Read Online The Velvet Hours by Alyson Richman - Free Book Online Page A

and stretched as tightly as ribbon.
    *   *   *
    â€œYou are becoming a connoisseur,” Charles remarked one day as he settled into the sofa. Marthe had opened the tall shutters to the room, and she could see a small constellation of dust floating in the sunlight, like stardust illuminated in midair.
    She pulled up her skirt and settled down beside him. On the side table he had left his gold pocket watch for her to turn the hands once more. How she loved this ritual between them, how they kept their own sense of time.
    â€œIt’s interesting to see what you’re drawn to . . . Most people gravitate to one style or period exclusively. But you’re like a piece of cut crystal. A thousand prisms cast through a single set of eyes.”
    She smiled and reached for his hand. “I’m glad you think it’s money well spent.”
    â€œIndeed, I do,” he said, squeezing her fingers.
    â€œI have this memory of you, Marthe, when we were in Venice. I took you to the church of San Giorgio dei Greci
 
. . . Do you remember? It was pitch dark when we first entered. The place smelled so damp, like an old bank vault.” He closed his eyes, lost briefly in the memory. “But then, suddenly from the shadows the paintings by Carpaccio emerged like a beacon of light. I heard this little gasp escape from your lips . . . and as I turned to face you, I witnessed your face transform. It was a revelation.
    â€œYou brought me so much joy at that moment. Just like the paintings of San Giorgio before us, you illuminated the whole room.”
    She was so taken by his words. It wasn’t just the affectionate way Charles had remembered her that afternoon, it was also that he had recalled an intimate moment between them that had occurred beyond the bedroom. And that moved her even more.
    For several seconds, both of them remained silent.
    â€œCharles . . .” She was so touched to hear him speak so sweetly about her, she felt her voice tremble slightly.
    â€œI remember that afternoon perfectly.”
    â€œAnd the evening, too.” He closed his eyes and smiled. “That night when you took down your hair in that splendid bed. I wouldn’t be much of a man if I failed to mention that, too.”
    *   *   *
    She soon owned five paintings. The wood-paneled dining room, rarely used, now became an extended gallery in which she could display her burgeoning art collection. She placed a painting of a young woman holding a parasol rendered in soft, chalky hues over the oak mantelpiece and flanked it with two rhinoceros horns that Ichiro had somehow convinced her to buy.
    She still visited Ichiro weekly. Their relationship had developed beyond client and dealer; she considered him a friend.
    They were both outsiders. He a foreigner in Paris, she a woman of the demimonde. Ichiro understood, without her needing to explain, the paradox of her existence—that her life was as cloistered as it was independent. That she lived very much like the women in his scrolls, cultivated for the pleasure of others: an artist of the body, a connoisseur of its peaks and valleys, a lover of its acquired tastes. She belonged to a world as elusive as a poem. A plume of incense, as fleeting as the moonlight. And to those who understood it, a world exquisitely pure.
    It had been Ichiro who told Marthe stories of the geisha back in his native Japan. Women who were desired not only for their beauty,but also for their charm. She would lose herself in the ink and parchment as his hands unfurled yet another scroll, as she saw women who were well versed in poetry, art, and music as well as the mechanics of love.
    His affection for Marthe was genuine, for he had made a living out of recognizing things that were beautiful and rare. But what charmed Ichiro most about Marthe was her curiosity. She did not have a life that afforded her the ability to travel. But when