Chapter Three
Chapter Three
Kristina
Paris, June 1923
In the drawing rooms of the more conservative arrondissements of Paris, many said the artists of Montparnasse were a rather louche lot who wasted their time mingling in cafés and participating in drunken debaucheries and illicit love affairs. While there was some truth in the joie de vivre of the quarter, it was untrue that they were all lazy or not serious about their work. Picasso painted through the night to take advantage of the stillness and silence, and woe to anybody who dared disturb him after he’d gone to bed in the morning. Derain and Braque worked out their creative frustrations by boxing, while Marie Laurencin absorbed the genius around her with utter dedication, determined to become a master herself. Even Kristina Belova, a humble art student, could be found working in the lecture room of the Académie de la Grande Chaumière long after everybody else had gone home.
She locked eyes with her reflection in the mirror perched on her desk, while at the same time trying to keep the right amount of tilt to her head. She wasn’t admiring her beauty, nor scrutinising her face for flaws as another young woman might do. She was attempting to capture herself in oil paint and was finding the task much harder than she had anticipated. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to idealise herself or capture the truth. If the former, then she should depict a smart modern woman who sensed she was on the brink of something grand. If the latter, then her portrait should be of an intelligent, well-educated eighteen-year-old frustrated by her limitations.
She put her brush down with a sigh and placed her hands over her eyes. She knew she must stop squinting. It only happened when she was painting, and her eyes were the feature on which most people commented. ‘Blue like a mountain lake,’ her father said. ‘Blue like a mysterious Siamese cat,’ was her mother’s description. A lock of her blonde hair slipped over her forehead. She’d discovered there was more green in blonde hair than yellow, and that it picked up the colours of nearby objects. She stared at the top of her head. The fine hairs that framed her face would have to be painted delicately.
She returned to her palette and worked on in silent contemplation. She had been taught to paint by a series of Russian tutors, and her subjects until five years ago had been summer dachas and ballet classes in the style of élisabeth Louise Vigée Le Brun. A distinctly modern self-portrait was not something she would have dared attempt. The Russia that she knew was steeped in folklore and ruled by superstition. Her nanny employed all manner of rituals and customs to ward off evil. If she had ever discovered Kristina staring into a mirror for too long she would have been horrified. Reflective surfaces were magical and not to be taken lightly. They were used for scrying. They were portals to another world.
A door suddenly slammed. There was no breeze coming from the window or else Kristina wouldn’t have had sweat dripping down her back. She went to the door and looked up and down the hall. There was not a soul to be seen. It is the ghost of Modigliani , she told herself, as it was rumoured that he still wandered the building and the whole of Montparnasse, his loud laughter following him as he vanished around a corner or up a flight of stairs. Kristina wouldn’t mind meeting his restless spirit, although it was said that in real life, for an Italian at least, he was quite unsociable.
She returned to her desk and picked up her brush. She dreamed of being a great artist but did not want to live and die tragically as Modigliani had – a mind and body destroyed by absinthe and hashish; a trail of broken hearts left in his wake including the suicide of his pregnant mistress. Apart from her desire to paint, what Kristina desired for the rest of her life was quite ordinary. She wanted to have someone to love and who loved her. She wanted to be happy.
‘Kristina.’
She looked up to see her friend Sonia standing in the doorway. The arched eyebrows she had taken to pencilling on every morning accentuated her angular face and made her look dramatic. She was wearing a tubular dress that hung straight from her shoulders to below her knees. It was one of her own creations and suited her svelte figure and short brown hair. She’d made a similar dress for Kristina in sapphire blue, only of a looser fit, because nothing was going to flatten Kristina’s curves no matter what fashion dictated.
Kristina glanced at the clock on the wall. It was almost six o’clock.
‘I lost track of time,’ she said, packing away her materials. She quickly washed her brushes and hands, and then fixed the pins in her hair.
‘You ought to cut it,’ said Sonia.
‘Not after your mother nearly killed you for chopping off yours. She’d send me straight back to Nice.’
Sonia’s mother, Madame Vertinskaya, was the only reason Kristina’s parents had allowed her to study art in Paris. Sonia wanted to become an interior designer, but her family had not fared well after the Russian Revolution and did not have the means for her to live in Paris. Kristina’s father offered to pay for an apartment for the three women if Madame Vertinskaya would act as a guardian for his daughter.
‘Hardly, my mother thinks the world of you,’ said Sonia, parading around with her head held high as Madame Vertinskaya was wont to do. ‘“Why don’t you try to be more cheerful, like Kristina. Why do you look so dour all the time?”’
