Mrs. Swanson places her ancient hand on my arm to stop me from leaving the room. “Sit with me for a moment, dear?” Her fingers tremble. The naked desire of her request tweaks a nerve in me. I know what it is to be lonely, to be desperate for someone, anyone, to connect with.
So I sit.
“This painting was one of Jo’s favorites,” Mrs. Swanson continues, apparently on a first-name basis with the whole Van Gogh family. “I love it like I would have loved a child if I’d been blessed with one. That’s why I have always kept it close to me. I had it in my bedroom in New York.” I worry that she doesn’t realize this is just a print. How lucid is Stella Swanson?
“This tiny tree could be bent in half by a gust of wind and yet you don’t fear for it. It is strong. It belongs there. There is much going on behind it, but the human eye barely notices. An entire forest is in the background, and through the trees the village of Arles, but none of the background matters. All that matters is right in front of you. The tiny, striving tree. I think that tree is very much like Jo, a speck of a thing, battling to get ahead in a world dying to snap her in two. There is much more to know about Jo van Gogh, but few of the art history books ever teach it. She was a brilliant woman. So ahead of her time. She is the reason any of us know Vincent van Gogh’s name today.”
Despite the fact that I’m already running late and I’m hopeless at small talk, I’m curious now and it’s not entirely unpleasant to listen to Madame Swanson while lounging in this gorgeous room. The sitting area almost feels like a Dutch painting with its dark, moody walls; crown moldings; and massive bronze fireplace. Aside from this print the wall space is surprisingly bare, though when I was dusting I made out variations in the paint in the shape of large rectangles. Something used to hang there and had for long enough that the sunlight dulled the paint around it. Empty holes at the top had nails in them recently. An abandoned gallery wall. Where has all of it gone?
I’d like to paint in here, to show how the sunlight bounces off the nearly black interior. Some of the light is absorbed by the dark, but not all. I’d like to paint Stella too, perhaps sitting by the fireplace, an ode toWhistler’s Mother, fire licking at her stockinged feet.
Listening to Stella feels like being back in art school, a time when all I had to do was learn and create, when there was less pressure to hustle for money, but since my scholarship was canceled last semester, I don’t know how I’ll ever afford that sort of time again.
Suddenly a door slams in the hallway, causing a teacup to shudder precariously on the table in front of us. I grab for it, but not before it crashes, scattering the tiniest of shards across the recently vacuumed floor.
“Stella?” A confident male voice booms in a smooth and well-mannered British lilt.
“In here, Matthew. I’m just chatting with the cleaning girl.”
“Bonjour, bonjour,” the voice comes again. This time it’s firmly attached to a body striding through the foyer.
It’s not justanybody, but one of the more perfect specimens of a body I’ve ever seen, or at least that’s what I would think if I hadn’t firmly sworn off men after what happened with Pascal.
This guy is in his early thirties, so two decades younger than Pascal. He stands a couple of inches over six feet, which usually turns me off since I’m barely five foot one. His camel hair overcoat hangs neatly on his arm and he’s wearing the kind of well-tailored suit that only European men, or those who spend a lot of time in Europe, can pull off. The pants are ever so much tighter around his waist, legs, and ass than their American counterparts. They fall right at his ankle and the jacket nips in at his trim waist. There’s an actual yellow pocket square in his pocket. The slight stubble on his tanned cheeks is a direct contrast to how neat and proper the whole outfit is.
“And who do we have here?” He offers me his hand despite thefact that I’ve already been identified as the help. His palm is Oil of Olay soft, his fingernails buffed and shined.Never trust a man with a manicure,Emma.I hear my mother’s voice so clearly in my head.
He picks Madame Swanson up and swings her around like she’s his long-lost lover and they have been reunited after a war. I’m worried he’ll break her.
The woman’s entire demeanor changes in his presence. “This is Matthew, my step-grandson.” She practically giggles as he plunks her back down on the couch.
He shakes his head. “I don’t refer to Stella as step-anything. She’s more my blood than my own mother. I adore this woman. Don’t I?” He gives her a wet kiss on her cheek that causes her face to light up the same way it did when she admired Van Gogh’s blossoms.
“Emma is taking a break from cleaning the floors.” Stella Swanson titters again, patting her knee and indicating that he should sit down. For a moment it’s hard to suppress a smile as I imagine him plopping onto Stella’s lap like a child. He opts for the couch instead.
I stand, cupping the shattered pieces of the teacup in my hand. “Be careful where you walk. I’ll get a broom after I finish the kitchen. And I can be back tomorrow to take care of the linens, madame.”
“I can do it.” Matthew pulls out the pocket square and leans down to wipe up the rest of the tiny shards before handing them to me. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” He lights a cigarette. The entire apartment already smells like smoke, much like Pascal’s always had.
“I’m glad you’ve finally found some help,” he says to Stella.
The Swansons are the level of rich that would seem to employ an entire staff, and yet there’s no evidence of anyone besides me working here these days.
“You’re American?” Matthew asks me as I try to sneak out of the room. “What are you doing in Paris?”
He’s clearly the kind of man who can chat up anyone, about anything. The opposite of me. I prefer to blend in with the wallpaper and wait for people to share the secrets they only whisper alone in the dark.
“I came here to clean apartments.” The sarcasm trickles out before I can stop myself and I instantly regret it. “I mean…” I stammer.
But both Matthew and Madame Swanson laugh. The sound isn’t cruel. They do it in a way that feels like we’re all in on the joke.
“Isn’t that what they all say?” Matthew says. “Every single American girl I meet at the bars in the Marais tells me the exact same thing. Everyone comes here to clean apartments.” I can feel his gaze on me, and I wish I didn’t enjoy it. Being invisible is preferable.
“How long have you been here in Paris?”
“Two years,” I say, no longer in the mood to lie. But even though it’s the truth, it sounds impossible. Has it really been two years since I came here as a bright-eyed young art student hoping to study with some of the most exciting instructors in Paris? Sometimes I look back on that first year now with shame because I enjoyed myself too much. I fell in love with the wrong man. I spent all my savings in the first few months and maxed out half a dozen credit cards. When the scholarship was abruptly canceled due to lack of funding, I was left with less than nothing.
“Two whole years! You’re practically Parisian by now,” Matthew says. “You must have come as a teenager.”
