Chapter Six

Chapter Six

Kristina

Paris, July 1923

‘Well, that’s done,’ Kristina said, signing off on her portrait of Max. ‘Come and have a look and tell me what you think.’

He stood and shrugged the stiffness from his shoulders before coming around to her side of the easel. His eyes looked over the painting with wonder and she was rather proud of it herself. She had spent the last two sittings making small changes, and then rethinking and redoing them. Now she felt she had captured not only his image but his essence in the beautiful tonal colours. The expression on his face in the portrait was forthright but friendly; he was masculine but illuminated by a soft glow.

‘It’s superb,’ he said. ‘But you know that whatever an artist paints is also a self-portrait. I see you in the painting as well as myself.’

Kristina liked that idea, and signed it at the top in addition to the bottom so there could never be any doubt who had created the painting.

Max circled his arms around her and kissed her

neck. Her blood heated and her body felt as if it was a jar full of butterflies. But their ardour was brought to a sudden stop by the sentimental strains of a violin being played upstairs. Kristina recognised the piece. It was Elgar’s ‘Salut d’Amour’ – Love’s Greeting.

‘Serge is back,’ Max said. ‘He came in late last night and must have woken up now. Let’s go see him.’

He took Kristina’s hand and they hurried upstairs. The door to the apartment was open and there was a man wearing a silk dressing-gown and cravat playing the violin. Kristina felt a surge of curious excitement. He wasn’t classically handsome, like Max, but he was elegant, with smooth porcelain skin and shapely hands with long tapered fingers. His eyes were closed, and he had a sweet smile on his lips as if he were dreaming of his beloved.

‘Serge!’ said Max. ‘Welcome back!’

Serge opened his eyes and grinned broadly when he saw Max. He put down his violin and the two men embraced like long-lost brothers. They had none of the air of men who saw each other as a threat and held themselves at arm’s length. The smiles they sent each other spoke of a history of challenges and triumphs, youthful pranks and shared confidences. For a moment Kristina was left on the outside, playing the part of an interloper. She felt both touched and vexed until the men broke away from each other and turned to her.

‘And you must be Mademoiselle Belova?’ said Serge, taking both of her hands.

‘Kristina, please,’ she said. ‘I have heard so much about you that I feel I know you already.’

His bottle-green eyes moved over her face. They were beautiful and she was captivated by them. But it was his expression, so honest and refined, that most endeared him to her.

‘Call me Serge,’ he said. ‘I feel the same way about you.’

‘I knew you two would get along,’ said Max, grabbing Serge by the shoulder. ‘Kristina finished her portrait of me just this moment. Come see it.’

As the trio trundled down the stairs again into the back room, Kristina was hit by a sudden wave of insecurity. Max liking the portrait was one thing – he was in love with her. But Serge would be more impartial. Max had been firm that out of the pair, Serge was the more discerning critic. It was suddenly important to Kristina that Serge approve of her work.

‘I’d like your straightforward opinion,’ she said, as she turned the easel towards him. ‘I don’t want you to flatter my vanity or spare my feelings. I need to know what I do well and what I must improve on.’

But her fears dissipated when Serge’s eyes lit up at the sight of the painting. ‘Oh my,’ he said, ‘you’ve done what I most admire in a portrait. You cropped it closely to keep it intimate and you haven’t settled Max into one mood but suggested several different possibilities. That is exactly what separates a portrait from a mere painting of a person. It’s the quality that will bring viewers back to look at the work many times.’

Max stood beside him. ‘She is quite a discovery, isn’t she? Look at the energy of expression, the clear but subtle sensuality, and the observant eye.’

Their combined praise made Kristina feel that she was entering a new epoch in her life, moving from a starry-eyed student to a serious artist.

‘But we can never sell this portrait, Kristina,’ said Serge suddenly, his tone serious.

Her heart sunk to her feet. What fault had he found?

But when he turned to her his eyes were crinkled in a good-natured smile. ‘You’ve captured Max completely. The painting is more Max than even Max is. How could you or I ever part with it?’

