City of Darkness and Light

by Rhys Bowen

She laughed. “How will he find out? I’m not staying at the Ritz, silly. I couldn’t afford that kind of money. I’m actually staying at a dear little hotel on the Left Bank … on the Boulevard Saint-Germain. It’s called the Hôtel d’Alsace and it’s quite dinky but famous because Oscar Wilde actually died there. You know about him, don’t you?”

  “I most certainly do, but I’m surprised that you do.”

  The wicked grin again. “I know a lot of things I’m not supposed to. I say, do be a sport and come and eat with me. I know a great little bistro and it won’t take long. They serve students who have to hurry back to class. They all try to flirt with me, which is fun in a way, but makes me a little uneasy, being alone. I have to keep telling them my stern and strict papa has gone for a walk and will be back shortly.” She paused and there was an expression on her face I couldn’t quite read. Something had definitely troubled her. Then she smiled again. “Come on. It’s just back across the bridge. My treat. I’m spending my stepfather’s money and enjoying every moment of it.”

  She slipped her arm through mine. “I really can’t,” I said, hunger and a desire to be with a friend in a strange city wrestling with my maternal instincts. “Liam has to be fed soon. I’m still nursing him.”

  “Then we’ll go back to your place first,” she said. “Where are you staying?”

  “In Montmartre,” I said. “At a friend’s apartment.”

  Her face lit up. “Montmartre. Ooh, I’ve been wanting to go there, but not quite daring to alone. Come on, let’s go together. You can show me around.”

  She almost dragged me off toward the Right Bank. I saw no reason not to let her come with me. Frankly I was in sore need of some good company.

  “Is Montmartre really as wicked and sinful as they make out?” she asked. “Naked girls and opium?”

  I had to laugh. “I haven’t encountered any naked girls or opium yet, but it does seem to be quite primitive. And lots of artists.”

  “Oh, yes. Artists. I met some artists who wanted to paint me when I was walking in the Jardin du Luxembourg. I was sorely tempted to say yes, but then I thought if Peter happened upon a naked portrait of me, there would be trouble.”

  “There certainly would.” The talk about artists had reminded me of her connection. “I don’t suppose you had a chance to visit Reynold Bryce, did you?”

  “Before he died, you mean? Wasn’t that awful?”

  “Ah, so you heard about it?”

  She nodded, biting her lip like a small child. “It was an awful shock. It really upset me. I kept thinking that I’d seen him alive only a day before. I went to see him the day I arrived. I thought he might take me out to dinner, actually.”

  We had reached the Métro station. “Oh, the underground railway. I’ve been dying to take a ride on a subway train. How exciting.” And she ran ahead of me down the steps. A train came thundering in and this time I knew where to stand for the second-class coach.

  “So you were telling me about Mr. Bryce,” I said as we took seats on a wooden bench and the train began to move. “You saw him the day before he died. Was he surprised to see you?”

  “Surprised, yes. Pleased, no.” She paused, bumping against me as the train went around a bend in the track. “He looked as if he was seeing a ghost to start with. Then I told him who I was and he said, ‘Of course you are.’ Then he told me he was in the middle of painting and didn’t have time to see me that day and I should come back when he’d finished.

  “I said that my fiancé would be arriving in a few days and I didn’t know what his plans were for us.

  “‘Fiancé? Good God, has it been that long?’ he said. Then a voice called out from another room and if my French was correct it told him to hurry up because she was getting cold. He looked quite embarrassed. ‘You see. Now is not a good time,’ he said, and led me back to the front door.” She turned to me with a bleak face. “And then he was dead.”

  “Yes, it’s sad, isn’t it? They say it was a young Jew, angry about Bryce’s outspoken anti-Semitism.”

  “Do they?” She paused. “Well, I suppose that was a good reason for killing him.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I said. “You can’t go around killing people who insult you or disagree with you or society would be a highly dangerous place.”

  “Have they caught this young Jewish man yet?”

  “Not yet as far as I know. I expect they will, unless he flees to Spain or somewhere.”

