The Velvet Hours (12 page)

Paris 1898

I
chiro stepped forward from the dark purple curtain and greeted her with great warmth.

“Madame de Florian, it has been far too long.” His head dipped into a deep bow. “You have missed many beautiful things that have come in and out of the store in the past few weeks.”

She could see immediately as his eyes, so expert in appraising things beautiful and rare, fell upon her neck, encircled in her priceless set of pearls.

Marthe raised a finger and touched them lightly. “You notice everything, don't you,” she said sweetly. “These were a gift from someone with the most exquisite taste.”

“Indeed,” Ichiro said. “They are Japanese, too,” he said as he came closer. “How beautiful for me to have the opportunity to see something that has come from my native sea.”

She smiled. “I was told how difficult it is to find these many pearls
that exactly match in color and size . . . That's what makes the necklace so rare.”

“Yes, whoever told you that is right.” She could see how he was unable to take his eyes off the pearls, and it delighted her to have their roles reversed. Ichiro now coveting something that she possessed, instead of the other way around.

“It is a shame I wasn't trained in the pearl business,” he said with a smile. “I think it's far more lucrative than antiques . . .”

She laughed. “But I would be lost without your help. Just today, when I was thinking I needed to purchase a gift for someone with a strong artistic sensibility, I knew I couldn't find what I needed at La Samaritaine. I needed, instead, to come to you . . .”

“That is most kind of you.” Ichiro clasped his hands in front of him. “So, how can I help you?”

“I have a new friend who shares my love of Asian porcelains. Perhaps you have a few things to show me?”

He nodded knowingly, and his eyes brightened with a liveliness she hadn't realized how much she missed.

“I do. I have quite a few things to suggest.” He brought his hands together and gestured a small bow. “Give me a few moments to bring them up from the storeroom. In the meantime, please let me prepare you some tea.”

He excused himself and disappeared behind the curtain.

*   *   *

The store still retained its magic for Marthe, as she walked carefully around the small pedestal tables where Ichiro rotated his various collections. He had two Zhou vases on display that were quite beautiful, and a large dish in a chrysanthemum pattern that she thought she might like for herself. But nothing called out to her as something that befitted Boldini.

Ichiro returned with a lacquered tray and two ceramic cups of steaming tea.

“Come sit . . . I have a few things downstairs that I will bring up and show you in a moment.”

He pulled out a chair by the small viewing table he kept for his customers, and Marthe sat down.

Ichiro joined her at the table and took the tea to his lips.

“This friend, he has his own collection like you?”

She smiled. “I am unsure how vast his collection is. But I know from our conversations he has a particular affinity for the translucent glazes.”

Ichiro nodded. “He must be quite a gentleman to be so learned about such matters.” He placed his palms on the table and stood up. “Now, let me bring you what I have in mind.”

Moments later he appeared with two bamboo boxes tied shut with twine.

“These two vases arrived only last week . . . They belonged to a Samurai family in Nara.”

He removed the lid from the first box.

“Although I acquired these from Japan, they were actually fired in an imperial kiln in Korea. They are very rare.”

She watched as he lifted the vase from the nest of dry grass that protected the porcelain, and held it to the light.

The glaze was a soft, milky blue.

“It's beautiful,” she whispered as she cupped her hands around the base and lifted it slightly toward the light. She proceeded to turn it around from all sides, examining it from different angles.

“The next one is also quite unusual.” He bent down and retrieved the second box, placing it on the table.

Ichiro repeated his actions, again carefully removing the box's lid, dipping his hands into the dry straw, and withdrawing the vase so Marthe could examine it more closely.

As soon as she saw it lifted to the light, she felt her adrenaline
rush. The vase was gourd-shaped, its glaze an opaque celadon with a crazing of thin black lines floating over the surface.

“This is an especially rare piece. I almost don't want to sell it . . .” Ichiro placed it carefully on the table. “It is from an imperial kiln, just like the last one I showed you, but the glaze is quite unique. We call it ‘cracked ice' because the glaze lends itself to the appearance of shattered ice.”

She leaned over and looked at it closely. She had never seen anything like it before.

“It's breathtaking . . .” Her finger reached out to touch its glimmering surface. “It looks like a spiderweb has been caught within the glaze.”

“Exactly.” A small smile crept over his lips. She could see he was delighted that she immediately responded to its delicate beauty. “It's a very difficult process for the potter. He must apply several coats of the glaze and fire it several times in order to achieve the distinct crackle. Many pieces are lost during the process . . .”

“Extraordinary,” she whispered. “May I hold it?”

“Certainly.” He gently lifted the vase and placed it in her hands.

