by Tessa Lunney
He squeezed my waist, his hands big enough to span half of it.
‘Well, Button, did you miss me?’ His smile wavered and I choked up. If his eyes were home skies then, like a Sydney sky, they could also rain torrents and darken with storms. He put his palm to my cheek. I felt the calluses along the ridge of his palm and on his padded fingertips. I closed my eyes and breathed in the scent of his skin, tinged with expensive American tobacco and sweat. I turned my face to his palm and kissed it. I heard him let out his breath in a rush; nothing more needed to be said.
‘So, Button, are you living in some poetical garret like a true bohemian, or is there room enough for me?’
‘Poetical garret. But you’re welcome to stay. We’ll just need to fashion another mattress . . .’
He laughed and squeezed my shoulders. ‘It’s all right, the newspaper’s paying for this visit. You didn’t think I came all the way from Sydney with this one suitcase, did you?’
‘I’ve seen people come further with less.’
‘Not further, surely – you can’t know that many Kiwis.’
‘Chileans.’ I grinned. ‘Tasmanians.’
‘Take me to a hotel near you, Button.’
‘Oh, so not the Ritz then.’
‘Not on your nelly!’
‘Which newspaper’s paying?’
‘The Herald. But I’m only a junior.’
‘Then why are you here without your senior? What are you reporting on?’
‘Paris life,’ he said in a mock-leer.
‘You do mean The Herald back home, right?’
‘I’m one of the Europe correspondents.’ He puffed out his chest in mock pomposity, then leant in to me: ‘The editor’s nephew was in the first fifteen with me at—’
‘Oh, don’t tell me, I’ve heard it before.’
‘I’m on my way to Germany, actually.’
‘Germany! Saxony or Silesia?’
‘You know about all of that? What do you – actually, don’t tell me. That’s work, and work is for tomorrow. Tonight, I’m here with you.’
He twirled the ends of my hair where they curled around my cheek. ‘Bobbed hair, Button. You are modern.’
‘I live alone and smoke cigarettes and walk unchaperoned through the streets.’
As we were doing now, arm in arm, making our way out of the station slowly as we chatted. People moved about us, brisk women, old men, young girls, limping veterans. Tom took my hatpin out and removed my blue cloche, fluffing and smoothing my hair so he could see the full effect. He looked wistful, comparing my new hair to the memory of the long blonde plait that I let loose when I was last at home. He leant forward with a little frown and sniffed my hair, so close and so soft it was almost a kiss.
‘Lavender?’
‘My bath this morning was scented.’
He nodded. Very solemnly, he took off his own hat, plonked it on my head and placed my cloche over his black, slick short-back-and-sides. He stood to attention and pointed forward. ‘Button – to the champagne!’
We found him a room only a block away from my garret, where we dumped his suitcase and headed straight out for the city’s bright lights and brighter people. Tom wanted to see it all, with me, ‘just like you do, Button. I want your Paris.’
We landed first at the Rotonde. Oysters and artists; what more could a tourist want? By the best of luck, Pablo was there, and Tom’s face was priceless as I introduced him. Shock, covered with an odd smile as he tried to look nonchalant. Pablo shook his hand perfunctorily and turned to me, his hand on my elbow.
‘My Kangaroo, when will you sit for me again? Even just looking at you now gives me ideas . . .’ His eyes searched mine and, as always, when he looked at me the world disappeared and it was just the two of us.
‘My friend is here now, so . . . the day after tomorrow?’
‘What day is that, Thursday? Good, because I’m busy tomorrow. Come on Thursday,’ he kissed me on both cheeks and the lips, ‘and wear your little starlit shoes. I have an idea.’ He nodded farewell to Tom and went back to his table. I couldn’t help but smile.
‘You model for Pablo Picasso,’ said Tom, unbelieving, envious, awestruck.
