'Mademoiselle Junot,' Guy said. 'Hélène, meet Monsieur Lichtenstein.'
Hélène smiled, shifted the glass to her left hand, and extended her right. Lichtenstein surprised her by taking her hand, bowing over it, and kissing it. She could barely feel the breath of his lips. He straightened and smiled. 'You are very beautiful, mademoiselle.' Then he turned to Guy. 'I want you to come and meet a couple who have expressed an interest in buying your painting.'
Guy's mouth dropped open. 'Already? Are they serious?'
Lichtenstein nodded. 'They're serious,' he said soberly.
Hélène looked at Guy. Her eyes were shining with eagerness. 'Did you hear that?' her expression seemed to say.
Lichtenstein turned and looked around for a moment, his eyes searching the room. 'They're probably still upstairs,' he said. He put his hand on Hélène's elbow and led the way to the center of the room, where a circular Plexiglas staircase rose up to the mezzanine.
From the mezzanine, most of the main room could be seen and The Hyperbolic Ascension appeared to be exploding in midair, the multicolored shards of the virgin hanging in frozen suspension.
Andre Lichtenstein fell all over a middle-aged couple. He clicked his heels together and bowed. 'Madame Vanel, I would like the pleasure of introducing to you the artist who painted The Hyperbolic Ascension, Guy Barbeau.'
Monsieur and Madame Vanel belonged to that new, moneyed breed indigenous to the twentieth century, the nouveau riche. Monsieur Vanel had made his fortune quite by accident in the bakery business. He was short and plump, with a ruddy complexion and steel-gray hair. He was still perplexed by his sudden wealth, and although he was a millionaire, he looked like he still spent all day standing in front of an oven. Madame Vanel was another story entirely. She enjoyed the money with a vengeance. She was bone-thin and her hair was brown and stiff and carefully coiffed. She wore too much jewelry and too much makeup. Both her clothes and her voice were loud.
Guy smiled at Madame Vanel, his nervousness showing. 'How do you do?' he said formally.
Madame Vanel held out her hand. He bent over it and kissed it awkwardly. She preened visibly.
Lichtenstein smiled at Monsieur Vanel. 'Monsieur Barbeau is delighted to answer any questions you may have regarding the painting. Please feel free to discuss it with him. As soon as you have reached any decision, just have me paged.'
Monsieur Vanel nodded absently. He reached for a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. Madame Vanel took Guy aside. Art was her territory. She didn't know what surrealism was, but she did know that the best homes had art that nobody understood hanging on the walls. It was a sign of culture, and she was determined to show that she had it. She was about to purchase one of those hideous, puzzling paintings. And she was socializing with a real artist. One whom Andre Lichtenstein had assured her was indeed a rising star. 'Get him now while he's cheap,' Lichtenstein had whispered to her in confidence. 'In a few years his prices will skyrocket.'
Lichtenstein smiled at Hélène and led her away. 'Let's leave them to talk,' he said. 'The painting is as good as sold.'
They halted abruptly as Lichtenstein made some small talk with a buyer. Not wishing to eavesdrop, Hélène looked around. Suddenly her heart began to pound. She recognized the old woman who was holding court in the midst of a small group. She had seen her photograph in all the fashion magazines. She was one of her idols. She was the living legend, Odile Joly, the most exalted couturiere of the twentieth century. Hélène couldn't keep from staring at her.
Odile Joly was so tiny that she looked like a young girl. Actually she was seventy years old and bony as a starved bird. Her neck was thin and stringy, the cords standing out like taut wires. Her thick glasses were encased in tortoiseshell, and her bobbed black hair under the bowl-like hat was a daring anachronism for her age. She was dressed in a suit of her own design. It was a pale pearl color, the fabric suggesting just the vaguest hint of gold. Stories circulated that it was the only suit she owned. When she smiled she looked like she was grinning from ear to ear, and her gestures were extremely emphasized. Her hands fluttered like an agitated bird learning to fly; for some reason or other—nervousness perhaps—she kept tugging at the hem of her jacket. She smoked incessantly, holding her cigarette with her elbow bent, her hand constantly at chin level. Her huge brown eyes darted about continuously. Although few people understood exactly what she was saying in her raspy voice, everyone listened raptly to her every word, absorbing them as if they were divine decree.
