The Red Address Book

by Sofia Lundberg

  It was Nora who managed to get me my first shoot for Vogue. She pretended to be ill and sent me in her place. As the car pulled up outside our door, she pushed me into it with a smile.

  “Stand up straight. Smile. They won’t notice any difference. They’re expecting a beautiful woman, and that’s what they’ll get.”

  The car took me to a large industrial building on the outskirts of the city. There was a small metal sign on the door. Even now, I can remember the nondescript angular letters forming the photographer’s name: Claude Levi. It was just as Nora had said. He nodded to me and pointed to a chair, where I sat to wait.

  I watched as assistants carried in clothes, which they draped over wooden mannequins. Claude went to them several times, studying the clothes with the editor of Vogue. They picked out four dresses, all in shades of pink. The assistants brought out a number of necklaces: long ones, red ones, others made of glass beads. They turned to me. Studied me from head to toe.

  “She looks different.”

  “Wasn’t she brunette?”

  “She’s pretty; it’ll be better with a blonde,” the editor said, with an approving nod. Then they turned away from me again. As though I, a living and breathing person, wasn’t there in the room. As though I was just one of the wooden mannequins.

  I sat there until someone came to move me to another chair. There, my nails were painted red and makeup was applied; my hair was curled and sprayed with sugar solution. That left it stiff and heavy, so I kept my neck straight and my head still. I couldn’t ruin the precisely positioned strands.

  The camera stood in the middle of the room, on a wooden tripod. A small black box with a collapsible zoom made of pleated leather. Claude circled around it, moving it a few centimeters backward, forward, to one side. Searching for the right angle. I was lounging across a chair, with one arm draped over the backrest. There were hands all over my body. Smoothing fabric, straightening necklaces, powdering my nose.

  Claude barked out instructions. “Keep your head still! Twist your hand a millimeter to the right! The dress is crumpled!” When he was finally ready to take the pictures, I had to sit perfectly still until the shutters closed.

  It could have ended there. With a pretty cover depicting a blonde woman in a pink dress.

  But it didn’t.

  Once we were finished with the pictures for the magazine, Claude Levi came over to me. He asked me to pose for yet another photograph. An artistic image, he said. I kept the dress on while the makeup artists packed away their makeup, the hairdressers their brushes and bottles, the stylist and the editor the clothes and other things. The room was empty when he eventually asked me to lie down on the floor. He spread out my hair like a fan and fixed small birch leaves into it with pins. I felt proud as I lay there, proud that he had asked me. Acknowledged. He leaned over me, angled the tripod, and held the body of the camera with both hands. He told me to part my lips. I did as he said. He told me to look down the lens with desire in my eyes. I did as he said. He told me to touch the tip of my tongue to my top lip. I hesitated.

  At that, he moved the camera to one side, took hold of my wrists, and held them above my head. Too firmly. His face moved closer to mine, and he kissed me. Forced his tongue between my teeth. I clenched my jaw and kicked my legs to break free. But my hair was stuck to the floor; the pins held fast. I closed my eyes, readied myself for the pain, and tore myself loose. Our heads collided, and he grabbed his forehead, swearing. I seized the opportunity, forcing my way past him and then breaking into a run. Straight through the door. Barefoot, without any of my things or even my own clothes. Wearing the dress I had been photographed in. He shouted “Putain!” after me, and the word echoed between the buildings. Whore!

  I ran and I ran. Straight through the industrial area, in among the buildings. I cut myself on shards of glass, on stones. The soles of my feet were bleeding, but I didn’t stop. The adrenaline made me keep going until I knew I was safe.

  But I was completely lost. I sat down on a stone wall. The pink dress was drenched in sweat, and the fabric felt cold against my skin. As well-dressed Parisians passed by, I hid my bloody feet by pressing them against the wall. No one stopped. No one asked whether I needed help.

  Day turned into evening, and I stayed where I was.

  Evening turned into night, and I stayed where I was.

  The torn soles of my feet had stopped bleeding when I eventually, very slowly, limped into a courtyard and stole a bicycle. An unlocked, rusty men’s bike. I hadn’t cycled since my childhood in Stockholm, and even then I hadn’t done it especially often—only when the postman finished his round and let us children have a go on his. I wobbled down street after street. Saw the red sun rise and people wake. Caught the scent of bread ovens and wood stoves being lit. Tasted the salt of my own snot and tears. The streets felt more and more familiar, and I eventually saw Nora leap up from a bench by the rue d’Auteuil metro station and come running toward me. She cried out when she saw me. I was shaking from exhaustion.

  We sat down on the sidewalk, close together as always. She pulled a cigarette from her pocket and listened patiently as I told her, between deep puffs, what had happened.

  “We’re not working with Claude anymore. I promise,” she said, leaning her head against mine.

  “We’re not working with him anymore.” I sniffed.

  “It doesn’t matter if it is Vogue.”

  “No, it doesn’t matter if it is Vogue.”

  But it did matter. It wasn’t the last time Nora worked for Claude. And it wasn’t my last time either. That was just what life was like as a live mannequin. We didn’t question it. A good job was a kind of affirmation, and saying no wasn’t an option. But I made sure I was never left alone with him again.

