Madame Picasso

“All right, the truth is I’m not sure anymore that I am meant to be with her forever.”

“What has changed since the last time we spoke?”

“That’s just it, I don’t know for certain. We fight too often, and she seems never to have enough of my money to make her happy.” He raked his hands through his hair. “I’ll be thirty years old soon, and sometimes I feel like she and I want different things out of our lives. So much has changed since we met.”

She tipped her head and thought for a moment. A hint of a smile turned up the corners of her mouth. “You surprise me. You’re a deeper, more serious man than I thought. It’s a lot different than all that puffed-up bravado. I like it.”

After Fanny had dressed and put on her coat and hat, she returned to where Picasso was cleaning his paintbrushes. She was slipping on her black gloves as she approached him.

“Look, Pablo, maybe it’s none of my business, but the gossip in Paris is that she’s not all that loyal to you.”

He smiled and pressed a kiss onto her cheek, gently refusing the bait because, in a strange way, he cared about her. “I appreciate your trying to help, but our relationship is complex. We have both been unfaithful through the years,” he replied as he drew several francs from a ceramic jug on his working table where a clay pot of clean paintbrushes was sitting.

“Not that it’s altogether unappealing, mind you, but you’re also a complicated man, Pablo Picasso,” she said with a wan smile.

“Unfortunately, my dear, you don’t know the half of it,” he replied as he saw her to the door, eager to have her out of his studio.

After she had had gone, Picasso gazed over at the half-finished canvas, much of the paint still wet. He needed solitude—the isolation to make this piece into what it was inside his mind. There was a heaviness within him, and he stood there for a long while, basking in the silence that had been returned to him.

There had been too many voices in his head. Too much of the past.

His heart was not bound up enough by the work on his easel, and he needed it to be. But he was stuck. For Picasso to complete it, he knew he needed inspiration. What he needed was a muse.

Chapter 5

Saturday evening at the Moulin Rouge, Eva was busier with mending than she had been the first night. She waited with needle and thread just offstage, behind the edge of the heavy red velvet curtain, with her fingers trembling. She so very much needed to get this right.

“Be quicker about it than you were last night!” Mistinguett growled, thrusting a torn stocking at Eva as a wardrobe assistant approached them bearing a long-handled hairbrush to smooth the star’s hair back into a tight mahogany wave. “What are you staring at, you imbecile? Sew!” she barked when Eva did not move quickly enough.

Shaken from the moment, Eva realized that she had been transfixed by the glamorous star. She hadn’t noticed how openly she was staring until she caught a glimpse of Sylvette standing behind her, wearing a stricken expression. Quickly, Eva cast her own gaze downward and set back to work. It was easy enough to fix the tear, and Eva quickly offered the stocking back up to Mistinguett, who snatched it from her without a backward glance or a thank-you.

After the music began again and the actress burst onstage to thunderous applause, Eva tucked the needle and thread into the pocket of her skirt and peered out past the heavy curtain.

He hadn’t been there during the first act but he was there now. Picasso sat at the front table, along with the same group of boisterous Spaniards. Tonight, however, she saw that Monsieur Oller, the barrel-chested owner of the Moulin Rouge, was seated prominently beside him. He wore a stiff black suit and bow tie, with a heavy gold watch chain over his chest, and he and Picasso were conversing intensely with each other, heads together. Eva was duly impressed, but she knew she shouldn’t be surprised that the two appeared to be well acquainted.

Eva scanned the tables around him looking again for a girl who might be Picasso’s companion. It occurred to her that there just may well be a Madame Picasso, and she cringed at the thought. She realized then that she knew so little about him other than that his strange new style of painting had set the French capital on its ear. He was a bohemian renegade, and he was the talk of the town. Although there were several young women in the row behind him giggling and pointing sheepishly at the handsome young man, there was no woman seated prominently nearby him. Eva shook her head and smiled in self-reproach. Someone like Picasso was so far beyond her reach, even for a fantasy.

Busy with mending, Eva returned to her work, and by the time she managed to steal another glance, Picasso and his band of friends were gone.

Near midnight, after the show was over and they had returned to their room, Sylvette brushed out her long hair and sighed. Eva lay back against the pillow wearing her mother’s bright yellow kimono, the only bit of her mother she had brought away from Vincennes. She was watching the nightly ritual and thinking about the evening.