Sonia’s imitation of her mother made Kristina smile. Madame Vertinskaya was a good woman of integrity, but she was also rather conventional.
‘What do you answer when your mother says things like that?’ Kristina asked.
‘I tell her it’s not fashionable to be cheerful and that it’s much better to have an air of disdain about you.’
Kristina pursed her lips to stifle a laugh and followed her friend out the door.
Outside, the heat was even more oppressive. It bounced off the pavement and hit them in the face like a bomb blast. It was hot in Nice but at least the town had the sea breeze in the evenings.
The women passed a street vendor whose horse was wearing a straw hat with holes cut out for its ears. ‘Look, fresh strawberries,’ Kristina said, pointing to the vendor’s cart.
‘I haven’t eaten all day,’ said Sonia, wincing and rubbing her stomach.
‘You worked through lunchtime again?’
‘No, I want to fit into the silk evening dress I’m making.’
‘Why don’t you make the dress to your size?’ Kristina asked. ‘After all, wasn’t comfort the point of women liberating themselves from corsets?’
Sonia sent her a withering glance, but Kristina was spared one of her acid remarks because she was one of the few people Sonia genuinely liked.
‘Come, I’ll buy us some,’ Kristina said, opening her purse and handing the money to the vendor. ‘It’s not good to drink on an empty stomach.’
The strawberries were juicy and full of summer sweetness. They finished them off before they reached the corner of the street. They were about to cross over to the Café de la Rotonde when a voice called out to Kristina. It was Peggy Truesdale, an American student from her drawing class. Peggy caught up to them, her plump face moist and red beneath her sailor’s cap.
‘I’m meeting friends at Le D?me,’ she said. ‘Are you going there too?’
Café du D?me was directly across the street from La Rotonde and drew a crowd of American college students in white pants and blazers and their flouncily dressed girlfriends. Kristina wouldn’t have minded because Peggy was fun. She played the ukulele and took lessons in Grecian dancing. But Paris’s most serious artists – or at least the artists Kristina most hoped to emulate – favoured La Rotonde.
‘No, we are headed to La Rotonde,’ said Sonia, answering for Kristina. Her tone had a degree of hostility that would put anybody off.
Peggy, who was as warm and friendly as a ray of sunshine, looked taken aback. Kristina was about to introduce the women to each other when she realised there was no point. Sonia could be abrasive, disagreeable, and a bully when the urge took her. When she cut someone it was because she’d made up her mind to not like them and there was no use trying to persuade her otherwise.
‘We are meeting friends there tonight,’ Kristina said to Peggy, feeling embarrassed by Sonia’s deplorable attitude. ‘But I hope you have a nice time and I look forward to seeing you in class tomorrow.’
Peggy nodded and headed across the road to a group of smiling young people who waved first to her and then to Kristina and Sonia.
‘More money than sense,’ muttered Sonia. ‘Why would a woman with such a round face even think of wearing a sailor’s cap. It made her face as big as the moon.’
‘I think she’s pretty.’
‘Pretty is not chic. There is a difference. That girl has loads of money and still manages to look like she stepped straight out of a cornfield.’
Kristina sighed and let the matter go. Her father often said that to be happy, one had to always be searching for what was good in people. It was no surprise then that Sonia was one of the unhappiest people Kristina knew. She had never got over her family’s loss of wealth and status and Kristina knew half of what she said was out of bitterness.
They reached the doors of La Rotonde and straightened their dresses and readjusted their cloche hats to appealing tilts before going inside. They were immediately hit by the overpowering smell of garlic and tobacco. Despite it still being early, the café was already full and the animated patrons sitting around the marble-topped tables were noisy. Kristina felt the men’s eyes turn towards them. Two fashionably dressed women – one very tall and blonde, and the other dark and petite – always made an impression.
The head waiter, Pierre, managed to cut through the din. ‘Ah, you are here, beautiful ladies! Straight upstairs. And if any of those rascals give you trouble, let me know and I will kick them in the pants!’
La Rotonde had just been extended and instead of gathering in the back room, the artists now met in the upstairs dining room which became a cabaret and dance floor after nine. Kristina and Sonia knew that Pierre had sent them there because he thought they were decorative, not because he respected them as an upcoming artist and an interior designer. ‘Ladies’, as a general rule, did not patronise La Rotonde. The women who went there were either artists’ models or actresses and opera singers not yet established in their careers. But Kristina understood that a female artist must expend an inordinate amount of energy to gain even a fraction of the recognition of a male one. By not participating in the discussions taking place in cafés like La Rotonde, the other women in her classes were missing out on making the connections that would help them get exhibited or introduced to important art dealers. She looked forward to the day when she would show Pierre one of her more accomplished paintings and see the surprise on his face.
