Later on, when she traced a line down his chest with her finger, she felt as though she were stepping back in time, to a period in her life when she had Charles beside her. But, as was often the case with intense sessions of lovemaking, a sadness crept in afterward that was hard for her to shake off.
Before finally going to sleep, Marthe had drawn the curtains and kept the bedroom bathed in shadow so he would not see the fine lines around her eyes and mouth. But she knew it would be difficult to fool him when the light changed in the morning.
“How beautiful you are, Marthe,” he said, kissing her fingertips. It was as if he had read her mind and sensed her vulnerability.
She took her hand to his face and brought her mouth close to his, inhaling his sweet breath as though its youth and vitality had restorative powers. “I am grateful we spoke so intensely that evening at my salon...”
He smiled. “Isn’t that where all great seductions begin? With the mind?”
She felt her skin coming alive as he spoke; the connection between her intellect and her body was an intricate web.
“The mind is the gateway for desire, for that is where all our secret fantasies are stored.”
“How did such a young man become so wise?” she asked as she roped her leg over his. “Did they teach you such things in military school?”
He pulled her closer to him.
“No, it was my mother. She encouraged me to keep a dream journal. Every morning she told me to write down what I remembered from the night before.” He looked up at the ceiling, then closed his eyes.
“When I was little, it was difficult to retain the exact details. Imight remember a single image. A dragon or a paper pinwheel gifted to me in the park. But soon my mind trained itself to recall the images more clearly.”
“Do you still keep one?” she asked as she stroked the inside of his knee.
“I no longer write them down, but every morning I pause for a few minutes and try to force myself to remember before I start my day.” He sat up and now faced her.
“In fact, just last week you appeared in one of my dreams like an empress, your body wrapped in a silk kimono embroidered with silver cranes.”
“How marvelous,” she chimed, her pleasure was evident.
“You dropped the robe from your shoulders, and the material pooled around you like a frozen lake. I stood transfixed as you raised one foot after the other, stepping over the fallen silk and walking toward me with outstretched arms.”
He lifted a hand and ran it through her heavy hair. The tortoiseshell combs lay on the bedside table, and now her hair ran over her shoulders and breasts.
“It was after recalling the vividness of that dream, that I decided to write you.”
“I’m so happy you did.”
“I only regret that I won’t have time to buy you something beautiful before I leave tomorrow.”
“Don’t give it a second thought,” she laughed, kissing him again. “It will be nice to have a handsome young major in my debt.”
She pulled herself on top of him, his body a saddle beneath her. And her hair fell against his skin, the sensation as delicate as fallen rain.
35.
Marthe
Paris 1917
Over the years, Marthe had been forced to become creative in order to supplement her dwindling income. She had modeled for Boldini on a few occasions for his own personal studies, though never nude.
But when he asked her to pose so he could experiment with different positions of the body, she always obliged. He always showed his appreciation by leaving an envelope of money by the pedestal near his door.
She had also sold a few of her ceramic pieces to Boldini as well as back to Ichiro, who had told her when she first bought them from him that they would retain their value and he could always resell them. Marthe had already sold back to him most of her shunga collection and three of her celadon bowls and a famille rose vase.
But nearly twenty years had passed since Charles had died. Marthe realized that she was starting to run out of money, as much of her savings had dwindled. And now that she was older, theopportunities to model, as well as her list of new suitors began to grow sparse. The major had been a rare opportunity, one that would likely not repeat itself. He had written to tell her that he was now in western France, but she knew he could not say too much with all correspondence censored due to the war.
She thought it unlikely she would see him again, and she knew he was not in a position to financially support her as Charles had. If he survived the war, he would come back and marry a woman his own age, as she believed he should. The only men who’d take her as a mistress would be ones close to seventy with failing eyesight. Marthe understood that the same affliction that had caused Mata Hari to turn to espionage was now threatening her. The next step to stretching her finances further would be to let Giselle go.