Suddenly Odile Joly looked up and caught sight of Hélène. The giant eyes flashed—studying, visualizing, deciding, all in one sweeping glance. Then she slowly stepped forward. The group surrounding her parted and let her through.
Hélène's heart began to pump even faster. Was it possible? Was Odile Joly approaching her?
'Always wear white, cherie,' Odile Joly commanded imperiously, her cigarette hand sweeping dramatically through the air. 'Never, never wear dark blue like you're wearing now.' She frowned disapprovingly. 'No, not even white. White is too startling. Too flashy. It glares. Wear champagne. Yes, that's it! Champagne.' She rolled the word on her tongue, tasting the color with her lips.
Hélène was afraid to breathe. She cast a quick glance at the others. They were staring at her, digesting the great Odile's edict and nodding in agreement.
Finally she found her tongue. 'I. . .I will wear champagne from now on,' she stammered.
Odile Joly gave a birdlike nod. 'Good. Champagne first and foremost, but anything very, very pale will do. But never, never wear pastels or sherbets. They are noncolors. They are for cowards. For people who wish to look 'safe' and end up looking like ice-cream cones.' Her eyes roved up and down Hélène. 'You have a wonderful figure for clothes. A model's figure. Your proportions are fantastic. Tell me, cherie. Are you a fashion model?'
'N-no,' Hélène managed to say. She could feel herself perspiring.
'Well, what is it you do, then?'
'Nothing at the moment, I'm afraid.'
The huge, famous eyes glinted shrewdly. 'You should be a model. If you're interested, come and see me at my atelier. The Maison d'Odile Joly. It's just up the street.'
Hélène found herself nodding. This was the last thing in the world she would have dreamed could happen. She had heard about being in the right place at the right time, but who would have thought it was here? And to think that she hadn't even wanted to come to the gallery in the first place. Not after losing her job and being without work for over a week. She had only come for Guy's sake. And what had happened? She had met the great Odile and been offered a job as a fashion model! Without a job interview, without any experience. It was too good to be true.
'Thank you,' Hélène told Odile in a quivering voice, 'I. . .I shall be at the atelier on Monday.'
Still shaking, Hélène stammered her excuses and retreated unobtrusively into a quiet corner. Although the crowds milling around her sounded like a thousand chattering magpies, she cut them from her mind completely. She needed time to mull over the extraordinary luck which had fallen her way. She had met the distinguished Odile Joly. Not only that, but the greatest couturiere in the world—and the most formidable—had sought her out and offered her a job. Was it possible? Truly? She felt like pinching herself. It was more than she had ever dared hope for. When she had first arrived in Paris, she had been filled with naive dreams. Slowly they had evaporated. The truly successful, like the very rich, were part of a social orbit which was totally, hopelessly out of reach. Now, suddenly, not only was she mingling with an assortment of people she never thought she could meet but also she had met the one person she had idolized for years.
She had been alone in her corner no more than five minutes when a tall, attractive man came over to her. He smiled and handed her a glass of champagne. 'I'm not intruding?' he asked politely in French. His French, she noticed, was heavily accented with the mellifluous tones of upper-class English.
'No, of course you're not intruding,
' she assured him quickly.
He smiled. 'What do you say we mingle and look at the art? No one else seems to.'
If we can see anything past the crowds, she thought. But aloud she said, 'I'd love to.'
He took her gently by the arm and guided her expertly around the pockets of people, pointing out various paintings here and sculptures there. She felt shy and as though she were dream-walking.
As they were standing in front of a faceless white Brancusi sculpture with only clean lines hinting at the features, she let her eyes dart sideways to have a good look at him. He was watching her with an expression of amusement.
Quickly she averted her eyes. I'm behaving like a schoolgirl, she chided herself.
'I don't even know your name,' he said.
She looked at him again and swallowed. 'Mademoiselle Junot.'
He gave a little bow. 'My name is Nigel.'
