I see, mademoiselle. Should art be recognizable?
It should resemble something.
What does your book think?
Isabeau fanned the pages and stopped at a painting. She showed the page to Jacob. He studied the image and returned to his work. Isabeau read aloud.
Consider Portrait of Love. Here the viewer is presented with an enormous head, we can assume a female’s, bursting with angles, thrusts and textures.
A fair definition of the movement, mademoiselle. Though perhaps somewhat vague. Does your book mention how the Cubists use their colour?
Isabeau continued reading. The raw oranges and reds and greens prove an eloquent simile for the ceremonial masks and warrior shields of tribal—
They do love the primitive, Jacob said.
—Africa, rendered as simple planes and geometric shapes, bordered in thick black line, composed to offer an incisive portrait of a three-dimensional object within the confining flatness of paint and canvas.
Jacob smiled. There it is, mademoiselle. We are meant to see everything at once. The Cubists are known for hiding nothing. Putting on display everything that can be seen, and more importantly, that cannot be seen. Emotional beauty is what they are after, in all its perspectives.
But I see no beauty here, Isabeau said.
The title may offer a clue, Jacob said.
Portrait of Love?
Jacob stopped drawing. Think of the artist, mademoiselle.
I suppose he has painted his lover.
Why not his passion?
How can we see another’s emotion?
We can imagine it, Jacob said. Picture the artist standing at his easel, consumed by the woman sitting before him. He loses control. He cannot get the colours off his brush fast enough. He paints, you might say, like an amateur. He pays no attention to anatomy, to perspective, to scale. What appears on the canvas is unrecognizable to us. But to him it is what is in his head, in his heart, in his belly.
But wouldn’t his inspiration be her physical beauty? Isabeau said. Why not paint that? Why not render it truthfully, down to the finest detail?
Who is to say he did not, mademoiselle?
No one wants to look at ugliness.
Is it so ugly, so amateurish as you say, or simply a passionate view? Consider a stained glass window, mademoiselle. It is crafted by a man who knows nothing about art. Moreover he has never witnessed a miracle, no angel has ever appeared above his bed, he wouldn’t recognize God if he passed Him on the street. And yet faith fills his heart. That thing he cannot see, that passion, fires his imagination and guides his glass cutter.
And I suppose we look up from our pews and see heaven, Isabeau said.
Or the recognizable, mademoiselle.
——
Jacob brushed away bits of eraser. He moved to turn his sketchbook around and reveal his work. Isabeau raised her hand and looked away. Thank you for the conversation, she said.
She handed him a few coins. Please keep the sketch, monsieur. I know what I look like.
The crowd reluctantly begins to melt away.
The poor man will have to sleep in the cellar, someone says.
At least the bakery wasn’t harmed, someone replies. We will still have our breads.
His father did his share of sleeping in the cellar, after the war and all.
The apple doesn’t fall far.
He is a strong one, our man. He’ll be back at the ovens in no time.
The holiday will cheer him up.
It will cheer us all up.
By mid-week the neighbourhood women will be dancing belly to belly, a Savoy swing being the rage of the summer. Their men will toast their bicycle gods and their cabaret lovelies and sing themselves hoarse. Their children will perform handstands and balancing tricks, pull monster faces and roller skate through the dancers.
In the evening the garlands of flags will droop to the street, the light bulbs flickering on to burn themselves out in all the excitement. Below the dripping ruins of the cake-slice there will be more dancing, more dreams of breaking from the peloton in the last fifty metres to win the Tour, more imaginings of tempting hips and firm breasts, each curve and nipple revealed on the stage through soft feathers and small Japanese fans.
The old man with the thick spectacles might find the baker sitting in front of the Boulangerie Notre-Dame, watching the celebrations. They might share a glass of wine, or talk of rebuilding a library. The baker’s foot might unconsciously keep time with the music.
If fortune is kind to this corner of the eighth, such will be their holiday. Bastille Day, 1938.
