That purse was my one source of comfort as I rolled toward my new life. Its weight against my stomach kept me calm. Then the wheels screeched loudly as the brakes were applied. I clasped my hands to my ears, making the man across from me smile. I didn’t smile back, just hurried to leave the train.
A porter was lifting Madame’s luggage onto a black iron trolley. I waited next to that growing mountain, my own bag wedged between my feet. The young porter ran back and forth. His face was glistening with sweat, and when he used his shirtsleeve to wipe his brow, it turned brown with dirt. Bags, trunks, round hatboxes, chairs, and paintings were stacked on top of one another on the soon-overloaded trolley.
People were pushing past us. The long, dirty skirts of the poorer passengers swept by the glossy shoes and neatly pressed trousers of the upper-class men. But the elegant ladies waited on board, in the first-class car. Only when the platform was empty, and the second- and third-class passengers had disappeared, did they slowly, in their high heels, descend the three iron steps.
Madame’s face broke into a smile when she saw me waiting. The first words to leave her mouth weren’t, however, a greeting. She sighed about the long journey and her boring travel companions. About her aching back and the uncomfortable heat. She mixed French and Swedish, and I quickly got lost, though she didn’t seem bothered by my lack of responses. She turned on her heel and started walking toward the station building. The porter and I followed her. He pushed the trolley ahead, using his hip to manage the weight. I grabbed the metal pole at the front and pulled, to help him. I carried my small suitcase in my other hand. My dress was damp with sweat and I caught its musty, sharp odor with every step I took.
The arrivals hall, with its elegant green cast-iron pillars, was full of people moving in every direction across the stone floor. The sound of their footsteps echoed loudly. A small boy in a light-blue shirt and black shorts started following us, waving a pink rose in the air. His lank bangs hung limp over a pair of bright blue eyes, which stared at me, pleading. I shook my head, but he was stubborn, holding out the flower and nodding. His hand begged for money. Behind him was a girl with two thick brown braids. She was selling bread, and her brown dress, much too big for her, was dotted with flour. She held out a piece to me and waved it back and forth, so that I would catch its freshly baked scent. I shook my head again and sped up, but the two children did the same. A man in a suit blew a huge cloud of smoke into the air ahead of me. I coughed loudly, which made Madame laugh.
“Are you shocked, my dear?”
She stopped.
“It’s nothing like Stockholm. Oh, Paris, how I have missed you!” she continued, smiling broadly before launching into a long tirade in French. She turned to the children and said something in a firm voice. They looked at her, the girl curtsied and the boy bowed, and they ran away, footsteps pattering.
Outside the station building, a chauffeur was waiting for us. He held open the back-seat door of a high black car. It was my first-ever car ride. The seats were made of the softest leather, and when I sat down, the scent of it rose, and I breathed it in deeply. It reminded me of my father.
The floor of the car was covered in small Persian rugs; red, black, and white. I made sure to place my feet on either side of them, so as not to get them dirty.
Gösta had told me about the streets, about the music and the smells. The ramshackle buildings of Montmartre. I stared aimlessly out the window and saw the beautifully ornate white façades rushing by. There, in the exclusive neighborhoods, Madame would have fit in, like all the other elegant ladies. Pretty dresses and expensive jewelry. But that wasn’t where we stopped. She didn’t want to fit in. She wanted to stand out in contrast to her surroundings. To be someone who caused others to react. For her, the unusual was normal. That was why she collected artists, authors, and philosophers.
And it was precisely to Montmartre that she took me. We slowly climbed its steep slopes and eventually pulled up at a small building with peeling plasterwork and a red wooden door. Madame was delighted, her laughter filling the car. As she eagerly waved me in, to the stale, musty rooms, she radiated energy. The few pieces of furniture were covered in sheets, and Madame moved from one room to the next, pulling them back. Revealing colorful fabrics and dark woodwork. The style of the house reminded me strongly of her apartment in Södermalm. Here too were paintings, many paintings, hung in double rows on the walls. A muddle of themes, a variety of styles. A glorious mishmash of modern and classical. And there were books everywhere. In the living room alone, she had three tall bookshelves built into the wall, holding row upon row of beautiful leather-bound books. Beside one of them stood a ladder on runners, which made it possible to reach the volumes at the very top.
