Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

Kristina

Paris, October 1923

When Kristina and Max returned from their stay in Barbizon, Serge greeted them with good news.

‘I acquired a painting by Georges Braque at auction and sold it to édouard Fould. Two promising cubists have now signed contracts to be represented by us. We are on our way.’

While Kristina had hoped it would have been one of her paintings that paved the way for the success of Bergeret & Lavertu, she was genuinely happy for Max and Serge. ‘Let’s go to La Rotonde and share the good news. Who knows? You might steal Picasso away from Vollard!’

Sonia, who had also received a lucrative assignment decorating the Foch Avenue apartment of an American banker, joined them.

‘It will be your turn soon, Kristina,’ Max whispered to her. ‘Your success is just around the corner.’

Kristina tried not to be discouraged despite the lack of sales of her art. She was returning to Nice at the end of October to paint Beatrice Fould. Serge assured her that painting an art collector was a wise move for an emerging artist. ‘Think of Renoir’s portrait of Paul Durand-Ruel or Tarbell’s of Henry Clay Frick and his daughter.’

‘Where is Madeleine?’ Kristina asked Serge. ‘I wrote to her from Barbizon twice but didn’t hear back. I have a wonderful idea for a painting with her as the model. It came to me in a dream.’

Serge froze and stared at his glass at the mention of Madeleine’s name. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen her.’

His reaction troubled Kristina.

‘Do you think Madeleine and Serge had some sort of argument?’ she asked Max when Serge’s attention was elsewhere. ‘They seemed happy together when we left.’

‘Perhaps they did,’ said Max. ‘But they are adults, Kristina. It’s up to them to put things right. And while Serge might have been a good influence on Madeleine, I don’t think she has brought him any peace of mind.’

‘Yes, I suppose you’re right,’ answered Kristina, feeling foolish that she might have made the mistake a lot of people did when they were in love – expecting everyone else to settle down as happily as she and Max had.

It wasn’t until a few days later that Kristina linked Madeleine’s absence to the Australian who’d started appearing at La Rotonde a week before they’d all left to go south. Suntanned and muscular, he’d perfected the air of an adventurer, with a lock of hair that permanently flopped over his forehead and a cigarette jammed between his perfect white teeth. He was always surrounded by admirers – men and women – who seemed enthralled with his stories about wrestling crocodiles and his time spent as an overseer on a tobacco plantation in New Guinea.

‘ Bonsoir, charmantes demoiselles ,’ he’d called out to Kristina and Sonia one night as they passed his table. He spoke such terrible French that Kristina assumed him to be English.

‘Who is that?’ she asked Sonia.

‘Efron Archer,’ she replied. ‘He’s the star of a pirate film they’re making at the new studios in Billancourt. He’s Tasmanian.’

‘Tasmania? Isn’t that part of Australia?’

‘Not according to him,’ Sonia said as they continued up the stairs. ‘I don’t think he’s particularly intelligent, but he is very photogénique , don’t you agree?’

Kristina hadn’t given Efron Archer another thought until she saw him at La Rotonde with his arm around Madeleine. She leaned against him like an adoring puppy and drooled at every word he uttered. Now she understood Serge’s discomfort at the mention of Madeleine.

‘Hello, Madeleine,’ Kristina said. ‘I’ve been sending you letters to come pose for me.’

‘Efron got me a part as an extra in his film,’ she said, her eyes sparkling. ‘I get to walk in front of the camera holding a basket of fruit.’

Her voice was slurred. She was drunk again. But in front of her was an enormous plate of pasta and she’d eaten over half of it. Kristina had never known Madeleine to have such an appetite. She’d put on a bit of weight, which made her look even prettier.

For his part, Efron was all adoration and affection towards Madeleine, stroking her hair and gazing into her eyes.

‘Won’t you sit down?’ he asked, sending Kristina a killer smile. As Sonia had said, he was incredibly handsome. But she couldn’t understand why Madeleine would choose him over Serge, who had so much more to offer.