Jacob opened his sketching book.
A man with a meticulous goatee, wearing the overalls of a factory worker from the banlieue, captured in mid-stride as he pulls on a leash. His pet—a rabbit fat enough for the pot, ears dragging on the ground, legs digging in—resists at the other end as the pair take a turn under the trees. In the drawing the detail is minuscule: a steady hand at work. One could have plucked individual hairs from the reluctant animal’s tail.
A woman in clumsy makeup leans against a lantern post, playing something on her accordion. A well-dressed man, arms and legs frozen in a dancer’s pose, bows to drop a coin in the cup at her feet. At a glance one might think his limbs had been dislocated. A closer look reveals a graceful line from shoulder to fingertip, as if he once might have stood in a spotlight, shading his eyes in search of the balconies, the audience calling for one more progression across the stage.
On a bench a girl wears a crown of spring flowers. She sits wrapping bunches of twigs with lengths of ribbon. The baskets around her are filled with lavender. The handwritten sign hanging from her neck suggests a fragrant bouquet makes a welcoming home. The curl of the ribbons will need more definition in the final drawing.
A black man, his pomaded grey hair sharply parted, wears the threadbare remains of a tuxedo. He sits in a child’s chair with a plank across his knees, the rough wood painted to resemble piano keys. The drawing has frozen the moment as the fellow raises his long fingers above the board, waiting for the conductor’s baton, ready to flourish a dramatic opening scale through the low notes.
Three Oriental gentlemen in three top hats and three morning suits, with three boutonnières in three lapels, confer near the garden’s ornate entry gates. Two of them wave their walking sticks in opposite directions; the third consults a map. A generous handling of heavy pencil, together with strokes of eraser, renders the silk hatbands with such realism that the drawing could pass for a photograph.
A boy in short trousers, polished boots and straw hat is perched on the edge of the boat pond. He cradles a sailboat in his arms, the vessel in full sail, as long as he is tall. The mainmast tricolour flutters in an unseen breeze. The boy peeks at the viewer from under his master’s cap. His eyes are sure, his grin proud, his freckles abundant.
A Tuileries groundsman rests against the plinth of a statue lighting his afternoon smoke. His rake leans beside him. Theseus and the Minotaur are an exacting pencil study of straining muscle and certain death. They ignore the groundsman and the cloud of smoke around his head as they grapple on their perch above him.
Jacob Kalb closed his book, the dream taste of a rabbit stew lingering in his mouth. Another week’s work. There were no buyers.
Thick fog settled along the river. Those passing the bookstalls, chins tucked into collars, were hurrying somewhere else.
Somewhere warm and dry, Henri Fournier thought. He shifted on his stool, pulled his father’s coat around his shoulders and looked up and down the quay. He lifted his grandfather’s book from the stall.
Vague and lost, Henri.
Henri laid the book on the pavement.
Left on the verso. Right on the recto.
And placed a foot on each page.
Gently, Henri. As weightless as feathers now.
Henri pushed his sleeves to his elbows, spread his arms, raised his face to the sky and closed his eyes.
He saw himself
walking on eggs, curling his toes over the cool white shells. The eggs dissolved into sand. He was at the edge of the sea, the waves eroding the beach under his feet, sinking them into the warm muck. Another wave slipped up the shore and circled his ankles. He heard the rasp of a voice. Excuse me, it said. He looked down to watch the ooze slide away, loosen its grip, ready to release him into the air. The voice coughed.
Excuse me, monsieur.
Henri opened an eye. Dark bloodshot eyes sunk in wrinkled sockets stared back at him.
Yes? Henri said.
My apologies, monsieur.
It came to Henri. You’re the painter, aren’t you? From the bridge.
Jacob extended a quivering hand. The name is Kalb, he said. And yes, the bridge has been home for a while now.
There are worse places, I suppose, Henri said. Can I interest you in something? My stock is a little out of date I’m sorry to say, but I think I could recommend a title or two.
