by M. J. Rose
I did neither. I remained frozen on the stairs, holding on to the railing, while Mathieu walked up to me. He took each step slowly, smiling that sly half smile of his that I knew so well. As if he had a secret to share but wanted to hold back just a little longer. He had been that way as a lover, too, slow and teasing, making each and every moment something to savor. No. This was highly inappropriate. Thinking of him that way was the very last thing I should have been doing.
“Mathieu … I didn’t expect to see you here. How lovely,” I said, in a voice that embarrassed me for all its false bravado. I sounded like some idiotic girl running into a school friend at a restaurant, not a woman confronting the man who’d burrowed so deeply into her soul that she’d sailed across an ocean to escape his pull and still felt it every day of her life.
Mathieu Roubine was my elixir, and I was his poison. He was my savior and I his executioner. I had drawn him to try to help him discover his past and in the process had seen his future—destroyed because of me. Unwilling to take any chance that I’d follow in my mother’s footsteps and put my lover’s life in danger, I’d fled. Yes, my mother had saved my father but only by moments and only at a great price. I was willing to pay the price but not to risk failing at the task. I was not nearly the force my mother was.
To imagine a world without Mathieu in it was a far worse fate than not being with him. At least I would know he was living and breathing somewhere on earth.
He’d reached me. Without saying a word, he took my right hand in his. I felt his fingers find the ring and outline its shape. I saw a moment of confusion in his eyes. Was he wondering why I still wore his ring if I’d thrown him over for someone else? He continued running his finger around the stones. He cocked his head a little to the left, raised his right eyebrow in that mischievous way he had, and I felt my heart, which was still pounding, skip a beat.
Nothing was different. Despite all the space I’d put between us. All the time I’d spent without him. Nothing had changed. I loved him still.
As if he knew exactly what I was thinking, he grinned a little and then bent over and pressed his lips to my palm. The gesture was at once so formal and yet so intimate that it brought a second blush to my cheeks. And then he returned his eyes to my face.
I might have been able to break free and escape but not after his deep, searching gaze met mine. Not while I saw so many things in his beautiful eyes: sadness, pain, betrayal, blame, anger. And yes, still love. Love and passion.
I felt as if I were drowning, but instead of swirling in the water, flailing and confused about which direction was safe and which disastrous, it was emotions that tossed me, crashed over my head, and pulled me under. More feelings than I knew how to cope with.
There was always something otherworldly about Mathieu’s appearance and behavior. As if he’d been born in the age of chivalry, gone to sleep one night, and awoken four hundred years later. And sometimes I even wondered if that wasn’t exactly what had happened. If he’d been sent from the past. A knight who had failed to save a damsel in distress being given another chance lifetimes later. With destiny intervening and turning the tables on both of them.
Could it be possible? A bond like ours had to traverse more than our present. And if anyone would, a daughter of La Lune would know that there are more things under the stars and the moon than we can explain or make sense of.
He was two steps below me, still holding my hand in his and my eyes with his. I looked at his shining golden curls, and my fingertips remembered how soft his hair was. I looked at his strong arms, and my torso remembered how it felt to have him hold me. I wanted to bury my face in his neck, inhale his scent. I wanted to lift my lips to his and feel their delicious pressure.
But I held back, because I had rigorously taught myself to resist him. Of all the temptation that the earth had to offer, hadn’t I made a deal with myself that I could indulge in anything and anyone else as long as I kept away from Mathieu?
“Everyone is watching,” I whispered, as I looked around and saw my brother’s eyes fixed on us.
“I don’t care.” He laughed. “After all this time, I don’t care.”
“You’re embarrassing me.”
“I am not. You never get embarrassed. You don’t care what anyone thinks.”
“You’re wrong. I care what our hostess thinks.”
He took a step up and leaned even closer to me. I smelled his scent. “I wish I could tell you that I didn’t miss you,” he whispered.
He was still holding my hand. And still holding me in place with his eyes. I was tethered to him and couldn’t have moved if I wanted to.