*

A few days later, having been given the permanent use of the back room at Bergeret & Lavertu as a studio, Kristina was on her way there when, for reasons she couldn’t explain except that she was in love and therefore prone to spontaneity, she took a different route from her usual one and found herself in the middle of a flower market. The air was a summery mix of sweet lavender and peonies. She was weaving her way through the vendors and the cheerful faces of sunflowers and the showy heads of dahlias, when she spotted Serge standing in front of a stall. He was waiting for the seller to wrap a spray of carnations and veronicas.

‘Hello,’ she said, stepping up beside him.

‘ Bonjour , Kristina. How lovely you look today!’

There was a smile in his voice as well as on his face. To have elicited so warm a greeting filled her with pleasure.

Serge turned back to the flower-seller and indicated a bunch of flamingo-pink roses. After the vendor had wrapped them, Serge handed the bouquet to Kristina. ‘Something to match your prettiness,’ he said.

Kristina accepted the flowers graciously but could feel the heat of a blush rise from her neck and travel upwards over her face. Even though she knew that in France pink roses symbolised nothing more than sweetness and femininity, to Russians, they alluded to a blossoming romance.

‘Besides me, who are you buying flowers for?’ she asked him, doing her best to regain her equilibrium as they fell in step and headed in the direction of the shop together.

‘Myself,’ he said, ‘for my desk. They will soften the fact that I will be spending the day with my nose in accounts books and other administrative tasks.’

Kristina thought well of men who appreciated flowers because her beloved father was one of them. Her mother always said that a man who cared for a garden would nurture his family, and a husband who appreciated nature’s beauty would equally love his wife in all her seasons.

They came upon the vegetable-sellers whose carts were almost as colourful as the floral displays. The red tomatoes, green beans and yellow corn were like bright blobs of paint on an artist’s palette.

‘Max doesn’t help you with the dreary tasks?’ she asked Serge.

He resisted a grin, and she guessed the answer to her own question. Out of the two of them, it was Max who was the charmer and showman. In Serge she detected a quieter spirit with a strong sense of aesthetics. She didn’t believe for a minute that he would prefer to be dealing with accounts and figures rather than beautiful artwork, but perhaps he did it out of a loyalty to his partnership with Max.

‘You two remind me of my parents,’ she told him as they made their way further into the market. ‘My mother is the practical one, my father the dreamer. It was thanks to my mother that we weren’t left destitute after the revolution.’

Serge looked at her with interest, so she elaborated.

‘My father was a member of the Duma and tried to persuade the Tsar to form a constitutional monarchy and modernise Russia. But my mother saw the Tsar’s days were numbered, and gradually moved small amounts of valuables out of the country. My family lost their lands and houses in Russia, but we now live a comfortable existence here in France thanks to her prudence.’

‘You are lucky, Kristina,’ he said, with a satisfied tone that hinted that he was flattered by the comparison. ‘Everywhere in Paris you can find a former duke working as a chauffeur or a kitchen hand. Once I even caught a taxi driven by a former princess.’

‘Princess Sophia Dolgorukova,’ said Kristina. ‘I know her. She is a very resourceful woman. In Russia she was not only an accomplished pilot and racing-car driver, but she was a well-respected doctor. Unfortunately, her qualifications are not recognised here.’

They had been so engaged in conversation, that neither of the pair realised that they had moved to the far side of the market where second-hand goods were sold. Dingy worn-out shoes, blackened kitchenware and faded top hats were laid out on rugs.

‘Paris is gaiety and poverty side by side,’ Kristina said. ‘In Russia it’s famine and splendour.’

Serge’s gaze lingered on her face. ‘I hope you are happy in France. You must miss your country?’

‘The country I miss no longer exists. It’s my cousins who couldn’t get out in time that I mourn the most. I miss having a big family.’

Serge looked thoughtful, as if her words had caused him to recall memories of his own. The slight downcast glance of his eyes made her think those must be unhappy recollections, and she didn’t want to be the cause of his sadness when they seemed to be getting along so well.

‘I’m lucky in many ways,’ she said, injecting cheerfulness into her voice. ‘If we had remained in Russia, I would have never met Max – or you. Studying in Paris to be an artist would have been out of the question. I’d have been married off to some dreary duke or count instead of being able to choose someone for myself.’

‘Have you chosen Max?’ he asked her. ‘What will your parents say about that?’

