The French Impressionist

by Rebecca Bischoff

  It’s that lazy afternoon time when deep, warm pools of yellow sunlight form on the floor. Soon, Fat Cat joins me and curls up inside one of the sun pools, and peacefully, purringly falls asleep, a cloud of grey floating on lemon light. I’ll paint him. I actually want to paint him. It’s weird, I know. I grab a new canvas. The world disappears as I first sketch lines with a pencil, then add color. Light and dark tones create shape and add depth and dimension. I work to get the colors right. The smoky quality of the soft grey fur, the dazzling lemon of the sunlight. I don’t know how much time passes, but finally, I step back to take a good look at my work.

  It stinks.

  Fat Cat is a big blob of flat grey, surrounded by smudges and smears of what looks like mustard. It’s a hideous shade of yellow that doesn’t even come close to having the lemony quality of the summer light as it moves across the wooden floor. Crushed, I let air out of my lungs in a long sigh.

  Suddenly I’m aware that a gentle hand is on my arm, and I turn, startled, to look up at Sylvie. I hadn’t heard her come in.

  “Oh, Rosie, I’ve been waiting for this,” she whispers. “I can read what’s in your heart. I understand how you see the world.” She smiles at me, her eyes alight, and I smile back, completely confused.

  What kind of an artist are you? I want to say. My painting sucks!

  We start to clean up and I try to figure out what happened. I still worry about being exposed as the fake artist that I am, but a strange thought dawns on me as I soak brushes and find lids for tubes of paint. Somehow, something altered inside me. It’s like the “I want to be an artist” lie that I created to have an in with Sylvie is slowly becoming true. Bit by bit, an idea is morphing into reality, like the tiny dots of paint added to a Cezanne painting, one by one, to finally become sky and clouds and earth and people.

  And now, I think, taking a breath, it’s time for me to tell Sylvie my story. Unfortunately, when I return to the kitchen, Sylvie tells me she wants me to go down to the shop to help Émile. She’s going out again. I can’t figure out how to say what I want to. The right moment is gone, anyway. Dejected, I head downstairs.

  The shop is cool inside. When I come in, Émile smiles at me in his way, calm and gentle. Clean air, full of the promise of rain, pours through the open door. I pick up a broom and start sweeping, feeling like Cinderella in rags, left behind, unable to go to the ball. I want so badly to be with Sylvie and tell her my story, but it’s like fate is against me. And then, through the wide shop window I see her, hurrying by on the street, heading in the direction of the outdoor market. Where is she going?

  “Can I go, Émile?” I ask suddenly, catching him by surprise. “For a walk. To Place Massena and back,” I add with what I hope is a winning smile. Then, I have to repeat myself, since my words were scrambled. But I don’t mind. Émile is so patient. I repeat myself, say, “Please.”

  Émile rewards me with an, “Ah,” as he understands, and answers with his little shrug and a smile. He tells me to go, but I have to be back in one hour for dinner. “And you could buy mushrooms at the market for me,” he adds, giving me some cash from the register. I give him a quick hug and fly out the door.

  Sylvie is far ahead, barely visible, her braided head bobbing among crowds of tourists. I sprint after her, right through the flower market. It’s early evening but the blooms are still everywhere, in pots, buckets and arranged in bouquets. The smell is fresh and sweet. The colors are so vivid. As I hurry past, I can’t help thinking of all the funny names for shades of paint: cadmium yellow, alizarin crimson, cobalt blue. Sylvie would be proud. But where is she? There she is, sitting on a bench.

  Most of the vendors at the food market are closing for the day, so I’m forced to momentarily abandon my quest to catch up with Sylvie. I manage to make a purchase while keeping an eyeball trained on my quarry. I point, smile, nod, and buy without saying anything. Émile hadn’t given me specifics, so I choose dark brown shriveled-looking mushrooms that are surprisingly expensive. Their musty smell stays in my nose as I hurry toward Sylvie’s bench. A tram passes in front of me. When it’s gone, Sylvie is nowhere in sight.

