I think that upon our introduction, we both surprised each other. I know I certainly wasn’t expecting to be greeted by a woman so elaborately dressed, with makeup camouflaging a face over sixty, and around her neck the most exquisite set of pearls.
And I believe she, too, appeared slightly amazed, for my face, although years younger than hers, so clearly resembled her own. I had the same pale skin and slate blue eyes, the long neck and Gallic nose.
My father introduced us coolly. It was evident by the way he stood in the hallway that her apartment made him nervous, and he had little tolerance for staying any length of time in her company.
He refused to call her “maman,” or introduce her to me as “grand-maman.”
“Madame de Florian,” he said with great formality. “Let me introduce you to my daughter, Solange.”
Our arrival appeared to delight her. She didn’t bother to reprimand my father for not having visited her in what must have been nearly twenty years. I would later learn that she didn’t calculate time as most people did. For her it wasn’t the minutes passed, but the moments exchanged.
“A pleasure,” she said to me, extending her long white hand. “Will you both be staying? I can have Giselle prepare us some tea.”
“I won’t be able to as I have work to do,” my father said, making an excuse for himself. “But Solange will, if that’s acceptable.” He looked at me, then back at this tall woman who seemed wholly unrelated to him. “Since her mother died, she has been restless... She just finished school and tells me she wants to write plays, perhaps even try her hand at a novel... So I thought perhaps you might share some stories with her while I am at the pharmacy.”
“But, of course, Henri,” she said, reaching to touch my arm. “I am not so busy anymore, and I would appreciate having the company of a beautiful girl to share my afternoons.”
I stood there, rapt at her. Her voice was melodious. Her eyes were full of life.
“Giselle, take her hat and coat.” My wool coat and felt hat were given to the elderly maid in the black dress and white apron.
“I’ll pick her up at six,” my father said.
With that he left us, and I was led inside.
I will never forget the parlor, with the large portrait that dominated the room. It was undoubtedly of her, created in a tornado of brushstrokes. Around her neck, the same necklace she now wore, a glimmering, perfect set of pearls.
She saw me look at the painting, and then the choker around her neck.
“I have never seen so many beautiful things,” I whispered.
“Why, thank you,” she replied, ever so pleased. She then took a seat in one of the velvet chairs, as though it were her personal throne.
I believe she could sense my desire to study everything that surrounded us in the parlor, even though I tried hard to conceal my urge to stare. The collections of porcelain. The many objets d’art. The painting over the mantel. Even her string of pearls.
I admitted to be most taken in by the painting. I couldn’t take my eyes off it.
“Who was the artist?” I asked, pointing to her portrait. The body, depicted with great, artistic exuberance, seemed to give off a pulse within the room.
“The artist?” She was bemused. “It’s not the artist you should be asking about.”
“No?” I answered, perplexed.
She motioned for me to sit down.
Her eyes flickered and she reached to touch her necklace. Its clasp, a small green butterfly with emerald wings, slid forth.
“No, it’s the story behind it. Everything of value contains a story, Solange.”
She touched the butterfly with a light caress of her fingers. I had never been in the company of someone who could so captivate me with only a simple gesture of her hand.
“You intrigue me, Solange. I know we’ve just met, but I senseyou’re a young woman who is not easily scandalized by another woman’s truth.”
I looked her straight in the eyes, and I again noticed their color. It was the same as my own.
“Let us have an agreement,” she said. “The best people always do. You come to me once a week, and I will tell you how I, a girl born in the dark alleys of Montmartre, came to be ensconced in this apartment. It is not a tale for the prudish or faint of heart. But if you are willing, I will tell you the story of the painting as well as the one about my pearls, and everything else that happened along the way.”
With that offer, a beautiful and strange smile spread across her face. It opened like a fan.