Kristina and Max had discussed getting married, but if Max hadn’t indicated their plans yet to his best friend then it wasn’t her place to do so. But if she were to have answered him, she would have told him that she was sure that her parents would approve of Max. Apart from the fact Kristina believed that he was impossible to resist, her father was a romantic who had married for love rather than fortune. And, as for her mother, she would see it was better for Kristina to marry a Frenchman determined to make a name for himself, than an impoverished Russian aristocrat who could only live in the past.

Looking for a way to change the direction of the conversation, she turned towards a bric-à-brac stall selling a bizarre arrangement of odds and ends: wheelbarrows, dressmakers’ mannequins and broken costume jewellery laid out in wooden trays. She shivered. The sight reminded her of all the Russians who’d fled to France and had been forced to sell everything they owned at cheap prices to the second-hand dealers just to survive. Many of them had been people she had grown up with, including the Vertinsky family. If Sonia’s uncle and Kristina’s parents hadn’t stepped in to help, Sonia and her mother would have been left destitute.

‘Oh dear, look at that,’ said Kristina, pointing to a poorly executed sketch of Sacré-Coeur.

Serge smiled wistfully. ‘I’ve found some treasures in these places,’ he said, casting his eye over a stack of old paintings. ‘Max and I once discovered two African statues that some students had stolen from the Louvre and sold cheaply to pay their rent. We returned them of course, but I never overlook the humble market. You never know if you might find a Renoir or a Rembrandt someone has exchanged for a cooking pot simply because they didn’t realise the painting’s true worth.’

Before he could say more, there was a commotion and then a scream. It sounded like the cry of a human baby. They both turned to see a black and white rabbit running between people’s feet and a woman chasing after it, brandishing a broom and a knife. The rabbit ran straight up to Kristina. She saw the terror in its eyes, and without a thought scooped it up and tucked it against her chest.

‘You caught it,’ the woman said, reaching out her arms. ‘Thank you.’

Kristina’s eye travelled from the broom to the knife. She’d seen how the French killed rabbits, pinning them down on their backs with a broom and slitting their throats. The rabbit’s heart beat like thunder against her own. She froze, unable to make herself hand it over, knowing what its fate would be.

‘I didn’t know rabbits could scream,’ she said, turning to Serge. ‘What a terrible sound.’

‘Well, yes they do,’ the woman said, stepping closer to her. ‘Right before you kill them.’

Kristina moved back behind the protection of Serge.

‘Give it to me,’ the woman said. ‘I’ve got a customer who’s paid good money for it.’

People stopped to look at them, sensing a scene was about to unfold. By rights the rabbit belonged to the woman, and she could call the police if Kristina refused to give it back. Serge looked at her quizzically, and then reached into his pocket and took out his wallet. He pressed several crisp notes into the woman’s bloodstained hand. ‘Why don’t you buy your customer a pie from that baker over there and a good bottle of wine?’ he suggested. ‘Compliments of a stranger.’

The woman’s eyes grew big when she saw the sum of money Serge offered her. She closed her fingers around the notes. ‘You’re crazy, the both of you,’ she said, before walking off.

The onlookers tittered and jeered. ‘Did you see how much he paid for that rabbit?’ one man exclaimed, sounding scandalised. ‘That could feed my family for a week!’

Kristina had the sense that the crowd around them was swelling.

‘We’d better get this rabbit away from here,’ said Serge, placing his hand on her shoulder and guiding her through the bystanders. ‘They die of shock easily. Especially the males.’

‘Are you talking about rabbits or the French?’ she whispered.

*

‘That was the most expensive rabbit I have ever bought, Kristina,’ Serge said when they reached the shop and he opened the door to the apartment upstairs. He took out a straw basket from a cupboard and lined it with a blanket. Kristina passed the rabbit to him, and he gently nudged it under the blanket. ‘What do you intend to do with it? I gather you’re not planning to cook it yourself?’

‘I don’t know,’ she told him. ‘I just couldn’t let that woman kill it. The poor thing came to me for help.’

‘Russians don’t eat rabbit?’

‘Not usually,’ she said.

‘I’ve heard that your countrymen are superstitious about forest animals.’

‘Russians are superstitious about everything,’ she replied, watching him with interest as he went to the kitchenette, found a carrot in a box of assorted vegetables and began slicing it into pieces. ‘But in truth, my family doesn’t eat any type of animal. My father was a good friend of Count Leo Tolstoy and shared a lot of his views, including humans not having the right to take the lives of animals.’

