Honeymoon in Paris: A Novella (6 page)

You must not think like this, I scolded myself. But my mind careered around like a runaway horse, headed in new and terrible directions, and I could not rein it in.

It had begun to grow dark, and outside I could hear the man who lit the streetlamps singing softly under his breath. It was a sound I used to find comforting. I got up, vaguely planning to clear up the broken glass before Édouard returned. But instead I found myself walking towards his canvases, which were stacked along the far wall. I hesitated in front of them, then began to pull them out, gazing at each one. There was Laure Le Comte, the
fille de rue,
wearing a green serge dress, another of her naked, leaning against a pillar like a Greek statue, her breasts small and upright like halves of Spanish peaches; Emmeline, the English girl from the Bar Brun, her bare legs twisted under her on the chair, her arm trailing along its back. There was an unnamed dark-haired woman, her corkscrew curls cascading over her bare shoulder as she reclined upon a
chaise-longue
, her eyes drooping as if from sleep. Had he lain with her too? Had her slightly parted lips, painted so lovingly, been awaiting his? How could I have thought him immune to that silky, exposed flesh, those artfully crumpled petticoats?

Oh, God, I had been such a fool. Such a provincial fool.

And there, finally, was Mimi Einsbacher, leaning towards a looking-glass, the curve of her bare back perfectly outlined by the unforgiving corset below it, the slope of her shoulder a pale invitation. It was lovingly drawn, his charcoal line a flowing, sympathetic thing. And it was unfinished. What had he done after he had drawn this far? Had he walked up behind her, placed those great hands on her shoulders and lowered his lips to the place where her shoulder met her neck? The place that always made me shiver with longing? Had he laid her gently on that bed – our bed – murmured soft words and pushed her skirts up until she –

I balled my fists in my eyes. I felt unhinged, a madwoman. I had never even noticed these paintings before. Now each one felt like a silent betrayal, a threat to my future happiness. Had he lain with them all? How long before he did it again?

I sat staring at them, hating each one and yet unable to tear away my eyes, inventing whole lives of secrets and pleasures and betrayals and whispered nothings for each of them, until the skies outside were as black as my thoughts.

I heard him before I saw him, whistling as he came up the stairs.

‘Wife!’ he cried, as he opened the door. ‘Why are you sitting in the dark?’

He dropped his great coat on the bed and made his way around the studio, lighting the acetylene lamps, the candles that were wedged in empty wine bottles, wedging his cigarette into the corner of his mouth as he adjusted the drapes. And then he walked up to me and wrapped his arms around me, squinting in the half-light better to see my face.

‘It is only five o’clock. I was not expecting you yet,’ I felt as if I had woken from a dream.

‘So soon after we are married? I couldn’t leave you for long. Besides, I missed you. Jules Gagnaire is no substitute for your charms.’ He pulled my face gently to his and tenderly kissed my ear. He smelt of cigarette smoke and
pastis
. ‘I cannot bear to be away from you, my little shop girl.’

‘Don’t call me that.’

I stood up and walked away from him, through to the kitchen area. I felt his gaze, faintly bemused, after me. In truth I didn’t know what I was doing. The bottle of sweet wine was long empty. ‘You must be hungry.’

‘I’m always hungry.’

He is a man of great appetites.

‘I … left my bag at the market.’

‘Hah! ’Tis of little importance. I, too, was barely conscious for most of the morning. It was a fine night, last night, wasn’t it?’ He chuckled, lost in reminiscence.

I didn’t answer. I fetched two plates and two knives, and the remnants of that morning’s bread. Then I stared at the jar of
foie gras
. I had nothing much else to give him.

‘I had the most excellent meeting with Gagnaire. He says the Galerie Berthoud in the sixteenth wishes to exhibit those early landscapes. The work I did in Cazouls? He says he has a buyer for the two larger ones already.’ I heard him uncork a bottle of wine, the clink of two glasses as he placed them on the table.

‘I also told him of our new system for collecting my money. He was most impressed when I told him of last night’s efforts. Now I have both him and you working alongside me,
chérie
, I’m sure we will live in the grand style.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ I said, and placed the bread basket in front of him.