  With a disgusted sigh, I collapse onto the now empty bench and stare over the black and white checkerboard pavement of Place Massena. The pole guys are close by, kneeling high up on their tall platforms with their legs folded under them and their hands on their laps, patiently waiting for the sun to go down so they can shine. Crowded city sounds swirl around me. I hear trams, cars, buses, horns honking, voices that murmur, shout, and laugh. I smell the ocean and the surrounding trees and bushes. I can tell that a fresh batch of fries is being pulled from the grease vats over at McDonald’s. As the scent wafts around me, I breathe in deep and almost taste them. I pull my knees up onto the bench and wrap my arms around them, closing my eyes.

  I’m thinking of Nice as home, already. I know my street, my neighborhood, the naked cherub grocery store that smells like cheese and over-ripe fruit, the post office, the tiny corner shop where Sylvie buys her paint. I’ve planted my feet here and can already feel the tender roots growing under them, connecting me to the earth in this place of sunshine and sand, mountains and ocean. I only need to convince Émile and Sylvie to keep me. I’ve got to tell Sylvie my story!

  Warm wind ruffles my hair, and my mood starts to rise. I smile to myself. I’m freaking over nothing. Fate was against me this afternoon, but tonight, after dinner, I’ll tell Sylvie everything I’ve been planning to say. This will work.

  Then, someone plops down onto the bench next to me, and my mood plunges to the earth.

  “What’s with the evil eye? I haven’t even said anything yet,” Gavin says in a soft voice. He’s wearing bright yellow board shorts and a neon green shirt.

  My eyes will explode if I have to keep staring at you.

  It’s what I want to say. Then, I’d tell Gavin how bad those colors clash with his hair. Then I’d tell him to get lost.

  Gavin stretches out his long legs and sighs. He folds his arms behind his head and leans back, then turns and looks at me. His eyes are even darker, somehow. His expression is serious again.

  I don’t buy the solemn and sad-eyed concern. I stand.

  “Wait, okay?” Gavin says, sitting up. “I came to see if you’re all right.”

  “Fine,” I mumble. At that moment, I catch a flash of bright pink. I’ve been keeping my eyes peeled for any glimpse of Sylvie, and I think I see her across the square. She’s talking to someone.

  I leap to my feet and stumble on the uneven cobbles, which causes me to collide with a nun carrying a big bunch of paper-wrapped cod staring at me with glassy eyes. The woman fixes her skirt and shifts the package in her arms so that it takes on the appearance of a bouquet of scaly fish, and then continues on her way without a glance in my direction. With a burning face I follow the Sister of the Dead Fish. Gavin is right behind me.

  “Look,” he says. He has to hurry to keep up with me. “I know you don’t like me.”

  I keep speed-walking. A group of bicyclists pass in front of me and the woman I think is Sylvie is lost behind a blur of blue-framed bicycles.

  “Okay, fine, don’t talk to me. Listen,” Gavin says, puffing. “I’ll only say one thing. I want to ask you how you’re breaking into that empty apartment.”

  I stop short and whirl around to face Gavin. “What?” I gasp, completely bewildered.

  “So you really are breaking in? Wow,” he says, giving me a look that’s almost admiring. “You didn’t admit it to that guy yesterday but I figured something was up.”

  Now Gavin is the one who walks away. He keeps moving, fast, so I have to sprint to follow after him, forgetting all about finding Sylvie. We hurry through the nearly vacant flower market, and once on my street, Gavin breaks into a run and his long legs easily leave me behind. I have a stitch in my side by the time I catch up with him in front of Sylvie’s little shop. It’s f
ive minutes before closing, but the “Fermé” sign is already in place. Thank you, Émile, for closing up early.

  “Why don’t you invite me in?” Gavin asks with a slight grin.

  “No way,” I pant, which simply causes Gavin to lean against the shop door and fold his arms, so he’s blocking my way. I plop down cross-legged on the sidewalk and catch my breath. Let him stand there all night. I can out-wait him if I have to. As soon as he leaves, I’ll go around the corner to the main entrance and ring the bell at Sylvie’s front door.

  But Gavin sits down right next to me on the pavement and props his elbows on his knees.

  “So why are you breaking into an empty apartment?” he asks.

  “It was by accident, okay?” I say in desperation. I hate to let him hear how my words come out. I don’t ever want to speak to him again, but he’s forcing me to do it.

