City of Darkness and Light

by Rhys Bowen

  “I need help,” I began but the young men laughed. “Then you are in the wrong place. None of us has a sou, chérie. That is why we come here. Bernarde is tolerant of us. He lets us sit here all day for the price of a cup of coffee.”

  “No, forgive me,” I said. “Perhaps you can tell me how to locate some American painters.”

  “There are no American painters in Paris,” one of the men said quickly, then noting my surprise added, “only copiers and dabblers.” At the murmur from his companions he turned to the man beside him. “What? You disagree? I confess that some of them have facility with the brushstroke. La Cassatt is not at all bad.”

  “That’s decent of you, Pablo.” The man beside him dug him in the ribs. “She sells her paintings for more money than you, you must confess.”

  “But when has an American ever created a new movement, a new school of art?” He waved his hands in dramatic gesture. He was small and dark with black hair flopping boyishly across his forehead and he spoke with a strong accent that clearly wasn’t French. “I hear they still think Impressionism is avant-garde in America.”

  And the others grinned and chuckled.

  “So you believe that the role of the painter is to constantly come up with something new, do you, Pablo?” one of them asked. “Not to paint with honesty the world as one sees it?”

  “Are the two not one and the same?” Pablo demanded.

  Before this turned into a philosophical discussion I interrupted. “Messieurs. A minute please. I have to find these American painters. So there are no American artists in your circle here?”

  “Americans have money,” one of them said. “They would not choose to live and work in Le Bateau-Lavoir as we do.”

  Bateau? That was a boat, surely, and Lavoir had something to do with laundry? “A laundry boat?” I asked. “But we are far from the river, are we not?”

  This set them laughing. “We live and work on the slope of Montmartre, above us here,” a portly young man, rather better dressed than the rest, said to me. “We call our building Le Bateau-Lavoir because it reminds us of the flimsy way the laundry boats on the Seine are built with gaps between the floor boards. But to answer your question, there are no Americans among us, I regret.”

  “Americans keep to themselves,” the small dark one called Pablo said. “They never seem to learn the language properly.”

  The one in the well-cut suit roared with laughter at this. “That’s a good one coming from you, mon vieux.” He dug the small dark one in the side. “Your French is still atrocious.”

  “I think I have learned it rather well,” the other replied haughtily, but they all laughed.

  “You speak it with a lisp, like a girlish Spaniard,” a man across the table said.

  The small one called Pablo rose to his feet. “You insult me and my nation. I will challenge you to a duel.”

  “Sit down, Pablo, do,” the man nearest him dragged him down again. “You are alarming the young woman and there are few enough of us already without killing us off one by one.”

  The dark man turned to me. “I’m sorry, mademoiselle,” he said. “I’m afraid I have the hot temper of my race. You wished to know something?”

  “I wondered if you might have met two young American women? One of them wears her hair cut short, like a man, and the other is a painter?”

  “There are plenty such in Paris,” one of them said. “Go down to Montparnasse and see.”

  “I remember meeting two such Americans,” Pablo said.

  “When? Where?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Some weeks ago. At a salon. Possibly chez La Stein? One of them had brought a painting with her. I did not think much of it, so I don’t bother to remember.”

  This was getting nowhere. I was beginning to feel more and more desperate, as if I was racing against time. “And if I wish to find out the address of the American painter, Reynold Bryce? Do any of you know where I might find him?”

  “Reynold Bryce,” one of them said, leaning back in his chair to study me as if I might be the object of his next painting. “Why would you wish to find him? He is passé, boring, not of this century.”

  “Perhaps she wants to model for him?” Pablo said, giving me a roguish look.

  “I heard he does not paint people anymore. Only boring landscapes with lots of pretty flowers in them like his friend Monet.”

  “I hear he likes his girls young and innocent,” the roguish one continued. “And one can see that she is not innocent, are you, chérie?” His flashing dark eyes challenged me with a most flirtatious smile.