‘Ah Tolstoy,’ said Serge. ‘A great writer and a great man. Did you meet him?’

‘Several times. But I was far too young to appreciate his greatness. I was more taken by his long beard and the fact that an aristocrat preferred to wear peasant clothing.’

The rabbit poked its head from under the blanket and looked around, its tiny nose twitching. Serge returned and began feeding it a slice of carrot at a time.

‘What are you going to call your new friend?’ he asked, stroking the rabbit’s head. It was friendly and not afraid of him.

‘I should call him “Leo”,’ she said, ‘in honour of Tolstoy.’

Serge nodded his agreement. ‘With such an auspicious name, you should also paint his portrait.’

The idea made Kristina laugh. ‘I should paint yours,’ she said, ‘with Leo.’

‘You mean like Leonardo da Vinci’s Lady with an Ermine ?’ he asked, a grin tickling his lips.

‘Exactly, only yours will be titled Frenchman with a Rabbit . Portrait painting is the best way to get to know someone. And as you and I are both fond of Max, we should get to know each other and be friends.’

She leaned back and surveyed the room. Max had managed to sell three of her paintings and some by other artists, so Serge’s furniture had been restored from the pawn shop.

‘I’ve told you about my family,’ she said, turning back to Serge. ‘Now tell me about yours. You grew up in Fontainebleau too?’

‘Yes, you are quite right,’ he said, his voice turning flat. He scrutinised her for a moment and then said, ‘I imagine your parents love you very dearly, Kristina.’

‘Well, yes,’ she said, surprised at the way he deflected her question. ‘How did you come to that conclusion?’

Serge leaned his chin on his fist. ‘You have the comfortable manner of a well-loved daughter. One who is curious and unafraid of the world.’

‘And you?’ she asked. ‘I hope you were loved too?’

His brow furrowed. ‘I understand that I was a much longed-for child who came into my parents’ lives too late,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately, they both passed away from tuberculosis when I was six years old, so I barely knew them. After that, I was passed from relative to relative, none of them really wanting to take responsibility for a frightened and lonely child. Finally, a great aunt who lived in Barbizon took me in. You probably know of the town? It was a favourite place for the impressionist painters to work.’

‘Yes, Max told me all about it,’ Kristina said. ‘You sometimes played with Claude Monet’s grandchildren.’

‘ Max played with them. I was mostly kept indoors.’

Serge seemed disinclined to continue. Understanding that she was encroaching on a memory that was painful, Kristina stopped her questioning there. She could ask Serge more about his childhood when she knew him better.

The rabbit, having finished the last carrot slice, climbed out of the basket, jumped into Serge’s arms and promptly fell asleep.

‘It’s certainly very trusting,’ Kristina said, ‘considering what that woman intended to do to it.’

‘It’s young,’ said Serge, stroking the rabbit’s head. ‘It doesn’t yet know that human beings are treacherous.’

‘Not all are so cruel,’ Kristina said. ‘I can’t imagine that you could be treacherous. Not a man who appreciates fine art, likes flowers and is kind to animals. Could you?’

Serge fell quiet as if he was searching every corner of his conscience so that he could give Kristina the most honest answer possible. ‘No, I can’t be treacherous,’ he said, after a while. Then turning the question over in his mind once more, added a caveat. ‘Unless I was defending something – or someone – I dearly loved. I might commit murder under those circumstances.’

Kristina liked his answer. ‘I think when it comes to protecting someone we love, we are all capable of that.’

*

The following evening, Sonia was busy finishing a design for her first client, so Kristina went to La Rotonde to meet Max on her own. No sooner had she stepped in the door than Pierre stopped her and pointed up the stairs. ‘You can’t go up there today. The cubists are fighting.’

Above the sound of the piano accordion came shouts of aggression. A loud crash gave her the impression a table had been overturned.

‘If they don’t settle it soon,’ said Pierre, ‘I’ll call the police. It won’t be the first time, but it will be the last.’

The cubists were like their paintings: stocky, thick-necked and strong. But Kristina knew that despite the show of violence, they would be shaking hands and singing songs of camaraderie again before the night was out.

‘I’ll wait here until the mood passes,’ she told Pierre, sitting down at a table where she could keep her eye on the door for Max.

