City of Darkness and Light(4)

But I digress. As I mentioned, Maxim lives with some other young artists up in the rural part of Montmartre and invited us to visit him. “Primitive” is hardly the word to describe it, my dear. No heat, no running water, just a group of young men painting, creating, discussing. Maxim suggested that Gus and I take a place nearby, but I pointed out that we were no longer eighteen and that civilized New Yorkers needed heat and a daily bath.

But having finally made artistic connections in the city we wanted to move closer to the hub of the current art world. We have finally found a place of our own in that general area that suits our needs. Our previous lodging was in a more genteel area near the Seine—preferable in some ways but too far from the exciting world of the arts. What’s more the landlady was a fussy old bird who objected to the smell of paint and our late hours. So we have found what we consider a wonderful compromise … a top floor atelier on a street close to Pigalle. Not as primitive as the streets further up the hill and mercifully close to a station of the Métropolitain railway—yes, dear Molly, they have a perfectly fine working subway here, making travel across the city quick and easy. There are already three lines with more under construction.

As you can see from the address at the top of this letter, our new home is on Rue des Martyrs. I must confess we picked it for its name. Gus was tickled pink to be part of the martyrs—she said she always knew that she’d have to suffer for her art! The street itself is a good mixture of commerce and residence, lively yet not too raucous. We can take advantage of the little cafés around Pigalle and yet escape from the hubbub by climbing the five flights to our little nest whose balcony gives us a glimpse of the new church that is being built at the top of Montmartre (if we lean out far enough). I wish you could see it, Molly. You’d love it here. Do policemen ever get time off for good behavior? Would Daniel ever consider traveling to Europe? If not, please persuade him to do without you for a while. You know we’d pay for your ticket if that was a problem. We yearn to see our adorable Liam. He must have grown so much since we parted from you. Think of the cultural opportunities of Liam being exposed to Paris at an early age. Gus says we are to keep pestering you until you agree to come. It’s too lovely and breathtaking and exciting not to want to share.

Gus sends her warmest regards, as do I, and a big kiss to dear Liam.

Your friend Elena (Sid)

I shut my eyes, enjoying the feel of warm spring sunshine on my face and tried to picture Paris. Then suddenly I was back in Ireland, sitting in the schoolroom at the big house with Miss Vanessa and Miss Henrietta. When I was ten I had rather impressed their mother, Mrs. Hartley, with my eloquence and cheek and she had invited me to join her own daughters for lessons. They clearly didn’t think much of this idea and never made me feel welcome but their governess was delighted to have a pupil who was so keen to learn. On this day she was telling us about a trip she had taken to Paris. I was plying her with questions about the Louvre and Notre-Dame when Miss Vanessa cut into our discussion.

“I don’t see why we’re wasting time like this. It’s not as if you’re ever likely to go to Paris, Molly,” she said scathingly and her sister had tittered as if this was a great joke.

A sudden cold breeze swept across the square, almost snatching the paper from my hands. I looked up and saw that Aggie’s prediction was right. Dark clouds were racing in over the Hudson. It would rain before the day was out. I folded the letter replaced it in its envelope, and then stood up. I should get a move on and do my shopping for tonight’s meal now, rather than later in the day. Liam slept on blissfully as I set the buggy moving in the direction of home. Another gust of wind sent spray from the fountain in our direction. And then it was almost as if I was having a vision: before they left for Paris, Sid and Gus had taken me to an exhibit of Impressionist painting at a gallery in New York. I had found the paintings delightfully light and fresh and free, although others viewing them had pronounced them as shocking daubs with no substance to them. Now, as I glanced back across the square it was as if I was seeing one of those Impressionist paintings of a park in Paris—a young girl holding onto a white straw hat with red ribbons flying out in the breeze, while her small brother ran to retrieve a red ball, pigeons pecking hopefully, and sycamore trees coming into leaf, casting dappled shade on the gravel walkways. I smiled wistfully as I moved on. Such a scene in Washington Square was the closest to Paris I was likely to get.





Two



Clouds had almost swallowed up the sun by the time we returned to Patchin Place. The bumpy ride over cobbles woke Liam and his loud cries let me know that he expected to be fed again soon. I felt my breasts react in response. None of this newfangled bottle feeding for me, in spite of my mother-in-law telling me it was more hygienic and that ladies of quality never nursed their infants. I had not regretted my decision for an instant but the arrival of sharp little new teeth made me wonder whether weaning might be a good idea.