I gave my best impression of a Gallic shrug. I had meant to show off, to show Tom that even on an ordinary Tuesday I was sophisticated and bohemian, but this was even better than I could have planned. He leant back in his chair with a cigarette. We were sitting outside, the late spring chill lessened by the heaters near us. I wore my coat and nuzzled into its fur trim. People chatted all around us – to our right, a pair of young lovers trying so hard to be private, a British pair to our left trying even harder to look bohemian, Americans behind us achieving both as they spoke French to their friends from l’ecole Grande Chaumière down the road. The light from inside the café spilled through the windows in spots and wheels, through the signs and patrons, covering Tom’s suit with golden freckles. He had an odd expression on his face, somehow both shrewd and sad, his leg crossed in a pretence of insouciance. And it was a pretence, I could tell straightaway, I could almost feel the tension where it brewed just under his breastbone. I reached for my glass of champagne.
‘What is it?’ I asked lightly; I could pretend too.
‘You model for Picasso,’ he exhaled in a plume, ‘so, you – you have to . . .’ He waved his hand as though waving away my clothes.
‘Sometimes,’ I took a sip, ‘and sometimes not. Light me a cigarette, would you?’
He lit one, and another for himself, with a frown. He handed me the cigarette without looking at me and spent the next few minutes looking at everything and everyone but me.
‘And why should that make you jealous?’
‘Jealous!’ he sputtered. ‘I’m not jealous, I—’
‘Oh come on, you can’t lie to me.’
‘It’s just – it’s not seemly for—’
‘Seemly? Seemly!’
‘Not respectable—’
‘Who are you, my chaperone? Some emissary from my parents to make sure that I still have a marriageable reputation?’
‘Don’t you want to get married?’
‘Not by reputation! Not to some stuffed shirt who wants his little wife safe in his pocket where she belongs.’
‘That’s not fair, Button. That’s not me!’
‘Isn’t it? “Seemly”, “respectable” – whatever you used to be, it appears you’re now just as small-minded—’
‘All right.’ He gripped my wrist and leant forward.
I pulled back instinctively. His grip was too strong, his eyes were dark and stormy, it made me want to fight. He flipped my hand over and kissed the wrist he gripped. Not lightly, not a peck, he pressed his lips hard to my skin and breathed in deeply. He couldn’t look at me until he’d let go, swigged his champagne and poured us both another glass. His cigarette dangled from his mouth and he squinted at the smoke in his eyes. My heart pounded, I couldn’t take my eyes from him, I wanted to yell at him and slap his face, I wanted to rip his shirt open and dissolve into him.
He picked up his glass and leant close to me. His eyes held mine as firmly as if he held my chin in his large palm. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘I am jealous.’
‘I hate jealousy.’
‘He’s seen you . . . and I haven’t.’ He clenched his jaw as he fought to keep his voice down. ‘It’s what . . . It’s . . .’ But he closed his eyes and looked away, a flash of pain over his face.
Ah, my Tom-Tom. That look told me more than a dozen half-formed phrases. I ran my finger over the stubble that prickled his cheek. He closed his eyes, not in pain this time, but in release.
‘Not naked, nude,’ I said softly.
‘What?’ I still stroked his jaw and his eyes were still closed.
‘He’s seen me nude – a model, an object.’ I traced just under his jawline, the skin soft beneath the stubble. ‘Not naked, not vulnerable, not truly myself. It’s work, with Pablo. Everything for art.’
It was a bit o
f a lie, but a bit of truth as well. Pablo didn’t know me, certainly not like Tom did. And the modelling, being nude, was about freedom. I couldn’t explain it to Tom just then – I could hardly explain it to myself, not with half a bottle of bubbly in me and surrounded by artists and tourists and wannabes. Besides, this man under my fingers, his sensitivity to me mirrored my sensitivity to him. It was as though I knew what he tasted, knew how the air entered his lungs.
He took my hand and laid it flat on his cheek as he looked up at me. ‘You’re a modern woman, Button.’
‘I am.’
‘That might take some getting used to.’ He smiled faintly.
‘For you and me both.’