I am somewhat short of funds at the moment, Jacob said. Actually, I thought I might sell you something.
But that is my job, Monsieur Kalb. Selling, you see.
And how is business? Jacob said, attempting a smile.
Henri raised an eyebrow. It could be better. And yours? The art goes well, does it?
I mostly do portraits. For people in the Tuileries. I manage a few coins now and then.
Henri thought he could smell something foul. He scanned Jacob’s clothes. I see, he said.
But lately I’ve been doing work for my own pleasure, Jacob said. To break the monotony of all those faces, you understand.
Perfectly, Henri said. He knew a lie when he heard one. He imagined there hadn’t been a face willing to sit in some time.
I was wondering if you might be interested in selling them, Jacob said.
Alas, monsieur, I am not in the art business.
The ladies on your postcards might say otherwise, monsieur—?
Fournier. Booksellers since the dawn of time.
Jacob began rummaging through the bag at his feet. Henri knew what was coming. He was embarrassed for the man, but didn’t want to offend.
Monsieur Kalb, please.
Call me Jacob.
Monsieur Kalb, I am a humble bookseller. Once in a very long while, yes, I manage to sell a postcard.
If you don’t think my work has merit, Monsieur Fournier—
Henri, please.
—I can move along and try another stall. But I doubt I would find one painted such a remarkable shade of green.
The others will rob you blind, Henri said.
Then I am in the right place, Jacob said.
Henri hesitated. Very well. One look.
Jacob pulled his sketchbook from the bag. He removed the drawing of the boy with the sailboat.
An honest opinion is all I ask, he said.
Henri held it at arm’s length, wondering whether such an opinion would involve turning one’s head or stroking one’s chin or both.
Every day he could see the Louvre from his stool. Yet the thought of locking up the stall for an afternoon, of actually visiting the museum, had never occurred to him. He was a sole proprietor of a bookstall; there was no time for anything else. He knew nothing of art, good or bad. What he knew was life on the quay: selling books to people who did not want them, watching homeless souls emerge every day from under the Pont des Arts, wishing he had not been born a Fournier.
Jacob proposed an arrangement. They would split the earnings. If his work was still hanging in the bookstall after a month, he would put it back in his sketching book and move on.
Henri examined the detail in the drawing. There was a twinkle, rendered with a tiny spot of white, in the little sailor’s eye. He shook Jacob’s hand.
We have a deal, my friend. One month. What do you call this piece?
The boy claimed he was an admiral, Jacob said.
The partners—Jacob at his spot on the bridge, Henri on his stool—would acknowledge each other with a distant wave, a shrug and a better-luck-tomorrow shake of the head. The Admiral managed to stop a few passersby but no one dug into their pockets or fumbled through their purses.
One day, after weeks of grey skies, the bridge became almost impassable with people enjoying some sun and warmth. Henri watched as Jacob packed his easel and carpetbag and headed in the direction of the Tuileries.
As Henri locked up the stall that evening, he realized that Jacob had not returned.
Days passed without any sign of the painter.
Henri’s eyes drooped shut, his head flopped to one side. He caught himself falling off the stool. As he found his balance Jacob was standing in front of him, a sheet of paper rolled under his arm.
I was beginning to think you had found another bridge, Henri said. Where have you been?
Jacob looked up and down the quay as though he had awoken from a nightmare and did not know where he was.
Working, he said. He handed Henri the paper. I’ve been working—trying—to eat.
Henri had never seen someone so pale and withered. He thought his friend’s voice had changed. There was a stumble, a stutter. He realized Jacob was having trouble finding the words.
You have been busy, Henri said.
He held the paper at arm’s length. It was the face of a young woman, shadowed by a curve of hair, one visible eye looking back at the bookseller.
She looks familiar, Henri said, popping his head above the drawing. Have I seen her before?
—a customer—yours? Jacob mumbled.
I don’t think so, said Henri. Now wait a moment. I know where.