I don’t know what had happened to me. I couldn’t look at him. I sat down opposite and proffered the
foie gras
and some butter. I cut an orange into quarters and put two pieces on his plate.

‘
Foie gras
!’ he unscrewed the lid. ‘How you do spoil me, my love.’ He broke off a piece of bread and smeared it with a slice of the pale pink pâté. I watched him eat it, his eyes on mine, and just for a moment I wished desperately that he had never liked
foie gras
, that he hated it. But he blew me a kiss and smacked his lips with delighted relish. ‘What a life we lead, you and I, eh?’

‘I did not choose the
foie gras
, Édouard. Mimi Einsbacher selected it for you.’

‘Mimi, eh?’ His eyes rested on mine for a moment. ‘Well … she’s a good judge of food.’

‘And other things?’

‘Mmm?’

‘What else is Mimi good at?’

My food lay untouched on my plate. I could not eat. I had never liked
foie gras
, anyway, the bitter knowledge of that forced feeding, those geese gorged until their very organs were swollen. The pain that could be caused by too much of what you loved.

Édouard put his knife on his plate. He looked at me. ‘What is the matter, Sophie?’

I could not answer him.

‘You seem out of sorts.’

‘Out of sorts.’

‘Is this because of what I told you before? I told you, my darling, it was before I met you. I have never lied to you.’

‘And will you lie with her again?’

‘What?’

‘When you are bored with the novelty of your marriage? Will you revert to your old ways?’

‘What is this?’

‘Oh, eat your food, Édouard. Devour your beloved
foie gras
.’

He stared at me for the longest time. When he spoke, his voice was soft. ‘What have I done to deserve this? Have I ever given you the slightest reason to doubt me? Have I ever shown you anything but utter devotion?’

‘That is not the point.’

‘Well, what is the point?’

‘How did you get them to look at you like that?’ My voice lifted.

‘Who?’

‘Those women. The Mimis and the Laures. The bar girls and the street girls and every wretched girl who seems to pass by our door. How did you get them to pose for you like that? ‘

Édouard was dumbstruck. When he spoke, his mouth set in an unfamiliar line. ‘The same way I got you to pose for me. I asked them.’

‘And afterwards? Did you do to them what you did to me?’

Édouard looked down at his plate before he answered. ‘If I remember correctly, Sophie, it was you who seduced me that first time. Or does that not suit your newly remembered version of events?’

‘This is meant to make me feel better? That I was the only one of your models you didn’t try to make love to?’

His voice exploded into the quiet studio. ‘What is wrong, Sophie? Why do you wish to torture yourself like this? We are happy, you and I. You know I have not so much as looked at another woman since we met!’

I began to applaud, each sharp clap breaking into the silent studio. ‘Well done, Édouard! You have remained faithful all the way to our honeymoon! Oh, how admirable!’

‘For God’s sake!’ He threw down his napkin. ‘Where is my wife? My happy, glowing, loving wife? And who is this woman I get in her place? This suspicious misery? This pinch-faced accuser?’

‘Oh, so
that
is how you truly see me?’

‘Well, is this whom you have become, now we are actually married?’

We stared at each other. The silence expanded, filled the room. Outside a child burst into noisy tears and a mother’s voice could be heard, scolding and comforting.

Édouard ran a hand over his face. He took a deep breath and stared out of the window, then turned back to me. ‘You know that is not how I see you. You know I – Oh, Sophie, I don’t understand the genesis of this fury. I don’t understand what I’ve done to deserve such …’

‘Well, why don’t you ask them?’ I thrust my hand out towards his canvases. My voice emerged as a sob. ‘For what can a provincial shop girl like me hope to understand about your life, after all?’

‘Oh, you’re impossible,’ he said, and threw down his napkin.

‘It’s being married to you that is the impossibility. And I’m starting to wonder why you ever bothered.’

‘Well, Sophie, you are not alone in that at least.’ My husband fixed me with a look, whipped his coat off our bed, then turned and walked out of the door.

2012

When he calls, she is on the bridge. She cannot say how long she has sat there. Its wire sides are almost obscured with padlocks on which people have inscribed their initials, and all along it tourists stoop, reading the initials on the little pieces of metal, scrawled in permanent pen or engraved by those with forethought. Some take pictures of each other, pointing to the padlocks they think are particularly beautiful, or have just placed there themselves.