  “How do you end up in a place like that by accident?” Gavin says.

  “The cat went in. I had to get him out,” I answer.

  “So how did you and the cat get in?”

  I growl in frustration and roll my eyes. I can’t get away from him, and I can’t avoid talking. Feeling like a total mutant, I explain to Gavin how I found the door, and followed Fat Cat into the apartment, trying to use words that aren’t too long, that don’t have too many of the sounds that are the hardest for me. It’s exhausting.

  “That’s awesome! But it’s just an empty apartment?” Gavin asks.

  I shake my head no.

  “What’s in there?” Gavin asks. He leans in so close I can smell his hair gel. It’s a sweet floral scent, like orchid. Ick. I lean away.

  “Things,” I say. I wonder if I can run fast enough to get around the building without him catching up.

  “Like what?” Gavin leans in even more. I scoot away.

  “Paintings, and nice . . .” I want to say “furniture,” but know I won’t get that word out clearly. “Nice things.”

  Gavin whistles. “Wow. Do you know who the apartment belongs to?”

  I shake my head.

  “It can’t be the old lady, or she would have said so. Do you think she’s stealing all the good stuff in there? She and that big guy?” Gavin says. His eyes gleam and he looks animated. Excited.

  He stands and knocks on the shop door. I leap up and try to pull his hand away.

  “Cut it out!” I yell.

  “I’d like to see that apartment,” Gavin says. “You know how to get in. We can do it tonight, if you invite me to dinner.”

  “No way!”

  Gavin turns to me. I didn’t mean to stand so close that I can count every freckle on his face.

  He smiles. “One time, Rosemary. Just for fun,” he says in a soft voice.

  The shop door opens.

  “Gavin? What a surprise to see you,” Émile says.

  “I ran into Rosemary at the market,” Gavin says. “She invited me to dinner.”

  Émile hesitates a second and glances at me, but then he steps back with a smile. “Of course, you’re welcome to join us, Gavin. It’s nice that Rosie has found a friend.”

  I follow Émile and my so-called friend up the back stairs. As I walk, I close my hands over the paper bag of mushrooms and squeeze, squishing it into a tiny ball.

  Eighteen

  Gavin eats like he hasn’t seen food for days. At least he doesn’t bother with conversation. I can tell he’s anxious to get dinner over with and check out the apartment.

  “We have a special dessert, gâteau au fromage, but it’s not quite finished yet,” Émile says. Cheesecake. What that guy said in his letter to Marguerite. I almost laugh.

  “That’s okay, Rosemary and I will hang out for a while,” Gavin says. He grins in a conspiratorial way with me, like we’ve been planning this together. “She wanted to show me her room.”

  “C’est vrai?” Sylvie’s incredulous face swivels in my direction, making her long, silver earrings jangle. She hasn’t forgotten how I screamed at Gavin and almost knocked him off his feet.

  “Uh, yeah,” I say, after a second. I struggle to find a reason I would ever want to “hang out” with him, and have a sudden burst of inspiration. “I wanted to show him Ansel’s paintings.” Wow. I’m so good at lying.

  Hearing this, Sylvie gives us one of her wide, Mediterranean sunshine smiles and we all crowd into Ansel’s bedroom. Sylvie chatters in half French, half English about her son and gestures all around.

  The telltale hole-in-the-wall where the doorknob once was is now well hidden, thanks to a little creative rearranging of pillows on my bed, but the long cracks in the wall practically scream their presence. Feeling my heart skip around in my chest, I smile and nod and point along with Sylvie. Émile glows as well, but leaves soon to check the dessert. Sylvie stays and keeps chattering.

  Gavin shrugs and glances at me with a rueful expression. I can tell he didn’t expect the crowd.

  “Oh la la,” Sylvie exclaims. “That crack has appeared again. I should do something about it. I don’t want Ansel’s paintings ruined.”

  My smile freezes on my face.

  “What did she say?” Gavin asks.

  “Look, up there,” Sylvie says, sparing me the need to speak. She walks over to the hidden door and traces a finger along the crack that leads up to the ceiling. “There used to be a door in that corner, a long time ago. This entire building was the home of one family. That door was shut and plastered over when they left and this building was divided into apartments.”