  “You insult the lady,” the well-dressed man beside him said. “Now her husband will challenge you to a duel.”

  “This I should enjoy. I have been dying for a duel. I haven’t shot my pistol for days.”

  “Behave yourself, Pablo,” another said. “This is France, not Spain. You are simply too hot-blooded.”

  “Not at all. I am a man who knows what he likes. She can always model for me. She has interesting bones and that red hair—exciting.”

  “You’d probably paint it blue,” one of them remarked.

  “No-no. That is all behind me now. No more blue for Picasso,” he said. “I see the future and it is exciting.”

  The man who was the best dressed among them, wearing a three-piece suit, touched my hand. “Do not worry, chérie,” he said. “You should have no concern about posing for Picasso. If he paints you, you will wind up with three heads, one breast, and one eye. And possibly blue hair. Completely unrecognizable.”

  “I paint her as I see her,” the little Spaniard said.

  “I clearly see two breasts,” the well-dressed one commented, eyeing me a little too closely. “Anyway, mon cher Picasso,” he went on, “you know very well that Fernande would kill you or maybe her if you dared to paint another woman. You know how jealous she is.”

  I felt this banter had gone on long enough. They clearly had all the time in the world. I was racing against the clock. “So nobody knows where I can find Monsieur Bryce?”

  “La Stein would know, don’t you think?” one of them suggested.

  “Possibly she knows, but she wouldn’t tell. They hate each other. He is an anti-Dreyfusard of the worst order.”

  “That’s true.” They nodded agreement.

  The word, “anti-Dreyfusard” meant nothing to me. “What’s that?” I asked.

  “You have not heard of the Dreyfus Affair? The army officer who was sent to Devil’s Island, falsely accused because he was Jewish?”

  A vague memory of something Sid had written came back to me. “Oh, yes, I think I was told about this.”

  “The affair has divided Paris. There are those for Dreyfus who think that he should be reinstated and restitution should be made, and those who are against him—the anti-Semites. And there are plenty of them.”

  “Speaking of which, there goes our friend Degas,” one of them muttered. “In a hurry again.”

  A lean man with a black beard strode out on the other side of the road.

  “I don’t know why he can so hate Jews, when he himself is of mixed race,” someone muttered.

  The well-dressed one turned back to me. “So naturally Bryce hates La Stein as she is Jewish and she hates him with equal passion because he is so intolerant. No, she would be no help to you.”

  “So you don’t know where I might find Reynold Bryce?” I repeated. “It is very important that I locate him quickly.” It was like trying to herd cats to keep them from branching out on tangents, and my head was beginning to spin from having to speak and understand so much French.

  “Somewhere more expensive and civilized than this place, I am sure,” someone answered. The others chuckled.

  “Try the cafés on the Champs-Élysées. Try the other bank of the Seine. I hear the Americans are fond of Saint-Germain-des-Prés.”

  “No, no,” another insisted. “She should try one of the hotels where rich Americans stay. They will surely know there. They
come to buy his paintings.”

  “Where are these hotels?” I asked, desperation now showing in my voice.

  “Have you just fallen from the moon, mademoiselle?” one of them asked. “How do you know so little about Paris that you have not seen the Ritz, the Meurice, the Regina?”

  “Because I just came into the Saint-Lazare station and all I have seen of Paris is this one little quarter,” I said sharply. “I have my small son with me too, which makes moving around difficult.”

  “Now we’ve upset her,” Pablo Picasso said. He reached out and took my hand. “Please forgive us. You can take the Métro, change at Étoile, and Line 1 takes you to the first arrondissement where all the rich people stay in the fancy hotels.”

  “Thank you.” I smiled at him and again my smile was returned with a sexy wink. “Bon chance, chérie. Good luck,” he said. “But if you don’t find him, come back. We always welcome a pretty face in Montmartre.”

  I swallowed back my frustration, thanked them, and left.