For Madeleine’s sake and out of politeness, she accepted Efron’s invitation. Seeing he had captured a new audience member, Efron started telling Kristina stories of his outlandish adventures.

‘Pearl fishing in New Guinea is what made me a man,’ he said, squinting as if reliving a distant memory. ‘It’s lucrative but demands nerves of steel. You can go through a hundred shells and not find a thing. Then just when you are about to give up, there it is in the hundred and first shell – the elusive pink pearl.’

Efron held his palm up, and against Kristina’s better instincts, she stared at it as if that rare commodity might actually appear in it. He really is a good actor , she thought.

‘But after watching too many brave divers disappear into the deep dark sea and never come up,’ Efron continued, ‘I gave my fortune to their families and set out on my way to China with no more than two pounds in my pocket.’

From there, Efron’s stories grew taller, going from managing the most successful nightclub in Shanghai to being discovered as a professional tennis player, then a champion boxer and a famous trapeze artist with a travelling circus, until one evening, while saving a young woman from a gangster, his wrist was broken. As he spoke he rocked back in his chair, and Kristina was sure that if Max had been with her, he would have kicked it out from under him. Max couldn’t stand a boastful man. Likewise, Sonia would have called Efron out on his falsehoods. But as Efron went on, sharing his fanciful stories to Madeleine’s rapt attention, Kristina found herself feeling sorry for him. His fingers trembled with a nervous energy as he spoke. She sensed the desperation in his tales. He was nothing more than an overgrown boy who wanted people to like him.

But when he claimed to be a child-survivor of the Titanic – ‘There was a fearful explosion and then the ship started cracking. I’ll never forget the moment when the lights went out... and then the screams’ – even Kristina reached her limit of patience.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said rising. ‘You’ll have to save that one for next time. I promised to meet Sonia for dinner.’ She glanced at Madeleine. ‘Please do come and see me about posing. I have a wonderful idea and you are the only model I can imagine using for it.’

‘Of course I will,’ said Madeleine. ‘I’ll come tomorrow. But not before eleven.’

Kristina left La Rotonde with an uneasy feeling pinching her stomach. If ever two people needed someone to take care of them, it was Madeleine and Efron. Leaving them together felt like leaving two young children to play with matches. If they became enmeshed with each other, she could only see it leading to disaster.

*

‘He’s not a lout, like everyone thinks.’

It was the first thing Madeleine said to Kristina when she arrived the following afternoon after keeping her waiting for two hours.

‘He is an artiste . If only people really knew him, they’d understand how wonderful he is.’

Kristina thought Efron was an artist of the braggadocio school. The painting she was planning was epic and she would need Madeleine every day for the next few weeks. She hoped a steady job and time away from alcohol might help wean her off Efron. Her friend was obsessing about a man who could only bring her trouble.

The work Kristina had planned would pay homage to the French realistic painter Charles-Amable Lenoir, who was known for his romantic mythological paintings. In it, Madeleine would pose as Eve – not the humiliated woman of the Bible, the culprit for the fall of humankind, but a defiant one. She would be powerful like a gust of wind, with intensity and determination in her eyes. Eve would be escaping the tyranny of God and Adam of her own accord and setting out on an adventure of independence. She would wield a sword like Joan of Arc and have the wings of an angel.

Perhaps , thought Kristina as Madeleine arranged herself on the podium for the first sketches, if Madeleine sees herself in this painting the way I see her, it will change her perception of herself .

Kristina was so focused on this hope that in the weeks that followed, she managed to block out Madeleine’s ceaseless chatter about Efron. Until one day, Madeleine said something that prickled Kristina’s nerves.

‘When Efron puts his arms around me, I feel protected and safe. He is wild and he is strong, like a man is supposed to be .’

Kristina looked up. ‘I hope that wasn’t a dig at Serge,’ she said tersely. ‘Because he is both strong and gentle .’

