The Ladies of the Secret Circus by Constance Sayers (the little red hen ebook TXT) 📕

clever, and I remembered Man Ray suggesting an exaggerated angle for one. Smiling, I realized he had taken Man Ray’s advice. I feel that I am in the center of the creation of something brilliant.

June 9, 1925

Émile has nearly finished Sylvie’s painting. He let me tinker with the bronze shade of paint, instructing me how to layer it on and wipe it off. I was amazed at the skill he possessed. I couldn’t quite get the technique that he could do with one hand.

“You have some talent.” Over my shoulder, he brought his lips close to my neck, so near I could feel the warmth of his breath.

“No,” I said, shaking my head.

“Use it to sign.” He pointed to the brush tinged with the brown shade.

“I couldn’t.” I pointed the brush at him but turned it, positioning it over the lower right corner of the canvas. He took my hand and crouched down beside me and guided the E and the G. Nervous, I saw my lines quiver. I made a face. “It’s terrible.”

“Marvelous,” he said, but he was not looking at the canvas; he was staring at me.

Last night, I met him in Montparnasse. Paris was stifling and dinner was late, which was wondrous because some of the heat had left for the evening. The air filled the city like a bath with too-warm, stagnant water—none of us could breathe, and yet with the heat came freedom. Women used it as an excuse not to wear stockings for the night and raised their skirt hems above their knees. Parched and sweating, men ordered more drinks than they normally could tolerate. All the restaurants with overhead fans were crowded—so we headed to Le Dôme Café, which sat in a wedge between Boulevard du Montparnasse and Boulevard Raspail. We stood at the bar, envious of those who had secured early seats. I ordered a cognac and water. The café was overrun tonight so Émile suggested that we go to his apartment. I found myself sweating with nerves. Both Esmé and Sylvie routinely left with people, leaving me the one traveling back to the circus alone in a taxi, and I admit that I had no idea what to expect.

Émile’s studio was one block from Le Dôme Café on Rue Delambre. The old staircase creaked as though it would pull away from the wall as we climbed. As he shut the door behind us, I was aware that we were alone for the first time. He cracked open the only two windows in the stuffy little apartment and pulled the biggest chair he had in front of them. I looked down and noticed that the two plates he’d placed in front of me were from the Café de la Rotonde. He appeared to have stolen a set of everything for our meal tonight. From Kiki, I know that all of the artists steal plates and cutlery from the Café de la Rotonde, but I find it charming. We sat together on the chair and listened to the sounds of Paris below us as we ate Gouda with some fresh bread and apples.

Surrounding us were paintings in various stages of completion. The lights were off so we relied on the outside illumination from Montparnasse. Émile was a master of manipulating light, so I felt like he’d arranged this scene and I wondered how he saw me now. The moon was full and shining, giving me a good view of a stack of his paintings. Curious, I perused the canvases.

A few of his paintings were interesting attempts at cubism, the shadows of a man’s face perfectly drawn, yet angular. Where the shadows fell in the hollows of the cheekbones, he’d created landscapes using an elaborate crosshatch technique. The scene wasn’t entirely visible until the eye was close. There were also several nudes of one woman—a woman with golden hair—and I found that I was struck with a pang of jealousy, certain that while the oil was drying on the canvas, he was making love to her in the threadbare sheets on his tiny bed. My calves brushed against the bedspread and I was imagining myself tangled in the sheets, our bodies sticking together in the heat.

“She’s beautiful,” I said. He’d come to stand behind me.

“Oui.”

I was struck by his honesty, yet he gave nothing away, no hint that she was a lover past or present. I wanted to run out, fearing that I was not built for this vulnerability.

“I wish every one of these paintings were of you.” I felt his presence behind me, then his hand resting softly on the center of my back. “Then I might not miss you as much.”

I turned to see his face in the moonlight. It was the sincerest look. “I want to be surrounded by you, Cecile.”

I shook my head. “You could paint me every night. And every morning your canvas would be blank.”

“I do have the one painting of you.”

True. And his painting would be the only likeness of me ever created. Somehow the thought gave me a great wave of melancholy.

“For my final portrait, I will paint you again.”

“Non,” I said. “You must paint Esmé. She is the natural third painting.”

“But I don’t want to paint Esmé. Everyone in Montparnasse has painted her.”

“She is a phantom, like me. Only your painting of her will survive,” I said. “It will make you famous—rich even.” I glanced around his apartment, realizing he probably struggled to buy paints and pay the rent each month.

“Why am I the only one who can paint you?”

“Because we are of the circus,” I said, rubbing my arms. “It is magic, Émile. True magic and not some trick of light.”

“My mysterious Cecile.” He took my hand and led me over to the bed.

“What did you do before you painted?” I asked, changing the subject.

He sat down on the bed heavily. “I was in the war and then I came back and worked in a building, the Sacré-Coeur.