“She will have me fired, too, won’t she?” Eva asked, speaking of Mistinguett.

The fear and the possibility had been on her mind all day.

Sylvette stopped brushing her hair and glanced at Eva through the mirror’s reflection. “Not if she feels loyalty to you.”

“How on earth am I going to accomplish that?”

“A gift, perhaps?”

“I have nothing someone like her would value.”

“Where did you get that kimono?”

“My mother brought it with her from Poland. Her own mother made it.”

Sylvette turned around on the stool. “It really is lovely. And just the sort of exotic thing Mistinguett likes. Make her a gift of it.”

“It’s the only thing of my mother’s I have with me.” Eva again felt the swell of betrayal toward her parents. The days she had spent with them—the good ones, and far fewer bad—seemed sharper now in her mind since she no longer had them in her life. From her mother, she had taken a kimono, and from her father, a pinch of his pipe tobacco that she had sewn into one of the sleeves so that when she wore it, she would be reminded of them both.

“Well, then that’s a pity,” Sylvette replied. “Because I can think of no other way. I suppose it comes down to whether you want to live in the past, or secure your future. You said being here in Paris meant everything to you.”

“Of course it does.”

“You can always make another kimono. You won’t ever have another chance at a place like the Moulin Rouge.”

It would not be the same, of course, but Sylvette was right. After all, it was really just a robe and Eva could not afford not to make an offering in order to secure her job. She was beginning to understand that maturing really did mean letting go of a great many things from one’s youth, and Paris could not protect her from the reality in that.

The next afternoon, Eva and Sylvette were in the dressing room as the actresses and dancers slowly filed in past the racks of costumes and the littered makeup tables. Their faces were yet to be painted, and they were still wearing their street clothes. The girls who graced the stage at the Moulin Rouge all possessed an air of confidence, and Eva studied them with awe.

She had told Madame Léautaud she had no ambitions for the stage but of course that was not entirely true. What girl would not relish being the center of attention, adored and desired by audiences filled with handsome young men? Eva thought of Picasso and felt her cheeks warm. He fascinated her—for his celebrity, of course, but also for his bravado, and for the sensuality that seemed to pulse through him even when she saw him at a distance. She had never known anyone like him. She couldn’t tell Sylvette they had briefly met. Sylvette wouldn’t believe her, anyway. Besides, a man like Picasso—least of all a famous one—would never have real interest in a girl like Eva. Or so she thought. Steady, predictable Louis was the best she would likely ever have.

Poor, dear Lodwicz. Eva would never love him. Not if he were the last man on earth. If she wanted to settle for that sort of life, she could have stayed in Vincennes and married old Monsieur Fix.

“What the devil do you think you’re doing in here?”

Mistinguett’s harsh tone startled Eva, and the door slammed like an exclamation mark. Mistinguett stormed across the dressing room toward Eva, who had come in early to keep Sylvette company as she prepared for the show. Eva glanced up from Sylvette’s makeup table at the actress who stood with a half-full glass of champagne in one hand and the bottle in the other. Sylvette’s face paled as she shot to her feet.

“And what the deuce are you wearing?” Mistinguett asked, scanning Sylvette from head to toe.

Eva had brought the kimono to the Moulin Rouge that afternoon and, while they waited for the actors to arrive, Sylvette had playfully tried it on.

“It’s a kimono,” Sylvette volunteered sheepishly as Mistinguett poured more champagne from the bottle. “Isn’t it a lovely thing? It’s from the Orient. So exotic, sewn by monks! It has been in Marcelle’s family for years.”

“Is that true?” Mistinguett asked Eva suspiciously as she sipped from her glass.

“Of course it’s true,” Sylvette inserted.

“How did your family come by such exquisite fabric?” she asked as she set the bottle down, then reached out to finger the silk as though it were something precious.

“My grandfather brought it back from a trip to Osaka.”

“I would love to go somewhere so enchanting.” Mistinguett sighed as her lips turned up in a winsome smile—the firm wall of her hauteur slipping just slightly.

“Me, too,” Eva replied, meaning it, since she had never been anywhere but here to Paris.

“May I try it on?” she asked. Her tone was beginning to sound surprisingly friendly.