She remembers David telling her about this place before they came here, about how lovers would secure the padlocks and throw the keys into the Seine as a mark of their enduring love, and of how when the padlocks were painstakingly removed by the city authorities they simply reappeared within days, engraved with everlasting love, the initials of lovers who, two years on, might still be together or might by now have moved to different continents rather than breathe the same air. He had told her how the riverbed under the bridge had to be dredged regularly, harvesting the rusting mass of keys.

Now she sits on the bench, trying not to look at them too closely, beyond the simple spectacle of them, their shimmering surfaces. She does not want to think about what they mean.

‘Meet me at the Pont des Arts,’ she had said to him. Nothing more.

Perhaps there was something in her voice.

‘I’ll be twenty minutes,’ he’d said.

She sees him coming from the Musée du Louvre, his blue shirt becoming more vivid as he gets closer. He is wearing khaki-coloured trousers and she thinks, with a pang, how much she loves the sight of him. How familiar his shape is to her, even after such a short time. She looks at his soft, ruffled hair, and the planes of his face, and the way his walk always has a touch of impatience, as if he’s keen to get to the next thing. And then she sees that over his shoulder he has the leather bag in which he carries his plans.

What have I done?

He doesn’t smile as he approaches, even though it’s clear he has seen her. He walks up to her, slowing his pace, then drops his bag and sits down beside her.

They are silent for some minutes, watching the tourist boats glide past.

And finally Liv says, ‘I can’t do this.’

She looks down the route of the Seine, squinting at the people who, even now, are stooping to examine the padlocks.

‘I think we’ve made the most awful mistake. I’ve made a mistake.’

‘A mistake?’

‘I know I’m impulsive. I see now we should have slowed things down. We should have … got to know each other a little better. So I’ve been thinking. It’s not like we had a big wedding, or anything. It’s not like all our friends even know. We can just … . We can just pretend like it didn’t happen. We’re both young.’

‘What are you talking about, Liv?’

She looks at him. ‘David – it all became clear as you walked towards me. You brought your plans with you.’

The smallest flinch. But she sees it.

‘You knew you were going to meet the Goldsteins. You packed your bag of plans and you brought it on your honeymoon.’

He looks down at his feet. ‘I didn’t know. I hoped.’

‘And that’s supposed to make it better?’

They are silent again. David leans forward, clasping his hands together above his knees. Then he looks sideways at her, his face troubled. ‘I love you, Liv. Don’t you love me any more?’

‘Yes. So much. But I can’t … I can’t do this. I can’t be the woman this makes me.’

He shakes his head. ‘I don’t understand. This is crazy. I was only gone for a couple of hours.’

‘It’s not about the couple of hours. This was our honeymoon. It’s a template for how we’re going to be.’

‘How is a honeymoon ever a template for a marriage? Most people go and lie on a beach for two weeks, for Christ’s sake. You think that’s how the rest of their lives is going to run?’

‘Don’t twist my words! You know what I mean. This is meant to be the one time you –’

‘It’s just this building –’

‘Oh, this building. This building. This fucking building. There’s always going to be a building, isn’t there?’

‘No. This is special. They –’

‘They want you to meet them again.’

He lets out a breath, and his jaw tightens. ‘It’s not a meeting as such,’ he says. ‘It’s lunch. Tomorrow. At one of Paris’s best restaurants. And you’re invited too.’

She would laugh if she wasn’t so close to tears. When she finally speaks, her voice is oddly calm. ‘I’m sorry, David. I’m not even blaming you for this. It’s my own fault. I was so besotted with you that I couldn’t see beyond it. I couldn’t see that being married to someone who was so consumed by his work would make me …’ Her voice thickens.

‘Make you what? I still love
you
, Liv. I don’t understand.’

She rubs her eyes. ‘I’m not explaining myself very well. Look … come with me. I want to show you something.’

It’s a short walk back to the Musée d’Orsay. The queue has died down and they move forward in silence for the ten minutes it takes to gain entry. She is acutely conscious of him beside her, of the new awkwardness between them. A little part of her still cannot believe that this is how her honeymoon is ending.