  “Who lives on the other side of the wall?” Gavin asks.

  “No one, for as long as I have been here. I’ve heard that fifty years ago a woman lived there, but she left during the War and never returned. The apartment sits empty all this time. A shame, eh?”

  Émile calls from the kitchen and Sylvie excuses herself to go help her husband. I find that I have to sit down on the bed. It was actually more of a collapse. I’ve been holding my breath. But she left. She didn’t question me about the cracks on the wall.

  “Okay, one quick look,” Gavin says to me. “Come on, let’s do this! I really want to see that apartment.” His face is hopeful and for the first time I notice that he has dimples. He probably thinks the girls love them.

  “No!” I say. “Not enough time.”

  At that moment, Émile calls from the kitchen, “Give us about ten minutes.”

  “Okay!” Gavin hollers. He turns to me. “Perfect timing,” he says, grinning. “Now’s our chance. Unless,” he says, moving toward me, “you’d rather do something else instead.” He reaches out to touch a strand of my hair, moving it away from my eyes.

  Is he serious?

  “Fine!” I slap his hand away. We work to ease the bed away from the wall. “One look. Fast,” I add.

  “Wow,” Gavin says, once we’re inside Marguerite’s apartment. He whistles, and the thin sound fills the place. “Someone with money lived here.”

  I slug his arm and hiss, “Quiet! They’ll hear!” I’m furious, but part of me is also thrilled that the words came out clearly. Score one for Rosemary on an otherwise crappy day.

  “Ow,” Gavin says with a half grin, rubbing his arm. “Tone down the violence, Rosemary.”

  He creeps around the room, carefully watching his step. I follow so I can keep an eye on him. I’m feeling possessive about Marguerite’s home. The now familiar dust-bunny smell is almost welcoming, but my stomach ties itself into a knot at the sight that meets my eyes. The books I have yet to rescue lie in disarray on the floor, and someone attacked the furniture. The cushions were ripped open and stuffing lies scattered all over the floor. Much of the wallpaper has been torn completely away from the walls.

  I survey the jumble on the floor and wonder if there are any more letters to be found. I kneel to sift through the piles, but a sudden loud squealing sound steals my breath
and I’m positive my heart stops. We’ve been caught! But the sound comes from Marguerite’s bedroom. I tiptoe through shards of a broken vase to the bedroom door.

  “What are you doing?” I ask through clenched teeth. That does not help me speak clearly.

  “Have you seen this? It’s amazing!” Gavin grunts as he tugs on the swollen doors of the old wardrobe. “Help me, it’s coming loose.”

  I do help, because it’s her closet. I’d thought it was locked, but it’s not. What could be inside?

  We wrench the doors open and the smell of mothballs, stale fabric and the ghost of a sweet perfume drifts into our noses.

  “More old clothes,” Gavin says with a grimace. “I’ve had enough of that, but I have to say, this wardrobe is a great old piece of furniture. Probably worth a lot.” He steps back and glances at me. “Don’t you think?”

  I don’t answer, because the feel of the dress that I hold in my fingers is smooth and cool, like water. The pale aquamarine fabric must be silk. There’s a dress with a thousand glittery beads sewn onto it, and shoes with pointy toes and funny little heels. In my head Marguerite dances, twirling in her glittery, silky dresses and laughing at her boyfriend, teasing him. She spoke with weak words, but it didn’t matter.

  I lift a carnation pink dress to my face and an even stronger whiff of the perfume I smelled on the bundle of letters drifts into my nose. And then something falls and lands with a soft “plop” at the bottom of the wardrobe. I reach down through a rainbow of fabric and find another bundle of letters tied with green ribbon.

  Gavin isn’t looking. He’s moved away and is staring around at Marguerite’s bedroom like he’s looking at a museum display.

  I stick the letters into my pocket and shove the wardrobe doors shut. I have to force them closed with my shoulder.

  I don’t succeed until Gavin joins me and helps.

  “We better go now,” he says. “They’ll miss us if we don’t hurry.”

  I don’t argue this, and we move into the next room. Gavin pauses beside a tall, narrow bookcase, eyeing it with an approving glance. “This place is so cool. Maybe we can come back tomorrow.”