The Third Grace

by Deb Elkink

  She recalled her first crude drawing for Eb—of a princess in costume. It had been a cartoonish figure with each eyelash delineated, the gown outlandishly puffy and the tiara decorated with curlicues. “Don’t design from some preconception of prettiness,” he’d instructed. He taught her the value of copy work, how to first see the essence of what was actually there and record it with accuracy before embellishing. The original was a pattern, a type foreshadowing what it would become in its fullness, like mirroring like. “Be intentional, not fanciful,” Eb had said, pointing out the drape of a gown in the textbook illustration on her table. “The bias of the fabric will dictate how this garment hangs. I see a waywardness in you, lass.” He clucked. “Save the creativity for later.”

  “Plus de café,” Lou called out to the waiter.

  “Oui, madame,” he answered, taking a quick swipe with his damp cloth at their table in passing.

  Aglaia turned the page to draft another hasty contour of the musician. It was Tuesday morning, eighteen hours since landing, and the first time Aglaia had consciously absorbed the aura of the city. She was in a daze upon arrival at the airport yesterday and almost nodded off during the Métro ride to the Hôtel du Caillou, where she and Lou dropped off their baggage, freshened up, and set out on a walking tour of the Montmartre neighborhood stretched prostrate below the great white basilica of Sacré-Coeur. They read the grave markers of famous poets as they took a shortcut through a cemetery. They raced through a Monet show, Lou stopping long enough to instruct her on the Impressionist’s conveyance of light, although she had no use for the portrait artists in the square who called to them for a sitting. They spotted the red windmill of the Moulin Rouge from a distance as they marched along the avenues till Aglaia’s ankle could take no more. She didn’t get a chance to practice her French, since Lou was so quick to speak—to purchase entrance tickets to a gallery or to order a bottle of vin blanc. And she didn’t get a chance to check out a Paris phone book either, Lou yanking her past at least two booths. The day’s heat was unbearable, and after an early supper at an elegant restaurant, Aglaia fell into a deep sleep on her first night in the hotel.

  So now she sat beneath the red awning of a Parisian café on a sunny morning with her sketchpad, and she only half listened as Lou began to outline their sightseeing agenda without once asking for her input. For the moment, Aglaia didn’t care. She was immersing herself in the whole luxurious encounter—the tastes and scents and sounds—like she might slide into her bath after a long day of work.

  “Bach,” Lou said.

  “Pardon?” Aglaia dragged her vision back to Lou.

  “The busker.” Lou tipped her head towards the street. “She’s playing a sonata of Bach’s, as you’ll know with your training in music.”

  “I haven’t studied music,” Aglaia said without thinking, then pinched her leg under the table for not having phrased it more subtly. She should have replied that she loved classical music, always a genteel put-off. But then Lou might have asked her for a favorite composer, and who might come to mind but Newton or Watts or some other name from the pages of the church hymnal?

  “But you sing. I heard you on your friend’s balcony,” Lou said pleasantly though Aglaia listened for the sarcasm, suspecting guile. There’d been no song on her tongue for a long time; what Lou heard on the balcony was Naomi’s song. “Come now, Aglaia,” Lou coaxed. “Admit that you sing. You hummed in your sleep last night—unless that was a moan of desire. Were you dreaming about your boyfriend?”

  The woman was too much! Stalling, Aglaia filled her mouth with the last of the croissant. For all Lou’s show of elegance, she was a vulgar person. Having to share the room with her in the hotel, Aglaia was discomfited last night with Lou’s unabashed disrobing, and turned away. But maybe the problem was with her and not Lou, who likely had a lot healthier view of the human body than the modesty she herself inherited. This morning upon awakening, she noted Lou’s expensive bra and panties tossed on the floor, and a small nautical star tattooed high on the thigh of her uncovered leg. From her bed Lou caught Aglaia’s glance and leered at her—actually leered!

  Well, Aglaia’s love life was no business of Lou’s, whose prying was ruining her first taste of Paris.

  “There are some things I prefer to keep to myself,” she said. Was that a challenge? She added, “Not secret, you understand.”

