Just then there were heavy footsteps outside on the stairs, followed by a loud knock on the door. A frown crossed her face. She wasn't expecting anyone; so far, she knew no one in Paris. As she lifted her head from the pillow, a feeling of dread went through her. Perhaps it was the concierge. Could she already be coming around to collect the rent?
The thought sent a chill of terror through her. She didn't have enough money left to pay the rent. She hesitated and stared at the door. Perhaps if she kept really quiet the old hag would go back downstairs where she belonged.
The knocks came again, louder this time.
Hélène sighed. 'Just a minute,' she finally called out in a weary voice. She struggled up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She took her robe down off the hook, slipped into it, and quickly wiped her eyes dry with the palms of her hands. Clutching the front of her robe together, she went over to the door and opened it a crack.
She stood there and stared up at him in surprise, He was a tall man. Very tall. He must have stood at least six-feet-four, had unruly red hair, a red beard, an engaging smile, and she had never seen him before. His eyes were gentle and sky blue. In the crook of his arm he carried a half-full bottle of wine and a rolled-up newspaper with the tip of a loaf of bread sticking out.
She blinked. 'Who are you?' she asked.
He grinned. 'I'm Guy Barbeau,' he said easily. 'Artist and ne'er-do- well, by my own admission. I live across the hall.' He held out his free hand.
'Oh. I'm Hélène Junot,' she said awkwardly. They shook hands. When he let go of her hand she pointed vaguely behind her. 'I. . .uh. . .I live here.'
He laughed and peeked past her into the room. 'I can't believe it!' His voice was incredulous.
She was confused. 'Believe what?'
'You've got even more space than I've got!'
Despite herself, she laughed. 'I can't believe anything could be more cramped than this pigeonhole.'
'You'll be surprised. You should see my dump. May I come in?'
The request took her by surprise. She hesitated. Should she entertain a man in her room? Although she wasn't frightened, she wondered if it were proper. Then she pushed the thought out of her mind. She nodded and stepped aside. Guy Barbeau came in and set the wine and bread down on the kitchen table.
'Have you had your supper yet?' he asked.
'Have I. . .?'
'I see you haven't.' He acted very sure of himself. 'We'll sup together, then. Have you got two glasses and a knife?'
She blushed. 'I haven't got any glasses,' she said shyly. 'Will two small milk bottles and a knife do?'
'Splendidly. The height of luxury. Thank God your kitchen is better equipped than mine.' He scraped the table closer to the bed and unwrapped the newspaper. Besides the bread there was a chunk of Roquefort, a tin of sardines, and a length of hard salami. Expertly he opened the can of sardines, smoothed out the newspaper, and artfully arranged the food on it. When she finished rinsing out the bottles in the sink, he was already sitting down on the edge of the bed.
'It looks delicious,' she said politely as she sat down beside him.
He laughed. 'It's merely poverty food. Fuel for our bodies. Alas, not enough to nourish our souls.' He poured a few fingers of wine into each milk bottle. 'Sante.'
'Sante.'
She let the glass door of the boutique slam shut behind her. It was still raining out, and she pulled the collar of her coat up high around her neck. Another dead end, she thought morosely. She sighed deeply. Today the rent was due.
She turned right and headed toward the Boulevard St. Germain. She had applied for a job as a salesgirl in a smart new boutique opposite Sainte Clotilde. The owner, Madame d'Arbeuf, had interviewed her in a little office in the back of the store.
Madame d'Arbeuf held a lot of faith in first impressions. Through her elegant blue-framed glasses, her stern eyes had studied Hélène. What she saw did nothing to inspire her. Even Hélène's best dress was a sad contrast—an embarrassment, actually—to the posh refinement of her shop. Worse, it had begun to rain and Hélène had gotten caught in it. She was soaked.
'What experience do you have in retail sales, mademoiselle?' Madame d'Arbeuf purred smoothly.
'I. . .I've worked in a dress shop,' Hélène replied.
'Oh. Where was that?'
'In Saint-Nazaire.'
