Read Online In the Shadows of Paris (The Predator Of Batignolles) by Claude Izner - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Claude Izner
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purpose is fulfilled.’
He pictured himself and his beloved Daphné strolling along the paths in the Chelsea Physic Garden, near the Royal Hospital. He could almost taste her scent on his lips. Daphné was buried in Highgate Cemetery. Fifteen years already! He had felt lost without her – a prisoner to hostile forces that threatened to engulf him! And then he had begun to understand that death may claim people’s bodies, but their souls live on.
‘The dead are thinking of us when we think of them.’
He felt a sudden overwhelming need of affection. The image of Djina Kherson imposed itself on him. He had only met Tasha’s mother twice, but she was a woman of undeniable grace. Her heart-shaped mouth and auburn hair reminded him of Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s magnificent portrait, Astarte Syriaca , which he found arousing. She radiated maturity, and possessed an almost male energy, which attracted, disconcerted and captivated him. Kenji was a conqueror by nature: when he wanted something he took it. His solitude whispered, ‘Try, you never know.’ But he knew, he knew that Djina Kherson would probably never mean anything to him.
Tasha pushed away the plate of courgettes à la crème. She had no desire to eat in this heat. She decided to add the finishing touches to the painting she was working on. Since returning from Berlin with her mother, she spent two days a week giving watercolour classes, and the rest of her time was taken up with illustrating a translation of Homer. Her own work was suffering as a result. And yet she was happy to be able to help Djina out. She missed the two other people dearest to her heart: her sister Ruhléa, who was living in Cracow with her husband, a Czech doctor called Milos Tábor, and her father Pinkus. He tried to sound positive in his letters from New York, but they betrayed his feeling of rootlessness.
During her time in Berlin, Tasha had realised how strong her attachment to Victor was, and although she was in no hurry to get married, she had agreed to move in with him. Their home consisted of a bedroom, a kitchen, a bathroom and a darkroom. On the other side of the courtyard, the space she used as a studio doubled when necessary as a sitting-cum-dining room.
The bond between her and the man she loved had deepened since she had decided to create a series of paintings based on his photographs.
Victor’s studies of children at work had led to him photographing a troupe of young acrobats. From there his interest had turned towards the world of fairgrounds, to which he felt an irresistible attraction. The freaks, strongmen, lion tamers, fire-eaters, clowns, showmen and jugglers were the magical made real, and he loved working in that milieu – especially as Tasha shared his fascination. She had drawn inspiration from his prints of a wooden carousel. One of her paintings depicted a pair of soldiers capering about with two buxom women, who were dizzy from spinning, their skirts lifting as they turned. Another portrayed a solitary lad gripping the reins of his nag as he streaked past the finishing line to win the Chantilly Derby cup. She was satisfied she had followed Odilon Redon’s advice on abstract backgrounds, and she thought the relaxed posture of one of the women leaning back to kiss a soldier worked well. Her fluid brushstrokes resembled those of Berthe Morisot, differing in the precision of her contours.
Victor loved this collaborative work, which he referred to as ‘their baby’. Djina was trying to encourage her daughter to marry and have children; she would soon be twenty-six. Tasha didn’t object to the thought of marriage, but she couldn’t imagine having a baby for several years; she was determined to be free to continue what she’d started. Victor never mentioned it any more. Did he really want to be a father? She stretched her arms, her body filled with a delicious lethargy. Madame Victor Legris! She was already associated with his photography; he’d be
He pictured himself and his beloved Daphné strolling along the paths in the Chelsea Physic Garden, near the Royal Hospital. He could almost taste her scent on his lips. Daphné was buried in Highgate Cemetery. Fifteen years already! He had felt lost without her – a prisoner to hostile forces that threatened to engulf him! And then he had begun to understand that death may claim people’s bodies, but their souls live on.
‘The dead are thinking of us when we think of them.’
He felt a sudden overwhelming need of affection. The image of Djina Kherson imposed itself on him. He had only met Tasha’s mother twice, but she was a woman of undeniable grace. Her heart-shaped mouth and auburn hair reminded him of Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s magnificent portrait, Astarte Syriaca , which he found arousing. She radiated maturity, and possessed an almost male energy, which attracted, disconcerted and captivated him. Kenji was a conqueror by nature: when he wanted something he took it. His solitude whispered, ‘Try, you never know.’ But he knew, he knew that Djina Kherson would probably never mean anything to him.
Tasha pushed away the plate of courgettes à la crème. She had no desire to eat in this heat. She decided to add the finishing touches to the painting she was working on. Since returning from Berlin with her mother, she spent two days a week giving watercolour classes, and the rest of her time was taken up with illustrating a translation of Homer. Her own work was suffering as a result. And yet she was happy to be able to help Djina out. She missed the two other people dearest to her heart: her sister Ruhléa, who was living in Cracow with her husband, a Czech doctor called Milos Tábor, and her father Pinkus. He tried to sound positive in his letters from New York, but they betrayed his feeling of rootlessness.
During her time in Berlin, Tasha had realised how strong her attachment to Victor was, and although she was in no hurry to get married, she had agreed to move in with him. Their home consisted of a bedroom, a kitchen, a bathroom and a darkroom. On the other side of the courtyard, the space she used as a studio doubled when necessary as a sitting-cum-dining room.
The bond between her and the man she loved had deepened since she had decided to create a series of paintings based on his photographs.
Victor’s studies of children at work had led to him photographing a troupe of young acrobats. From there his interest had turned towards the world of fairgrounds, to which he felt an irresistible attraction. The freaks, strongmen, lion tamers, fire-eaters, clowns, showmen and jugglers were the magical made real, and he loved working in that milieu – especially as Tasha shared his fascination. She had drawn inspiration from his prints of a wooden carousel. One of her paintings depicted a pair of soldiers capering about with two buxom women, who were dizzy from spinning, their skirts lifting as they turned. Another portrayed a solitary lad gripping the reins of his nag as he streaked past the finishing line to win the Chantilly Derby cup. She was satisfied she had followed Odilon Redon’s advice on abstract backgrounds, and she thought the relaxed posture of one of the women leaning back to kiss a soldier worked well. Her fluid brushstrokes resembled those of Berthe Morisot, differing in the precision of her contours.
Victor loved this collaborative work, which he referred to as ‘their baby’. Djina was trying to encourage her daughter to marry and have children; she would soon be twenty-six. Tasha didn’t object to the thought of marriage, but she couldn’t imagine having a baby for several years; she was determined to be free to continue what she’d started. Victor never mentioned it any more. Did he really want to be a father? She stretched her arms, her body filled with a delicious lethargy. Madame Victor Legris! She was already associated with his photography; he’d be
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