‘I’ll bring a drink,’ he replied. ‘Compliments of La Rotonde.’

Kristina had no sooner removed her gloves when the sound of a woman singing rose above the din. It wasn’t nasal or husky, like the usual street singers who performed at the café. The mezzo-soprano voice had a pleasant timbre, and a tremolo placed on certain notes made it rich and romantic.

A trained singer? Kristina turned around and craned her neck to see over the heads of the patrons. On the other side of the room was a golden-haired woman wearing a slinky dress that showed off her bony shoulders. She was no more than four foot eight but graceful with a long neck and a ballerina’s poise. She was singing a song, the words of which Kristina had never heard before: One evening, if I should die please don’t cry, just go on pretending you loved me...

It was nostalgic and haunting, and the singer closed her eyes as if nobody and nothing else existed in her universe. When she finished, there was loud applause. With a mischievous smile, the singer moved among the patrons, holding out a cloche hat lined with magenta silk, to collect coins for her performance. As she drew closer, Kristina deduced from the cut of her dress and the way the fabric shimmered in the dim light, it was most certainly a Chanel design. What was such a luxuriously dressed woman doing collecting coins for singing at La Rotonde?

‘Mademoiselle!’ she called out to the singer and held up two notes.

The performer smiled and veered towards Kristina as if drawn by a magnet. Now she was closer, Kristina could see that she must be about her age. Her square face was perfectly symmetrical – a rare quality Kristina had discovered from having painted so many portraits. Kristina herself was always complimented on her beauty, but the intense study of her own face had revealed that one of her eyes was a touch rounder than the other, and her chin curved ever so slightly to the left. The young woman before her was as perfect as a doll.

‘You sing magnificently,’ Kristina said as the singer took the notes and slid onto the stool next to her.

‘Thank you,’ she replied in an upper-class Parisian accent. ‘I’ve seen you before. You’re with the artists, aren’t you?’

Kristina wondered how she could have missed the extraordinary young woman while she had noticed her.

‘I am an artist,’ Kristina said.

The singer’s eyes opened wide. ‘Really? What’s your name?’ ‘Kristina Belova.’

The young woman held out her hand. ‘I’m Madeleine.’

‘Madeleine...?’

‘ Just Madeleine,’ she replied firmly. Then, perhaps afraid she had sounded too harsh, she gave Kristina an explanation. ‘I have a new life now. No ties to a past or a family. Those things don’t matter to me... anymore .’

She crossed her legs and Kristina noticed that Madeleine’s embroidered shoes had jewelled heels but holes in the toes. The sight of the tattered footwear made her want to cry. She was filled with two strong desires at once – to paint this unique creature, and to help her.

*

It was Kristina’s habit to start work early, especially when painting a portrait. She felt a sort of agitation when she was about to paint someone – as opposed to a scene or a still life – as if her soul was about to join with that of her subject in a kind of alchemy. It was especially so with Madeleine, who Kristina sensed was hiding deeper, darker layers underneath the effervesce of her surface.

On the day that she and Madeleine had agreed to make a start on a portrait of the young singer, Kristina arrived at Bergeret & Lavertu as the sales clerk, No?l, was lifting the shutters at the front of the shop.

‘ Bonjour , Mademoiselle Belova,’ he said.

Max and Serge were visiting collectors that day, and Kristina knew that the shop would be quiet until later in the afternoon, so she took advantage of the silence to think out her approach to Madeleine’s portrait. She only worked on a white canvas when she had a clear vision of what she wanted to achieve, finding that having a wash of colour already on the canvas helped not only with tonal values, but gave a sense of depth to a subject. Artists often painted over old canvases to save money, but in the case of her approach to painting Madeleine, the idea of a picture underneath a picture suggested a mystery that would be perfect for the subject. She selected a canvas that she had covered in a light red wash several weeks earlier. It would be the perfect foundation for Madeleine’s bold spirit. She set up her easel and crayons, then she glanced at her watch. Madeleine was already half an hour late. Although Kristina didn’t expect someone who made their living at night to be up at the crack of dawn, when an hour passed by and there was still no sign of Madeleine, she began to worry that the young woman had changed her mind and would not come at all. Then, just as she considered giving up and going to a life-drawing class at the academy, there was a cheerful cry of ‘ Bonjour! ’

She looked up to see Madeleine bustling in the door, bringing with her the sweet smell of freshly baked pastry. She thrust out a paper bag to Kristina.