The accents echoing around the room made it sound like Kristina and Sonia had just stepped into the League of Nations: French of course, but also Russian, American, Japanese and German. There was none of the French xenophobia that one might find in upper-class drawing rooms.
Kristina scanned the room and immediately felt like an imposter. At a table in the far corner, Pablo Picasso and Man Ray were deep in conversation. At the table next to them were Tsuguharu Foujita and Francis Picabia. Jean Porel, a portrait artist and a regular at the café, was sitting with two other young men Kristina knew as Louis and Hector. They were looking at a sketchpad and squabbling over some point of difference. Jean saw them and waved them over.
‘We need you ladies to settle an argument,’ he said, pulling out chairs for them and inviting them to sit down.
Hector, who had a twirled moustache he took great pride in, waved to the waiter to bring Kristina and Sonia drinks. Kristina ordered eau-de-vie while Sonia ordered a Turkish coffee with vodka.
‘What were you arguing about?’ Sonia asked.
‘What we always argue about,’ replied Louis, his eyes magnified behind his thick glasses. ‘Who is the better artist and who is the better lover.’
‘Women are the best judges of lovers,’ said Sonia, ‘so it’s stupid for you to argue that point among yourselves. I want to know how you judge the best artist.’
‘Much the same way we judge lovers.’ Jean laughed. ‘A perceptive eye and a steady hand.’ He held up the sketchpad where someone had drawn a portrait of Jean.
‘That’s very good,’ Kristina remarked.
‘It’s mine,’ said Louis with pride.
Hector shook his head. ‘The challenge was to draw a portrait of Jean without once lifting the pencil. So far none of us have succeeded in doing it.’
‘Let Kristina have a try,’ said Sonia.
The men looked at each other and laughed good-naturedly. The waiter brought the drinks and placed them before the women.
‘I’m serious,’ said Sonia. ‘Let Kristina try.’
‘All right,’ agreed Jean, pushing the sketchpad towards Kristina and lifting his chin. ‘See if you can capture my beauty.’
Drawing a detailed image in a single line was something Kristina’s father had urged her to do since she was a child. But it had always been a game and never a competition. She took a sip of her fiery drink to steady her nerves and focused on her goal like a golfer about to take a shot. The table fell silent as her pencil touched the paper. The trick, she had learned, was to work rapidly so that self-doubt didn’t get the better of her, but not to hurry so much that she might miss an important line and bring the whole process undone. Looking from Jean to the pad, her hand seemed to move as if it had a life of its own.
She finished in under two minutes and held up an authentic rendering of Jean’s angular face with shading that reflected the fading summer light in the room. He took the sketchpad from her and stared at it in awe.
‘I would not have believed it if I hadn’t seen you do that with my own eyes,’ Jean said.
‘You are indeed an artist,’ agreed Hector. ‘We must show Max.’
He stood up and yelled across the room to a party of well-dressed men and women. ‘Max! Max!’
At first Kristina thought he was addressing the dandyish-looking man at the head of the table. But it was the man who’d had his back to them who turned around.
When he realised he was being called, he stood up, cutting a striking figure in a white linen suit and with the sort of stiff brush-like hair, cut short, that stood up on its own and that Kristina found marvellous to paint. His facial features were fine with a sloped nose that flared slightly at the nostrils. Kristina thought he would make a wonderful subject for a portrait. She judged every new person she met that way.
‘Who is he?’ Sonia asked.
‘Max Bergeret,’ Hector whispered. ‘An art dealer.’
Sonia turned to Kristina, who shrugged. The art community in Paris was small and if you hadn’t actually met a member of it, you at least knew of them. But she had never heard of this Max Bergeret.
‘Max,’ said Jean, ‘may I introduce you to Mademoiselle Kristina Belova.’ He held out the sketch to show him. ‘Look what she did. In less than two minutes and without lifting her pencil.’
Max studied the sketch and raised his eyebrows, impressed. ‘I see a dedicated yet confident hand, Mademoiselle Belova,’ he said in a warm voice that brimmed with good manners. ‘It takes many hours of dedicated practice to develop such a skill.’
‘Sit down,’ Jean invited him.