Madame d'Arbeuf frowned. 'Saint-Nazaire? Let me see, now, Saint- Nazaire. . .' She shook her head. 'I seem to recall where that is. Is it near Cannes?'
Hélène couldn't help but smile. Saint-Nazaire might as well have been a million light-years from Cannes. 'No, madame. It's on the Bay of Biscay.'
'Oh, Mais oui.' Madame d'Arbeuf rose to her feet. 'Actually, we're looking for someone with more. . .' She smiled thinly. 'More sophistication. More polish. You see, the Boutique Chat Blanc has an international clientele, mademoiselle. I'm afraid .. .'
Hélène's desperation was written all over her face. 'But, madame! I'm very clever! I learn quickly! You'll see. . .'
Madame d'Arbeuf looked at her with distaste. 'It's no use,' she said sternly. 'I'm sorry to have wasted your time.'
2
Hélène's concierge was right at the foot of the stairs when she came in. There was no avoiding her. She was on her knees scrubbing the linoleum with a stiff brush. When she saw Hélène she struggled to her feet and wiped her red hands on her apron. 'Mademoiselle! The rent is due today.'
Hélène looked at her. 'I'm sorry, Madame Guerin. I don't have it yet. Perhaps tomorrow.'
'Tomorrow!' Madame Guerin stormed. 'I have my orders to collect it the day it is due. That is today. That, too, was our agreement when you moved in.'
'I know. Just give me a few days,' Hélène begged. 'Please. My brother will send it.'
'I'm sorry, mademoiselle. In this building we collect the rent in advance. It's either pay now or move out now!'
Behind them the front door creaked open. The person entering evidently had second thoughts about coming in and started to leave again. Hélène turned and caught a glimpse of Guy Barbeau slinking away like the cat that caught the canary.
'Monsieur Barbeau!'
Madame Guerin's shrill voice froze Guy in his tracks.
'You also! Like I was telling Mademoiselle Junot, the rent is due!'
Sheepishly he came toward them, rain pouring off his overcoat. His soaked red hair was plastered against his head. Wearily he smiled at Hélène. 'Hello again.'
'Hello,' she replied.
'Had any luck?' he asked.
She shook her head. 'No,' she said softly.
Madame Guerin placed her hands on her hips and looked up at him. 'Do you have the money?' she demanded.
He sighed heavily and looked down at his feet. 'Just a few days. Please.'
'We've been through that often enough now. Go upstairs and start packing before I call the police.'
'But my paintings! The canvases! It'll take days to move them.' In desperation he looked at Hélène. 'You wouldn't by any chance. . .'
She shook her head. 'I'm being tossed out too, remember?'
All of a sudden he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her aside. 'Listen,' he whispered excitedly. 'How much money have you got?'
She was puzzled. 'About forty francs. Why?'
He did some quick calculations. 'And I've got fifty!'
'So we're both broke. What good will that do us?'
'Don't you see? Your rent's seventy francs, right?'
She nodded.
'So we'll let my apartment go and move into yours! We'll be roommates.'
She hesitated. 'I don't know,' she said slowly. 'It'll be awfully cramped.'
'It's either that or the streets for both of us.'
It made sense. Slowly she nodded. 'As long as it's strictly platonic,' she stipulated.
He held up his right hand. 'As God is my judge.'
She smiled. 'Monsieur Barbeau, we've just bought ourselves a month's reprieve.'
Five minutes later
, it was all arranged and they went upstairs to move his things into her apartment. At his door, Hélène's eyes opened wide. Leaning against one wall was an enormous canvas. It was almost the length of the room. She backed against the far wall and squinted at it. 'It's extraordinary!' she exclaimed.
'It's my best work to date,' Guy said. He moved a stack of small canvases aside and stood beside her. 'I'm calling it The Hyperbolic Ascension. I've been working on it for nine months now. Another couple of days and it should be finished.'
Hélène couldn't take her eyes off it. It depicted a surrealistic Madonna exploding in space, her body all in shards against a background of light. It looked as if someone had placed a charge of dynamite inside her and then frozen the picture in the midst of the explosion.