  “Good,” she said. “I hope they do catch him.”

  We changed trains and then came up into daylight again at Pigalle. Ellie suggested that she wander around and look at things while I fed the baby. I was relieved to find Liam playing happily. He had already had some good soup, Madeleine told me. I went into her bedroom and nursed him, but he didn’t seem too interested, making me wonder if she had done this too before I arrived. But the good thing was that he was safe and he was happy. Ellie was bubbling over with enthusiasm when I met her again on the corner of the Rue des Martyrs. “Do you know that they have a market for artist’s models in the square every Monday? It’s too bad that Peter arrives next Monday or I’d be tempted to try my luck. Although I suspect I look too pure for most of their paintings. And I’ve found somewhere good to eat. Come on. I’m starving.”

  She led me to a little bistro on the far side of Pigalle. The place was redolent with the scent of herbs and garlic and several tables were full of young men who might have been artists or poets. Some of them looked up as we passed, and one or two called out to Ellie. We sat in a corner and Ellie ordered us two bowls of the rabbit fricassee. “I was told it’s their specialty” she said. “I’ve only been eating things that I know would appall them at home. I’ve tried frog legs and snails too. I’m going the whole hog since this is my one chance of freedom.”

  “Ellie,” I said hesitantly. “Are you sure you’re doing the right thing by getting married right away? You clearly want to experience life first.”

  She gave me a bleak stare. “What choice do I have? I simply can’t live at home any longer. My mother is completely under the dreaded stepfather’s thumb now and I’m ordered around like a little girl. And I can’t touch my trust fund until I turn twenty-five or I marry … so it’s the only option really.”

  “But do you love Peter?”

  “Of course not. I hardly know him. But he’s good-looking and he treats me as if I was made of porcelain and might break, so I’m sure he’ll take good care of me.”

  “Do you want to be taken care of?”

  “Not really.”

  “Then don’t do something you’ll regret.”

  “You mean stay on in Paris and make my living as an artist’s model?”

  “Not quite as extreme as that.” I had to laugh. “I don’t think artists’ models make enough money to keep them in the style you’re accustomed to. And it seems to me as if most of them become the mistress of the artist who paints them, which I certainly wouldn’t want for you. But you could put off marriage and go to a ladies’ college for more education. My friends went to Vassar and loved every moment of it.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not the best student,” she said. “I’d feel stupid in a college of brilliant bluestockings.”

  “Then what would you like to do?”

  “Live life. Be free. Travel. Make friends. Go dancing.”

  The waiter put down two bowls of rabbit fricassee and a basket of bread. “You like to dance?” he asked in broken English. “In Montmartre are many dancing places. You must come to the Moulin de la Galette on Sunday. Dancing en plein air—how you say?”

  “Outside?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Oui. Very nice. Beside the old windmill. I go there with my friends. You have good time with us. You will come?”

  “I don’t know…” she turned to me for approval. “Should I go? Will you come with me?”

  “Ellie, I’m a married woman with a baby. I can’t go out dancing.”

  “You will be quite s
afe with us,” he said. “Many many people at the Moulin. All dancing and having good time.”

  “It does sound lovely,” she smiled wistfully. “But I don’t know about coming up here alone at night. Is it safe?”

  He laughed then. “Mademoiselle, the dancing begins in the afternoon. Of course it continues under the stars but you can depart when you wish. Many families bring picnic. You will have good time, I think.”

  She looked at me again. “In the afternoon, Molly. You could bring your baby. It would be fun.”

  “Yes, it does sound like fun,” I said. “But I have a lot of things on my mind at the moment. I’ll join you if I can.”

  She beamed at him again. “I’ll try to come, even if Molly is an old stick-in-the-mud.”

  “I will await you, mademoiselle. My name is Jean. My friends and I we study at the École des Beaux-Arts to be painters.” He paused then added, “And pay for our existence by being waiters.”

  Ellie held out her hand to him. “I’m Ellie,” she said and gave him a radiant smile.

