A Paris Apartment

by Michelle Gable

  “I lost my job. The museum shut down.” She stopped short of the bed. “I would’ve stayed if I could’ve. Believe me. But the immigration folks don’t really like when you overstay your welcome. They’re funny like that.”

  “I can’t keep doing this, April. You need to figure out what you want. If you can forgive me. If you can’t. I’m guessing you can’t. You’re not the most forgiving person.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Your dad?”

  “I forgave my dad. It’s not like he intentionally set out to hurt me.”

  “Right.” Troy laughed bitterly. “As opposed to myself. Here’s the thing that kills me about your relationship with your father.”

  “We’re doing this right now? Daddy issues?”

  “You simultaneously can’t get over his crappy handling of your mother’s illness, at least according to you, while at the same time you hold me to the impossible standards he set. So devoted, this man. No one can compete with that level of fidelity.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to! Chelsea and Chloe should always come first,” April said, and meant it. “Them. Not me. It’s never been in question so why you think—”

  “This thing,” Troy said, stomping over her words like the bull he so often was. “It’s behind your eyes every time you look at me. It’s even in your voice. I’m not going to always be perfect, or always do the right thing, because I’m not a perfect man. I’m sorry that I’m not, but at least I’ve never claimed to be. You have to understand that.”

  “I’ve never asked you to be perfect,” April said. “I only asked you to be decent.”

  He was right, on some level. April had not forgiven him. She wanted to, desperately even. She loved Troy and the girls and their pretty life in New York City. Throughout the entire situation he was honest, forthright, upfront in a very Troy Edward Vogt III kind of way. I cheated on you, I’m not a perfect man, let’s move on. It took guts, yes, but April wanted something more than “take it or leave it.” She wanted grand gestures and promises made even if he wasn’t 100 percent sure he could keep them.

  “Can I ask you something?” she said.

  It was a question April had been ignoring for a decade, and flat-out squelching for the last ninety days. Now, with the entirety of the night behind her, with Marthe and the champagne and yes, even, Luc, April found herself ready to toss the words into the universe.

  “Did you cheat on Susannah?”

  One long pause. Two pauses. Several more beats.

  “I’m waiting,” she said.

  “I am surprised you’re posing this question,” Troy said, slowly, evenly. “Seems this could’ve been handled in the early stages of our relationship.”

  “In due diligence. Yeah. I get it. Shame on me, I guess. Answer the question.”

  “The reason our marriage ended has not changed since the first time we discussed this. Susannah had an affair with my best friend, and neither of them seemed willing to stop. Plus she’s challenging to get along with on a daily basis, as you are aware.”

  “I didn’t ask why the marriage ended. I already know that. I asked if you ever cheated on her.”

  “Yes,” he said at last. “I did.”

  April let out a sob and slid to the ground. She sat there for several moments, unable to speak, her silent heaves vibrating against the centuries-old Parisian flooring. It was a big reaction to someone else’s problem but felt almost like another betrayal of her marriage, not Susannah’s.

  “Are you shitting me?” Troy barked. “You’re upset about Susannah? Let me remind you that she was cheating on me.”

  “Did you know that then?” April said. Not that it was an excuse. Retaliatory sex was ill-advised under any circumstance. But better everyone behaving badly and not just the man you were trying to believe.

  “I suspected but wasn’t sure. We were in a bad place. I shouldn’t have done it but you asked and I don’t want to lie. This has nothing to do with us. The circumstances were different. The entire marriage was different from the start. I knew it wouldn’t work the second she set foot in the aisle. I was immature and stupid and forever doing things to sabotage the relationship.”

  “Maybe it was different, but you’re not really inspiring great faith given it happened again, when you were supposedly in a good marriage. It’s all semantics. I mean if you rob a credit union or you hold up a savings and loan, it doesn’t really fucking matter, you’re still a criminal and should be in jail.”

  “Wow. That’s a new one. I didn’t realize marital infractions were a sentenceable offense.” Troy laughed dryly and then emitted a deep, long, exhausted sigh. “What I did was horrible but you’re not being fair. You have a choice. You either can move past it or you can’t. Which is it? The decision is yours.”