'As soon as it's finished, it'll go to the Lichtenstein Gallery,' he explained. 'Andre Lichtenstein himself came by to see it a couple of weeks ago. He's willing to handle it. He's big-time. They say he's the most important art dealer in Paris.'
'That's wonderful!' Hélène said warmly.
He nodded. 'Hopefully a buyer will think so, too.'
She smiled. 'I don't think you need to worry about that. I'm certain it'll be snatched up right away. And whoever gets it will be very lucky'
He looked at her curiously. 'You really believe that, don't you?'
Without taking her eyes off the painting, she nodded her head. 'It's more beautiful than most paintings I've seen in the Louvre. It reminds me of Raphael, only there's so much more depth.' She shook her head. 'It's really incredible.'
On Saturday they ate a light breakfast of bread and fruit.
The bread was hard and stale. The loaf had been two days old, but as a result they had gotten it for next to nothing.
Hélène had cut up the fruit into little cubes and made a salad out of it. It looked delicious. Actually, she had prepared it that way so it wouldn't look too depressing. The night before, Guy had scavenged among the crates of throwaways at Les Halles. Since each piece was partially spoiled, it called for surgery. She decided it was much more appetizing to eat a salad than fruit with big chunks pared out of it.
When they had finished eating, Guy picked up the table and set it down in the far corner out of the way. 'Food for the muses,' he murmured. 'You didn't warn me that you could cook. Besides a roommate, I seem to have gained a first-class chef as well.' He stifled a burp. 'Well done. It was rather a nice change from biting into amputated apples.'
She smiled. She was glad he appreciated her effort. 'You're going to start painting now?' she asked.
He nodded.
'Good. Then I'm going to take a long walk. I've spent two weekends catching up on culture in the Louvre, and every weekday for three weeks chasing down dead-end jobs. Today I intend to walk around for the sheer joy of it.' She reached behind The Hyperbolic Ascension and felt around for her brown wool skirt and heavy knitted sweater. She would wear the sweater outside, over the skirt, and then fasten her brown leather belt around it. Already she was picking up fashion pointers from chic Parisian women she saw in the streets. Perhaps she would even pin up her hair. The idea made her smile. She wondered how it would look.
'Want me to go outside while you change?' Guy asked.
She shook her head. 'No, I'll use the toilet. At least there's a mirror in there.'
He nodded, took the tablecloth down off the window, and opened it. The sun was shining and light flooded the room. A chill wind blasted in along with it.
'You better wear a coat or you'll catch cold,' she suggested.
He nodded absently. Already he was in another world, his eyes searching the big canvas. He didn't even hear the door snap shut behind her.
She walked for hours. At first it was aimless wandering. She left the old streets of Montmartre behind and took one of the arched bridges over to the Left Bank. The sidewalks were crowded with Saturday shoppers and families out taking a stroll. Even some of the sidewalk cafes already had a few hardy customers braving the chill. Spring was not long off. In Paris, you could smell it coming.
Passing a lingerie shop, between the ghostly shapes of brassieres, she caught sight of herself in the glass. Could that be me? she asked herself. She stepped closer. It was her. She couldn't believe it. Pinning up her hair made all the difference in the world. She looked taller, more mature, but still youthful. And to her surprise, the past few weeks of fasting hadn't taken their toll. Instead, they had done the exact opposite. Gone forever was her baby fat. She was no longer slender; she was very thin. But not in the way malnourished people are emaciated. Rather, in the way that fashion models are slim, statuesque.
She looked closer. Her cheekbones, too, had gained new prominence, and her eyes seemed larger and oddly luminous. The belt around her sweater accentuated her tiny waist. She pivoted, checking the profile of her body. Satisfied, she made a mental note to remember to take in all her clothes at the waist.
As she continued walking, she found herself humming softly to herself. She felt suddenly more beautiful, more confident, more stylish. More like a real Parisienne. Now she had only to gain a little polish. She would study the elegant ladies. She would pick up their walks. Their mannerisms.
Each time she passed a shop window, she found herself sneaking quick glances at her shadowy reflection. Yes, it was really true. She had changed.
