Montparnasse. Thierry Sagnier
cat, picking items up, inspecting them. “What is that?”
“A table lighter,” Johnson explained. The lighter was in the shape of a small pistol, with the flame coming from the barrel. Kiki aimed it at Johnson, squeezed the trigger, went, “Pan!” She smiled. “C’est mignon! Can I have it?”
Johnson didn’t smoke, but kept the lighter around for friends who did. He shrugged. Kiki went to her coat and put the lighter in a pocket.
Then she entered the bedroom and inspected items there. She dropped to the bed and said, “Come here. Sit by me.”
Johnson did, feeling he was not really there but looking on, a third, voyeuristic party.
In the past few months, Kiki had invaded his fantasies and been the leading actress in his nighttime reveries. Now he looked at her dispassionately and noticed, as her girlfriend had revealed to La Rotonde’s clients, that Kiki indeed had no pubic hair. He decided her breasts did deserve the title of la plus belle poitrine de Paris. She had rather small hands but largish feet. Her ankles were solid, made to anchor her to the earth, and her thighs were thick with muscle. She had a good waist and a deep-set navel. He noted all this without a shiver of lust, as a painter might inspect a bowl of fruit.
She was in a hurry. She helped him undo his belt and pants, removed his shoes, slid the trousers off and let them drop in a heap on the floor. In time, she moaned, groaned, panted, bit her lip, rolled her eyes, and raised her hips to meet his thrusts. She mounted him, bucked and sweated mightily to a pretended orgasm and forced him to come without conviction. She was kind, swearing upon the graves of all her ancestors that she had been pleasured beyond her wildest dreams. She was lying; he knew it, she knew he knew it; it was acceptable to both. She went into the bathroom and, not bothering to close the door, sat on the toilet, then wiped her hairless self with his bath towel. When she saw him looking, she asked, “Do you know Fujita? The little Japanese with the earring and the sandals? When I pose for him, he gets down on all fours and inspects me like a doctor. ‘Very funny. No hair!’ Do you think it’s funny, Mr. James Johnson?”
He said that, no, he didn’t; he actually found her smoothness attractive.
She nodded. “Yes, a lot of men have told me that.” She put on her coat, stroked his jaw with both her hands and gave him a lingering wet kiss. “Now we can be friends.”
She left, waving gaily. Mme. Bertrand, still in the courtyard abusing her broom, turned her back and pretended not to see.
Chapter 15
Frederick slept, making strange bubbling noises in his throat. He was agitated; Easter jolted awake when he flung out his left arm and struck her shoulder.
It was still dark outside but light was beginning to creep above the horizon. They had a corner room with two windows, and the view displayed the changing face of the city. To the left were the Champs Elysées, glowing with a million incandescent lights. To the right was a much smaller street lit by gas lanterns.
Easter rose quietly, looked out to see a lamplighter extinguishing flames with a long bamboo pole ending in a candlesnuffer. What a strange existence, to be responsible for clarity and darkness, she thought. The worker was an older man wearing a slouch cap. He shuffled from lamp to lamp with a worn gait, and his dexterity was admirable. There was only a small aperture through which he could thrust the pole and, with a deft twist of his wrist, smother the flame. She remembered reading that workmen who paint long bridges never cease their labor, beginning one end of the structure as soon as they finish the other. This fellow’s career, she thought, must be similar.
The morning before, she’d watched the boulangerie’s cart delivering baskets of breads and croissants to the hotel’s kitchen. Another truck brought flowers, still another, milk, eggs and butter.
A police vehicle sped by in silence, its distinctive siren hushed in deference to the hotel’s slumbering guests.
She looked at the clock, opened her diary and began to write.
*****
Paris, Thursday, April 24, 1919
It is shortly after 5 a.m. I have had only a few hours’ rest, but I love this city’s early morning stillness. Paris gathers its strength, stretches in anticipation of the day.
Things are right here. Not that I pretend to be French; I don’t. I am proud of my American-ness. Though many loathe admitting it, without the United States, there would be no France; or rather, there would be a France, but it would speak German—a repugnant thought.
I belong and have to let go certain of my ambitions already. For example, I realized yesterday, shortly after I saw James’s portraits hanging on the walls of his apartment, that I did not come to paint. I would like to, and will, but right now, I simply want to witness.
Frederick is stirring. Whatever is he dreaming of to cause such agitation? What do men dream of? Women and sex? Politics, wealth and power? War and conquest, or more mundane things, cufflinks and shirt studs, razors that shave properly and shoes that fit?
*****
She paused, put down her pen. Frederick had thrown off the blanket; she carefully draped it back over his sleeping form.
*****
How little I know him. Is it a wife’s duty to gentle a husband whose slumber is distraught? When he is first awake is when I like him best, without defenses and before he has marshalled pretensions of manhood. Thank God Frederick is not a vain popinjay, nor perpetually chasing skirts. Both Enid and Charlotte told me he does not fit the type, and he has never to my knowledge given even a passing glance to the pretty demoiselles strutting the boulevards. They look at him, though. Some ignore my presence and turn when he passes. Their admiring eyes are not lost on me. I am fortunate indeed to have found such a mate.
Why then do I harbor this lack of passion for him, this absence of desire? I like Frederick, and I am sure many lifelong relationships have begun and lasted on far less secure footing, but why don’t I have the feeling Enid described after her affair with the dance band mandolin player?
The night aboard La Savoie had everything to do with me and nothing to do with Frederick, save that he was there, available and willing.
Perhaps something is seriously wrong with me; a flaw I did not know how to recognize until marriage.
Now, Frederick is talking in his sleep; it is unintelligible.
The Rotonde was a noisy disappointment. The food was indifferent, the smoke and unmistakable aroma of unwashed bodies quite revolting. Frederick noted this immediately, of course. James was there with his thick-ankled model. They were quite chummy, holding hands like sweethearts.
She was rather cheap, what Father used to call an ‘overly made-up floozy.’ I wonder if what I have read of the modeling profession is true. Are they really just a step above prostitutes, these women who disrobe at the whim of a man with a brush?
I have made too much of the encounter with James. He is a handsome man, but no more so than Frederick. His mannerisms imply a proper upbringing and his sad eyes yearn to tell stories. His missing brother must be a painful weight to bear.
Now it is past dawn. Frederick’s eyes are open. I can feel them on my back. My “friend” has arrived. I am sure Frederick cannot be aware of this. Do men know of these things?
I shall take him to breakfast later and broach the idea of lengthening our stay.
Chapter 16
“Darling, it’s out of the question. Our cabin is booked. My parents have already planned a dinner to celebrate our return. There are things we must do in Chicago: look for a home, purchase furnishings, and start a family, and frankly, I want our children to be American, not French.”
Frederick buttered his croissant and carefully spread plum jam on it. Easter set her fork down, added a sugar cube to her tea and stirred. “Honestly, Easter,” he went on, “the sooner we get home, the better. I don’t know about you, but I haven’t been sleeping well since we