Madame Picasso, page 19
As she and Louis stood together at the open door to the very crowded salon, Louis took her hand and gave it a squeeze. She was wearing a stylish new dress of pale rose and lavender fabric. Her waist was tightly cinched with a belt she had found at a little shop on the rue Lepic, over near le Moulin de la Galette. She thought she had begun to look just a bit sophisticated, at last.
“Remember now, here among these people I am known as Marcoussis and I’ve had to try to live up to my mysterious new persona. But if someone were to say something to you about me, no matter how it strikes you, it will all just be in good fun. You are all that matters to me,” he said. Eva privately rolled her eyes at his condescension. She knew then that he was trying to pave the way in case someone remarked about his evening out with Fernande. Eva wanted to look over at him, but she couldn’t. Her friend, her first friend in Paris, was standing right here, lying to her, and covering his tracks clumsily as he did it.
It may be all the rage in Paris among their young crowd, to pursue pleasure first and foremost, but at heart, Eva wasn’t truly one of them. What had happened between her and Picasso was nothing at all like that.
As they made their way into the crowded salon, it was only a moment inside the apartment before she saw Picasso. He looked more magnificent than any man had a right to look. He was sitting at the large table that dominated the center of the room and he was deep in conversation with Gertrude, Alice and a darkly bearded man in spectacles whom Eva did not know.
“There’s Picasso over there, talking with Henri Matisse,” Louis murmured excitedly to her as he pulled her toward them through the crowd. “What an opportunity! But don’t ruin it for me by engaging them in silly conversation if it’s not about art.”
Eva felt the sting of his directive, even though all she could see was Picasso, so purely male as always, sitting in a natty tweed jacket and white open-collar shirt. His dark hair was smoothed back from his ebony eyes, which were rooted intensely on Matisse. She had hoped he would be here, and she found herself smiling as he glanced up and saw her.
“Marcoussis, Mademoiselle Humbert, join us. You know Monsieur Matisse, of course,” Picasso said, waving them over.
“I— We have not had the pleasure. But I do have a thousand questions,” Louis replied a little too eagerly as Picasso stood and chivalrously offered Eva his own chair. Louis was left for a moment to stand beside him. Picasso’s dark gaze settled on Eva but Louis was too enthralled by Matisse to notice. Gertrude stood then and before she could offer her chair to either of them, Picasso quickly slipped into it beside Eva.
“Please, Monsieur Marcoussis, take Alice’s chair over there. I’ve bored these two gentlemen quite long enough about my book. I’m sure they will be only too relieved to go back to discussing art with you. Come, Alice, I see Isadora Duncan and her lover have just arrived. We should greet them,” Gertrude said as she and Alice left the table.
Eva could feel the energy between her and Picasso and it was unsettling. It was impossible to think clearly when he was this close to her. If Louis only knew, she thought, trying her best to keep her wits about her.
Louis began to pepper Picasso and Matisse with questions about form and technique. As they patiently answered him, Eva was pulled from the moment by the touch of a feminine hand on her shoulder, and a female voice just behind her. She felt a shiver, knowing by the change in Picasso’s expression who it was before she even turned around in her chair.
Fernande was dressed in a silky beige dress and pearls, her hair drawn up off her shoulders, enhancing the elegant turn of her neck. Her sensuality remained effortless, reminding Eva yet again of just how different they were. Her presence stopped the conversation.
“What a lovely surprise. I had no idea you would be here, Marcelle. It has been ages. Ah, and Marcoussis.” Fernande indulged him with a casual embrace after he rose to greet her. “Now, gentlemen, if you will excuse us, I must steal Marcelle away so that we can gossip and get caught up. I know nothing of what has been happening with the two of you since the Circus Medrano, and I have a few of my own tales to tell.”
“Remember what I said, ma chérie, things here are all in good fun,” Louis whispered cryptically to Eva.
Before Eva had a chance to object, Fernande spirited her through the crowd, and over to a corner of the room near a window beside a large potted fern. She kissed each of Eva’s cheeks then and took up her hands as if they were sisters.
“How are you, mon amie? You look absolutely stunning. Mistinguett told me she’d taken you to have your hair styled but I had no idea how sophisticated it would make you look!”
“Thank you,” said Eva, not entirely convinced it was a compliment.
“How have you been?”
“Very well. Working a great deal lately.”
“Still at the Moulin Rouge?”
“Yes. I am officially an assistant to the costume designer now, and I also have duties with wardrobe.”
“How lovely. Would you like a drink? I certainly would. I adore Gertude, truly I do. She’s been such a friend and supporter to my Pablo, but these things can be so tiresome, don’t you agree?”
Eva hadn’t realized that, beside them, was a large oak buffet lined with glasses and bottles of wine. For the first time in a while she truly did want a drink. The conversation and events seemed to be happening far too quickly and she was determined to keep up with everything and not say the wrong thing. But that was going to take some effort.
As Fernande poured them each a glass of wine, Eva glanced over and saw Picasso watching them while Louis continued chattering away at Matisse. Picasso’s expression had darkened. Clearly, he was not amused that she and Fernande were saying things he could not hear. Eva looked back at Fernande just as she handed Eva an overly full glass, for which she was suddenly grateful.