While Jean grabbed an extra chair, Max introduced himself to Sonia, and then when everybody was settled again, he fixed his sparkling grey eyes on Kristina. ‘So where are you studying in Paris?’
‘The Académie de la Grande Chaumière.’
‘A fine school. How are you finding it?’
Kristina barely heard herself answer that she was enjoying learning about colour theory and developing her drawing skills. She was experiencing the same sort of light-headedness she felt whenever she was suddenly inspired by an idea – a rush of adrenaline that kept her up all night to finish a painting.
‘She has only been in Paris two months,’ said Sonia, ‘and she has already completed twenty fine paintings, gouaches and drawings. There is hardly any room left in the bedroom we share.’
Max looked from Sonia to Kristina and smiled. ‘Is that so? Are you so prolific?’ He edged his chair closer to hers with an expression of genuine interest on his face. ‘Then I wonder if you would permit me to view them?’
Kristina’s fear that she was an imposter vanished. She was a serious artist and the fact that an art dealer in Paris was already interested in her work was proof of that.
‘Of course,’ she said, looking in her purse for a pen and piece of paper so she could write down the address of the apartment. ‘But I will have to ask Madame Vertinskaya first for permission to have a visitor.’
‘Is Madame Vertinskaya your concierge?’ Max asked.
Kristina shook her head. ‘No, she is Sonia’s mother. We live with her.’
Max’s cheeks pinked slightly. Kristina assumed he was used to more independent women and was surprised she lived with an older guardian.
‘Of course, I would not wish to intrude,’ he said.
‘Oh, you wouldn’t be intruding at all,’ Sonia was quick to respond. ‘But my mother has old-world manners. Apart from her Sunday “at homes”, she accepts guests only by invitation.’
‘Your mother sounds delightful,’ Max said. ‘I find old-world manners charming.’ He took the paper from Kristina with the address on it. ‘I will write to her and ask when it is convenient to call on you to see your artwork,’ he told her.
Kristina was relieved that he was so accommodating but worried that he might be going out of his way. She was about to suggest that perhaps she should take the best examples of her work to his gallery and, if he liked them, he could then pay them a visit to see the rest. But at that moment, a loud burst of laughter came from the table where Max had been sitting. They both turned towards the commotion. An exotic-looking woman with red hair beckoned to him.
‘I best get back to my friends,’ he said, standing.
His face – so open a moment ago – was suddenly hard to read. He was watching Kristina closely as if expecting her to say something, but she didn’t know what. She felt grateful enough that he had interrupted his meal to look at her sketch. Yet, even after he returned to his table, she felt his attention still on her. It took all her willpower not to turn and look at him.
When eight o’clock came around, Sonia nudged her. ‘We’d better be going, otherwise my mother won’t let us hear the end of it.’
Madame Vertinskaya allowed them to stay out until eight o’clock, believing that they were both studying with fellow classmates. And in a way, they were. But if she knew Kristina and Sonia were hanging around La Rotonde, they’d probably never be let out of the apartment again.
‘You leave us like two Cinderellas,’ said Jean, his voice slurred from the effects of one too many drinks.
Outside on the street, Sonia pinched Kristina’s arm. ‘You have to push yourself more, Kristina. It isn’t enough to paint beautifully, you need to know how to sell your work. You should have told Max Bergeret about the praise you’ve been getting at art school and the prizes you’ve won.’
Kristina knew Sonia was right. To be a successful artist involved much more than knowing about the mixing and handling of paints or the ordering of a composition. One had to know how to negotiate. Something she wasn’t very good at.
‘Anyway, we shall see what he thinks of your paintings,’ Sonia continued. ‘And if he doesn’t exhibit your work, then he is a fool, and we will find a better dealer for you.’
Kristina linked her arm with Sonia’s. Her friend could be a devil sometimes, but if she liked you, she would be your greatest champion. ‘Thank you,’ Kristina said.
‘Don’t thank me,’ Sonia said with a wry smile. ‘You don’t understand my motives. I only want more space on my side of the bedroom.’
They were both quiet the rest of the way home, letting the possibility of success linger in their minds. As they passed
Notre Dame, the streetlights twinkled prettily to life. It was a sight Kristina had witnessed many times before, but that day it was as if she was seeing it all for the first time.
*
Russians do not entertain by halves. On the afternoon Madame Vertinskaya had arranged to show Kristina’s paintings to Max Bergeret, she and her maid, Faina, travelled back and forth from the kitchen to the dining room with plates of lemon and spice cakes, raspberry tarts, black bread and caviar, along with candied violets and pots of sour cream, strawberry jam and honey.