‘Serge! Serge!’ Madeleine laughed, her voice brittle. ‘Dear Serge. Doesn’t he have you fooled, Kristina?’

Kristina felt her blood boil, but she knew if she got angry at Madeleine, her flighty model might run away just when she was at a crucial stage of the work. She didn’t need to defend Serge. His character spoke for itself. She suspected Efron was simply doing for Madeleine what he did for the adoring fans of his films – playing the part of the hero without actually being a hero. He was the type of man who was only interested in a woman to massage his inflated ego. When he got bored with that role, he’d move on.

But the next day, when Madeleine arrived and took off her coat, Kristina saw purple welts up and down her arms and was horrified.

‘Did Efron do that to you?’

Madeleine averted her eyes. ‘No, of course he didn’t. Efron would never lay a hand on a woman. I bruised my arms moving furniture around my room.’

Those bruises were not from moving furniture, Kristina was sure of that. She could see the imprint of fingers as if someone had grabbed Madeleine by both arms. But if it really hadn’t been Efron, then Madeleine was in trouble of some sort. Did she owe money to a thug? Kristina knew things like that were common in Paris – a criminal would force a female entertainer to pay him ‘protection’ money when the only person she needed protection from was him.

‘Why don’t you come and stay with us?’ Kristina offered. ‘There’s a small sitting room we could turn into a bedroom for you. It gets delightful sunshine in the morning.’

Madeleine shook her head. ‘After the portrait’s done, I’m leaving Paris. In fact, I’m getting away from France for good.’

Kristina was startled by the news. ‘What? Where will you go?’

Madeleine rubbed at her hands. ‘I can’t tell you,’ she said. ‘It’s better you don’t know. But I’m going with Efron. He said he’s ready for a new adventure.’

Kristina wanted to run into the shop where Max was sorting out stock and ask him to make Madeleine come to her senses. But he had told her not to interfere, and Kristina reminded herself that Efron might not be serious. His ‘new adventure’ might just be another one of his fantasies.

The sound of Madeleine gagging surprised her. Madeleine’s face had turned a sickly shade of green and she reached the sink just in time to throw up into it. At first, Kristina assumed her friend had drunk too much again, but then another idea occurred to her. Madeleine had never had much of an appetite before, but the other night she had tucked into a large plate of pasta. The way she blushed under her scrutiny made Kristina more certain of her suspicion.

‘You’re pregnant.’

‘I’m not feeling well,’ Madeleine replied. ‘I’d better go home. I’m sorry. I’ll come back tomorrow.’

‘Madeleine, please let me help you. You can’t possibly rely on Efron to be responsible. He can’t be a father to your child.’

‘He’s not the father,’ said Madeleine softly.

Kristina frowned. ‘He isn’t?’

‘Efron is all bluff,’ she said coyly. ‘He doesn’t function very well in that department.’

Kristina had heard that alcoholics were not the best lovers. Then the truth dawned on her. ‘Serge?’ she asked.

Madeleine’s face turned dark. ‘Do not tell him, Kristina.’

‘But—’

‘ Do not tell him , Kristina. If you do, I swear I’ll kill myself.’

Kristina recoiled, terrified. Why was Madeleine making such a vicious threat to herself and her unborn child?

Madeleine’s eyes filled with tears. She threw her head back and blinked hard. ‘My parents didn’t send me to a convent like I told you. They sent me to an asylum. They said I was mad, but I’m not mad, Kristina. My father did things to me that no father should do to his child. And when I had the baby, they gave it away. Well, they won’t be giving this one away.’

Kristina saw things more clearly now. So this was the real reason Madeleine was running away. ‘If you won’t let us help you, who will you turn to?’

Madeleine shook her head. ‘My brother used to be my defender, but years of beatings from my father have turned him into a monster too. He’d sooner kill me than have his reputation ruined.’

Kristina looked down at Madeleine’s arms. ‘So he was the one who did that to you?’

Then another idea came to her mind. ‘Why don’t you go stay with my parents in Nice and have the baby there?’

