behind her. His face was no longer soft and round as Aimée remembered, but thin, with stubble gracing his upper lip and chin. She wondered what it would feel like to kiss him now.
“I spent half my life with you. It’s not likely I’d forget,” he said.
His cheeks were red with heat, and his eye fluttered, his small freckle leaping uncontrollably. There was something clumsy about his smile, as if he hadn’t quite committed to it, but his fierce blue eyes held hers steadily.
Aimée looked away, pretending interest in his small apartment as she wrestled with the ache in her chest. There was a single iron bed, a larder, a table of art supplies, three chairs, and a black stove with last winter’s ashes still piled in front of it.
She had been so sure Henri had gone back to England, to the mysterious family and wealth that he’d come from. But he’d been here all along, in the back of a building on the rue de Calais, having no luck with dealers and, according to Leonie, reduced to painting potboilers and portraits in this one crammed room.
“Stifling in here,” Henri said, struggling to prop the window open with a long stick. “Thing slams down without it. Might slam down anyway, but we’ll give it a try.”
The breeze felt good. Aimée was perspiring under her dress, and a trickle of sweat rolled down the middle of her forehead. Henri had taken the apartment for its windows and high ceilings. Light was abundant where space was not, which meant, on a summer day such as this one, the room was as hot as a furnace.
Aimée dabbed the sweat from her forehead as she walked to an easel. “May I?” she asked, pulling back the draped cloth before he could answer. Propped on the easel was an unfinished painting of Leonie. Naked. Completely naked. Full breasts, pink nipples, round stomach, plump thighs. One arm draped discreetly over the dark place between her legs. Aimée turned away, not sure why this upset her so much.
A light tap came at the door.
It was Leonie, wearing a white blouse tucked into a pale blue skirt. Her face flushed under her hat. She halted at the sight of Aimée. “I thought you were coming tomorrow,” she said.
“I’m engaged tomorrow,” Aimée lied. The truth was she hadn’t been able to wait.
Leonie put her hand on Henri’s arm and leaned in. “Isn’t she a wicked thing?” she said delightedly, “not letting me have the triumphant moment of reacquainting the two of you.” She untied her hat strings and handed her hat to Henri. Thin strands of hair stuck to her neck and forehead. “She could have at least let me witness the reunion.”
“Aimée does what she likes,” Henri said, and it was not an insult. He said it because he knew her, because he’d watched her defy her maman
as a child. Because her papa’s rules had never stopped her.
“A trait I admire.” Leonie took Aimée by the shoulders and planted a firm kiss on her cheek. “There now, I’ve forgiven you.”
Aimée wrapped her arm around Leonie and drew her to the end of the room where the chamber pot and washbasin were visible behind the screen at the foot of the bed. “You didn’t tell me he was painting you nude,” she whispered.
They pretended to look at a sketch tacked on the wall while Henri carefully ignored them as he gathered his brushes, pushing aside scattered ends of charcoal and nubs of pastels.
Leonie pressed closer to Aimée and whispered, “I’ve posed nude lots of times. I never thought to mention it.” Aimée could smell the orange water and jasmine Leonie splashed her face with every morning, insisting her delicate complexion couldn’t do without it. “Are you upset because he’s your brother? Is that indecent or something?”
“No,” Aimée said. “I don’t see why it would be.” There were nude studies all over the walls. It should not bother her that he was painting Leonie nude, and yet it did.
Aimée released her hand from Leonie’s waist and pressed it to the back of her neck as she watched Henri squirt paint onto his palette.
Dropping her whisper, she said, “I’m only terribly disappointed that you’ve never posed nude for me.”
Henri looked up from his color preparation, and Aimée wondered if he was remembering how she’d asked him to take his shirt off for her all those years ago.
“You never asked me to.” Leonie stepped behind the screen, her forehead appearing over the top. “If I did, your parents would run me out of the house. You, my dear,” she called, slipping off her skirt and rolling down her gray lisle stockings, “are only allowed to paint a nude in a roomful of overeager students with a stodgy, pockmarked art instructor breathing down your neck.”
“If it weren’t for the Académie Julian, I would never have had a chance to paint a nude,” Aimée said, looking straight at Henri, who snapped his head back down.
What he remembered was how Aimée always wanted him to conspire, to break the rules. He could hear the confidence in her voice now, and see the daring in her eyes. Her daring used to excite him, and he thought how innocent she still was, how ignorant. She had no idea what it meant to really break the rules, how much damage could be done.
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