Again she brought the vase up to the light to examine the glaze more carefully. This one captured her heart and imagination. She loved the atmospheric green color. It reminded her of the color of the water in the Venetian canals, but with the effect that the surface was breaking even though it remained intact. She knew Boldini would be drawn to something that was both so delicate and complex. Marthe again closed her eyes, the surface of the hourglass vase warming in her hands.

Immediately she knew this was what she wanted to give to the artist.

“I think my friend will find this one particularly inspiring,” Marthe said as she placed the vase down on the table.

“It's a bit more expensive than the first one I showed you,” he said softly. She knew he had always found the discussion of money distasteful.

He wrote down the price on a piece of paper.

She saw he had written five hundred francs. It was far more than she liked to pay even for something for herself.

She took a finger and stroked her pearls, considering the steep price.

“It is more than I'd imagined, but I do think my friend will appreciate the beauty and rarity of the piece . . . ,” she answered, trying to justify the purchase.

“Madame does have the most exquisite taste.”

Marthe smiled. “Will you put it on my account, Ichiro. I will settle it at the end of the month.”

She watched as he slowly put both vases back in their boxes and gently repositioned the straw around the vessels so they would not break.

“I will wrap it in the back for you, Madame de Florian, so it appears like a proper
cadeau
.”

“Thank you.” She nodded as she replaced her gloves.

She began to imagine the scenario of presenting the vase to the artist. But then she reconsidered, deciding it would be far more elegant to have Ichiro send the package directly to Boldini's studio. In that way, she would avoid any embarrassment if he didn't like it as much as she hoped.

Marthe reached for one of her cards in her purse and wrote in her careful, elegant handwriting:

Giovanni Boldini

41 Boulevard Berthier

When Ichiro returned, she pressed it into his hand.

October 1939

L
ate October was a difficult month. The tension between those in Europe who would surrender to Hitler's demands and those who would fight him had begun to intensify. Not only had France's prime minister Édouard Daladier, refused Hitler's “offer” for peace, but so too had Britain's Prime Minister Chamberlain. Over several radio broadcasts we had heard that Jews from Poland were being deported.

My mind kept returning to Alex and his father and their shop, which could have easily been my maternal grandfather's shop had he still been alive. Although I had no intention of selling my mother's rare books, I still had a strong desire to visit them again.

So on a Monday afternoon, the day I typically reserved for my writing, I returned to the Rue des Écouffes.

*   *   *

On the Métro that afternoon, passengers clutched their newspapers as though they were Bibles. The front page of
Le Monde
blared the headlines that the first air attack occurred at the Firth of Forth in Scotland. How much longer, I wondered, until my father and I were crouching under our kitchen table as bombs shattered through Paris? Already children were being instructed to use gas masks in school, and air raid drills were becoming routine.

As I came up from the Métro station, I paused momentarily to reacquaint myself with my surroundings. The neighborhood of the Marais was filled with so many small streets that it was easy to get lost, even for someone like me who was a Parisian. I walked down the Rue Pavée and headed toward the Jewish quarter, my arms feeling empty without the security of my mother's books I had held the last time I visited. When I walked past one of the bakeries, I went inside hoping to buy a small gift to bring Alex and his father, even though I had only a few francs in my purse.

If the bakeries in our neighborhood held little selection since the war began, the bakeries here had even less. Weeks before I had seen several delicate pastries with nuts and dried fruits, and miniature breads with chocolate rolled inside. Now, nearly every basket in the bakery was empty. Only a small tray of cookies dusted lightly with cinnamon and a few loaves of bread remained.

I asked for a box of the cookies and left the bakery with a heavy heart. The custom of bringing something sweet when visiting friends was part of the French soul, but the cookies I purchased looked lifeless, hardly something that one would consider a special treat. Still, it felt comforting to hold something between my nervous hands.

In the crisp autumn sunlight, the area's labyrinthine streets held a special magic to them. The mezuzahs on some of the doorways reinforced the bridge between two worlds within the city. And the
men who in their heavy black coats and hats made me feel as though I had entered a place exotic and unfamiliar.

Yet, at the same time, I was unmistakably drawn to it.

I wondered if some of the men or women I passed there were people who had once known my mother, or perhaps had even visited my grandfather's store.

When I finally reached the Armels' storefront, I hesitated for a moment before entering, trying to think what I would say when I saw them. I could no longer rely on the excuse that I wanted my books appraised. I saw my reflection in the window, my hat pulled to my eyes, my coat buttoned over my skirt and blouse, and I realized that I was returning to a place where I was still very much an outsider, despite my curiosity to learn more about my connection to this place and its people.

I turned around and saw a few more people walking past the store, none of them taking notice of me at all. Then, I took a deep breath and walked inside.