'How do you do, Monsieur Nigel?' she said gravely.
He flung back his head and laughed.
She looked suddenly stricken. 'Have I. . .have I said something wrong?'
'No, no. Not at all. You see, Nigel is my first name. Somerset is my last. You may call me Nigel.'
Her heart began to beat faster. She felt suddenly drawn to him. What was happening? First Odile Joly, and now this intriguing stranger.
'Nigel. . .' she said slowly, as if to herself. 'It's a very pretty name. Mine. . .mine is Hélène.'
'Also very pretty. Stately, too.'
She looked to see if he was joking; she was grateful to see that he wasn't.
'I hope I'm not too forward,' he said, 'but I was wondering if you would like—'
A scream suddenly reverberated around the high walls of the gallery. At once everyone stopped talking.
'Oh, my God, no,' Hélène heard Andre Lichtenstein murmuring under his breath. Then she saw him quickly pushing his way through a crowd of well-dressed people.
'For Christ's sake!' a voice boomed out from the edge of the mezzanine. 'Green! What are you, some kind of moron? Whoever heard of matching a painting to your living-room sofa!'
Hélène went pale. The voice was Guy's. What was he doing? Who was he screaming at? 'I. . .I'm sorry,' Hélène said quickly to Nigel. She handed him her champagne glass and started after Lichtenstein. They found Guy at the edge of the mezzanine, his face red, the veins on his temples popping out and throbbing. Madame Vanel was cowering against her husband, her eyes wide in fear.
'He's crazy!' Madame Vanel whispered in a frightened voice. 'Crazy!'
Guy turned around to face the others. 'This. . .this woman'—he pointed a shaking finger at Madame Vanel—'wants me to change the colors in my painting. In that painting!' He whirled around, pointing at The Hyperbolic Ascension. 'She wants me to prostitute my talent like a common whore!'
Lichtenstein reached Guy and took him by the arm. Angrily Guy threw him off.
Hélène came up beside Guy. 'Come on, Guy,' she said quietly. 'I think it's time we went home.'
He laughed derisively. 'Home? What home? Some shitty rat hole? What's there? No one cares about art or how artists live. None of these people give a fuck about anything except their matched sofas and their bank accounts!'
She shook his arm. 'Guy, come on,' she whispered desperately.
He laughed again and pushed her away. There was a crazed look in his eyes. 'Not without the painting, I won't! It's too good for these. . .these. . .' At a loss for words, he threw his fists high into the air. His body was trembling. Suddenly he rushed at the silent crowd. Frightened, they drew back. He ran down the Plexiglas stairs two at a time. Now everyone on the mezzanine crowded forward to see what was going on. Hélène grabbed hold of the steel railing and looked down. Guy was pushing through the crowd on the ground floor. Then he stood under the painting, staring up at it. He let out a cry of agony. 'You're too good for this world!' he screamed at the painting. 'You're too good! Do you hear that?'
The painting hung there in silence.
Andre Lichtenstein's face was stony. 'He's finished!' he hissed under his breath. 'I'll see to it that every gallery in this city will be closed to that maniac!'
Hélène closed her eyes. Why was Guy doing this? Everything had been going so well. The painting had been as good as sold! Why hadn't he just told Madame Vanel quietly that her request was impossible? Why create such a scandal? Why? Why?
Suddenly a gasp swept through the crowd. Hélène's eyes flew open. Guy was jumping up at the painting. He missed it the first time. On the second try, he managed to grab hold of the bottom edge of the frame. The painting was hanging away from the wall, and he hung suspended in midair, his feet off the ground. For a moment The Hyperbolic Ascension just swung sideways. Then one of the wires connecting it to the ceiling snapped abruptly. Guy lost his grip and fell, rolling across the carpet. The left corner of the frame missed him as it crashed to the floor, the big canvas wobbling under the impact. For a moment Guy looked stunned. Then he staggered to his feet. He picked up a chrome-and-leather bench and began attacking the painting, smashing the legs of the bench through the canvas. Once the holes were punched, he threw the bench aside. He grabbed hold of the canvas with both hands and began tugging at it.