“Things for me have not been quite so good. They have been difficult, really,” Fernande confessed. “I’m sure you heard about the whole Mona Lisa affair.”
“I believe I heard something.”
“I don’t mind telling you, it has been absolute hell, and there are so few women, no one, really, I can speak about it with, and not feel judged.”
“Mistinguett?”
“I adore her, obviously. She is one of my dearest friends. But there was something about you that made me trust you from that first conversation between us in the cab.”
Eva felt the pressure once again of guilt’s heavy hand bearing down on her. She took a large sip of wine and then another, unable to look back at Picasso. She knew her face was flushed. She could feel it burning.
“May I confide something in you?” Fernande asked. “I really feel as if I have nowhere else to turn.”
“Our lives are so different. I don’t really see how I could help.”
Eva wanted to strain against the guilt that had taken hold of her. She wanted to run from the room but she knew that she was as trapped as a bug on flypaper. Leaving now would cause a scene and only make things worse.
Fernande leaned forward and lowered her tone. “Marcelle, it’s Picasso. Since the theft and Apollinaire’s arrest, he has been so incredibly cold and distant, you can’t imagine. Our summer trip was a veritable disaster, and I don’t mind telling you he wouldn’t even touch me in Céret. Something has changed between us. I am not to be trifled with like this, I’m truly not.”
That last was a sentiment on which they could agree. The urge to escape disappeared and Eva was suddenly eager to hear what Fernande would say next. She took another long sip of wine, trying to steady herself. Eva liked Fernande in spite of everything, but that only worsened her sense of guilt.
“By the way, you really are so perfect looking.”
“I would say the same of you.”
“I understand why Marcoussis is absolutely enslaved by you. I envy you having that complete devotion from a man. I had it once. Or at least I believed I did.”
As they both glanced over at the table where the artists sat, Fernande’s color deepened suddenly and her expression changed. In the space between Picasso’s and Matisse’s chairs stood two swarthy Italian men talking with them now. The younger, and more handsome, of the pair had caught Fernande’s gaze. Suddenly she seemed flustered, and Eva realized that she had seen them both before. It was that night she and Picasso had looked through the window at l’Ermitage.
Fernande looked back at her then with desperate intensity lighting her eyes.
“If you are my real friend, you and I are going to leave here in a moment. Later, I need you to say that we went somewhere together—that you needed someone to talk with, and we lost all track of time. Will you do that for me?”
Eva was stunned. She had refused Picasso because of Fernande—and now Fernande was about to be unfaithful to him? What if she told Picasso? Would he even believe her? And would it matter if he did? Who truly knew the private world of any two people and what their limits were with one another? The questions circled around in her mind, like bees in a hive. Eva knew she had a choice to make, and none of the available options were good ones. The risks were great no matter how she played it.
She finally drew in a breath of resolve, looking at this strikingly beautiful woman standing before her, her expression piqued by desperation. Eva would go with her now, and she would lie for her later, if anyone asked. She would do it this time. But this war was far from over. Picasso deserved better, she thought angrily. And so did she.
* * *
“That’s absolutely awful,” Sylvette said as she sat back on her heels on her bed in the room they shared at la Ruche. It was late that same evening after Gertrude’s gathering, and after enough time had passed to give Fernande a cover for her infidelity. Eva felt sick. An autumn rain came down in ribbons against the windowpanes and even the walls were made cold by it.
“I know.” Eva sighed, brokenhearted. “But what can I do about it?”
“I can’t think she’ll get away with it. Imagine wanting to make a cuckold of Picasso now that he is becoming so well-known! Why don’t you go to their place, and talk to him? You know she won’t be there.”
“Oh, Sylvette, I can’t.”
“You can’t or you won’t?”
“What’s the difference? I don’t want him that way, because he is angry with Fernande and simply trying to retaliate. He would resent me soon enough for being the one to tell him about her.”
Sylvette shrugged. “You may be right. But then again, would you regret it if you didn’t at least try? He won’t have any idea if you don’t tell him. Give Picasso a chance to do the right thing, hmm? He just might surprise you.”
“Sylvette, he could break my heart.”
“And what will happen to your heart, mon amie, if you walk away from this chance?”
Near midnight, plied with enough wine to give her false courage, Eva stood at the door to Picasso’s apartment before a sour-faced maid in a black uniform, white lace apron and cap. A puddle of rainwater collected beneath Eva’s shoes, and a closed umbrella was at her side.
“Monsieur Picasso n’est pas ici,” the maid said with raised gray eyebrows.
Desperately, Eva peered over the old woman’s broad shoulder to look inside the apartment. She caught only a glimpse of Fernande and Picasso’s private world then. The elegant space, bathed in soft amber light from a collection of dim lamps, was heavily furnished with African masks on the walls, along with paintings, sketches and batik scarves hung as art. There was a Siamese cat lounging on the sofa.