Once Madame had left the room, I stood by the shelves, scanning the names of famous authors. Jonathan Swift, Rousseau, Goethe, Voltaire, Dostoyevsky, Arthur Conan Doyle. I had only heard people speak of these names; now their books were all here. Full of ideas I had heard of, but not understood. I took a volume from the shelf, only to discover it was in French. They were all in French. Exhausted, I slumped into an armchair and mumbled the few words I knew. Bonjour, au revoir, pardon, oui. I was tired from the journey and everything I had seen. I couldn’t keep my eyes open.
When I woke, I found that Madame had draped a crocheted blanket over me. I pulled it tight around my body. The wind was blowing in through one of the windows, and I got up to close it. Then I sat down to write a letter to Gösta, something I had promised myself I would do as soon as I arrived. I gathered all my first impressions and jotted them down as well as I could, with the meager language of a thirteen-year-old. The sound of the train platform beneath my feet as I crossed it, the smells surrounding me, the two children with the bread and the flower, the street musicians I heard from the car, Montmartre. Everything.
I knew he would want to hear it all.
4
“You’ll be seeing a new girl next week. A temp.” Ulrika articulates every word, a touch too loudly. “I’m off to the Canary Islands.”
Doris tries to shrink back, but Ulrika leans toward her and raises her voice even more.
“It’s going to be so nice just to get away for a while and take it easy. Activity club for the kids, so we can relax on the beach chairs. Sun and warmth. Imagine that, Doris. All the way to the Canary Islands. You’ve never been, have you?”
Doris studies her. Ulrika is folding laundry, sloppily and hurriedly, crumpling the arms of Doris’s tops. She stacks everything in a pile. Her words pour out as the heap grows.
“Maspalomas, that’s the name of the place. Might be a bit touristy, but it’s a very nice hotel. It wasn’t expensive either. Only cost a thousand kronor more than one that was much worse. The kids’ll be able to play in the pool all day. And on the beach. There’s a nice long beach there, with huge dunes. The sand comes all the way from Africa; it blew over.”
Doris turns away and looks out the window. She picks up the magnifying glass and searches for the squirrel.
“You old folks think we’re crazy, jetting off all over the place constantly. My grandma always wants to know why I’m going away when we’ve got it so good at home. But it’s fun. And it’s good for the kids to see a bit of the world. Anyway, all set, Doris. The laundry’s folded. Time to get you in the shower. Are you ready?”
She gives Ulrika a strained smile, lowers the magnifying glass, and places it on the table. In its exact place; she turns it slightly to get the right angle. The squirrel never turned up. She wonders where it is. What if it’s been run over by a car? It’s always scampering to and fro across the road. She jumps when she feels Ulrika’s fingers digging into her armpits.
“One, two, and threeee!”
Ulrika quickly helps Doris to her feet and then holds her hands for a moment, until the worst of the dizziness has passed.
“Let me know when you’re ready, and we’ll slowly make our way over to your very own spa.”
Doris nods feebly
.
“Imagine if you had a real spa at home. With a jacuzzi and massages and facials. That would be something, hmm?” Ulrika laughs gently at this fantasy. “I’ll buy you a face mask on vacation, and when I come back I’ll give you a bit of extra care. It’ll be fun.”
Doris nods and smiles at Ulrika’s chatter, refraining from comment.
When they reach the bathroom, Doris holds out her arms and lets Ulrika pull off her top and trousers, exposing her naked body. She takes a couple of cautious steps into the shower. Sits down on the edge of the high white stool with the perforated seat that the home-care company gave her. She holds the showerhead close to her body and lets the warm water run over her. Shuts her eyes and enjoys the feeling. Ulrika leaves her alone, goes out into the kitchen. Doris turns up the temperature and hunches her shoulders. The sound of running water has always had a calming effect on her.