  April closed her eyes and lifted herself from the ground, holding tight to the bed frame for support. She understood all at once Troy would not give her what she was looking for. He could not offer the words or gestures or grand pronouncements to fix everything, to absolve him from past crimes. If anything the pronouncements only seemed to make things worse.

  No, April had to get the absolution, whatever form it took, from herself. And Troy was right. She probably didn’t have it in her.

  “April?” Troy said, voice hoarse. “You still there?”

  “I don’t know, Troy. I truly don’t. I have to go.”

  April had to go.

  Her discarded phone hit the mattress moments before she collapsed on top of it. Face buried in the bedding, April dangled her feet over the blue-and-white woven rug. She let her right shoe drop to the floor. Her left shoe slid halfway off but stopped, suspended in midair, hanging several minutes until finally clonking to the floor.

  As she succumbed to sleep, April continued to hear the sound of leather hitting wood, as if it reverberated in the apartment and throughout Paris, this, the final moment of letting go. Every girl knew when the last shoe came off her day was done, finished, well and truly over. It had to happen at some point. It all had to end. If you didn’t see it coming, you simply weren’t looking hard enough.

  Chapitre XXXVIII

  Paris, 1 July 1893

  It is gone! Tortoni’s has come to an end just as they said it would. The party, as they say, is over.

  I can scarcely believe it, even after months of newspapers predicting its demise. When I rolled over in bed this morning to find Giovanni beside me sketching Le Comte de Montesquiou (the city’s favorite dandy, this time with parrot). I said good morning. He said, “Tortoni’s is no longer.”

  “You are a horrible liar.” I sat up and straightened my nightgown, which had moved up around my hips.

  “Check the newspaper.” He said, nodding toward the foot of the bed. “It is there in black and white.”

  For once Giovanni was correct. As excerpted from yesterday’s copy of the Paris Herald: “Tortoni disappears from Paris to-day. The café at the corner of the boulevard des Italiens and the rue Taitbout, which for a century has been known as one of the favorite resorts of men renowned in literature, the arts and the aristocracy, to-day follows the Restaurant Brébant, and goes the way of all the earth. On Saturday the work of demolition will begin, and another feature of old Paris will have passed away.”

  “Goes the way of all the earth”! I tear up to think of it.

  This feels ominous somehow. It’s cast a shadow over my entire mood. “It’s only a café,” Giovanni says time and again. “You already have Maxim’s. No love lost, as far as I can tell.”

  But Tortoni’s is more than just another café! For a girl who never had a Paris debut, it’s as though I made mine in that very establishment. Even if it didn’t happen at once, even if it occurred while La Belle Otero danced nearby, writhing around our table with sweat pouring down her legs and one breast falling out of her shirt. Sometimes people were maimed by sword or staff but the place was still glorious … and it was mine! Oh, Tortoni’s, how I will miss you!
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br />   Now everyone will scramble to be the next Tortoni’s. Since news of management troubles broke, cafés have sprung up around the city, all desperately trying to attract the best boulevardiers. Not the least of these is Maxime Gaillard’s place, Maxim’s, though he is the only one so far succeeding. This is because of his advertising schemes. He has four windows in the front of his restaurant, a ledge in each window, and a beauty atop each ledge! A genius idea, really, though it was I who gave him the notion during all the hours he spent at my bar.

  Oh, did I mention? One of the beauties is me!

  It’s quickly become a position of prestige. A few of our most famous cancan dancers have expressed a desire to display themselves in the windows of Maxim’s, but of all the Folies girls, I am the one he pays to perch like a bird (replete with feathers!). It’s my face enticing guests through the front doors, my curved figure casting long shadows on the sidewalk outside. Of course it’s hard to remain on my perch. I’m positively flocked by all the roosters who tromp in!

  “Your hair!” they say. “The color of your hair is unrivaled!”

  “Your skin! Smoother and whiter than a baby’s bottom!”