  The Red Address Book

  N. NILSSON, GÖSTA

  I was bedridden for weeks, with thick bandages around my feet. The room filled with the rank stench of pus and sickness. Monsieur Ponsard was furious because he had no replacement for me at the department store. He came to see me every day and muttered to himself when he noticed I wasn’t making progress. I never dared tell him what had happened. That kind of thing just wasn’t done back then.

  One day, I received a letter from Gösta. It contained just one line, written in sprawling uppercase letters in the middle of the page.

  I’M COMING SOON!

  Soon, when was soon? The thought of possibly seeing him filled me with expectation, and I hoped I would finally get to walk with him through the city I had come to call my home. To see his Paris, to show him mine. I waited for him every day, but he never came. Nor did I receive any further letters providing an explanation or an arrival date.

  Before long, my feet had healed and I could walk again. But Gösta remained silent. Every day when I came home, I would eagerly ask the matron whether there had been any visitors, any phone calls or letters. But the answer was always no. I can still remember the sarcastic, lopsided smile she gave me every time she stated the bad news. Her complete lack of compassion was infuriating.

  Nora and I detested the matron as much as she detested us. When I think back, I can’t even remember her name. I wonder whether I ever knew. To us, she was just gouvernante. Or, when she couldn’t hear us, vinaigre.

  Months passed before Gösta’s next letter arrived.

  Dear Doris,

  These are difficult times in Stockholm. Perhaps the same is true of my beloved Paris? Unemployment is high, and people are saving their money rather than buying art. The payment for three canvases I sold has failed to materialize. I lack even the money to buy milk. I have no choice but to swap my paintings for food. As a result, a ticket to Paris is currently an unachievable dream. My dearest little Doris, once again I will not be able to come to you. I shall remain here. At Bastugatan 25. I wonder whether I will ever be able to leave this address. I continue to dream of the day I shall see you again.

  Live! Astonish the world. I am proud of you.

  Your frie
nd,

  Gösta

  I’m sitting with that letter in my hand now; it is still in my possession. Please, Jenny, don’t throw away my letters. If you don’t want the tin box, bury it with me.

  My longing for Gösta grew stronger and stronger. I could still see his face when I closed my eyes, could hear his voice. The one that had talked to me while I cleaned Madame’s apartment at night. The one that asked so many questions, that took an interest in my mind.

  That remarkable man, with the strange paintings and the boyfriends he tried to hide from the world, became a fantasy figure. A link to my old life. A feeling that there was, despite everything, someone who cared about me.

  But his letters became more infrequent. And I wrote to him less and less. Nora and I had left behind those lonely nose-in-a-book nights, swapping them for luxurious parties at lavish addresses. With rich young men who would do anything to have us.

  The Red Address Book

  P. PESTOVA, ELEONORA

  Every day, we witnessed the transformation as our faces were made up and our hair was curled. As the beautiful dresses were draped over our bodies. The makeup back then was completely different from today’s. Thick layers were painted and powdered onto our skin; our eyes were lined with heavy black strokes. The shape of our faces changed as natural fine lines and angles were smoothed over. Our eyes became big and glittering.

  Beauty is the most manipulative force of all, and we quickly learned to exploit it. With our makeup on, and stunning dresses, we stood up straight and enjoyed the power. A beautiful person is listened to, admired. This became all too clear to me later in life, when my skin suddenly lost its elasticity and my hair started to turn white. When people stopped looking at me as I walked through a room. That day will arrive. For everyone.

  But in Paris, it was my appearance that carried me through life. And as we mannequins got older, as we worked at better jobs that paid more, our self-confidence grew. We were independent women; we could support ourselves and even afford a little luxury. The matron had long since disappeared. We liked to leave the apartment in the evening, making our way out into the Paris night, where the intellectuals and the wealthy entertained themselves to the tones of jazz. We entertained ourselves too.

  We were welcome everywhere, but it wasn’t the parties themselves that tempted Nora; she was far more interested in the champagne. We were never alone, never without a glass of bubbly in hand. We arrived together, but usually parted soon after. Nora would linger by the bar while I danced. She preferred intellectual conversations with men who offered her drinks. She was well read, could talk about art and books, about politics. If the men stopped ordering her drinks, she would stop talking. Then she would track me down, discreetly pull at the fabric of my dress, and we would leave with our heads held high, before the bartender had time to realize that no one was planning to pay.

  We were women by this time and could take care of ourselves. Should have been able to take care of ourselves. The neighbors would flash us disdainful looks when we came home late at night, sometimes in the company of an admirer or two. We were young and we were free, but we were looking for real men. That was what you did back then. Someone who was kind, handsome, and rich, as Nora used to say. Who could take us away from the heavily made-up superficiality that surrounded us. Who could give us security. And we found plenty of candidates. Men came to see us in our apartment with hat in hand, with roses held behind their back. Asked us out for coffee in one of Paris’s many cafés. Some even dropped to one knee and proposed. But we always said no. There was always something that didn’t seem right. It might be the way they spoke, their clothes, their smile, or their scent. Nora was looking for perfection rather than love. She was firm on that point. She didn’t want to return to the poverty she had grown up with in Czechoslovakia. I realized, however, that there had been a childhood sweetheart. I saw the sorrow in her eyes as she placed a newly arrived letter on the stack of unopened envelopes at the back of her wardrobe. As it turned out, reason would prove defenseless against love, even for her.