“I wish I could tell you that we will grow old and forget about each other,” he continued. “But you know, as I do, that won’t ever happen.”
“I don’t want to—”
He put his forefinger up against my lips. I felt his flesh on mine, and my skin burst into flames.
“A night out of time, Delphine. One night here in this old château, with Emma’s fine wine and her food and music. Let’s just take it. Steal it. I’ll forgive your trespass against me, and you forget your act of transgression. Gamble with fate that we can survive it. Surely you’ve gambled before? From what I’ve heard, your life in New York involved quite a few gambles. You lost some of them and still survived, didn’t you? You can survive me.”
But could he survive me?
“What do you say?” he asked.
“You still have a velvet tongue, but no, I can’t indulge in a night out of time.” My voice was deliberately cold.
I could see the faint dusting of freckles on his impossibly high cheekbones. The twinkle in his twilight eyes. I couldn’t stand looking at him anymore and focused just beyond him. As much as I wanted him, giving in would be self-immolation. I’d burn up with passion and put the one man I truly loved in danger.
I pulled away, taking back my hand. “Madame Calvé is waiting. I don’t want to be rude. Let me be, Mathieu. It’s a mistake that you’re here. Let’s not compound it. You only want me because I rejected you.”
“Rejected me for no good reason, while you were in love with me and I with you.”
I didn’t answer but somehow put one foot in front of the other and forced my feet to take me past him and down the steps. I’m not sure how long he stood there, but I felt his eyes boring into my back, willing me to turn around. I didn’t.
I found Madame Calvé inside the large living room, giving last-minute instructions to her butler.
She glanced over at me, then frowned. “Are you all right? You look flushed.”
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“Come, darling girl, I want to introduce you to the rest of my guests.” Taking my arm, she escorted me over to the first grouping, which included Sebastian, who was looking at me curiously, and then I noticed another familiar face. Picasso’s intense eyes appraised me seductively as I approached. Or was I just overly sensitive after the way Mathieu had been looking at me?
“You know Pablo, I’m sure?” Madame said.
“Yes. It’s a pleasure to see you again, Monsieur Picasso.” I had enough wits to address him formally, hoping it would signal to him that I saw him less intimately than the way he was looking at me.
“The charming Mademoiselle Duplessi,” he said, his eyes sparkling, his expression telling me he wasn’t taking the hint.
“And Jean Cocteau? The prince of French poetry,” Madame said, indicating the man beside Picasso. He was as long and lanky as Picasso was short and thick. With his foxlike eyes, thick eyebrows, delicate lips, and impeccable suit, Cocteau exuded style.
He reached for my hand with his elongated fingers, and I almost pulled it back, not wanting anyone to take away the residue of Mathieu’s kiss. Then I made myself shake his hand. I needed to get rid of Mathieu’s touch, not hold on to it.
There were twelve of us that evening. In addition to Madame, me, and my brother were Mathieu, Cocteau, a dancer named Liselle Veronique, Paris Opera directo
r Yves Villant, the poet and spiritualist Anna Poulent, the novelist Jules Bois, the archeologist Eugène Leverau, and Picasso.
After we’d seen Picasso that day on the Carlton terrace, my mother had told me she’d never met a man who had more magnetism, except for my father. And I understood what she meant. There was an intensity to his eyes, a fire that burned in him, that warmed the air around him.
At dinner, I hoped I would be sitting comfortably close to Sebastian, but he was at the far end of the table. I was a bit intimidated to find that I was seated with Jules Bois on my left and Picasso on my right.
Monsieur Bois was a gentleman, but Picasso wasn’t, and his sexual energy was as palpable as his verbena cologne. As a topic of conversation, I asked him the least suggestive question I could think of: when his interest in the occult movement had begun.