  “Right.”

  “I don’t have anything to be ashamed of,” Aglaia said.

  “I’m sure you don’t, but that doesn’t mean you live free from a misplaced sense of culpability.” Lou sipped from the demitasse.

  Was it that obvious? “I don’t have a guilty conscience,” she said.

  “Why else do you refuse to talk about your mystery man, this François Vivier? You dread admitting your passion.”

  “It’s not like that,” Aglaia countered. Lou had it all wrong. Then, weighing her words with no intention of disclosing any more family circumstance than necessary, Aglaia decided to explain the minimum, since maintaining silence would only draw more of Lou’s probing. “François is unfinished business. At a critical point in my life he took off suddenly, before he was scheduled to leave.” Her eyes stung. “If only I could meet him just once more, maybe I could figure it out. Every time I look up since we’ve stepped off the plane, I see him crossing the street or disappearing into a shop. See that guy walking in front of the boulangerie? He could be François—same black curly hair, same long stride.”

  “You’ve got it bad.”

  Aglaia straightened up on the chair and ran her thumb over the grain of the wood on the tabletop. How could she make this sound saner than it was coming across without telling Lou the whole story?

  “If I can locate him, even if it’s just to give him the Bible Mom sent along, it’ll help put an unfortunate string of events behind me so I can get on with living.”

  “And?”

  “That’s it.”

  Lou observed her through hooded eyes but Aglaia held her chin high. Likely Lou was as dissatisfied with the incomplete explanation as she was. So much for hoping she might get some respite by talking about it. Under the pretense of a dripping nose, Aglaia reached for her bag and unfurled a tissue like a flag of surrender. She was no match for Lou’s steely disposition but Lou, for some reason, didn’t take advantage of the opportunity to interrogate her further about François. She didn’t know how close Aglaia was to confessing it all.

  Paper crackling, Lou unfolded the Métro map, subway being the preferred mode of transportation around Paris for tourists and residents alike. She said, “Well, come on. Let’s be intentional about our day.” She had all their options for the entire stay figured out, with time set aside for her own research at the university and for Aglaia’s appointment tomorrow morning at the costume museum. Relieved to be off the subject of François, Aglaia became more animated with every turn of the Fodor’s page.

  Lou went on about the parks and galleries and bridges. “We’ll fly by the Opéra Garnier, make reservations for a boat trip down the Seine, and take in the Rodin museum.” Lou ran her fingertip along their intended path on the map. “I’ll show you Victor Hugo’s setting for The Hunchback of Notre Dame, where the movie was filmed, and then we’ll stop for some cherry sorbet from Berthillon.”

  But Aglaia’s joie de vivre dissolved when she remembered her mission.

  “I need to find François first.” It was out before she had time to pad the words with reason.

  Lou snorted. “You can’t refrain from stalking your prey.”

  “I know locating him is a long shot. I thought if I could give it one serious attempt, maybe telephone around for any Vivier listed in Paris, I’d enjoy the rest of our vacation a lot more.” She was making excuses; this trip to her was now, first and foremost, about finding François.

  “If that’s what it takes for you to let go of that bulky book, I promise to help you make the calls. We can’t have you lugging the Bible around Paris for the rest
of the week only to take it home again.” Lou pushed the wrought-iron chair back from the café table and said, “There’s a tabac on the corner where you can buy a phone card, and sometime soon we’ll find an hour to do the calling. So, for the love of God, forget about the man and attend to more pressing matters.”

  Aglaia pitched into tourist mode for the rest of the day. She admired the architecture, nodded along to Lou’s overview of French rationalism, and shuddered through a demonstration of a guillotine. She gasped at the fiendish ferocity of the 384 masks carved on the oldest bridge in the city, glaring down at her from their height like some ill-tempered gods, and she recognized another bridge—when Lou pointed it out to her—that Marlon Brando stood upon in Last Tango in Paris. She trudged through several cathedrals to appreciate their historic significance and even put up with a lecture on Lou’s view about the socio-cultural impact of Joan of Arc upon the women of late mediaeval France.