  Twenty

  After lunch we walked together up the crooked cobbled streets of Montmartre. Actually I was glad to have company as a woman walking alone always feels a little vulnerable, especially in an area of narrow alleys like this—wild, bohemian, untamed. I wanted to seek out Maxim Noah, Sid’s cousin, just in case he had any information about what might have happened to them. I had no idea where he lived and worked but I did now know that a group of artists could be found at the building they called Le Bateau-Lavoir—the laundry boat—and I suspected that Montmartre was small enough that artists knew each other. Narrow cobbled streets led to flights of steps. Respectable stone houses now gave way to shacks as we went higher. There were goats tethered on a plot of grass and someone was growing what looked like beans and asparagus in a small garden behind a shed. It was a strange transformation to be in this primitive and rural environment and yet only steps from a civilized city. Ellie, of course, found it enchanting, especially when we came up the final twisty street to the summit and the great half-built dome of the church reared above us dazzling white, while below us the whole city was spread at our feet.

  “Isn’t it magnificent?” she said, spreading wide her arms as if to embrace it. “Being up here with you makes one forget all of one’s troubles, doesn’t it? The rest of the world simply doesn’t matter. I am all-powerful.”

  I looked at her fondly. “You are too young to have troubles,” I said. “Inconveniences, to be sure, but…”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” she said. “And I can’t tell you. It’s something I have to figure out and get through on my own.” She turned away from me, staring out to where the city melted into distance and the great shape of the Eiffel Tower dominated all else. Then suddenly she swung around, all smiles again. “I’m so glad I met you, Molly. It’s good to have a friend in a strange city, isn’t it?”

  I agreed that it was.

  “Molly, would you do me a favor? Would you say that we’ve been together all the time I’ve been here? That we’ve seen the sights together?”

  “Why should I say that?”

  She hesitated, looking down at her neat little shoes, now rather mud-splattered. “Just in case anyone finds out about my being here alone and wants to know.”

  I took it that by “anyone” she meant Peter. “How could anyone find out, unless you tell them?”

  She sighed. “I don’t know. I think I’m safe, but…” She looked around, then exclaimed. “Look. There is the windmill that Jean told us about. The one with the dancing.”

  “I don’t think I’d want you to come up here on your own,” I said. “It is very remote, isn’t it? And the people we have passed were not altogether savory.”

  “Oh, come now, Molly. Don’t tell me you never did anything rash and exciting in your youth?”

  I smiled at the fact that she saw me as an old woman, even though I was not quite twenty-seven. “Yes, I’ve done plenty of rash and exciting things,” I said, “but they haven’t always been fun and I’ve put my life in danger several times.”

  “Have you?” she asked. “Do tell me.”

  “I have been a detective,” I said. “And now I’m married to a police captain.”

  “Really?” Her look became wary suddenly. “You aren’t over here to help the police, are you?”

  “Not at all,” I said. “I’m supposed to be enjoying myself with dear friends, only they’ve upped and vanished, so I’m trying to find out what happened to them.”

  “Oh. I see.” She gave the great edifice one last look. “Come on, let’s go on down. It’s quite chilly up here and it might rain again.”

  “I need to find a relative of my friend who lives somewhere up here,” I said. “I’m hoping he knows what might have happened to them.” As we passed the Moulin de la Galette, with its gay posters advertising the Sunday bal, I saw an old gentleman with a beard sitting at an easel, painting. I asked if he knew Maxim Noah and he shook his head, not taking his eyes from the trees he was filling in on an enormous canvas. I then asked for the Bateau-Lavoir and was given directions to that, easily enough.

  “They call themselves painters,” he muttered as we turned away. “Painters? Don’t know much and don’t want to learn.”

  We went down a flight of steps and came out to where a sprawling building of tacked-together timbers looked as if it was in danger of sliding off the side of the hill. As we approached the entrance I saw that this was the top floor while the rest of the building clung below to the steep hillside. It looked fragile and highly dangerous.

  “Do you really think we should go in here?” Ellie asked. “It looks absolutely awful. Like a den of thieves.”