“When I was young and poor and living in Paris, I shared a flat with Juan Gris and learned the tarot from him. I’ve studied myths and magic in many cultures, from Spanish and French to African. I’m fascinated by exorcisms, both spiritual and literal. I believe everything is unknown. Everything is the enemy. I’m anxious about it all and inspired by it all. That’s why I paint. To give spirits form. If we do that, we become independent of them. Our paintings and sculpture are weapons against their influence. We Spaniards are very superstitious. And believe all these subjects are connected. Those superstitions are responsible for my first meeting your maman at one of the occult bookshops in Paris before you were even born. Cocteau”—he nodded toward the poet at the other end of the table—“took me with him once.”
“And that’s where you met Satie?” I asked.
He nodded. “Paris was a small city before the war. We all went to the same bars and cafés. Studied one another’s paintings, read one another’s poetry, and listened to one another’s music. Eventually, we worked with one another. Satie, Cocteau, and I collaborated on a ballet in 1916. Cocteau wrote the scenario, Satie composed the music, and I designed the sets—” Picasso broke off, as if suddenly remembering. “It was only nine years ago but seems a lifetime. Things were so different then. You are too young to remember. Now, with everyone having a telephone and an automobile, as convenient as it all is … the modern age is separating us.”
Monsieur Bois, who’d joined in the conversation, laughed. “Such a pessimistic way to approach modern marvels, Pablo.”
“I’m trying to charm Delphine. Don’t point out that I’m really just a curmudgeon.”
Mathieu was seated across from me, and I felt his stare. Unwilling to meet his gaze, I searched out Sebastian at the end of the table, but he was engaged in conversation with Yves Villant.
I focused on Picasso again.
“Is mysticism part of the Spanish culture?” I asked. “I haven’t been to Spain, and I’m afraid I don’t know very much about it.”
“Spain is a very Catholic country, and Catholicism is a very mystical religion. I can actually pin a date on my first experience with the mystical. It didn’t turn out well. In fact … it’s a sad story. The saddest of my life. Do you want to hear it?” He was experiencing a painful memory and at the same time flirting shamelessly.
I was a bit uncomfortable, but anything was preferable to turning and seeing Mathieu. I nodded. “Of course.”
“When I was thirteen years old,” Picasso said, “my seven-year-old sister, Conchita, contracted diphtheria. My parents did everything. So did the doctors. But she got worse and worse. So I made a pact with God, because that’s what we Catholics did. We prayed.” He practically spit out the word. “I had been painting since I was very young and was already distinguished by that point. Everyone spoke in reverential tones about my ‘gift.’ And so I offered up that gift in exchange for my sister’s life. I promised God that if he let her live, I would never paint again. When she died, I had to examine my faith, and I concluded that this God was evil. He was my enemy. In my mind, he changed places with Satan. I learned then to question everything. The faith of my parents held no answers for me. But that didn’t mean I could exist without some kind of faith. I began a quest, which I am still on today, to understand different ideas and philosophies.”
I was deeply moved by the story. My brother and I were so close that I’d imagined myself in Picasso’s place. “I’m sorry about your sister.”
He took my hand. Across the table, I felt Mathieu’s stare intensify.
“It was a long time ago,” Picasso said. “We learn to live with sadness, don’t we? I had a long run until I lost anyone again. And then it was my first love.”
I extracted my hand. Love wasn’t a subject I wanted to discuss with a man they said was sexually insatiable. Especially not while Mathieu sat opposite us, listening, I was certain, to our every word.
I leaned back a bit in my chair so I could include Bois in my next question. I was exhausted. Trying to keep the flow of conversation going while avoiding Mathieu was draining every ounce of energy I had.
“And Satie? You knew him well also, Monsieur Bois?”
“Yes, for years. Although lately he’d isolated himself. Satie was a genius,” he said simply. “He didn’t let us say good-bye to him while he was alive. So we are going to do it in another way. In our own way. After dinner. I suppose Emma told you about the séance. But if it frightens you, you don’t need to participate.”
“No, it doesn’t frighten me.”
