I nodded. My mind wandered to Alex and his father. Alex had to be at least nineteen.
“You’ll be safe from the draft, though... won’t you?” I asked. Papa was no longer a young man, and I couldn’t imagine him being asked to fight.
He didn’t answer me at first. His eyes seemed to be focused elsewhere, perhaps remembering when he was drafted decades before when he was only in his twenties.
“I doubt I’ll be called to fight, but there will be a great need for pharmacists on the front to help administer medicine. Or I could be called to assist in one of the military hospitals. It’s hard to predict what will happen.”
I knotted my hands together. The anxiety of the unknown was a burden that nearly everyone in France now shared. Everyone except Marthe. I had started seeing her nearly every day, and when I left our apartment to visit her, I took note of the changes of the people aroundme. Women wrapped themselves in the protection of their shawls, and men reached into their pockets only to retrieve a few coins for the latest newspaper edition. The hands of children were clasped tighter in their mothers’ grasp. Under the gaslights, lovers pressed against each other, their kisses frantic as though they might be their last.
I found my own life to be without interest, while the lives of those around me I could ponder for hours. I saw everything through the lens of someone perpetually on the outside. And I wondered if this was the curse of those who aspired to write.
So I continued to pass through the streets with my notebook pressed to my chest, my eyes firmly focused on my surroundings.
I now walked through the doors of Marthe’s apartment knowing she was expecting me with my pen and paper in hand. The chapters of her story were beginning to accumulate, the characters now forming themselves on the page. My head was spinning with anticipation, as I waited to hear her tell about Monsieur Boldini and the creation of Marthe’s portrait.
14.
Marthe
Paris 1898
The artist had handed her a small card just before he left her apartment that stated his address.
Giovanni Boldini
41 Boulevard Berthier
Paris
She clutched it, staring at the black embossed print before turning it over, where she discovered the painter had left her a small surprise—a quick drawing of her in profile. In a few deft strokes, he had captured her long neck, her straight jaw, and a few tendrils of her hair. His departure that first afternoon had left her intrigued. They had discussed so much more than just her portrait, and she was eager to see him again and learn what else they might have in common.Perhaps he even shared her secret love of the erotic shunga prints. Marthe secretly tucked those thoughts into the back of her mind.
He had suggested she visit him at his studio on Wednesday, and she had waited anxiously for the two days in between. But the day had finally arrived, and she awakened full of excitement. Being that the space was owned by John Singer Sargent, Marthe wondered if the artist had painted his scandalous portrait of Amélie Gautreau within the same walls in which she herself would now be depicted.
Sargent’s portrait had captured both the light and the darkness of its muse. Gautreau’s luminous white skin was in stark contrast to her dress’s black bodice. But this effect had given Gautreau a severity—a cold beauty—and Marthe imagined herself being portrayed with more softness.
She now stood in front of her wardrobe pondering what dress she should wear in her portrait.
Her fingers reached out and touched the long skirts of her various gowns. There was one in particular that she loved and which she thought Boldini might enjoy painting. It was one of her most sumptuous dresses, her first and only one purchased from the famous Callot Soeurs—four sisters who had created one of the most fashionable couture shops in Paris. Marthe had coveted their dresses since her own days as a seamstress. She pulled the bodice and skirt from her armoire and pressed it against her body. The color of the silk was a deep rose. It seemed like yesterday she had visited the store on the Rue Taitbout and discussed the details of the dress with the most talented of the four sisters, Marie.
Marie had suggested the silk charmeuse. The elder sister had taken the bolt of fabric from the shelf, and pulled out a length of the fabric for Marthe to examine.
“It has what we call an iridescent,” Marie informed her. “It’s semiopaque... Think of it like the sun and the moon.” She placedher fingers under the fabric and showed how the color changed from dark to light when she moved her hand.
“It’s especially beautiful when you walk,” Marie went on. “The fabric has its own vitality... a certain magic, shall we say?”
Marie remained completely unaware that her client had been a former seamstress herself and knew very well the gifts such a fabric would lend to a dress.
“Come near the window,” she had sweetly instructed Marthe. “You see how it has its own shimmer? The warp and the weft of the silk are woven in opposite directions to create the effect.”
Marthe touched the fabric between her fingers and nodded. “Yes, it will make a magnificent dress.”
Marie then showed her a pale seashell pink organza for the sleeves. Marthe touched the stiff silk fabric and knew right away the dazzling effect it would have as the material stood away from her shoulders. “We’ll make them voluminous—like two sunbursts—to accentuate the narrowness of the bodice and skirt,” she said, her voice flush with creative excitement. “Let me go get some paper and a pen to show you.”
The drawing had been unnecessary, for Marthe could envision the gown with ease. The contrast between the two fabrics, the feather-like effect of the sleeves, and the lines of her body revealed through the lines of the dress.
Now as she brought the gown up against her body, Marthe smiled. Just as Marie had promised, the dress possessed its own magic. The sleeves were extravagant with several tiers of ruffles, the pigeon-breast bodice tight and plunging with two rows of lace sewn down its front. When she moved, the fabric reflected a thousand different shades.
That’s what she wanted Boldini to capture with his paintbrush, not just the curves of her figure or the angles of her chiseled features. Marthe wanted to show how she could become transformed—shifting from opacity to transparency—a woman emerging from the shadows, resplendent when the light struck her. She imagined the portrait to have the capacity to illuminate an entire room.