How did we get over this little tiff? With more champagne, of course. We ordered another bottle, the glass winking at us through the night. I regaled him with long and detailed stories of some of my more raucous society parties, turning each aristocrat and heiress into a caricature, complete with accent. I made Tom-Tom smile again, then grin, then laugh with his head thrown back, deep and loud enough that people turned to look. That laugh was always worth the effort of my performance. His long legs stretched out and his black hair, flopping out of its brilliantine, caught admiring glances with the light. There was something between us now – or the something between us had come more into the open – a little promise, that I wanted desperately and yet rebelled against. His smile said, ‘Tell me more’, and I obliged. He watched me, face alight, the French champagne creeping up his neck in a soft blush beneath his tan, his white teeth now like a dingo, now like a little boy; in a flash he’d look at me with hunger and then the flash was gone. My pulse raced, it felt like Paris in the war, when everything had to be done this night because there might never be another, we had to swallow the whole world – the champagne bottle was empty. The lights along the street beckoned us out into the soft night.
‘Another bottle, Button?’
‘I have a better idea.’
‘What could be better than champagne?’
‘A jazz club in Montmartre. La Gaya – it opened just a few months ago. I’ve heard that it’s always full of artists and dancers and stays open until the last Surrealist has cracked an egg on his cat and wandered off with his beast into the dawn. I’ve never been and I’m dying to go.’
‘We can’t have you dying, Button, I couldn’t bear it. La Gaya it is!’
He didn’t take my arm, he took my waist as we walked over to the road and hailed a cab. He kept his arm round me in the cab all the way to Montmartre as we chatted. Of course I let him. This little promise – I wanted him, I needed freedom, I could neither say no nor compromise. People and lights popped up through the cab window as we trundled past on the cobblestones. We tried to be the first to point out various landmarks as he tested his memory against my recent knowledge. His face was so close that I could feel his breath, his skin, every time he moved.
The cab bundled us out at rue Duphot. It was too easy to spot La Gaya. People spilled onto the street – bohemian types, the fashionable rich, men in suits, and waiters chatting over the piano inside. I hooked Tom’s hand into the back of my dress and led him through the door.
We ordered two Surrealist cocktails: one blue and served in a piss pot, the other green and served in a glass skull, both intensely alcoholic and indescribably awful. I grimaced at my green concoction.
‘It’ll do the trick though, Button,’ Tom yelled over the music and chatter.
‘Let’s do some sightseeing,’ I yelled back. We were at a table against the wall, opposite the piano. It afforded the best view of all the patrons inside and on the street. The roof was decorated with large golden lamps hung at different heights, so people’s faces glowed in spots. There were mirrors on each wall so we were reflected infinitely across the floor. I lifted my hat and Tom wobbled his head to the music, our gestures repeated again and again in the mirrors. Our little seated dance attracted the attention of a group by the piano. One man shrugged his shoulders in time to the music, another lifted his hat up and down, another flapped his glasses, dancing to us across the room. We got up and moved towards each other on the dance floor, in perfect rhythm, so that we became like a machine, each one of us part of a multi-part dance robot in the middle of the dance floor. Others joined in until the little dance floor was crowded, people waving their surreal drinks above their heads. Our dance mutated; Tom flapped his jacket like a flasher and I flapped my coat like a bird, as notes bounced off the mirrors and off our skin. A man with a long nose in his long thin face, his head topped by a sprig of curls, turned to me and took my hand.
‘You have a dreamlike sensibility. You inspire me to the depths. What is your art? What is your name?’
We kept jigging together in time to the syncopated rhythms.
‘I’m Kiki—’
‘Oh, Kiki Kangaroo?’ another man jigged into the conversation. ‘The Australienne?’
‘Yes, that’s right—’
‘She models for Pablo,’ said the second jigger.
‘Ah, Pablo! He has impeccable taste in models.’ He waggled his eyebrows.
I didn’t know if that was a surreal wink or if he was dancing with his face. It seemed best just to keep dancing.
‘I’m Jean,’ he said. ‘You must come here more often; we’re here most nights.’
‘Just us,’ said the second jigger. ‘Le Six. Pablo too, and his wife and the other dancers. Come back tomorrow, we’re having a hat party for my un-birthday.’