“Given her maman, how could it, Jules?” Picasso asked.
I knew a little about Jules Bois, from bits and pieces I had picked up over the years. One doesn’t grow up a daughter of La Lune without hearing about others involved in the same study. The novelist had been a member of several secret societies, including the one that had saved my mother’s life when she first came to Paris.
Bois was about to ask me something else when Anna Poulent, who was on his left, asked him a question I couldn’t quite hear.
“Oh, good, you’re all mine again.” Picasso smiled as he leaned closer to me and asked me how my own work was going.
“I haven’t been painting.”
“Still?”
“I guess I’ve become frightened by my work.”
“Spoken as a true Surrealist,” he said.
The conversation had veered too close to the personal again. “But it seems you haven’t accepted any women as part of the Surrealist movement. As your muses, yes. I read a lengthy interview just last week in which you talked about the other artists involved, and not one woman was included.”
He looked wounded. “If you suffer with your brushstrokes and explore your dreams on canvas and if the process makes you come alive like nothing else, you are an artist. No matter what your sex. But there hasn’t been a woman who’s been doing what we’ve been doing. I hadn’t heard of any when I was interviewed for Le Figaro. Do you have some of your work with you?”
“I don’t have any finished paintings. Just some sketches I’ve done since I’ve been here.” I was purposely cryptic. I didn’t know if Madame had told anyone about my reason for being at the château. After all, I was searching for secrets; perhaps she didn’t want my mission revealed.
Picasso stood, grabbed my hand, pulled me up. “Let’s go look at them now. If they meet the criteria of our new movement, then I’ll declare you on the spot.”
“Pablo, do sit down. We are in the middle of dinner,” Madame called out from across the table. “Is he bothering you, Delphine, dear? I can make him trade places with someone else.”
“You will not. I would refuse,” Picasso said, as he took his seat again. Then he leaned into me and whispered, hot breath against my ear, “After dinner and the séance, you will show me the sketches, won’t you?”
“So you’ll also be participating in the séance?” I asked.
“I’ve been to quite a few over the years and find them fascinating. Especially when Anna Poulent is officiating. She seems to be a magnet for spirits. And these days, I have more in common with those who practice black masses than the
ir counterparts. The monstrous and uncontrolled and unknown—isn’t that what we are trying to discover when we stand in front of a canvas? If you aren’t, then you aren’t a real artist. Anyone can learn to paint pretty roses like Renoir.”
“You don’t believe that,” I said.
“Which part?”
“The part about anybody painting like Renoir.”
He laughed, and his intelligent black eyes sparkled. “Well, maybe not quite, no. But I do think we have an obligation as artists to push the boundaries and search for the truth. Art,” he said, “is the lie that tells the truth.”
I couldn’t hold back a shudder. Of course, he noticed.
“What is it?” he asked.
“That’s what I do. What I try to do. What I do despite myself. But people don’t all want the truth.”
“That may be, but you must never stop giving it to them. You have to promise me. Because that’s the only way to be real. To create something that has meaning.”
He looked at me intently, waiting. When I didn’t respond, he put his hand on my arm. “You’re at the beginning of your career. If you are serious about this, you have to declare it. I’ve been at it twenty, twenty-five years longer than you; I can steer you in the right direction. Promise.”
“I promise, I do.”
“No matter how difficult it is, yes? Because in the long run, only that which is difficult, only the art you pull from deep inside you, is really worth anything.”
“Yes.”
The maid arrived with our second course and put lovely plates of sole meunière and boiled parsley potatoes in front of us, and we started to eat.
The conversation turned to Paris at the turn of the century, when most of the people at the table had met each other and the absent guest, Erik Satie. Several times, Sebastian caught my eye when the stories were familiar, because our mother had told us about the very same incidents. That she had known most of these people made an uncomfortable night a bit more bearable. But Mathieu’s presence was impossible to ignore. It was painful, like a splinter, no matter how I moved or whom I spoke to or how interesting the conversation.