Madeleine straightened herself and took her coat from the back of the chair. ‘I’ll think about it, Kristina, thank you. But for now I just want to go home and lie down for a few hours. I’ll come back tomorrow. We’ll talk about it more then.’

Kristina helped Madeleine get her arms into the sleeves of her coat. She’s too emotionally frail to have a baby , she thought.

Before she left, Madeleine glanced at the painting, which was almost finished. She smiled. ‘It’s wonderful, Kristina,’ she said. ‘It’s your best work yet.’

*

After Madeleine left, Kristina paced the studio. She could not settle her feelings of impending disaster. She had promised Madeleine not to tell Serge about the pregnancy, but how could she keep that promise when two lives were at stake?

She went out into the shop but Max was no longer there.

‘He said to tell you that he’s gone with Monsieur Lavertu to Rouen to see a collector. They will be back later this evening,’ No?l told her.

‘Why didn’t he tell me he was leaving?’

‘He thought you were painting and didn’t want to disturb you.’

Kristina returned to her studio and began pacing again. She wavered between different courses of action – go to Madeleine now and plead again with her to go to her parents’ villa in Nice, or wait for Serge? In the end, she thought it best to wait for Serge.

When he and Max returned, they were both in high spirits. They had their arms around each other and were singing old French drinking songs.

They stopped and smiled when they saw Kristina.

‘We sold three of Armand Rouvel’s paintings!’ Max said, holding out a bouquet of marigolds to her. ‘We wanted to celebrate. It’s the biggest sale we’ve ever made. We are practically millionaires.’

‘You’re drunk,’ she said, not to admonish them but to express her dismay. Max was in no fit condition to do anything, and lay down on the sofa and fell promptly asleep, snoring loudly.

Serge looked at Max fondly and then turned to Kristina. ‘Not quite millionaires yet. But far richer than we were yesterday. We stopped in Argenteuil to celebrate.’ Then noticing her expression, he asked, ‘Is everything all right?’

She was relieved to see Serge was not quite as drunk as Max.

‘It’s Madeleine,’ she said. ‘Let’s sit down. I have something important to tell you.’

She poured out the whole story, assuring Serge that Madeleine was quite certain the baby was his child.

He shook his head in wonder. ‘A baby? My child?’ He looked around the room for a moment and then returned his attention to Kristina. ‘Of course I won’t abandon her,’ he said. ‘Even if Madeleine doesn’t want to be with me, I can still be the child’s father. Somebody needs to provide for them, and it won’t be Efron.’

Kristina’s heart lifted but then she thought of the cruel way Madeleine had laughed at Serge. Surely she’d see that whatever had happened between them, Serge was putting her and the child first. She could only hope Madeleine would come to her senses and appreciate Serge for the fine man he was.

‘I’ll go see her first thing tomorrow morning,’ said Serge. ‘I believe I know what I can say to her.’

‘I’ll come with you and wait at the café opposite her apartment,’ Kristina told him. ‘You can call on me if you need me.’

They covered Max with a blanket and retired to their bedrooms, although Kristina suspected neither of them would sleep. Before they parted on the landing, Serge turned to her.

‘You know I would marry Madeleine, if she would agree. I may not be perfect, but I believe I would make a good father.’

‘You would make a wonderful father,’ Kristina said. ‘I have no doubt at all about it.’

Afterwards, as Kristina lay in bed, she thought about Serge’s words. There had been a doubt – not in his own constancy, but seemingly in his worthiness to be a father. She thought about what it must have been like for him growing up without parents and only a distant and strict aunt to watch over him. Perhaps he lacked confidence because he’d never learned what being in a real family was like, as she and Max had. She squeezed her eyes shut, praying with all her might that things would turn out well for him, Madeleine and the baby.

*

Madeleine’s apartment was on Rue Saint-Vincent. Kristina waited at the café across the road while Serge spoke to the concierge, who didn’t look anything like the concierge of Madeleine’s stories who had worn a monocle and smoked a pipe. She looked more like somebody’s sweet grandmother.