*   *   *

The smell of the store immediately soothed me. The scent of paper and ink. There is nothing else like it for those who love books. It was the fragrance of my childhood, what I considered my mother's perfume. Immediately it brought back the memory of her turning the pages of my nursery books, her breath sweet and warm against my neck.

“Solange?” Alex had seen me as soon as I walked in, and as he started toward me, he opened his hands to greet me.

“I was in the neighborhood, and I couldn't pass by without saying hello,” I said quickly. “You and your father were so kind and generous to me during my last visit, I wanted to bring you something to show my gratitude.”

I handed him the box of cookies.

“This wasn't necessary . . . I know my father was happy not only to meet you, but also to see your grandfather's Haggadah again.”

I smiled. “And I was glad to learn more about my grandfather.”

“Come . . . ,” he said, making a small gesture toward the back. “My father isn't here today, but we could have some tea.” He tapped the box from the bakery. “And I wouldn't want to be left alone to eat these all by myself.”

“They're only a few cookies, I'm afraid. The selection in all the bakeries now is quite sparse . . .”

He nodded. “One of the first casualties of the war,” he answered playfully.

“My grandmother somehow always manages to still get the best pastries, but I'm not sure how she does it.”

“How lucky you are to have such a grandmother . . .”

“Yes, she is rather remarkable.” I let out a small laugh. “You'd probably find her quite charming. She lives as if time has stood still.”

“And what time period has she maintained?”

“The Belle Époque.” I smiled.

“The peak of decadence, then.” He was clearly amused.

“Yes. Originally I thought I was going to write a play about her. But now I'm thinking I have enough material to write a book about her life.”

“So I'm about to have tea with a budding novelist?” He pulled out one of the chairs for me to sit down.

I lowered my eyes, slightly embarrassed that the discussion had turned toward me. “Writing her story gives me a distraction from the war . . .”

“You are full of surprises. The last time you came, you showed us a priceless Haggadah, and now you tell me you are at work on a book yourself. May I ask how old you are, Solange?”

“I'm nineteen.” I felt myself blush when I answered him. I had never had someone flirt with me before. “And you?”

“Far older.” He returned my smile. “Twenty-one in fact.”

“A veritable older gentleman . . .”

“Indeed.” He placed his hands on the table. His fingers were white and slender, more delicate than I had imagined. I remembered how my grandmother had said it had been the moment she saw Boldini's hands that she first discovered the artist's beauty.

“And now this gentleman must get the lovely lady some tea.”

He stood up and went back toward the storeroom, returning minutes later with the tray.

*   *   *

I must have stayed with Alex for well over an hour. He went back at least twice to refill the teapot with more hot water, and the box of cookies I brought were soon finished to nothing but a few remaining crumbs.

We talked about our favorite books and the writers we most admired. I also told him about my grandmother and how she had begun life as the daughter of a laundress yet was now ensconced in an apartment of silk and velvet. “You have the material of a nineteenth-century novel there, don't you?” Alex said, impressed.

“Yes, I suppose I do,” I laughed.

“You have my utter vote of confidence, Solange.” He smiled. “I can't wait to read it.”

“I have to finish it first,” I laughed. “That's the hard part. I've been taking my notebook to one of the cafés near our house and trying to work there. Somehow it's easier to work there than when I'm at home.”

“You can always work in our back room if you'd like. I'm sure my father won't mind. As you can see, we have almost no customer traffic these days.”

I looked around. It was true. Since I had come into the store, there hadn't been a single customer.

“How will you manage, if no one is selling or buying rare books?”

“Oh they're selling. My father just went to look at a private collection outside the city. Everyone is selling because they need funds. Everyone is nervous because of the war . . . It's the lack of people who are buying that's the problem for us.”

I felt a sudden flicker of pain in my heart. I hated to think of Alex and his family struggling to make ends meet.

“But we are not your responsibility to worry about . . . How sweet you look with that expression of concern.”

I flushed.

“I've embarrassed you. I'm so sorry.” He stood up and began to clear the dishes and put them back on the tray. “I'm not an expert in conversation, as you can see . . .”

“Oh, not at all.” I rose to my feet and tried to help him with the cups and saucers. “I'm really the one who's clumsy and poor with small talk.” A wisp of hair fell over my eye and I pushed it behind my ear.

“It's so much easier when you're writing,” I said. “You can rewrite the sentences a hundred times until your character says just the right words . . .”

He stood only inches away from me now, his hands holding the handles of the tray. “What would my character say if he knew a beautiful young girl was about to bid him good-bye?”

“He'd say something hopeful, I'd think . . .” I smiled. “Perhaps something like . . . ‘It would make me so happy if you'd visit me again.'”

“Well, then,” he said as he walked toward the door. “Solange, I hope one day I'm able to hold the novel you've written in my hands.” He stopped and pulled the door open. “But until then, I hope you'll visit me again.”