‘He’s French,’ said Sonia, watching the preparations from the doorway. ‘For him, afternoon tea is a fruit tart and cheese.’
‘It’s lovely for you to go to all this effort, Madame Vertinskaya,’ Kristina said more gently, ‘but he may not stay that long. He is a busy man, I imagine.’
Madame Vertinskaya frowned. ‘Nobody who comes to our home will ever be able to say that they left it hungry.’
‘That’s for certain,’ said Sonia.
There was a knock at the door and Faina went to answer it while the other three women straightened their hair and clothes. Kristina heard Max’s voice as Faina ushered him inside. When she led him into the room where the feast had been laid, he stopped short in surprise. He was carrying a bouquet of lilies and a box of chocolates, which, after Kristina introduced him to Sonia’s mother, he handed to the older lady. ‘Thank you for welcoming me into your home, Madame Vertinskaya.’
She smiled broadly. ‘First, we eat, and then you look at Kristina’s paintings. Pleasure before business, as they say.’
Max’s eyes opened wide as if he was perplexed and Kristina wondered if it was because Madame Vertinskaya had mixed up the saying. It was supposed to be ‘business before pleasure’. She noticed he was younger than he appeared at La Rotonde – perhaps in his mid to late twenties. He dutifully took the seat Madame Vertinskaya offered him as the guest of honour, while the rest of them sat down. It occurred to Kristina that he must feel outnumbered, and perhaps this was not the right way to go about getting a dealer interested in her work. But as the meal progressed and Madame Vertinskaya piled more food onto his plate and topped up his wineglass, he seemed to relax. He listened with sincere interest to her stories of life in Russia before the revolution. She had not told anyone those stories in a while, and it reminded Kristina how hard things were for the people of her parents’ generation who felt they no longer had a country. It was easier for Sonia and her to adapt and consider France their home.
After the meal was finished and Faina had cleared the table, Madame Vertinskaya sent everyone to the parlour where Kristina and Sonia had put the best of the paintings, pastels and drawings on display. Now that her mother had done the job of softening up Max with food and wine, Sonia took over the role of saleswoman, edging Max towards a portrait Kristina had painted of her own mother from her last visit back to Nice, which Sonia was adamant was her best work. In it, Kristina’s mother was fashionably dressed for the opera in a red silk evening dress and black gloves. Her face was composed but there was a glint of rapture in her eyes, as if she was already listening to the opening act of La Traviata .
Max moved closer to study the portrait, his expression betraying nothing of his thoughts. Then he turned his attention to Kristina’s other works, looking at each one for a long time. He turned to her, and something in his face made her think he was on the verge of apologising. Her stomach sank. Perhaps he didn’t think her work was good enough, and she very much wanted him to approve of her paintings.
‘Your work is exceptional,’ he said finally. ‘You capture inner worlds – and not just that of your subject, but I suspect, your own as well.’
His praise made Kristina feel as if she had been lifted off the ground. Her parents were always so effusive in their praise of her work that it seemed in their eyes she was the greatest artist since Da Vinci. Her teachers liked her work too, but focused mainly on the technical application of paints and the use of brushes to achieve effects. To receive approval from someone who could determine her future as an artist was more than flattering, it was vital.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
But Sonia had less restraint. ‘Her work is worthy of an exhibition, don’t you think, Monsieur Bergeret?’
His eyebrows shot up as if Sonia had startled him. Kristina was about to protest that an entire exhibition of her work was premature. The most she was hoping for was that Max would take one or two pictures to sell in his gallery.
But before she had a chance to correct Sonia, Max answered, ‘Indeed, Mademoiselle Belova’s work is fresh and bold. It’s worthy of an exhibition which Bergeret and Lavertu would be happy to undertake.’ He turned to Kristina. ‘If a commission of fifty per cent is agreeable to you, I can send a removalist van on Friday to pick up the works.’
A commission of fifty per cent or higher was common among the best dealers, so Kristina was about to agree when Sonia put her hand on her arm.
‘And the costs of the framing and the catalogue?’ she asked.
He gave her a respectful nod. ‘Our firm will cover those.’
Max took out a docket book from his pocket and wrote down the number of works he would be collecting. Sonia winked at Kristina, who had to concede that she was right about being assertive.
Madame Vertinskaya signalled to Faina who entered with a tray of vodka glasses.
‘Let us drink to the success of Kristina and to the good health and happiness of all of us,’ she said.