  Fourteen

  I crossed the boulevard to the area with the fountain and found steps going down to a station of the Métropolitain railway. When I saw that long flight of steps going down into darkness I was extremely glad that I hadn’t tried to bring a squirming and heavy baby with me. It also occurred to me that these steps would be impossible to negotiate with a buggy, should I acquire one. I bought a ticket, went through a turnstile, and down more steps to an underground platform. A great blast of air signaled the arrival of a train and I held onto my hat as it came thundering into the station. I was about to board when I noticed that the carriage in front of me had the words Première Classe on them. Holy Mother. How was I to know there were two classes on subway trains? No wonder this part of the platform had been so empty. I had to sprint back along the platform to the second-class carriages. There was now a subway line in New York and I had ridden it a couple of times, but I still couldn’t quite put aside the feeling of terror as we were swallowed into a dark tunnel, moving impossibly fast, leather straps swaying above our heads, windows rattling, everything creaking. I was glad when we finally reached the Étoile station and I could walk on terra firma again, following tiled passages to another platform where I’d take Line 1 to the Tuileries.

  I came up into fresh air again at the Tuileries station. As my eyes adjusted to bright light I just stood there, rooted to the spot, while other passengers jostled past me. I had never seen anything so magnificent in my life. Apart from New York the only city I had seen was Dublin, which was fair enough in its way, with its squares of elegant Georgian buildings. But this was glorious. On the other side of a broad boulevard a long colonnade of buttery stone buildings, perfectly proportioned, stretched as far as the eye could see. On my side were wrought-iron railings and behind them some fine-looking gardens and what appeared to be a palace beyond. This was finally the Paris I had dreamed of when the Hartleys’ governess told us about her travels and showed me postcards she had brought home with her.

  I decided to start my inquiries at the Ritz, since that was a hotel everyone, including myself, had heard of. I stopped a policeman, looking very smart in his uniform with its high-crowned blue cap, and asked directions. I realized then the benefits of wearing Dodo’s clothes. The policeman addressed me as if I was a person who would naturally want to know where the Ritz hotel was. “Only a little way, madame. Follow this street, take the next turning to the right and you will come to the Place Vendôme. You will see the column and behind it the Ritz hotel itself. Only a short stroll on such a fine spring day.”

  Then he saluted and I thanked him, walking along the boulevard, admiring the shops beneath the colonnade and the carousels in the park to my left. It was the sort of place I’d have liked to linger, but I pressed on around the corner and saw the column he had spoken about ahead of me. It was tall and green and looked like something that might have come from ancient Egypt. And behind it that glorious curved creamy stone building with the flags flying outside had to be the Ritz.

  I had to pluck up courage before I went in through those impressive doors. I half expected the doorman to stop me but he opened the door for me and said “Bonjour, madame,” in a way that made me realize he also thought I might belong there. So there really was something to that old adage “clothes make the man.” I looked around, wondering whom to ask, when a most superior young man in a black suit and high collar approached me.

  “May I assist you, madame?” he asked in English.

  “I hope so,” I replied, relieved that I didn’t have to explain in French. “I wondered if you could tell me the address of the American painter Reynold Bryce. I have been asked to visit him, but I have mislaid his address.”

  “I’m sorry, madame, but I do not know,” he said. “Monsieur Bryce is a resident in our city. At the Ritz we only entertain visitors and tourists. Maybe one of my superiors might be able to assist you, but I think not.”

  I was trying to keep calm although my frustration was mounting by the minute. “Then could you perhaps suggest where I might find out about him? Is there a place where Americans living in Paris meet?”

  “There is the new American Club, madame,” he said. “I understand that all Americans of means and position are members there. Surely your Mr. Bryce would qualify.”

  “The American Club? Of course.” I let out a sigh of relief. “And where is this club?”

  “It’s in Passy, close to the Trocadéro.”

  “I’m afraid that means nothing to me,” I said. “I’m newly arrived in the city.”

  “I understand the club is actually situated on the Quai de Billy, beside the Seine.”