The Red Address Book
S. SERAFIN, DOMINIQUE DEAD
I found a special place. An open square some distance from the house. La place Émile-Goudeau had a bench and a pretty fountain: four women holding a dome above their heads. The fountain radiated strength, and I loved the sound of the droplets trickling down over the figures’ ankle-length dresses. It reminded me of Stockholm, of Södermalm, and its closeness to the water. Paris had only the Seine, but it was some distance from Montmartre, and the long days at Madame’s house made it difficult to get down there. That was why the fountain in the square became my refuge.
I sometimes went over there in the afternoon while Madame slept, and I would write my letters to Gösta. We wrote to each other often. I gave him snapshots, glimpses of everything he was missing. The people, the food, the culture, the places, the views. His artist friends. In return, he sent me snapshots of Stockholm. Of the things I missed.
Dear Doris,
The stories you send have become the elixir of life for me. They give me the courage and strength to create. I am painting now like never before. The flowing stream of images conjured up by your words has also enabled me to see the beauty around me. The water. The buildings. The sailors on the pier. So much that I have missed until now.
You write so well, my friend. Perhaps you will become an author one day. Keep writing. If you feel the slightest of callings, never give up that feeling. We are born into art. It is a higher power, which we are given the honor to manage. I believe in you, Doris. I believe that the power to create is within you.
The rain is pouring down today, hitting the cobblestones so hard that I can hear its pounding from up here on the third floor. The skies here are so dull that I almost fear they will envelop my head if I go out. I stay in the apartment instead. Painting. Thinking. Reading. Sometimes I see a friend. But that means he has to come over here. I don’t want to venture out into the bottomless depression that accompanies the late Swedish autumn. The darkness has never affected me as much as it does at this moment. I can just picture the beautiful autumn in Paris. The mild days. The bright colors.
Use your time wisely. I know you long for home. Though you never mention it, I can feel your anxiety. Enjoy the moments you find yourself in. Your mother and sister are well, so you have no cause for concern there. I shall visit them one day soon to make sure of that.
Thank you for the strength your letters give to me. Thank you, dearest Doris.
Write again soon.
I still have them, all of the letters I received. They’re in a small tin box beneath my bed, and they have followed me through life. I read them sometimes. Think about how he saved me during those first few months in Paris. How he gave me courage to see the positives in that new city, which was so unlike my home. How he made me register everything that was happening around me.
I don’t know what he did with my letters; perhaps he burned them in the open fire he often sat beside, but I remember what I wrote. I still recall the detailed scenes I captured for him. The yellow leaves falling on Parisian streets. The cold air finding its way in through the cracks around the windows, waking me at night. Madame and her parties, attended by artists like Léger, Archipenko, and Rosenberg. The house in Montparnasse, at 86 rue Notre Dame des Champs, where Gösta himself once lived. I sneaked in and saw what the stairwell was like, described every detail for him. Wrote which name was on each door. He loved it. He still knew many of the people who lived in the building, and he missed them. I wrote about Madame, how she wasn’t throwing as many parties as she had in Stockholm, choosing to roam around the Paris night instead, looking for new artists and authors to seduce. About how she was sleeping longer and longer in the mornings, which gave me time to read.
I learned French, thanks to a dictionary and the books on her shelves. I began with the thinnest and worked up from there, novel by novel. Fantastic books that taught me so much about life and the world. Everything was there, gathered on her wooden shelves. Europe, Africa, Asia, America. The countries, the scents, the environments, the cultures. And the people. Living in such different worlds, and yet still so alike. Full of anxiety, doubt, hate, and love. Like all of us. Like Gösta. Like me.
I could have stayed there forever. My place was among the books; it was where I felt safe. But sadly that didn’t last very long.