  Nora always asked someone else to answer the door whenever the bell rang, so that, if it was for her, she could decide from a distance whether she wanted to see whoever was standing there. If someone was looking for her and she didn’t show up, we were meant to say she was away. One evening, I was the one to answer the door. The man standing in front of me had kind nut-brown eyes, a short black beard, and a loose-fitting suit. He took off his cap and ran his fingers through his rough crewcut, nodded faintly. He looked like a farmer who had accidentally wandered into the city. In one hand, he was holding a white peony. He said her name. I shook my head.

  “I’m afraid she isn’t home.”

  But the man didn’t reply. His eyes were fixed somewhere behind me. I turned around. There was Eleonora. It was as if the energy between them formed a physical bridge. They started to speak in a language I couldn’t understand. Eventually, she threw herself into his arms, crying.

  The very next day, they were gone.

  The Red Address Book

  P. PESTOVA, ELEONORA DEAD

  Life was empty without Nora. I had no one to laugh with, no one to drag me out into the Paris night. Books became my company once again, though now I could afford to buy my own. I took them to the park on my days off and read them in the sun. I read modern authors: Gertrude Stein, Ernest Hemingway, Ezra Pound, and F. Scott Fitzgerald. They kept me far removed from the glamorous life Nora and I had shared. I was happier among the trees and birds; things felt calmer there. Sometimes I would bring a small bag of bread crumbs and scatter them on the bench where I was sitting. Small birds would come and keep me company then. Some so tame that they ate straight from my palm.

  Nora had left a forwarding address when she disappeared. To begin with, I wrote her long letters; I missed her. I never got a reply. I fantasized about what she was doing, what her days were like now, about the man with the nut-brown eyes and their life together. I wondered whether her love for him was strong enough to compensate for losing a life of money, luxury, and admirers.

  One night, there was a knock at the door. When I opened it, I barely recognized her. Nora’s face was tan and her hair was lank. Seeing my alarm, she just shook her head and pushed past me. Answering the question I still hadn’t asked, she whispered:

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  I hugged her. There was so much I wanted to know. Nora’s swollen cheeks overshadowed her pretty features. Her heavy shawl couldn’t hide her belly. I felt it bulge against my own.

  “You’re having a baby!” I took a step back and placed both hands on her stomach.

  She shuddered and pushed them away. Shook her head and pulled her shawl tighter.

  “I have to start working again; we need money. The harvest failed this year, and I used the last of our money for the train ticket.”

  “But you can’t work looking like this. Monsieur Ponsard will be angry when he sees you,” I said, astonished.

  “Please don’t tell him,” she whispered quietly.

  “I won’t have to, my love. It’s so obvious; there’s no hiding it now.”

  “I should never have gone home with him!” She started to cry.

  “Do you love him?”

  She paused, then nodded.

  “I’ll help you, I promise. You can stay here a few days, then I’ll make sure you get home,” I said. “Go back to him.”

  “Life is so much harder there,” she sobbed.

  “You can always come back here once you’ve had the baby. All this will still be here! And you’ll still have your beauty, you’ll be able to work again.”

  “I have to be able to work again,” she whispered.

  That night, she fell asleep in my bed. We slept close together, and I could make out the faint scent of alcohol on her breath. Quietly, I crawled out of bed and shamelessly rifled through her handbag. I found a hip flask at the bottom, unscrewed the lid, and sniffed. Nora had swapped champagne fo
r cheap spirits. She had continued to drink, even when the partying stopped.

  She avoided meeting Monsieur Ponsard. We spent our last time together conversing intimately and taking long walks through Paris. One week later, she went back. I stroked her rounded belly before I waved her off at the platform. Strong, beautiful Nora—in only a few short months, a shadow of her former self. Just before the train departed, she leaned out the window and pressed into my hand a small golden angel made of porcelain. She didn’t say anything, just held up her hand in a slow wave. I ran alongside the train, but it picked up speed and I dropped back. I shouted, asked her to write to me and tell me all about the baby. She heard, and every now and then a letter would appear in my letterbox. She told me about the baby girl, Marguerite, and about the hard work on the farm, how she longed for Paris and the life she had left behind. But as the years passed, the letters became more and more infrequent, and eventually I received one from a different sender. It contained a short message in misspelled French: Eleonora et maintnant mort. Eleonora is recent dead.

  I never did get an explanation. Maybe the alcohol killed her. Or having a second child. Maybe she just couldn’t cope any longer.

  But ever since the day she left, I have thought of her whenever I see an angel. All angels remind me of the small golden one that she pressed into my hand.

  When I heard the news, I opened my address book, slowly crossed out her name, and wrote the word DEAD in golden ink. Golden like the sun.

  The Red Address Book

  S. SMITH, ALLAN

  Do you remember the man in my locket, Jenny? The one you found in a drawer last time you came to visit?