  “Is it very far from here?” I was horribly conscious of a clock ticking away inside my head.

  “Not too far, I think. You can go on foot. It is a pleasant walk. All you have to do is proceed to the Place de la Concorde, go down to the Seine, and then follow the quai until you come close to the Eiffel Tower. Maybe fifteen minutes. No more.”

  Just then I heard a voice behind me speaking English and saying in imperious tones, “Where the devil have you been, Henrietta? You’ve kept us all waiting for hours. It’s just not on, you know.”

  I turned around cautiously and went cold all over. Because I knew that voice. It belonged to Justin Hartley, the landowner’s son from Ireland, the man I thought I had killed when he was trying to rape me. He was standing at the foot of the marble staircase and looking up as Miss Henrietta, my former classmate at the big house, came down toward him.

  “Pardon me, but I am feeling unwell,” I stammered and made for the nearest chair with its back to that staircase.

  The young man was most solicitous. “Madame, is there something I can get you? A glass of water perhaps?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll be all right in a minute.” I took out my handkerchief and held it up to my face.

  If he came this way I was lost. I was sure he knew there was now a price on my head in Ireland, and nothing would please him more than turning me in. He had never forgiven me for the brain damage he suffered when he hit his head on our stove, and that his injuries had forced him to leave the army. He would like nothing better than to see me hanged.

  “Stop being so impatient, Justin,” Henrietta’s voice carried across the wide foyer.

  “But I hate to be kept waiting, you know that.”

  “We’re on holiday, aren’t we? And doesn’t Mama want to join us?”

  “She decided to rest. Now come on. Get a move on, for God’s sake. We need to be back in good time to change if we’re to dine at Maxim’s.”

  I heard the voices come closer, then pass right behind me. I kept the handkerchief pressed to my face and hoped that my hat was concealing most of that tell-tale red hair. I waited like that for a good minute after they must have gone, trying to control my panic. I was safe in France, surely. Justin Hartley could do nothing to me here. And I was now married to an American. But I couldn’t shake off the fear that somehow the English a
uthorities might catch up with me and drag me back to Ireland to stand trial. I had been an unwilling participant in that failed jail break in Dublin, but a participant nonetheless. And the English didn’t care too much about details when they convicted would-be republicans.

  I removed my handkerchief to see the young man still looking down at me with concern. “Are you feeling better, madame? It would be no trouble to fetch you a glass of water.”

  “No, thank you.” I stood up, now horribly conscious that Mrs. Hartley, Justin’s mother who had taken such an interest me, was also now in the hotel. I had to get away from here as quickly as possible. “I must be on my way. Turn down to the river at the Place de la Concorde, you say?”

  “That’s right, madame. The Quai de Billy. Close to the Trocadéro gardens. You can’t miss it.”

  I thanked him, came out of the Ritz, and crossed the Place Vendôme. I was still in such a state of panic that I almost didn’t see a motor car, driven fast, until its klaxon sounded, making me leap backward, my heart now pounding. I would never get used to the speed of automobiles and the way they came up on me. I made my way back to the gardens and that lovely colonnade and turned right as instructed. I wondered if it really would only take me fifteen minutes to walk to the American Club, and wondered how long it would then take to reach Mr. Bryce’s house. I couldn’t leave Liam with Madeleine for too long, especially not past his next feeding. It wouldn’t be right, even though I trusted her to take good care of him. I started walking even faster in the shade of the colonnade, not daring even to glance at those enticing boutiques and little cafés. The colonnade ended at a vast open area with what looked like an Egyptian obelisk in the middle and traffic circulating at great speed around it. Vague memories stirred of those long-ago French lessons. “Place de la Concorde,” I muttered, and waited until the policeman who was directing traffic from a platform in the middle of the street blew his whistle for us to cross. As I made my way down to the river I felt the fresh breeze in my face, tinged with that smell of water and rotting things that seems to come from rivers.