“Of course!” Sylvette intervened again, slipping off the kimono and handing it to the star.

Mistinguett slipped into the luxurious garment with the grace of a dancer, then sank into her own makeup chair. As she fingered the sleeve, she looked at Eva.

“How much would you take for it?”

“Oh, it’s not for sale but—”

“Everything has a price, chérie. So does everyone.”

“I don’t feel that way,” Eva bravely countered.

“You will one day, after you have been in Paris for a while...Martine, is it?”

“Marcelle. But my real name is Eva. Eva Gouel.”

She was not certain why, but suddenly Eva felt compelled to tell the truth. Perhaps it was because she knew Mistinguett had also created a new persona. It was something they shared.

In response, Mistinguett smiled. “I changed my name, too, when I first arrived here in the city. My real name is Jeanne Bourgeois. My mother was a seamstress on the Îsle de France, but I shall deny that to my death if you tell anyone. Perhaps that is why I like you. You should think about keeping your real name. It’s rather pretty. You’re actually quite a lovely creature yourself, with such a delicate face. Like a little geisha.” She smiled at Eva as she began to paint her own face with stage makeup. “Yes, that’s it, a mysterious Osaka geisha who hides everything behind her shyness. Especially because of the kimono. Take care around here, Eva. Or Marcelle—or you’ll be eaten alive.”

“I shall bear that in mind.” Eva smiled shyly.

“See that you do.”

“Mademoiselle Mistinguett! Five minutes!” a stagehand called out past the closed door, warning of the opening act.

“You are welcome to borrow it, anytime you like, though,” Eva said.

The actress slowly rose and slipped out of the kimono as artfully and elegantly as she had donned it. As they spoke further, she transformed herself into Titine, a comical stage vagabond, a character she had invented. “Perhaps in such a garment Maurice would actually notice me for a change.”

They both knew she meant the handsome young singer Maurice Chevalier, who had clearly captured Mistinguett’s attention, yet so far seemed to have eluded her charms.

“Besides, I don’t borrow things, chérie—only, on occasion, other women’s men. I have never found one worth keeping, anyway.”

A few moments later, Mistinguett clopped onto the stage as the comical vagabond Titine, wearing mismatched boots, an overcoat and a beret. When she was gone, Eva and Sylvette glanced at each other, and Eva dared herself to take a sip from Mistinguett’s champagne glass. Sylvette drank a swallow straight from the expensive bottle, then both of them broke out in peels of laughter.

* * *

It was no surprise to either girl when Mistinguett, in a swirl of diaphanous peach-colored chiffon, needed to be helped offstage after her final number that evening. She’d clearly had far too much to drink at intermission and throughout the night. How she had managed to make it through her vagabond number and then her tango with Maurice, Sylvette and Eva could not guess.

Eva and Sylvette watched from the wings as the final cancan was being danced to raucous hoots and hollers from the crowd. They hoped they could intercept Mistinguett as she exited the stage before Madame Léautaud—or worse yet, Monsieur Oller—could see her staggering. Eva wasn’t exactly certain why, but she was beginning to grow fond of the temperamental star, who was clearly more complex than she at first had seemed.

Offstage, Mistinguett sank onto the velveteen-covered divan across from her dressing table, leaned back and promptly vomited. Sylvette dove to press the actress forward, but the delicate skirt of Mistinguett’s tango costume bore the brunt nonetheless.

“Pour l’amour de Dieu!” Eva cried.

“Quick, find her something else to wear!” Sylvette called out as she frantically wiped the small amount of vomit with a scarf. “Monsieur Oller always comes backstage to congratulate everyone after the performance and he usually brings guests. We could all be sacked for this!”

Eva felt a mounting panic. She couldn’t lose this job, not when she’d only just gotten it.

“Grab your kimono while I get her out of the costume! And shake some perfume on it to block that horrendous odor!”

Mistinguett was moaning and had seemed for a moment not to know where she was.

“I need more champagne,” she mumbled.

“What you need is a café and a bath,” Sylvette snapped. “Eva, go tell the stagehand to bring a café as quickly as he can! In the meantime, I’ll help her change.”