*
After the removalist collected Kristina’s artworks, she waited a further fortnight for word from Max. She was sure he would let her know once her paintings were framed and ready to be exhibited. She arrived eagerly at La Rotonde each evening hoping to see him, but he never appeared. Jean, Louis and Hector had all gone south for the summer so she couldn’t ask them if they’d seen him. She considered asking the other artists, but a niggling doubt stopped her. She didn’t want to make a fool of herself in front of them, especially after Peggy expressed surprise that Max would have taken all of Kristina’s work.
‘You must owe him a lot of money!’ she said. ‘Unknown artists usually pay for their exhibition spaces. It’s unheard of for art dealers to offer an unproven artist a solo show.’
Kristina’s mind travelled back to the night she had met Max. Jean had not actually introduced him as an art dealer – it was Louis who had, and he was prone to exaggeration. She spoke to the head waiter, Pierre, and asked if he knew anything about Max Bergeret.
‘Ah, yes, that good-looking young man. I see him occasionally, but I don’t know what he does.’
When there was still no word from Max the following day, Kristina walked to Rue la Boétie – the elegant narrow street that was often referred to as the ‘Florence of Paris’ because it was where the best private art galleries were located. In the windows she spotted works by Renoir and Cézanne, Matisse and Picasso, Utrillo and Derain. She read the names of the galleries in the gold lettering above their doors: Rosenberg, Bignou, Hessel and Wildenstein. But after reaching the end of the street without finding Bergeret & Lavertu, it occurred to her that Max’s partnership might be a subagency of one of the larger galleries. She turned back and walked into a gallery with one of Monet’s water lily paintings on an easel near the door. An elegant woman in a black suit and smelling of champagne and Chanel No 5 approached her. ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it? It’s poetry in a painting.’
‘It is exceptional,’ Kristina agreed. ‘But I’m looking for an art dealer named Max Bergeret. I don’t know which gallery he works for.’
The woman blinked and then shook her head. ‘I do not know of this Monsieur Bergeret. Wait a moment, I’ll ask my husband.’
An elderly man appeared from the back room, his hair heavy with pomade and his pin-striped suit sharply cut.
‘Ah, you are mistaken, mademoiselle,’ he said. ‘Bergeret and Lavertu are not art dealers. They have an art-supply store.’
‘An art-supply store?’
The man took an address book from a drawer under the counter and thumbed through it. ‘Here you are,’ he said, taking a piece of paper and writing down the address. ‘You’ll find them in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, not far from the école des Beaux-Arts.’
Kristina stared at the piece of paper. Saint-Germain-des-Prés was a working-class suburb on the Left Bank. Kristina knew it well because of Les Deux Magots, a café popular with artists and writers. It was an area of shabby streets, rag and bone vendors and the briny smell of fish shops. The sense of triumph she had been feeling since Max’s visit collapsed into dread, and she swallowed down a sickening feeling that she had been swindled.
*
Kristina found Bergeret & Lavertu wedged between a bookbinder and a café. In its windows were canvases and stretchers. The walls of the shop were lined with glass cabinets like those found in pharmacies, containing dozens of jars of paint pigments. She exhaled a breath and entered, nearly toppling over a stand of paintbrushes in her fury.
A young man of perhaps sixteen was sorting pastels at the counter. He looked up when she entered but before he could greet her, Kristina noticed the doorway to a back room and through it spotted the portrait of her mother. She rushed into the room expecting the worst, but was surprised to see her works had been suitably framed and arranged in such a way that the eye travelled easily. One of her larger paintings of the Seine had been placed in a grouping of six of her smaller works of the bridges of Paris, as if they were in dialogue with each other. If they had been in a proper gallery, she would have been impressed with the good taste and care with which they had been displayed. But from the bars on the window and the pipes that ran up and down the corners of the walls, there was no denying they were hanging in the back room of a shop.
‘May I help you, mademoiselle?’ the shop assistant asked, coming up behind her.
‘These are my artworks!’ she said, sounding as bewildered as she felt.
The assistant’s eyebrows shot up. ‘They are? You are Mademoiselle Belova?’ He wiped his hands on his apron, flustered, and then shook her hand. ‘Your sense of colour is exquisite! But my goodness, what an argument you caused. I thought the world was coming to an end!’
‘An argument?’
The assistant smiled wistfully and with a gesture of his hand, indicated for her to follow him up a flight of stairs. Kristina was too confused to protest. She entered an apartment on the second floor that was empty of furniture. On the walls someone had drawn in chalk a dining table, a floor lamp and a sofa. Above these were the words reconnaissance de dette , which was the French equivalent of I.O.U.