  But they didn’t pause to taste the crêpes sizzling on a curbside griddle, drenched in butter and folded up in a cone of waxed paper but discounted by Lou as peasant fare. They didn’t inspect the bolts of lace stacked up on a vendor’s table in the flea market. And they dashed past the dead chickens that hung from their twine-wrapped claws beneath canopies blowing in the wind, and brown blocks of Marseillaise soap, and round goat cheeses powdered with ash.

  When they did sit for a few minutes on a park bench, shaded from the burning sun, to rest Aglaia’s ankle and watch a cluster of middle-aged men who played pétanque on the grass, Lou couldn’t explain to her the rules of the game.

  It was almost seven o’clock by the time they got off the Métro at the Saint-Georges stop, and the phone calls to any existing Vivier households still hadn’t been made. As they walked into their hotel, Lou asked the concierge to book a table at a nearby seafood restaurant.

  “It’s superb, Aglaia. Bouillabaisse as it was meant to be supped and Coquilles Saint-Jacques that trumps any you’ve eaten at home.”

  Aglaia hadn’t ever eaten either dish at home, and she was intimidated by her culinary ignorance—though she could bet Lou had never tasted really superb Kjielkje noodles rolled out, boiled, and fried in bacon drippings by an old Mennonite cook. She felt herself grin at that, and salivate just a little.

  Lou continued, “Later we can tour the Latin Quarter and drop in somewhere for a nightcap.”

  “I shouldn’t stay out too late,” Aglaia said. “My appointment tomorrow morning is at ten.” Tonight she still needed to see that the costume had no wrinkles and that her own outfit was pressed and smart, that her notes for the interview were in order, and that she clearly understood the subway route to the Musée de l’Histoire du Costume—no matter that Lou always bullied her way into the lead on their forays.

  “You worry too much, Aglaia. It’s time to kick up your heels. I promise I’ll get you to your meeting on time.”

  Aglaia figured this promise was about as good as Lou’s promise to begin calling around for François today. But she didn’t disturb the other woman’s mood by saying it aloud. Lou was bound to get around to the phone call tomorrow.

  Lou Chapman needed a drink. It’d been a hellish day of leading Aglaia from one tourist site to another and of trying to deliver a rudimentary French history to someone constantly distracted by frivolous details. But it was a necessary procedure, Lou thought. Anyone who came to Paris the first time needed to get the basics out of the way in order to appreciate all the city had to offer. She hoped her efforts wouldn’t be lost on Aglaia who, if she interpreted Lou’s self-sacrifice as true friendship, would only come to depend further on her.

  Huchette Street was as crowded tonight as usual, with tourists clutching souvenir bags and students milling in front of coffeehouses and well-lit storefronts. A pair of high-heeled Asian girls teetered past them on the uneven pavé. A restaurateur, who lounged against the arch beneath his sign and flirted in his apron, tempted prospective diners with sweet talk and a menu, but Lou and Aglaia had already gorged themselves on fruits de mer—mussels gathered from their beds in Quiberon, creamy shrimp bisque, a lobster ragoût in white wine sauce. Jazz floated on the night air from the open doors of cabarets and, while Lou preferred the more celebrated nightclubs such as Le Pulp, any bar here would serve as well tonight.

  “Pick one,” Lou said, and Aglaia chose an unobtrusive establishment near the looming silhouette of Notre Dame. The tavern’s interior was paneled in oak, its chairs upholstered in maroon leather, and inverted wine goblets hung like grape clusters above an L-shaped counter. Musicians on a piano and a saxophone improvised a duet, and the barkeeper—ignoring the anti-smoking bylaw—took a slow draw from his cigarette and squinted a welcome at the women as they sat. Lou ordered two glasses of sauternes, perfect as a chaser to their dinner—though she was beginning to suspect Aglaia didn’t, after all, have the discerning palate for wine she displayed just the other night in her apartment.