  Yes and thank you to both, due to the wonders of henna and the marvel that is my facial whitening cream. Not that I need it, of course. Mon dieu! It’s merely a way to enhance that which God gave me. I suppose my parents left me a legacy after all. My mother lived not long but her beauty was legendary.

  Although I must be careful not to stay too long beneath the admiring glances of the boulevardiers. Sometimes the overextended use of my precious cream tinges my skin almost yellow. Of course, I suppose there is ever-more cream to conceal this indignity! The things the beautiful must do to remain so. Games and trickery, Boldini says, though he could use a little cream and henna himself!

  Maxim’s is not my sole source of income, though sweet Maxime gives twice my rate at the Folies. Rather, he gives what he thinks is twice my rate but is really closer to three times! And while Gérard maintains strict rules about my Folies gown, I have free reign at Maxim’s, the only requirement that I dress ravishingly enough to incite the financial ruination of at least three men per week. It’s astounding how quickly these so-called gentlemen will turn their pockets inside out to ply me with food and gifts! Each and every man these days—les paniers percés. Baskets with holes in them, all of them.

  Typically I occupy Maxim’s window sporting a chinchilla coat and dining on champagne and caviar and whatever else men wish to send my way. I often wear an aigrette atop my head. It is a glorious if highly inconvenient adornment. The blasted white plume is forever in danger of being torched by the overhead light. But never mind all that—the important thing is that it looks spectacular!

  So far Maxim’s is a bona fide hit (you’re welcome, M. Gaillard!) Perhaps it will even replace Tortoni’s in stature. The grande dame of all grande dames does frequent the establishment. Yes, I’m referring to Jeanne Hugo Daudet. She could stand to spend a little less time there, as a matter of fact. Most nights she drinks herself silly. She once jumped atop the platform and began conducting the orchestra with an asparagus stalk.

  Proust told me it’s because she and her husband are destined for divorce. As delectable a piece of gossip as that is, I have a hard time believing it. Everyone knows Proust is filled with merde almost all of the time. Also … divorce? In that family? After the wedding and the presents? How could it all be worth nothing? It’d be silly to throw away so much over an argument or two. Boldini and I squabble on a near-constant basis. C’est la vie!

  On several occasions I’ve attempted to approach Jeanne. Based on how zealously she avoids my window, she remembers me, though I’ve always suspected this was the case. Sometimes I catch her glancing my way, an invitation to come forward. When this happens I first check Maxime’s position (he does not like me to leave my display), and if he is occupied I walk in her direction. Then, inevitably, something happens.

  Once I managed to make it all the way to Bonjour when the Russians pranced in, as they are inclined to do. Jeanne went all bawdy, jumped on the bar, and screamed, “Here come the Cossacks!” How very Jeanne Hugo Daudet. Ribald. Classless. She relies on her name and does positively nothing to earn it.

  On that particular evening, as Jeanne strutted across the bartop, I skulked back into my corner to watch the Russians storm Maxim’s, throwing gold coins as they barreled through. I could forgo all manner of men and Maxim’s if I scooped up a healthy portion of the louis d’or the heathens toss whenever they enter a room. When no one’s looking I do swipe a few. I fear I’m going to need them.

  You see, just as Tortoni’s has closed, gone to make way for something greater, my tenure with Pierre has likewise reached its conclusion. A week ago I received a telegram. Pierre said there will be no funds this month. I do not know if it’s because he has no funds to give or whether he simply does not want to give them to me. I’d come to count on these monthly stipends from South America. Despite knowing his patience with me had worn thin, I did not think his largesse would so quickly follow suit.

  Don’t misunderstand. Maxime and even Gérard, they both pay fairly and I’ve no complaints as to my wages. But there is keeping a coat on and your chamber warm, which is necessary, and there is wearing chinchilla and feathers, which is also necessary, but in a different way.

  So I made one last effort to save my monthly check. This morning, after a long night at Maxim’s and then with Giovanni, I came home and dashed off a quick note on my finest pink linen paper. In it I praised Pierre’s manhood and his business acumen. Then I dipped my left breast in some whitening powder and made an imprint at the bottom of the letter. I can only hope this reminder of my skin will survive across the oceans and buy me some time.