She turned to the clerk and shook her head, not understanding what any of this had to do with her paintings.
‘Monsieur Bergeret pawned Monsieur Lavertu’s favourite items of furniture in order to buy quality frames for your paintings,’ the clerk said. He pointed to a corner where an armchair and desk had been drawn on the wall. ‘Even his rosewood desk and his favourite armchair. Monsieur Lavertu is very particular about his things, and he was livid. That is, until he saw your paintings. Then he almost wept.’
‘He almost wept?’
‘From the beauty of the paintings, Mademoiselle Belova. He was overjoyed that he finally had a real artist to represent.’
The clerk’s description of Monsieur Lavertu’s reaction to her work nearly softened her resolve, but then she reminded herself of the seriousness of the situation. ‘Messieurs Bergeret and Lavertu are not art dealers,’ she said. ‘This is an art-supply shop.’
The clerk frowned as if personally wounded by her dismissal of his employers. ‘They have a good eye for art. They have taken paintings in lieu of payment in the past, and always managed to sell those works at a good price.’
Kristina wondered if perhaps all might not be lost. If Max had sold paintings in the past, perhaps he was not a complete amateur. ‘Where does he sell them?’
‘Here... or at the markets.’
‘The markets!’ she groaned.
This was truly a disaster. Her career seemed to be over before it had even begun.
There was a noise behind them, and Kristina turned to see Max coming into the room carrying a box on his shoulder.
‘Mademoiselle Belova!’ he cried when he saw her. He put down the box and reached out his hand. ‘What a delightful surprise. One of the paintings doesn’t have your signature on it. If you could sign it now, I’ll be able to sell it.’
‘You won’t be selling anything,’ she said. ‘I thought you were an art dealer. A professional art dealer. I went looking for you on Rue la Boétie.’
‘Ah yes,’ he said, his face reddening.
‘You deceived me.’
He touched the back of his head and rolled backwards and forwards on his feet. ‘Not intentionally. I didn’t realise you thought I was an art dealer until I arrived at your apartment.’
‘Then why did you come to see my paintings?’
‘Because I like art – and I thought you were very pretty,’ he said contritely. ‘When I realised you thought I was there to possibly represent your art, I didn’t know what to do. Taking the whole collection and selling the works at good prices seemed the only honourable way to handle the situation.’
If it wasn’t her future as an artist at stake, Kristina might have found the absurdity of the situation amusing.
‘You can’t sell my artwork from the back room of your shop!’ she said.
‘Why not?’ he protested. ‘All the great artists started selling their works in cafés and at the markets. Picasso used to do sketches in exchange for his supper. You are in good hands with my partner, Serge Lavertu. He is in London at the moment looking for opportunities to sell art there.’
The bell on the shop door rang downstairs and the clerk – who had been watching the exchange between Kristina and Max with some curiosity – reluctantly excused himself to attend to the customer.
The sincerity in Max’s face took the edge off Kristina’s annoyance. ‘I’ll have to meet Monsieur Lavertu first before I consent to dealing with either of you,’ she told him.
‘Certainly,’ he agreed. ‘But I think you will be impressed by him. He has a sense for good art like nobody else I know.’ His eyes met hers and he said earnestly, ‘I feel we have got off on the wrong foot. Is there any way I can make this up to you?’
Kristina studied his handsome face. His defined jaw. That marvellous shock of hair. She had a sense she was being drawn into something, seduced by that velvet gaze of his. But his eyes were also full of laughter – and goodness. This was not a man who meant her harm.
‘You can,’ she said.
A look of relief spread across his face. ‘I can? How?’
She cocked her head. ‘I need a model. You can pose for me. And you can call me Kristina.’
*
An artist must study things carefully to paint them, and they visualise the world differently. While others see objects and people, they see collections of lines, shadows, shapes and contours. In that regard, one might say they see the world as it really exists. Clouds are not white but blue, yellow and green. Skin is not only pink but also burnt sienna and ultramarine blue.
‘Turn your face slowly towards me,’ Kristina told Max. ‘Now don’t smile with your mouth, only your eyes.’
It was their first session together and Kristina was making sketches in preparation for painting Max’s portrait. They had commandeered the back room of his shop among her other paintings where they would not be disturbed. Sitting still did not come naturally to Max. Nor did silence.
‘A true artist uses only a few brushstrokes to evoke, not only a scene, but a feeling. That is the skill you have,’ he said.
