Madame Picasso. Anne Girard
her up into his long slim arms, and twirled her around so that her plaid skirt made a bell behind her.
“Oh, I knew you would find something eventually!”
When Louis set her down he drew her to himself and held her tightly against his bony torso.
She sensed him remembering the boundaries of their friendship as he took a single step backward, the color rising in his pale cheeks.
“That’s such wonderful news. And, as it happens, I have a surprise for you, too—now we must celebrate!” He smiled, revealing crooked yellow teeth.
He held up two tickets as his dim smile broadened. “They are for the Salon des Indépendants tomorrow afternoon,” he said proudly.
“How on earth did you manage them? Everyone in Paris wants to go to that!”
The coveted tickets were nearly impossible to find. Eva had always been too poor and too common to partake in much of what Paris had to offer, so it was all just a fantasy, the glamorous life only a fingertip away. Though she wasn’t entirely thrilled with having to spend the afternoon alone with Louis, now she had the chance to attend the famous Salon des Indépendants! It was one of the most important art exhibits every year and all of the young artists in the city vied to have their work exhibited among the paintings of those who were more well established. Anyone who was anyone in Paris would be there.
“My boss at the newspaper got the tickets for his wife. It turns out she finds some of the artists too vulgar for her taste.”
Eva giggled. She would be the absolute envy of Sylvette—and everyone else at the Moulin Rouge. It was simply beyond her to turn down the offer.
They walked along the Parisian lane that snaked its way around the butte de Montmartre, its gray slate roofs and peeling paint welcoming them as a light mist began to fall. Strolling happily, they passed a stall brimming with boxes full of lush, ripe fruit and vegetables. The sweet fragrance mixed with the aroma of freshly baked bread from the boulangerie next door.
Eva glanced up at the Moulin de la Galette beyond, with its pretty windmill. Yes, all the pretty little windmills, and the secret cobblestone alleyways around them, hiding the dance halls and brothels of that seamy neighborhood that shared space with vineyards, gardens and herds of sheep and goats. Up the other way was the place Ravignan, which had become quite famous for the many artists and poets who lived and worked up there at that crumbling old place called the Bateau-Lavoir.
She pushed off a shiver of fascination.
“Shall we pop over to la Maison Rose for a private little celebration before we head home?” he asked. “And afterward, perhaps you’ll allow me a little kiss.”
“We’ve been all through that. You really must give up the idea.” She laughed, making sure her tone was sweet.
“Well, then you shall become my muse, at the very least, if not my lover.” He smiled. Nothing, not even her rejection of his advances, could seem to spoil their two personal victories today. “I need one now that Vollard has actually bought one of my paintings. That is my other big surprise.”
“How wonderful!” she exclaimed. “Then a French muse is fitting. Not a Polish one, at least,” she countered with a happy little smile.
“Tak, pi¸ekna dziewczyno,” he answered her in Polish. Yes, beautiful one. “A French muse. Every good artist needs one of those to inspire him.”
* * *
By night, the Moulin Rouge was a different world than what Eva had seen earlier that day—the glitter of bright lights, the strong smell of perfume and grease paint, the hum of activity. It was thrilling to be even a small part of the backstage enclave.
Trying to keep out of the way as stagehands and actors dashed back and forth past the racks of costumes, Eva stood in the wings with wide-eyed amazement. She was struck by the diverse crowd of performers, everyone chattering, whispering, gossiping, and many of them drinking. To ward off stage fright, they laughingly declared.
Eva noticed that their brightly colored costumes were surprisingly garish. They were certainly cheaply made and sewn. Her mother long ago had taught her to know the difference. Close up, she could see the patches, the repairs, the soiled collars and dirty stockings. It was a disappointment, but she did not let it detract from the absolute thrill she felt at merely being here. It was all so exciting, this vibrant, secret world of performers!
Eva tried to be inconspicuous as she waited for her moment to be called upon. She clasped her hands to keep them from trembling, and her heart was pounding. She recognized all of the performers. Mado Minty breezed past her first, in an emerald taffeta costume with flared hips, cinched waist and a tight bodice. Across the way, near a rack of hats and headdresses, stood the celebrated comedienne Louise Balthy, with her distinctively long face and dark eyes. She was eating a pastry.
As Madame Léautaud had predicted, Eva was called upon several times during the performance to dash in with needle and thread.
Suddenly, she felt someone stumble over her foot.
“Hey, watch what you’re doing! Do you not know who I am?”
Eva jolted at the sharp voice when she realized that it was directed at her. She glanced up from her sewing basket and saw a beautiful woman wearing an elegant costume, rich in detail. She looked just like her posters and Eva would have known her anywhere. This was Mistinguett. She was the current star of the Moulin Rouge.
“I—I’m sorry,” Eva stuttered as the tall, shapely performer glowered down at her.
“Where do they find these people?” The young woman sniffed as she straightened herself and brushed imaginary lint from the velvet bodice of her costume.
“Two minutes, Mistinguett! Two minutes till your next act!” someone called out.
“Sylvette! Where the deuce are you?”
Her harsh tone turned heads and, an instant later, Eva’s roommate dashed forward, clearly mid costume change herself, but bearing a full glass of ruby wine.
“I’m sorry, mademoiselle, I was just in the middle—”
“Sylvette, I don’t give a rat’s tail what you were in the middle of.”
Eva did not move or speak as she watched her roommate reduced to blanch-faced subservience. When the moment passed, she lowered her eyes and, feeling a bit shaken, went back to her needle and thread.
The performance went on, and Eva continued to make costume repairs. A torn sleeve, a popped button. But in the end it was Mistinguett, not Louise Balthy, who split her drawers in a high kick. She stormed off the stage and cast an angry glare at Eva.
“And what are you staring at?”
The sudden question hung accusingly between them. Oh, dear. She hadn’t been staring, had she? Eva could not be certain. Mistinguett glowered at her as a young wardrobe assistant held her hand so she could slip the torn drawers down over her lace-up black shoes.
“Forgive me. I was only waiting,” Eva replied meekly.
“Waiting for what?”
“For your drawers, mademoiselle. So that I can mend them.”
“You? I’ve never seen you here before!”
“I may be new here, mademoiselle, but I am experienced with a needle and thread.”
Mistinguett’s fox-colored eyes widened. “Are you mocking me?”
“No, certainly not, Mademoiselle Mistinguett.”
Eva could feel the heavy weight of stares from some of the other performers, in their many varied costumes and headpieces, as they passed by her. They knew better than to stop, however, when the temperamental star was angry.
“Well, see that you don’t!”
Mistinguett pivoted away sharply. “Do be