When she reached the Boulevard St. Germain, the jugglers were already out in full force. They were entertaining a pack of little children who shrieked and clapped their hands in delight. Smiling, Hélène stopped and watched them in idle amusement. But as she looked at the jugglers, she saw other jugglers from the past. The amusement in her eyes dimmed. Other jugglers, from years ago. Years ago, with Michelle.
Years ago. . .
Suddenly she found herself slipping back in time. Perhaps it was triggered by the mesmerizing effect of the little red balls that were being tossed and caught with such hypnotic repetition. Maybe it was the shrieks of the children. Or even the smell of spring in the air. Whatever it was, something had unlocked the long-shut door to the memories of her childhood and laid them bare for her to see. For a moment she felt a wave of nausea. It was like she was on a merry-go-round and the world was reeling all around her.
As if in a trance, she turned and began to walk on. This time it was not with the aimless pace of a Saturday-afternoon stroller but with purpose. It was almost as if some unexplainable power—some magnet—was drawing her toward a certain destination.
All the background noises of the city were now muffled. Behind her, the shrieks of the children were distorted whispers in the afternoon. Loud in her ears was the sound of her heels clacking faster and faster on the sidewalk. Each footstep seemed to reverberate louder than the last, like a distant roll of thunder that was fast approaching. Even the sidewalk seemed to warp, a ribbon of undulating waves.
Then the peal of thunder was upon her. She felt a sudden blast of heat and then began to fall. An iron lamppost was within reach, and she wrapped her arms around it to steady herself. For a moment she just hung on.
An old man stopped and looked at her. 'Mademoiselle?' he asked in a concerned voice. 'Are you all right?'
She took a deep breath and slowly nodded. The man moved on. Was she all right? No, she wasn't all right. But there was nothing anyone could do to help.
For the next half-hour she walked briskly, without stopping. The vertigo was gone, and in its place was new understanding. She knew her destination.
She had no trouble finding the flights of twisting stone steps that led up to the top of the Butte. It had been almost ten years, but it all came back to her as easily as if it had been yesterday.
Halfway up, she reached the little park. It was still there, and so was the bench where she used to play with Antoinette. So, too, were the acacia trees. They were bare, like the last time she had seen them. Only they were much bigger now. Acacia trees grow quickly.
And there, across the alley, stood the house. She looked at it curiously. It
looked much smaller now that she was grown. But she could still recognize it, even if it did look seedier and more modest than the house of her memory. The front door was different; it was of varnished dark oak. Gone forever was the canary-yellow door. But the ground-floor windows were still covered with the curlicued bars, and above the rooftop, the domes of Sacre Coeur gleamed whitely. Odors of greasy food hung heavy in the air. Someone was cooking pork.
This was where she would be living now if Tante Janine hadn't sold the house out from under her, she thought bitterly. Rightfully the house had belonged to her and Edmond.
But it was no use harping on that now, she told herself savagely. Be practical. Be realistic. She and Edmond no longer had any claim to it. It had been stolen from them. Her lips tightened. Stolen.
She stared at the house. If.. .if it were still theirs, it would have solved so many of her problems. She would have lived on the ground floor and converted the dining room into a bedroom. Perhaps put up a cheerfully patterned wallpaper. There would have been a separate living room and kitchen as well as access to the garden out back. There would have been no need to share a claustrophobic closet with Guy Barbeau. She would even have been assured a steady income by renting out the upstairs. There would have been no financial woes, no pleading with dour concierges, no scavenging for rotten fruit. . .
Suddenly the vertigo started up again. Her head began to spin and she sank down onto the cold hard slats of the bench.
Like a series of slow-motion negatives, a chain of distorted pictures flashed through her mind. She saw Maman being punched mercilessly in the belly by the Boche. Even now she could still hear her screeches of pain echoing through the neighborhood. Once again she heard the ear-shattering blast of the gunshot that threw Michelle against the kitchen doorway and made her collapse like a limp sack of potatoes.
Abruptly Hélène got up and quickly began to walk away. Tears blurred her vision. Fiercely she wiped them away with her hands. She could deal with many things. This house was not one of them. She never wanted to see it again. Ever.
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