Serge waved Kristina over, his face grave. She knew instantly that something terrible had happened.

‘She’s gone,’ Serge said. ‘Madame Seigner says she left with Efron late yesterday afternoon.’

‘Yesterday!’

Kristina knew then that pursuit would be useless. They could be anywhere with that sort of lead – about to board a ship at Le Havre, or hiding in Belgium or Switzerland. Her heart sank. Why hadn’t she acted sooner? She thought of the painting and how Madeleine had looked at it. Madeleine had known then that she wasn’t coming back.

‘Why do you think Efron was so keen to run off with her?’ she asked Serge. ‘Do you think it’s because he is in some sort of trouble?’

Serge clenched his fists as if trying to control himself. ‘Efron lives in a fantasy world. He probably thought running off with Madeleine was nothing more than a pirate adventure. He has no sense of responsibility.’

‘But Monsieur Archer gave me a good sum of money for the rent,’ Madame Seigner said, as if trying to calm them. ‘He seemed like a nice enough man. Better than that other one.’

Kristina frowned. ‘What other one?’

‘The rich one in his fancy car. I know that type. The sort that look down their nose at you. He was always demanding that he be let up to Madeleine’s apartment, but I stood up to him. Then the night before last he caught her coming home. They argued and then he tried to drag her into his car. For such a tiny thing she put up a fierce fight. Monsieur Petit came out of the café and beat him off.’

‘What were they were fighting about?’ Serge asked.

Madame Seigner shook her head. ‘Poor Monsieur Petit is deaf from the war and didn’t hear what they were saying. But he said Madeleine looked frightened for her life.’

Kristina now understood. Madeleine had been telling her the truth when she’d said it wasn’t Efron who’d caused the bruises. At least there was some comfort in that.

‘I think it was her brother,’ Kristina said. ‘She told me yesterday that he didn’t want her in Paris, and that he thought she was ruining the family reputation. I can only imagine what he thought of her taking up with Efron. It would have got into the papers sooner or later.’

‘She left with only a suitcase,’ Madame Seigner said. ‘The rest of her things are in her apartment. She told me I could keep them. Shall I show you?’

Kristina and Serge followed the concierge up the creaking stairs to an apartment with patched furniture draped in expensive shawls and unwashed windows with silk curtains. There was a narrow bed and a lopsided lamp. The bedside table was covered in empty wine bottles. It made Kristina want to cry to think that Madeleine must have sat in this dingy place and drank alone. She felt like a negligent friend for not having tried harder to save her.

She opened the drawer of the bedside table and, under some spools of cotton and lace, found a photograph. It was of an old woman with a kind face and a baby in her arms. Behind them was a grand house with a mansard roof and an equestrian statue of Marcus Aurelius near the door. The woman must have been the grandmother Madeleine had spoken about.

Kristina gave the photograph to Serge. ‘Please keep it. I can’t bear to look at it.’

‘Are you Kristina by any chance?’ Madame Seigner suddenly asked.

Kristina turned to her. ‘Yes, I am.’

‘Madeleine told me if you came to relay a message to you.’

Kristina felt a flutter of hope. Perhaps Madeleine had left a forwarding address after all. ‘What was it?’

‘She said to tell you that she was sorry.’

The bell rang downstairs and Madame Seigner excused herself to answer it. Kristina saw Serge standing by the window as still as a statue, his face in his hands.

‘Serge?’

She placed her hand on his shoulder. It was then Kristina felt him trembling and realised he was weeping. Great racking but silent sobs.

‘The child!’ he wept. ‘The child!’

Kristina thought her heart would break. It would have been terrible for any child to be born into the situation Madeleine was facing, but this was his child.

‘She might come back,’ she whispered to him, ‘like a swallow in the spring. And she will bring the child with her.’

But even as she said it, there was a feeling of dread in Kristina’s bones. If Madeleine came back, she thought, it would only be in the form of an angel.