  But Aglaia seemed sated, her eyes closed and her toe moving to the beat of the music. Lou held back from smoothing out a wrinkle on the younger woman’s top, bunched at the breast. Aglaia was mellower than in the café that afternoon, with her tortured attempts to explain away her turmoil, her fixation on locating François. Lou had seen her frailty and her pleading eyes ready to spill over in frustration, and she’d wanted to fold Aglaia up in her arms then and tell her to hush, that it would be all right. Her maternal instinct disarmed her. How had a trait like that survived the brutalization of her upbringing?

  Lou reflected on their day of sightseeing. All in all, though she’d accomplished the educational goals she set, she was no longer convinced this trip was the best platform for acquiring Aglaia’s support. She surmised that there wasn’t enough time to win her over. Perhaps her spontaneous decision to accompany Aglaia for such a brief jaunt had been optimistic, even reckless.

  Their return flight was departing on Saturday morning, which left only three days—hardly enough time to forge an alliance in light of Aglaia’s preoccupation with sleuthing out the boyfriend. That wild goose chase could cost valuable time Lou would rather spend with Aglaia’s undivided attention.

  The girl was incognizant of the effect she was producing in Lou, personally as well as professionally. For one thing, Aglaia was bound up by the constriction of her religious past and needed philosophical and perhaps sexual release—both of which Lou would love to orchestrate. But more to the point, her young friend was in a position to advance Lou’s standing within academia in a way that could make or break her career, if Aglaia would accept the job she’d arranged. So Lou had a two-fold appetite for Aglaia.

  She finished her wine and mouthed to the bartender to bring over a couple of glasses of absinthe without asking Aglaia, who was still keeping time to the music with her eyes shut. Enough liquor—especially with the high alcohol content of the “green fairy”—might lubricate communication and, besides, any tourist coming to Paris should partake in the Bohemian ritual.

  Lou had been hoping Aglaia would broach the subject of the Buffalo Bill prequel and Incognito’s interest in it, and all day she’d tried to arouse discussion around the subject of cinema—not difficult to do in the city that was the setting for movies with stars of every era, from Humphrey Bogart to Matt Damon, Gina Lollobrigida to Nicole Kidman. In passing the George V that afternoon, Lou pointed out to Aglaia’s the hotel’s lobby where Meg Ryan was robbed in French Kiss; on a side street, she showed her the alcove where Harrison Ford declared his love in Sabrina; at the boarding point for the Seine River cruise, she pondered aloud upon a famous boat scene with Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn in Charade—all to no avail.

  Could it be that Aglaia’s boss hadn’t discussed with her the possibility of Incognito’s part in the Denver movie, that she had no clue about what bid the company was submitting? Actual production was still a long way off, and the newspapers weren’t yet making any public announcement, so it was conceivable she was unenlightened about the plans. In fact, perhaps Lou
had overestimated Aglaia’s rank in the costume company all along and was wasting her time in this esoteric courtship.

  But then, as the musicians struck up another number, Aglaia opened her dreamy blue eyes for a second and Lou caught her breath at the innocent defenselessness in them, and her other greed—her greed to possess Aglaia—again possessed her. Whether or not Lou managed to squeeze her for details of Incognito’s bid, this trip would be worth the effort if Aglaia warmed up to her enough to take the university job and be seen in the academic circles as her own little conquest. Aglaia was an asset either way.

  Fifteen

  The throaty saxophone lulled Aglaia as she lazed on the tavern chair, her belly full and her mind mellow. Maybe too mellow, she thought; she hadn’t worried once since dinner about meeting with the curator in the morning. Lou kept plying her with alcohol and, if she were honest, she couldn’t tell one wine from another.

  “Madame? Mademoiselle?”

  Lou’s eyebrows clumped together at the bartender’s words as he set a small tray on their table, maybe because of the differentiation he made between their ages when he addressed them.

  Aglaia sat up grudgingly as Lou—with exaggerated ceremony—placed a sugar cube on the slotted spoon spanning the rim of each glass, through which she poured water to make a murky drink of the green liquid already in the glass. Aglaia took an obligatory sip while Lou and the waiter looked on in expectation; she faltered over its bitterness and Lou upbraided her.