Henri handed the portrait back to Jacob and began running his hand along the row of books in the stall.
Here it is, he said, pulling out a book of ancient myths. He flipped back and forth through the pages. Yes, I was right. You see here? Fortuna, the goddess of luck.
Jacob looked at the book, then at his drawing. He wavered on his feet, catching himself against the stall.
When did you last eat? Henri said.
Henri tacked Fortuna beside the Admiral, taking care to smooth the corners of her paper. He reached into the stall, removed a metal box, handed Jacob a few francs.
An advance, my friend.
The crowd is gone. The young woman stands alone in front of the dark windows of the bakery.
Through her reflection she sees at first only shapes and outlines: a display case, a monstrous cash register, empty wicker baskets. She cups her hands to her face, pressing her nose against the glass. As her eyes adjust to the dimness within, she pictures how the bakery might once have appeared. The buxom woman with her armload of wheat, the cherubim and their trays of pains au chocolat, the laughing baker, all would be looking down on a morning of jostling customers. The aromas would be something she could only dream.
The street is still now, empty but for the scattering of ashes, yet the young woman senses something else. As if she had walked into a darkened room, could hear the sound of breathing. She cannot bring herself to turn around.
That it would come was inevitable, yet for Emile Notre-Dame it would take its own time. Death would not arrive quick and merciful. It would be his memories that would take their invisible toll. What he had felt: the wet and cold of the mud pulling him back into the trench, the stumble, the fall into blind terror as he managed to finally crawl out and run. What he had seen: his friends running in the other direction, into the metal hail pouring from the sky, running until the ground swallowed them up. What he had heard: their agonies fading as he disappeared into the dawn mist.
——
Their Sunday walks continued. All weathers, all seasons. Emile and Octavio’s outings became a habit for the entire neighbourhood, as ordinary as dawn breaking in the east. So ordinary that when Mondays arrived, customers had stopped asking if father and son had seen anything new at the Louvre the day before or if they were offering a new story this morning.
And no one save for Blind Grenelle and Madame Lafrouche
noticed as Emile began to fade away altogether, his face a deepening hollow, his once agile fingers curling into awkward fists.
In those last weeks the watchmaker wanted to remind Octavio that he was his own man, that his father had taught him well. Madame Lafrouche wished she could find a way to tell him that his father’s stories would carry on. But both of them sensed that Octavio did not want to hear such things. He wanted still to be his father’s son.
The walks grew shorter and all but ended. The Sunday stories dwindled to a few scattered words, then stopped altogether.
One evening after locking up, Octavio found his father lying on the table in the cellar, his hands at last unclenched and resting on his chest.
With the ovens ticking in the darkness, Octavio sat through the night, watching over the Thinnest Baker in All Paris. He imagined the marble table making one more journey. His father would have loved a return ride across a sea teeming with sharks and mermaids, and a wife standing in a Tuscan quarry to greet him with raspberry tarts, a treat after such a long journey.
With the first hints of sunrise, Octavio turned the sign in the window of the bakery. WE ARE SORRY TO BE CLOSED. PLEASE CALL AGAIN.
To the gravediggers, it looked as though half the eighth was standing at the graveside when they lowered Emile into the ground.
Grenelle opened the family bible. Squinting behind his spectacles, in a clumsy Italian he read a passage about casting one’s bread upon the waters. Amid the circle of mourners one of the gravediggers mumbled to himself. Are we sure the fellow is in there, he said. I’ve planted heavier coffins in my time.
When the service ended Grenelle invited everyone to return to the bakery. To dry our eyes, he said, and raise a glass to the man who made our breakfasts all those years. Octavio said he would be along soon. As it began to rain, Octavio took shelter under a large plane tree, green with the buds of spring leaves.
He remembered walking with his father. He stepped back into the rain, straightened the flowers on the grave’s mound of freshly dug earth and turned in the direction of the trees of the Tuileries.
The Emperor of Paris Page 12
