gather items in her wake. We gazed at her from the sidelines
as if she were an exotic bird, and we merely grey Parisian pigeons. I sold her two
scarves: one of cream silk, the other a plush thing from dyed blue feathers. I could see
it draped around her neck, and felt as if I had been dusted with a little of her
glamour.
For days afterwards I felt a little
unbalanced, as if the excess of her beauty, her style, had made me aware of its lack in
myself.
Bear Man, meanwhile, came in three more
times. Each time he bought a scarf, each time somehow ensuring that it was I who served
him.
‘You have an admirer,’ remarked
Paulette (Perfumes).
‘Monsieur Lefèvre? Be
careful,’ sniffed Loulou (Bags and Wallets). ‘Marcel in the post room has
seen him in Pigalle, chatting to street girls. Hmph. Talk of the devil.’ She
turned back to her counter.
‘Mademoiselle.’
I flinched, and spun around.
‘I’m sorry.’ He leaned
over the counter, his big hands spanning the glass. ‘I didn’t mean to
frighten you.’
‘I am far from frightened,
Monsieur.’
His brown eyes scanned my face with such
intensity –he seemed to be having an internal conversation to which
I could not be privy.
‘Would you like to look at some more
scarves?’
‘Not today. I wanted … to
ask you something.’
My hand went to my collar.
‘I would like to paint you.’
‘What?’
‘My name is Édouard Lefèvre.
I am an artist. I would very much like to paint you, if you could spare me an hour or
two.’
I thought he was teasing me. I glanced to
where Loulou and Paulette were serving, wondering if they were listening.
‘Why … why would you want to paint
me
?’
It was the first time I ever saw him look
even mildly disconcerted. ‘You really want me to answer that?’
I had sounded, I realized, as if I were
hoping for compliments.
‘Mademoiselle, there is nothing
untoward in what I ask of you. You may bring a chaperone if you choose. I merely
want … Your face fascinates me. It remains in my mind long after I leave La
Femme Marché. I wish to commit it to paper.’
I fought the urge to touch my chin.
My
face? Fascinating?
‘Will … will your wife be there?’
‘I have no wife.’ He reached
into a pocket, and scribbled on a piece of paper. ‘But I do have a lot of
scarves.’ He held it out to me, and I found myself glancing sideways, like a
felon, before I accepted it.
I didn’t tell anybody. I wasn’t
even sure what I would have said. I put on my best gown and took it off again. Twice. Ispent an unusual amount of time pinning my hair. I sat by my
bedroom door for twenty minutes and recited all the reasons why I should not go.
The landlady raised an eyebrow as I finally
left. I had shed my good shoes and slipped my clogs back on to allay her suspicions. As
I walked, I debated with myself.
If your supervisors hear that you modelled for an artist, they will cast doubt on
your morality. You could lose your job!
He wants to paint me! Me, Sophie from St Péronne. The plain foil to
Hélène’s beauty.
Perhaps there is something cheap in my appearance that made him confident I could
not refuse. He consorts with girls in Pigalle …
But what is there in my life other than work and sleep? Would it be so bad to allow
myself this one experience?
The address he had given me was two streets
from the Panthéon. I walked along the narrow cobbled lane, paused at the doorway,
checked the number and knocked. Nobody answered. From above I could hear music. The door
was slightly ajar, so I pushed it open and went in. I made my way quietly up the narrow
staircase until I reached a door. From behind it I could hear a gramophone, a woman
singing of love and despair, a man singing over her, the rich, rasping bass unmistakably
his. I stood for a moment, listening, smiling despite myself. I pushed open the
door.
A vast room was flooded
as if she were an exotic bird, and we merely grey Parisian pigeons. I sold her two
scarves: one of cream silk, the other a plush thing from dyed blue feathers. I could see
it draped around her neck, and felt as if I had been dusted with a little of her
glamour.
For days afterwards I felt a little
unbalanced, as if the excess of her beauty, her style, had made me aware of its lack in
myself.
Bear Man, meanwhile, came in three more
times. Each time he bought a scarf, each time somehow ensuring that it was I who served
him.
‘You have an admirer,’ remarked
Paulette (Perfumes).
‘Monsieur Lefèvre? Be
careful,’ sniffed Loulou (Bags and Wallets). ‘Marcel in the post room has
seen him in Pigalle, chatting to street girls. Hmph. Talk of the devil.’ She
turned back to her counter.
‘Mademoiselle.’
I flinched, and spun around.
‘I’m sorry.’ He leaned
over the counter, his big hands spanning the glass. ‘I didn’t mean to
frighten you.’
‘I am far from frightened,
Monsieur.’
His brown eyes scanned my face with such
intensity –he seemed to be having an internal conversation to which
I could not be privy.
‘Would you like to look at some more
scarves?’
‘Not today. I wanted … to
ask you something.’
My hand went to my collar.
‘I would like to paint you.’
‘What?’
‘My name is Édouard Lefèvre.
I am an artist. I would very much like to paint you, if you could spare me an hour or
two.’
I thought he was teasing me. I glanced to
where Loulou and Paulette were serving, wondering if they were listening.
‘Why … why would you want to paint
me
?’
It was the first time I ever saw him look
even mildly disconcerted. ‘You really want me to answer that?’
I had sounded, I realized, as if I were
hoping for compliments.
‘Mademoiselle, there is nothing
untoward in what I ask of you. You may bring a chaperone if you choose. I merely
want … Your face fascinates me. It remains in my mind long after I leave La
Femme Marché. I wish to commit it to paper.’
I fought the urge to touch my chin.
My
face? Fascinating?
‘Will … will your wife be there?’
‘I have no wife.’ He reached
into a pocket, and scribbled on a piece of paper. ‘But I do have a lot of
scarves.’ He held it out to me, and I found myself glancing sideways, like a
felon, before I accepted it.
I didn’t tell anybody. I wasn’t
even sure what I would have said. I put on my best gown and took it off again. Twice. Ispent an unusual amount of time pinning my hair. I sat by my
bedroom door for twenty minutes and recited all the reasons why I should not go.
The landlady raised an eyebrow as I finally
left. I had shed my good shoes and slipped my clogs back on to allay her suspicions. As
I walked, I debated with myself.
If your supervisors hear that you modelled for an artist, they will cast doubt on
your morality. You could lose your job!
He wants to paint me! Me, Sophie from St Péronne. The plain foil to
Hélène’s beauty.
Perhaps there is something cheap in my appearance that made him confident I could
not refuse. He consorts with girls in Pigalle …
But what is there in my life other than work and sleep? Would it be so bad to allow
myself this one experience?
The address he had given me was two streets
from the Panthéon. I walked along the narrow cobbled lane, paused at the doorway,
checked the number and knocked. Nobody answered. From above I could hear music. The door
was slightly ajar, so I pushed it open and went in. I made my way quietly up the narrow
staircase until I reached a door. From behind it I could hear a gramophone, a woman
singing of love and despair, a man singing over her, the rich, rasping bass unmistakably
his. I stood for a moment, listening, smiling despite myself. I pushed open the
door.
A vast room was flooded
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