Eva ran off and returned a few minutes later bearing a cup of coffee. Mistinguett was sitting more alertly and wearing Eva’s yellow kimono. The fabric draped around her body in waves and fit her far better than it ever had Eva. She felt her heart squeeze with longing and regret for all she had given up in a life with her family, and now, at this awkward moment, she dearly missed her mother especially.

“Marcelle, can the costume be cleaned? It’s such delicate chiffon,” Mistinguett asked sadly as she rubbed her temple.

“I am a seamstress, not a laundress.”

“Handiwork is handiwork,” she snapped back uncharitably as panic took control.

Eva knew she could clean it since her mother had patiently taught her that a combination of baking soda and French Javelle water would work even on the most delicate fabric. Tears pricked the backs of her eyes at the memory. But she knew she deserved to feel sad. Eva certainly no longer deserved her family’s love for the way she had left them. Perhaps she could make a difference that would somehow begin to make amends. “I will have it good as new for the show tomorrow,” she promised as Mistinguett sipped from the demitasse of coffee, her pale face brightening slowly.

“You are a wonder, Eva. I’m sorry I misjudged you. All right, I’ve said it,” Mistinguett murmured just as the dressing room door burst open.

Wreathed in a plume of cigar smoke, a group of young, dark-haired men strode in led by the stout, white-haired Joseph Oller, clenching a cigar between his teeth. Though the owner’s presence was predictable after the show, tonight the girls were all a bit startled by it. Eva and Sylvette stepped back as Mistinguett rose from her divan. The length of the yellow kimono fell around her like a pool of water, hugging the ample curves of her tall willowy frame.

“I brought a few gentlemen I would like you to meet. Mistinguett, may I present the noted poet Guillaume Apollinaire, his friend Ramón Pichot, and this is the man of the moment here in Paris, the artist Pablo Picasso.”

Eva felt a jolt of surprise seeing him. Standing at the back of the room, she was hidden by the piles of costume pieces, shoes and hats. Nevertheless, she felt a tremor surge through her and she reached out her hands behind herself to clutch a dressing table for support. It wouldn’t do at all to go weak-kneed now.

Picasso was as alluring as she remembered, and in the evening’s buttery-rich gaslight, he appeared even more exotic with those great coal-black eyes above a cleverly quirked half smile.

Unlike the last time she had seen him, tonight Picasso looked every bit the confident and celebrated artist. He was wearing neatly creased black trousers, a black sweater that seemed to hug his tight chest and broad back and well-polished black shoes. A forelock of hair that fell untamed onto his forehead was the single element that hinted at what his dark eyes promised.

“Monsieur Picasso, it is a delight,” Mistinguett said flirtatiously.

As she extended a feathery hand to him, the elegant sleeve of the kimono slipped back from her wrist revealing her slim, pale forearm. Eva did not believe anyone had a right to be quite so beautiful.

“What the devil have you got on?” Oller huffed with exaggerated indignation. “You don’t receive gentlemen in a dressing gown like that! Monsieur Picasso, Monsieur Apollinaire, Monsieur Pichot, my apologies. Apparently, my star here—”

“I was fitting her new costume,” Eva blurted, hearing her own voice tumble out as though it had come from someone else.

An awkward silence pulsed through the group as Oller scowled at her. “A costume? That?”

“Yes, for a geisha number I’m working on,” Mistinguett responded with a believable smile, retrieving the moment.

Eva felt her face flush as she stepped back, bumping into the dressing table. She heard the bottles clatter behind her and gripped the top of the table again to steady them. She felt as though she would collapse from embarrassment.

“That is definitely creative,” Oller at last proclaimed. He clenched the cigar in his teeth more tightly and his smile lengthened.

Finally across the room, Eva’s gaze met Picasso’s.

As the chatter about the geisha act faded to the background, Eva watched Picasso close the distance between them.

“So we meet again,” he said with a seductive half smile. She felt her body weaken. “Clearly, it is fate.”

“But we have not really met, have we?”

“It was my great mistake not to have asked your name the last time.”

“I am Marcelle.”

“And I am Picasso.”

“Yes, I know,” she said, smiling awkwardly at her own response.

“But did you know also, mademoiselle, that I am going to paint you?”

“Are you?” she asked as the others continued to talk and laugh, which helped to shelter their quiet conversation. Eva had been thrown off balance by his bold declaration and she was doing her best to hide that fact.