  Chapitre XXXIX

  The flat appeared emptier than it had ten hours before.

  April assumed she had been the last to leave, but sometime between La Terrasse and this moment, someone had moved at least a dozen things, including poor Mr. Mouse. Mickey was now supine atop a carton of old books, a “return to sender” sticky note slapped haphazardly onto his face.

  Stepping over the piles, April teetered forward and reached for the animal.

  “Oh, Mickey,” she said and pulled the dusty, round-eared critter into her chest. “They’re sending you away.”

  Using the scarf tied to her tote, April gently rubbed the top of his head. Pieces of black fuzz stuck to the navy and gold silk.

  “Cripes. Sorry, little guy. You’re in bad enough shape as it is.”

  She brought him to her nose. He smelled, yes, dusty and old, but there was something else. Sweet. Floral. Marthe’s perfume, perhaps? Lisette Quatremer’s? It comforted April to think that when you were gone people might still recognize glimpses of you. Assuming, of course, someone left a space for you to linger.

  April placed the doll on the Napoleon III console table she’d started on the evening before.

  “You should see what’s happening to your home, Mickey,” April said and took out a notepad. “It’s a travesty.”

  She started to write.

  Napoleon III giltwood and ebonized mirror and console table. On back: “No 2.”

  Third quarter nineteenth century?

  Mirror with C-scrolls, flowers, and rocaille ornament.

  Crescent moon, three stars flanked by a pair of doves.

  Rouge royale serpentine marble top, cabriole legs.

  April checked the back, which bore a label inscribed: “De la grand antichambre/de Kiosque de Gezira/Console or et ébène.” She smiled, astonished. Only Marthe de Florian would own a piece that once lived in a palace in Cairo.

  “Grand Antechamber, Gezira Palace,” she wrote, and underlined it twice. Hardly fit for lot 379 of a “random European crap” auction.

  Suddenly April heard the sound of a key trying the lock. She stepped behind the console and reached for a decorative sword. It wasn’t sharp but could do some damage if smashed across an interl
oper’s skull.

  “Hello?” she squawked before the door opened. “Bonjour?”

  Luc stepped into the hallway.

  “Avril?”

  “Oh, Jesus.” April exhaled. She peered out from her hiding place. “You scared me. Again.”

  “You have my eternal apologies,” Luc said as he set his satchel on the floor. “I did not expect to see anyone on a Saturday. What are you doing here?”

  “Catching up on a little work.”

  Occupying her brain. Trying not to think about the man across the Channel or the woman with him.

  “In Paris on a weekend and you only work. How positively dreary.”

  “You’re here as well,” April said and stepped around a black dresser. “Thus you are equally dreary.”

  “Ah, yes, but I’ve just come to look for a particular painting as directed by Madame Vannier. I will then immediately proceed to my weekend, not a thought of work until Monday.”

  “If you’re here for a painting you’re out of luck. All artwork is now offsite. Olivier and Marc can give you access to the warehouse on Monday. I doubt they’re around today. Sorry you wasted the trip.”

  “It’s no waste,” he said with a shrug and proceeded to rest against a lacquered commode, a Riesener number that was a copy of one of the most famous pieces of French royal furniture. The word “copy” sounded cut-rate until you considered it would sell for three hundred thousand dollars at least.

  “Can you not lean against the property?” April asked. “Here. I have something for you. Given your propensity to lounge, I’ve had some folding chairs brought in specifically for your use.” She pointed to the corner. “Do you mind?”

  “Ah, our Avril. Forever scheming when it comes to her bureaus and knickknacks.”

  Trying to act put-upon, Luc grabbed a chair and dragged it against the floor. Within seconds April was on hands and knees, trying to buff out the scratch.

  “You may take all the precautions you desire, but it seems I cause damage no matter what I do.” Luc said with a grin. “So is it a Linke? This commode? You see, I do listen to your furniture sermons.”