Kristina didn’t answer. Not because she didn’t agree, but because she was too busy capturing the shape of his nose and studying the curve of his cheek. His magnetic eyes locked with hers. Strangers look at each other for a split second before averting their gaze, friends maybe linger a moment or two longer, but an artist and her model must get comfortable with staring at each other for extended periods of time. As her pencil scratched across the paper, she thought that drawing someone was possibly the best way to get to know them, and the more she drew Max, the more she began to fall in love with him.
He shifted slightly and she noticed the beads of sweat on his forehead. Even in the back room the air was hot. It intensified the earthy smell of the oil paints and crayons drifting in from the shop. A pearl of sweat traced down her spine as softly as a fingertip.
‘You can open the top button of your shirt if it is more comfortable,’ she told him.
Max reached up and undid the button, tugging it away from his neck with an air of relief. Then he ventured a step further and undid the buttons of his sleeves and rolled them back to his elbows, leaning forward as he did. The sight of his strong arms and the position of his torso moved something inside of Kristina. His laughing eyes grew intense and his jaw stiffened. He was a different man from the dapper Max he had been only a few seconds before. Kristina saw in the way his muscles twitched and the blood rose to the surface of his skin that he was a man of passion.
‘Hold that position,’ she said.
For the next hour, as the temperature rose still further, Kristina and Max continued to study each other. When she thought she had captured as much as she could for one sitting, Kristina put her pencil down.
‘I’d like to block out the portrait tomorrow afternoon,’ she said. ‘Once I’ve begun something I don’t like to stop until I see where it is going.’
Max sent her a beguiling smile. ‘I am exactly the same,’ he told her. ‘Let’s go to dinner.’
*
The heat was milder under the chestnut trees in the courtyard of La Closerie des Lilas. The café was busy but quieter and prettier than La Rotonde or Le D?me, and was therefore favoured by writers, poets and lovers. Golden light spilled through the leaves over Max’s head and shoulders, and Kristina listened with fascination as he described his childhood growing up in a village in the Fontainebleau district. She knew of it only from the Neoclassical paintings of Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot and was captivated as he described adventures in verdant forests of magnificent oak trees with his large entourage of siblings – four girls and three boys.
‘Your description reminds me of my childhood at my family’s dacha in Finland,’ she told him. ‘My summers were spent running barefoot through the grass and jumping into rivers with a dozen cousins.’
The waiter brought their potato quenelles, smelling richly of olive oil, rosemary and oregano. A pair of diners sitting next to them caught Max’s attention. One was moustached and squarefaced and sitting back in his chair, laughing good-naturedly, while the other, fair and fine-boned, leaned forward, imploring him about something. Both had American accents.
‘What do you think they are discussing?’ Max whispered to Kristina.
She took a sip of wine before answering. ‘The fair-haired one is asking the other to read his manuscript. He is convinced he has written the great American novel and wants the other one to introduce him to his publisher.’
‘Ah, you can read feelings so well?’ replied Max.
‘I can speak English.’
Max laughed. ‘Really? Ah, then you must help me improve mine,’ he told her. ‘Once I gain a reputation in Paris as an art dealer, I’m going to travel to America.’
‘America? Why?’
‘To sell your art, of course. I have already taken a great painter under my wing, and I must make sure she is a success.’
‘I haven’t committed myself to you,’ Kristina said. ‘I might get a better offer elsewhere.’
‘You might,’ he conceded. ‘But I assure you that you couldn’t have more passionate champions than Serge and me.’
Kristina already knew that she and Max were meant for each other. They may have spent only a few hours together in an overheated studio, but in that time she had got to know Max better than most people do after years together.
‘Well then, I shall put my trust in you,’ she said. ‘If only because you remind me of my father.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘I hope in good ways?’
Kristina nodded. ‘I can see that, like him, you are someone who is quick to laugh and slow to anger. I like that. He would thoroughly approve of you trying your hand in America. He has always taught me that it’s important to yield to new experiences, and to be ready to set out for adventure. I think that’s why he has borne the loss of our life in Russia so well.’
Max watched her for a moment, and then reached across the table and put his hand on hers. It was far from any touch Kristina had known, and it made her feel quite unlike herself. Max stood up and she did too, without quite knowing why. Then, as if driven by some unseen force, they leaned forward and kissed each other tenderly on the lips. For a moment, they seemed to be floating on air, their bodies moving together, upwards and onwards as if their joy could defy gravity. They were sealing a pact. There would be no other dealers. No other lovers. It would only be Kristina and Max for eternity.