The same fingers that had painted The Hyperbolic Ascension tore it to shreds.
5
With her forearm, Hélène wiped the perspiration off her brow. Then she put the paint roller back in the pan. She wiped her hands on a rag, placed them on her hips, and looked around the room. She was pleased. It was amazing what a can of paint could do. The old dirty-white room was transformed by a coat of bloodred paint that covered up the unevenness of the walls and all the little cracks in the plaster. Already the second coat was nearly dry.
The three-panel screen she'd bought at the flea market, which she'd also painted red, hid the sink and the little stove. With the fabric she had bought in a shop on the Right Bank, the transformation would be complete. The inexpensive bolt of red paisley had a pattern of deep blue and ivory. From part of it she had made a tablecloth that she would drape over the kitchen table. The square of glass she had bought would cover the top. Now that she had a little money to play with, she decided to buy a few things. A shaded lamp and the cracked old landscape in the gold frame she had seen at the flea market—no Rembrandt, mind you, but nice enough. She would be lavish with the paisley curtains, though. Skimpy curtains looked so cheap. For the bed she had sewn a cover of plain deep blue cotton, as well as some slipcovers for the cushions. They were of the same blue, and a few others were paisley. Now the bed would look nice and could double as a sort of couch. And very cleverly she'd suspended a rod over the far end of the room. It would hold a massive curtain of more paisley. She'd nailed all the hooks against this one wall, and now it would function as a makeshift closet. At least her clothes would be out of sight.
She looked down at the floor with distaste. Between the newspapers she had spread out, she could see hideous patches of yellow linoleum peering up at her. The next priority would be to put something over it. Perhaps she could find an inexpensive roll of glossy deep red linoleum somewhere. If she kept it waxed, it could look quite stunning.
She sat down on the edge of the bed. Now that she had finished painting, the room seemed awfully quiet. With Guy gone, she missed the incessant talk, the laughter, the humming while he painted. When he had stomped out of the gallery, he had gone off alone and gotten drunk. Then on Saturday morning he had returned sheepishly to the apartment and packed his things.
'Where are you going?' she had asked him.
He smiled grimly. 'Back home.'
'Not to Strasbourg!'
His gentle blue eyes were sad. 'Yes, back to Strasbourg.'
'But, Guy!' she protested. 'You have so much talent!' Her voice took on a tone of sadness. 'It would be such a pity to waste it.'
He shook his head. 'I can't paint anymore,' he said quietly. 'Not while the buyers are people like the Vanels.'
Hélène sighed and got to her f
eet. She brought the roller, the paint pan, and the brush over to the sink and carefully rinsed them off. When they were spotless, she picked the newspapers up off the floor, got the apartment in order, and made herself a salad. She had to watch her weight and figure now that she was a model. After she cleared away the dishes, she sat down at the table to write some letters. Thoughtfully she chewed the eraser on the end of the pencil. She began to write:
Paris, July 30, 1953
Dearest Jeanne and Edmond,
I know I have been very lax in writing to you, and I feel terribly guilty about it. Will you believe my excuse that I've been so busy I couldn't find the time?
I am a fashion model now. Not in the magazines but in a real couturiere's atelier, the Maison d'Odile Joly. Sounds impressive. But until now I've only been a kind of dressmaker's dummy for Odile Joly. She designs all her clothes in the most peculiar manner. She uses live models instead of dummies, and some of the other girls and I have to stand there for hours, draped under tons of fabric, while the great Odile cuts the patterns with scissors and then pins them together.
Next week is the Big Event, the winter showing, and I've graduated from dummy to part-time runway model. It's going to be quite exciting. All the important buyers will be there, as well as the press and photographers from all over the world. Imagine me in the newspapers and magazines! If I can get hold of any of the pictures, I'll be sure to clip them and send them on to you.
I hope everything is going well for you both. I can't wait until you can come to Paris. It is so exciting here, and I'm sure you'll love it.
All my love always,
Your Little French Girl in Paris
Hélène read it over, folded it carefully, slipped it into an envelope, and kissed the seal before she licked it. Then she wrote another letter:
Sins Page 31