  “I expect we’ll be all right,” I said, sounding braver than I felt.

  She stepped back suddenly. “I don’t think we should go inside, Molly. It looks too dirty and horrid. In fact I think I’ve seen enough of Montmartre. It’s too primitive, isn’t it? How funny that some artists should live like this while others have lovely apartments in the best part of the city. It doesn’t seem fair, does it?”

  “You mean Mr. Bryce? He’s the only one I know of who lived in the best part of the city. And he’s dead, poor man. That doesn’t seem fair either, does it?”

  “I suppose not.” She twisted a strand of hair around a finger, staring at the open door of the Bateau-Lavoir hanging crookedly. “Look, why don’t we go back to the city. I know a heavenly little tearoom on the Rue de Rivoli. They make cakes to die for. Won’t you come with me?”

  “I can’t,” I said. “I have to find my friend’s cousin and see what he can tell me. But you don’t have to come with me. I understand.”

  “If you’re really sure.” She stared at me, then at that half-open door. “I have to go now,” she said. “You’ll be all right on your own, won’t you?”

  “I’m sure I will.”

  I watched her go down the hill with her dainty little steps. There was something I didn’t quite understand about Ellie—and I realized I didn’t even know her last name.

  The front door opened with a creak and groan. I went in and looked around, not knowing which door to knock on. Then I heard the sound of male voices and laughter from down below. I descended a narrow staircase with care, as there were broken boards and little light. The building didn’t smell too savory, as if there were no drains and someone had burned their cooking. And in the background that ever-present odor of oil paints, linseed oil, and dark cigarettes.

  Down one flight I went, then a next. Then on the very bottom floor a door was open and I heard voices coming from inside.

  “What do you think?” a voice asked. “Is it good?”

  “Not bad, Guillaume. Not your best.”

  “It needs more work, doesn’t it?”

  I approached the door and tapped on it. “Pardon me,” I said.

  They looked up at me, startled as if they were naughty schoolboys who had been caught out doing somethin
g wrong.

  “Madame? You look for someone?”

  “I do,” I said. “I am looking for the painter Maxim Noah? Do you know where I might find him?”

  “Maxim? Is he awake? Go and bang on his door. Tell him a foreign lady is here.”

  “He lives here?” This was a stroke of luck.

  One of them got up and I heard the stairs creak as he went up one flight. The fat one nodded to me with recognition. “I remember you. You came to the Nouvelle Athènes the other day. Did you find your friends?”

  “I’m still looking. Maxim Noah is a cousin of one of them so I thought that maybe…”

  “Oh, so she is the American lady he was talking about. Quite excited to have met her. I suppose these Jews feel rather vulnerable at the moment, all alone here at a time when…”

  He broke off as heavy workman’s boots clomped down the stairs.

  “Someone to see me?” he asked. “Is it my newfound American relative?” He came into the room, a handsome black-eyed boy with tousled hair and a jacket patched at the elbows.

  “Mr. Noah?” I held out my hand. “I am a friend of your cousin Elena.”

  “Enchanted.” He didn’t sound particularly enchanted and the hand that took mine was wary.

  “I’m sorry to disturb your work,” I began.

  This produced a chuckle all around. “Work? He was in bed with Jojo, no doubt.”

  “How is Jojo, by the way?” the fat one asked. “We haven’t seen her for days. Have you grown so jealous that you hide her away from us?”

  “She hadn’t been well. A mere cold but she stays in bed.” He looked at me again. “How can I help you, madame? Has my cousin sent you to look at my paintings, perhaps? You wish to buy one? I have many for sale.”

  “Enough to paper the walls,” one of them said and they laughed again.

  Maxim’s eyes flashed dangerously. “You insult my art because you do not understand it. Ask Picasso. He understands. He knows that art must move away from representation and the artist must have freedom to express his inner soul.”

  “Then your inner soul must be quite murky,” one of them said. “Your paintings are terribly dark and gloomy. If this lady put them on her wall she would want to commit suicide instantly.”