***
At the last moment, she had gone into a hall closet and retrieved a long fur coat. We took the elevator down, she and I. This was the first time we had ever left the apartment together.
She slipped it on as easily as if it had been one of her silk robes de chambre.
***
We walked through the streets, the sky heavy and gray. The air as crisp as apples. Both of us inhaled the night as though it were perfume.
“I can’t remember the last time I walked in the snow,” Marthe said. “It brings life into my old lungs.”
She stood for a moment outside an awning and looked up. The ground was dusted with snowflakes, the soles of our shoes damp from the moisture on the pavement. Marthe’s cheeks were pink and flushed like a young girl’s. She looked so happy, her eyes bright, and the night full with abundant possibility.
32.
Solange
December 1939
We entered the restaurant crowded with couples smoking cigarettes and drinking wine. All the things every Frenchman needed to help forget the war.
The maître d’hôtel gently pulled the fur coat off Marthe’s shoulders, and she slipped a crisp note into the host’s hand. If it were true that she hadn’t been out on the town in a long time, she hardly seemed to show it. She knew exactly how to navigate the room.
She smiled as we were shown to a corner table with a semicircular leather banquette. Positioned against the red upholstery, she looked out onto the restaurant as though she were on a stage.
“Perfect,” Marthe said, smiling as she took the tall paper menus from the waiter and put them down on the table without a second glance.
“Two glasses of champagne and a dozen fresh oysters. We’ll share, my dear.”
***
We sat facing each other, each of our reflections caught in the mirrored panels of glass.
It was strange and marvelous to be with her outside the apartment. To see her come alive against a new backdrop.
Even after all these years, she still moved like a dancer. Her neck stretched, and her shoulders pushed back, she took in the crowd as though she were appraising them from afar.
When the waiter had placed the pedestal of oysters in front of us, Marthe lifted her arm to retrieve one as elegantly as a swan.
She sipped her champagne with relish and slid the oyster into her mouth, drinking the brine. Once the waiter returned, she ordered two cassoulets for us and a bottle of wine.
“I never imagined you enjoyed being outside the apartment much,” I confessed to her as I washed down my oyster with champagne. “Of course I knew you went to Boldini’s studio and to Ichiro’s shop, but...”
“In the beginning, I didn’t, Solange,” she interrupted me. “Certainly I never dined out with Charles. It was always his wish to keep me a private affair...” She smiled. “But after his death, Boldini enjoyed taking me out, and I can’t deny I took pleasure in all the attention.”
She took her fork and moved the oyster shells to the side of her plate. The waiter arrived with two small bowls of warm lemon water for us to soak our fingers. Then, the waiter returned with two fresh glasses and filled them with wine.
Marthe lifted the glass and took a sip.
“I didn’t feel the passion toward him that I had with Charles, you know. But I craved our exchange of ideas, the ability to discuss art with him... and he was not ashamed of being seen with me. He introduced me to so many of his friends... artists, even a few politicians.”
I nodded. I could only imagine how thrilling it must have been for her to enter his artistic circle.
She took another sip of her wine.
“I’ve been lucky, Solange. I had three men who took good care of me in my lifetime.”
I knew two of them, Charles and it appeared Boldini did as well...