“Oh, most definitely.”

“And when might that be, Monsieur Picasso?” She bit back a soft laugh, suddenly enjoying their flirtation.

“Tonight, if you shall permit me,” he answered. “I am too inspired by your beauty to wait any longer than that.”

Eva caught a glimpse then of the very tall man beyond Picasso who had been introduced as Guillaume Apollinaire—a man she had always wanted to meet because of his evocative poetry. But at the moment there really was no one in the room but Pablo Picasso—even if his advances sounded like lines from a penny novella.

“So then tell me, is Marcelle your real name, or just the one you use in Paris?” Picasso asked her beneath the chatter of the others around them. “So many people I meet here want to be someone different.”

His magnificent Spanish accent and his potent gaze had swiftly shut down all of her defenses. How could he have guessed?

“I haven’t quite decided that yet,” she answered, trying her best to sound nonchalant.

“Care is good. Caution, less so.”

“You speak now only of names when you speak of caution?” she asked coyly.

“I speak of whatever moves you not to take too much care with me, mademoiselle,” he said huskily. “Perhaps I should have asked your given name.”

Saints be preserved, but he was quick with a parry! Clever, forthright and handsome. She was not at all certain she could keep up but it was exciting to try. Especially with those huge black eyes seizing all of her attention and making her blush.

“If you must know, it’s Eva—a most unglamorous Eva Céleste Gouel,” she confessed.

Picasso gently placed a hand at the low point of her back. No one in the room noticed the gesture, which made the moment even more deliciously intimate.

“When I slip out of the dressing room, follow me a moment later,” he said matter-of-factly in a way that made it beyond her power to object. She felt herself grow excited by the danger of his request.

It seemed only a moment later that Picasso was clutching her hand tightly and they were running together like children through the lamplit streets up toward the foot of Montmartre, the glorious vista of Paris and all of the city lights shining brightly behind them.

Laughing and holding hands, they trudged up the many steep steps of the rue Foyatier. Then they hurried across the rue Lepic and down the cobblestoned rue Ravignan toward the artist’s enclave at the Bateau-Lavoir.

Picasso squeezed Eva’s hand when they finally arrived at the ramshackle building in the center of a sloping square, lush with rustling chestnut trees. She knew this shabby old place, with its sagging roof full of filthy glass skylights, was a haven to impoverished painters, models and thieves. She and Louis had passed by it many times on their way to Au Lapin Agile or la Maison Rose. She had found it distinctive, too, and even a little charming, because it seemed constantly peppered with pigeons, stray cats and fat gold leaves.

There was usually a crowd of Spaniards gathered there, sitting on overturned crates and stools, one of them invariably strumming out a tune on a battered old guitar. But tonight they were alone. Only the gaslight from the streetlamps kept them company.

“You are stunning,” Picasso said.

It took all of her effort not to squirm childishly beneath his potent stare. He smelled faintly of pipe tobacco, wine and the distinctive scent of his maleness. The combination was strangely intoxicating, and Eva could feel that her throat had gone dry. He looked at her with a rich expression of expectation. Yet it was not rude or arrogant. She felt the inevitability in it.

“You do know how to flatter a girl,” she said. Her knees were impossibly weak. “More men in Paris really should learn how to do that.”

“It is a thoroughly Spanish trait, mademoiselle, I assure you,” he said as he encircled her with his arms. Then he pulled her back with him against the crumbling wall of the house, pressing himself up against her. Eva gasped as he covered her mouth with his.

A soft moan escaped his lips and Eva squeezed her eyes shut. She was fighting a dizziness that was engulfing her as they kissed, as she felt his rigid body against her wanting more. Her defenses crumbled and a moment later he was clutching her hand tightly in his own again and leading her inside the old house.

Someone was cooking in one of the studios and the strong aroma of spices was sensual and inviting. The floorboards and stairs creaked beneath their footsteps as they made their way through sounds of guitar music and chatter behind closed doors. All of it—this odd place, her innocence and desire—mixed together in her mind along with the excitement and fear of something she had never done before, disarming her. It was then, as if he sensed it, that he squeezed her hand more tightly, warm, powerful and commanding. His touch reassured her and eased the fear. Eva let him lead her the rest of the way. She wanted to be here, she reminded herself. She had come away willingly.