The maid, standing ramrod straight as she held the door, cleared her throat and Eva snapped back to attention. She suddenly felt cheap. Tawdry. It was a mistake. All of it was a grand mistake. She could strangle Sylvette for urging her to do this.
Eva looked down at the book she held in her hand, the racy volume about satyrs Picasso had given her. She wasn’t certain why she had brought it here. An excuse, if she would need one? She felt pathetic.
“May I ask when Monsieur Picasso is expected to return?”
There was a painfully long silence as the maid glared at her and, for a moment, Eva thought she did not mean even to reply.
“Monsieur Picasso has left Paris, and he has not informed me when, or if, he plans to return. Now, since it is late, I shall bid you a good evening. You would be well advised to get yourself back to wherever you came from,” she said brusquely, her gray eyebrow still raised suspiciously. “Have you a message you wish to leave before you go? Something perhaps Madame Picasso can assist you with when she returns?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Eva said.
“Go home, mademoiselle. Believe me, it will be better for you that way.”
The gray-haired woman then slammed the tall, black lacquered door without further ceremony, cutting off Eva’s hope as well as her last bit of pride.
* * *
“Where have you been?”
Eva heard the sharp edge in Louis’s voice even before she was fully inside her room. The place was dark and full of shadows but for the moonlight through the window, and the yellow glow of a single shaded lamp between the two small beds.
Before she could answer, he held up the key to his own studio downstairs.
“Wait at my place,” he directed Sylvette in a frighteningly cold tone. “I need to speak with Eva alone.”
Sylvette looked back and forth to each of them, then silently complied. Eva set the book from Picasso on the dresser, and took a step closer to Louis. Sylvette closed the door. A charged silence sprang up between them as she wearily drew off her raincoat and hung it on the wall hook.
“Can this not wait until morning? I’m awfully tired.”
“I asked where you’ve been.”
The edge in his voice did not soften.
“You know perfectly well I was at Gertrude Stein’s with you.”
“And then you slipped out in the company of Fernande Olivier, without so much as a farewell. I couldn’t help but notice that young, shifty-eyed Italian boy who slipped out a moment later.”
Was that what he thought? She and Ubaldo Oppi? The irony nearly made her laugh. But she saw by his expression that the moment was far too serious for laughter. Perhaps Picasso had seen them leave and thought the same thing. But to proclaim her innocence now was to open up a Pandora’s box, not just about Fernande and Oppi, but potentially about herself and Picasso. Louis moved forward, cloaked in shadows. In that moment, he looked quite menacing.
“Where did you go with Fernande?”
“She took me to Vernin on the rue Cavallotti.”
“Did Ubaldo Oppi join you?”
“Of course not. She needed a friend to talk to.”
Eva had heard Fernande mention that Vernin was her favorite bistro, so the lie came to her quickly enough. But she could tell he was not finished with her.
“Why you? Certainly she has friends more of her station than a theater hand like you.”
Louis had never insulted her before, or been anything but kind. Eva took a step back, but he quickly closed the space between them. His voice now was brittle with suspicion.
“She told me that she didn’t feel at times that she could trust her other friends to understand.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
He gripped her by the arms, clamping his fingers so tightly into her skin that she gasped. Then he drew her close enough to smell his sour breath, and he struck her hard across the face with an open palm.
The memory of being struck by her father vaulted into her mind.
“I’m not lying.” She forced her voice not to quaver as her face began to burn. She couldn’t quite process the fact that he had actually hit her.
“All I’m saying, ma chère Marcelle, is that you are mine now, body and soul. If you were with that artist, I don’t believe I could be responsible for what I might do in response.”
“Get out.”
Louis headed for the door without protest but then he paused and turned back. He stood in the dim light of the hallway. “By the way, Picasso offered us his congratulations.”
“For what?”
“For our engagement, of course. Well, our soon-to-be engagement, since it is all but decided upon. I meant to keep it as a surprise until I had a proper ring to give you, but I went to Vincennes last Tuesday and spoke with your father.”
“You did what?”
“He was most agreeable since he said it is long overdue that you settle down and made someone a proper wife. Since I inferred that we are already lovers, he had no objection.”
“You had no right!”
“I took your innocence, I had every right.”
Eva clutched her temples as incredulity beat out an angry staccato rhythm in her head. Her head throbbed as her mind reeled. She wanted to cry out that they were not lovers. She had given him nothing other than a few moments with her body as she tried to forget the man who would always possess her heart. But that was a closely held secret—like so many other secrets that ruled them all—and she would not breathe a word of it. What she had shared of herself with Picasso felt too sacred.
Chapter 20
The next evening, after the show at the Moulin Rouge, when Eva went to gather up her things, she found a man in a dark coat and black silk top hat waiting for her near the stage door. He was tall and bearded, with deep brown eyes, a long prominent nose and a warm smile. She was surprised when he addressed her as a Mademoiselle Gouel, not as Marcelle Humbert, since few in Paris knew her real name.
“I have been charged by my client to deliver this parcel directly to you, and only you.”
“Your client, monsieur?” she asked, looking down at the small parcel. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.
