Matthew melts into me, grateful.
“Dance with me.” I cling to him tightly, making it seem like we’re too caught up in one another to be interrupted. But one oily gentleman dares to tap him on the shoulder. The man’s tux is too shiny, his fingernails dirty. He doesn’t belong here any more than I do. I can smell my own.
“Matthew, old chap. You must remember me. Nigel Shreveport ofArtforum. Do you have a comment on your sister’s promotion?”
“Tonight he’s just enjoying the party. Perhaps he can call you tomorrow,” I say.
“And who are you?” Nigel asks.
“I’m nobody. Just a friend.”
“I’m delighted.” Matthew gathers his wits about him. “My sister is the most brilliant and capable executive I know.”
“But surely you must be disappointed.”
“Oh, I never wanted it anyway,” Matthew manages, a little too gruffly. People are watching now, and listening.
“That’s not what you said when we talked last month.” Nigel Shreveport is not going to be deterred. It’s an ambush.
“We’re needed elsewhere,” I say as firmly and politely as possible, and steer Matthew from the room. I glance behind me. Louis and Caroline are mobbed with their own crowd of sycophants, though the band keeps playing and some guests are dancing, or at least shifting from foot to foot in anticipation of a dance.
I steer Matthew toward the massive foyer and up the stairs once more. He’s deadweight as we make our way back to Stella’s room, but I manage to heave him onto the bed, remove his shoes and jacket, and pull the covers over him.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper to his snores.
I summon the driver again, explaining that Monsieur Swanson has opted to stay but I need to get back to the city. He doesn’t ask any questions. He’s trained not to.
The ride back to Paris is quiet. As I get out of the car, I feel ridiculous gathering up the taffeta of my skirts and stepping over a puddle of mud and piss to reach the cracked sidewalk in front of my building. It’s late, but my street is alive with patrons spilling out of the jazz clubs in the heart of the Fleas and heading into the center of the city for a night of more revelry as the holidays approach. I’m not exactly out of place in my evening wear, but I’m self-conscious anyway as I walk into our shabby building and take the stairs to the third floor because the elevator’s broken.
I want to shower and pass out. I can still smell Matthew all over me. It’s not unpleasant, though I want my body to be my own again. The girls are both asleep. I let my dress fall to the floor in a puddle of feathers for the second time this evening and sit naked on my bed, wanting to get into the shower and also notwanting to move. I brush my fingers over the zipper of my duffel bag. I hadn’t opened it during the drive, but now I pull the jewelry out, box by box, piece by piece. Diamonds, rubies, emeralds. There is at least $20,000 in cash and finally a packet of letters tied together with a ribbon, a shaky scrawl on old parchment. I loosen the ribbon and start reading. They’re addressed to a woman named Claire—Stella’s grandmother’s name, I think. Once I start reading I can’t stop. They tell of a terrible betrayal and the end of a friendship. I can feel the heartbreak from a century away.
They’re signed by none other than Jo van Gogh.
28
Claire
My daughter’s presencehas changed everything about my life. I’d thought her to be a quiet and reserved girl when we first met, but she simply did not know me very well. As soon as she became comfortable, she let her true self emerge. That self is an intensely funny observer of life who is endlessly curious.
Marie-Celeste has quickly become capable in Dutch. “This language sounds like someone trying to clear their throat while simultaneously eating a croissant and riding a bicycle over cobblestones,” she says with a giggle when I compliment her. “Or perhaps they’re all choking on their smoked cheese.” Marie-Celeste isn’t trying to be mean. She simply loves making me laugh and she does it regularly as she regales me with tales of her wanderings through Amsterdam and Bussum, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she describes our neighbors’ obsession with cleanliness. As an outsider to Holland and to the Dutch people, she sees them as captivating as animals in a zoo.
“Our neighbor Mevrouw van der Meer scrubs her stoop three times a day,” she tells me. “Three times! And that’s not even particularly zealous because down the road Beatrix Bakker scrubs hers four times a day. It’s as though they are competing in an eternally frustrating task to prove they are superior to the other in terms of tidiness.” Marie-Celeste demonstrates the vigorous scrubbing motion, her face set in an exaggerated mask of grim determination. “The entire street is like this,” she continues. “I saw a man actually get down on his hands and knees to inspect his sidewalk for dirt. I was mortified when he caught me watching, but then I discovered they’re always watching me as well.” She pauses for dramatic effect, clearly enjoying herself. “They have these tiny mirrors mounted outside their windows.Spionnetjes.At first, I thought they were for light or decoration. But no! They’re for spying on everyone while pretending not to!”
Their wooden shoes also bring her constant delight. “Theseklompenare lethal, Claire.” She still calls me Claire. It is better than madame, but I would prefer Mother. “The noise they make is like a hundred horses on cobblestones. I tried a pair at the market when I thought no one was looking. I’m certain half the street was watching through their spionnetjes as I nearly broke my ankle.”
We live together in the boardinghouse, but we will move in about a month. Jo has been traveling constantly to prepare shows in cities all over Holland, but she made sure she returned to meet Marie-Celeste a month after her arrival and even purchased her a beautifully bound diary and a new fountain pen for her studies. My daughter had done her homework on Jo, reading her most recent writings on the women’s movement.
“I loved what you said about how it is up to us to awaken men,” Marie-Celeste gushed at their first meeting. “I agree that advancing women will benefit men too.”
“But the men are so afraid the women will surpass them,” Jo countered.
“Oh, we will. We simply can’t let them know that yet.” They both chuckled. They are similar in their sardonic and wry senses of humor. And both wickedly quick and smart in a way that I know I will never be.
“I wish it were as clear to everyone,” Jo said.
“Oh, I think it will be for the next generation of children. At least in cities where they are exposed to these ideas. I have only been here a short time, but I tutor some of the children every day after my own studies. They have seen their parents broken down by fourteen-hour workdays and low wages. They believe things can be different. Children as young as ten. It is remarkable.”
“That is why we need more teachers like yourself spreading the word to them. Are you studying with Madame Jensen?”
