Maëlle had never thought about this sort of thing. There was a château outside her hometown of Concarneau; it was said avicomtesselived there, a solitary old woman whose royal title had survived the Revolution. Maëlle used to walk by, noting the faded curtains in the windows and the weeds in the drive, but she had always assumed these were genteel flaws, indications of a kind of discreet wealth that someone in her position would never fully understand.
Needless to say, the cabinetmaker’s daughter had never been invited in.
• • •
As the week goes on, Maëlle learns about the carousel business by listening in on the discussions over lunch and paying attention to the men’s chatter while she washes the atelier windows and sweepspiles of wood dust off the floor. It is fascinating, and she has enough food and a warm place to sleep, but she itches to be allowed to work and create as she knows she can, alongside the carvers and painters.
She is thrilled when Monsieur Maréchal teaches her to make gesso, the thick white primer used to seal the wood of the carousel figures before pigment and metal leaf are applied. In a double boiler, she adds amber flakes of dried rabbit skin glue, chalk whiting, and garlic cloves, stirring constantly to be sure it doesn’t burn.
Madame Bayol exclaims and throws open the windows as the stench fills the kitchen, yet to Maëlle it smells like progress.
Whenever she is cleaning the factory, she watches the process and learns.
First, Monsieur Chailloux’s drawing is approved by the master. Then a life-size cartoon of the figure—a donkey, a horse, a cat—is sketched onto paper tacked up on the wall. The design is then transferred onto large pieces of wood only about an inch thick. After they are cut to the specifications, these are laminated together and held in a vise until the glue has dried. Only then does the sculpting begin: Léon and the other apprentices do the bulk of the preliminary work, carving away great chunks of unnecessary wood, and leaving the crudely modeled body for the master’s artistry.
It is magical, watching Monsieur Bayol conjure his sweet figures, cutting and nicking and smoothing for hours, days, weeks.
Afterward, all joints are filled with putty and carefully sanded, and the master applies his final touches. Finally the figure is completely covered in several coats of gesso, each application smoothed and polished with increasingly fine sandpaper, pumice, and rottenstone.
The gleaming, pure white creatures are as lovely as any sculpture made of stone; they remind Maëlle of grand statues she has seen in Angers’ public squares. It seems almost a shame to apply paint.
But the creatures are brought to whimsical life through bright pigments and shiny gilt, rosettes and jewels and brass details.
Maëlle watches the younger workers with envy. Not one is as skilledas she. Soon she makes a decision: She did not come all this way to remain in the kitchen. Maëlle starts slipping into the factory late at night, after the master and his wife have gone to bed. She retrieves chunks of wood from the discard pile to carve her creations: roses and tiny cows and pigs. She spends hours chipping and shaving, sanding and oiling. Then she leaves them atop Monsieur Bayol’s desk for him to discover in the morning.
But it is not until she begins to apply paint to the animals that Monsieur Bayol takes her aside after lunch, to say: “These little toys you have been making are atrocious, but they do show promise.” He toys with his mustache, seeming to ponder something for a long moment, then finally adds: “I am afraid young Theodore is not working out; he does not have the delicacy necessary for the finished painting. In addition to helping my wife, you will learn to properly use the paints. Perhaps a woman’s touch would be useful, after all. Have you ever gilded?”
“I... No, I am sorry, monsieur,” Maëlle said. “I have not gilded. But I am eager to learn.”
He chuckled. “Yes, mademoiselle. This much is clear.”
CHAPTER TEN
PRESENT DAY
PARIS
Cady
As Cady checked off the carousels she photographed, one after another, she began to wonder just how many therewerein the City of Light, but neither an Internet search nor questioning of the carousel workers offered up a clear number. The man at the corner grocery near her apartment suggested she pay a visit to the Musée Carnavalet, a museum dedicated to Parisian history.
She found the museum on the other side of the Seine in the charming Marais neighborhood, where it occupied two neighboring mansions: the Hôtel Carnavalet and the former Hôtel Le Peletier de Saint-Fargeau.
A museum worker directed Cady to the office of a fifty-something woman named Madame Martin.
“Bonjour,madame,”Cady said, placing her business card on the desk. “I’m photographing Parisian carousels for a publisher based in San Francisco.”
The woman looked unimpressed. Madame Martin’s hair was cut in a neat bob, not chic exactly—at least not by Parisian standards—and was a shiny steel color, too uniform to be natural. She wore chunky,handmade jewelry: big earrings and a large necklace that seemed to make a statement—“I am here.”
Her air of irritated impatience did not deter Cady; she was used to being the annoying kid. When she was thirteen she had snuck a peek at her file and noted that several caseworkers had described her as “socially awkward/possible disorder.” Far from feeling insulted, Cady had been relieved to know there really was something about her that put people off. The awkwardness lessened as she matured and became better socialized, though it had never fully gone away.
But Cady imagined that many Americans felt awkward around the urbane Parisians. It was comforting to know that in this way, if in no other, she belonged.
“Yes, yes. What is your question?” urged Madame Martin.
“I have several.”
“Asseyez-vous,”she said, and Cady took a seat. Madame Martin folded her hands atop her desk and gazed at Cady attentively, reminding her of Ms. Ulmer, a social worker from years ago. Unsmiling, but not unkind.