One day, on the way home from the butcher with a basket of freshly sliced charcuterie, I was stopped on the street. For one reason. Now, today, when my hunched body and wrinkled face hide every last trace of beauty, it feels good to admit it: once upon a time, I was very beautiful.
A man in a black suit rushed out of a car that had stopped dead in the heavy traffic. He took my head in his hands and stared straight into my eyes. My French was still far from perfect, and he spoke too quickly for me to understand his words. Something about how he wanted me. I was afraid, and tore myself from his grip. Ran as fast as I could, but he got back into the car, which followed me. It drove slowly, right behind me. When I reached Madame’s house, I ran inside and slammed the door. Secured every lock.
The man pounded on the door. Pounded and pounded until Madame herself went to answer it. She swore at me in French.
At the very moment she opened the door, her tone changed, and she immediately invited the man inside. Glared at me and gestured for me to disappear. She stood up straight and strutted around him as if he was royalty. I didn’t understand this. They vanished into the drawing room, but after just a few minutes she came rushing to me in the kitchen.
“Get washed, straighten yourself up! Take that apron off. Mon dieu, monsieur wants to see you.”
She grabbed my cheeks between her thumb and forefinger. Nipped firmly several times to make the skin flush.
“There. Smile, my girl. Smile!” she whispered, pushing me ahead of her. I forced myself to smile at the man in the armchair, and he immediately got to his feet. Studied me from head to toe. Looked into my eyes. Ran his finger over my skin. Pinched the flesh around my slender waist. Sighed at my earlobes and flicked them with his fingers. Studied me in silence. Then he backed away and sat down again. I didn’t know what I was meant to do, so I just stood there with my eyes fixed on the floor.
“Oui!” he eventually said, bringing both hands to his face. He got up again and spun me around.
“Oui!” he repeated, once I was finally standing still in front of him.
Madame tittered happily. Then something very strange happened. She invited me to sit down. On the sofa. In the drawing room. Together with them. She smiled at my wide eyes and waved firmly, as though to show that she was serious. I sat at the very edge of the seat, my knees firmly clenched together and my back straight. I smoothed the black fabric of my maid’s dress, which was crumpled where the apron had been, and listened attentively to the rapid French bouncing back and forth between the man and Madame. The few words I could understand provided no context at all. I still didn’t know who was sitting in the armchair opposite me, nor why he was so important.
“This is Jean Ponsard, my girl,” Madame suddenly said, in her French-tinged Swedish. As if I
should know who that was. “He is a famous fashion designer, very famous. He wants you to be a live mannequin for his clothes.”
I raised my eyebrows. A mannequin? Me? I barely knew what that meant.
Madame stared at me, expectation burning in those green eyes of hers. Her lips were slightly parted, as though she wanted to speak if I wouldn’t.
“Don’t you see? You’ll be famous. This is every girl’s dream. Smile!” Her irritation at my silence was so tangible that it made me shudder. She shook her head and snorted. Then she told me to pack my things.
Half an hour later, I found myself sitting in the back seat of Monsieur Ponsard’s car. The bag in the trunk contained only clothes. No books. I had left those with Madame.
It was the last time I saw her. Much later, I found out that she had drunk herself to death. They had found her in the bathtub. Drowned.
5
“For she’s a jolly good fellow, which nobody can deny . . .” Doris trails off mid-song and falls silent for a moment. “Or rather: which I cannot deny! Happy birthday, dear Jenny!” She continues singing, her eyes fixed on the screen and the smiling woman in front of her. Once she finishes, Jenny’s children clap.
“Wonderful, Doris! Thank you so much! I can’t believe you always remember.”
“How could I forget?”
“I guess, how could you? Just think . . . When I came into your life, nothing was ever the same again, right?”
“No, my darling, that’s when it got richer. How sweet you were! And well-behaved, laughing away in your playpen.”
The Red Address Book Page 4