I flapped my coat and he moved in a jerky shimmy to the jazz. We danced around one another: Jean danced with Tom, I danced with the second jigger, we shimmied into a circle and out again. When the music stopped, we clapped and cheered and someone poured champagne on the pianist’s head. The music started up again and Jean kissed my hand.
‘Kiki, until tomorrow.’ He bowed and went back to his seat.
I flopped into my chair and picked up my green skull drink. I needed a rest.
‘Who was that?’ asked Tom, none too discreetly.
‘I think that was Jean Cocteau. We’re going to meet him here tomorrow. Bring an outrageous hat.’
‘A fez with a pelican?’
‘A beehive with real live bees.’
‘A baguette with two bicycle wheels hanging from it.’
I laughed but his smile didn’t last long.
‘What is it?’
‘Button, I’m not here tomorrow.’
‘No, Tom-Tom, no no no.’ I kissed his palm. ‘I don’t want to hear it. Only happy things tonight. Only the outrageous, the surreal.’
He pulled me onto his lap and raised his piss pot cocktail. ‘To pelicans!’ he proclaimed.
‘To kangaroos!’ I rejoined. We downed our drinks in one long draught and ordered something more civilised.
We danced and drank until well after midnight. We waved goodbye to Cocteau and his coterie as we swayed out the door, drunk on music and freedom and friendship and sexual tension and lots of French liquor. We couldn’t find a cab so we just walked home. We spent almost two hours slowly meandering across the city, sobering up and calming down, hand in hand, arm in arm, entwined together. He gave me all the gossip from home, the good stories and the bad, my father’s health (rude as ever) and his sister’s (delicate and worrisome), which school friends had married and which were shipwrecked forever from the war. I was glad that I was drunk when we talked about this, that it was dark and in the chill of the small hours I had Tom-Tom wrapped around me. Otherwise I might have reeled with the proliferation of all these parallel lives; I might even have cried over a life that had almost been mine. Or maybe I would have taken it calmly, like a story from far away and long ago – except that Tom-Tom was the messenger, his body a reminder of all I had left behind to be here.
I didn’t know how late it was, or how early, but by the time we approached Montparnasse the sky had begun to lighten. Just the faintest tinges of grey on the horizon, making the air seem fuzzy. Our outlines were soft, the pre-dawn
cold made us clutch each other tightly, and even more tightly as we came to my front door.
‘I live in this garret.’ I pointed at the geraniums with the sleeping sparrows next to them, little feathery balls against the chill.
Tom looked up, his face opening further and further until I was sure all his love and tears would fall out and splatter the footpath with glorious colour.
‘That’s where you read my letter,’ he said.
‘Not quite with my legs over the edge, cigarette in hand, as you described . . . but almost. You know me too well.’ I choked on the last words.
He stroked my dishevelled hair and I couldn’t stop myself, I flung my arms around his neck and buried my face in his collar. He held me tightly, my feet off the ground. We clung to each other and stayed that way as long as I could hold it. I had to let go eventually, but he only lowered me enough to stand. He didn’t let go, and through his shirt I could feel his pulse, his blood drum against his ribs as though his heart tried to break free of its bony cage.
A rooster crowed somewhere. A cat prowled out of the alley, scar-faced and regal, as shifty and suspicious as a fox. Fox—
Tom-Tom heard me catch my breath. ‘What is it, Button?’
‘You can’t go yet—’
‘Oh, Button, I want . . . I want—’
‘No, really, you can’t. I have to tell you . . .’
He stroked my hair, I held my hand to his chest. I didn’t want to break this tender moment, I kissed the button on his shirt and breathed in his smell, and he made a little noise in his throat. My Tom-Tom. I had to steel myself.
‘I think I might have some information about the end of the war.’
He breathed in sharply. ‘My end of the war?’
‘Yes, I – from a war contact. It’s . . . it’s absurdly complicated.’
He frowned at me. He still held me tightly but his embrace was more like a grip.
‘So you can’t leave tomorrow – today – you have to stay so I can tell you everything.’
‘So tell me.’