‘The only place to get pain au chocolat is on Rue Montorgueil. I spent all the money I earned last night on these, but I thought we should only have the best.’

Madeleine opened the tapestry bag she had strung over her shoulder and produced a bottle of fine champagne and two glasses. She popped the cork with a bright laugh and poured a glass for herself and Kristina before proposing a toast.

‘To an exciting adventure,’ she said, her eyes twinkling.

Living with Madame Vertinskaya, Kristina still ate hearty Russian breakfasts of buckwheat porridge and cottage cheese pancakes served with fruit and a dollop of sour cream. And tea – always steaming hot tea served from the samovar. She had not acquired the French custom of sweet pastries and coffee, let alone drinking anything alcoholic so early in the day. But Madeleine was in high spirits and Kristina had no intention of dampening them. She took a sip of the bubbly champagne and glanced at the red-painted canvas, congratulating herself on having chosen exactly the right base colour.

‘Sit for a while,’ she said to Madeleine, offering her a chair. ‘You don’t have to pose or be still. I’m going to look at you and make some sketches and play with some ideas. And while I do, I want you to tell me about yourself.’

‘Well, where shall I start?’ asked Madeleine, taking another sip of her champagne before she launched into amusing stories about her bad-tempered landlady who wore a monocle and smoked a pipe, and the artists’ ball where she went dressed as a leopard and got into an argument with a woman dressed as a panther. As Kristina’s charcoal scratched against the surface of the canvas, she paused every so often to take in another aspect of her subject. It was clear that Madeleine was comfortable telling stories about everyone else while avoiding the topic of herself. Kristina wanted to capture that contradiction: Madeleine’s bright smile and her animated gestures and yet that flash of fear in her eyes. Kristina decided that she would not paint Madeleine looking directly out of the frame as she had with Max but have her gaze slightly to the right. Max was an open book, but Madeleine was a puzzle to be solved. Like her, Kristina had come from a privileged background, but that world had been a safe place for her to cultivate her mind and expand her view of life. The way Madeleine’s eyes darted around the room when she spoke suggested her experience had been quite different. Kristina had the impression she was not only a runaway, but that she was being pursued.

*

By the time Kristina finished her preliminary sketches, it was one o’clock in the afternoon and the heat in the back room was stifling – it was pointless to continue. A little woozy from the champagne, she stood up.

‘I think that’s enough for the day,’ she said to Madeleine. ‘Let me buy you lunch.’

Max and Serge would have gone directly to La Rotonde after seeing their clients. They hadn’t met Madeleine yet, and Kristina was curious to see what they would make of her.

‘Do you mind if we go through the cemetery on our way?’ she asked Madeleine as they set out. ‘The linden and ash trees are so beautiful at this time of year. I want to sketch their dappled light on the graves for a study I have to do for my class.’

‘If we must,’ answered Madeleine. ‘I haven’t been to a cemetery since my grandmother died.’

At last a snippet of information about Madeleine’s family. Kristina sensed the memory was as fragile as a butterfly so she did not grab for more and hoped it would come to her of its own accord. But it fluttered away, and Madeleine said nothing further.

When they reached the cemetery, Kristina sat down on the edge of a grave and pulled out her sketchpad.

Madeleine looked about uncomfortably. ‘My grandmother used to say that the dead still talk to us, and because she was deaf, she used to ask me to sit by my grandfather’s grave and write down for her what he was saying. Do you think it’s true? Do you think all the dead in this graveyard are talking to us?’

Kristina shaded her eyes with her hand and looked up through the sparkling light at Madeleine. Her mood was melancholic, poles apart from the exuberant spirits she had displayed when she had been posing. It was like the song she had sung at La Rotonde: a tumble from high to low notes in one bar.

‘If they talk to us,’ Kristina said, repeating something her mother had told her, ‘it’s because they want to guide us. It wouldn’t be anything to be afraid of.’

Madeleine’s face softened as if Kristina’s words had soothed something that had been bothering her. ‘My grandmother was the only person who ever loved me. She’s buried in the family vault at Père Lachaise. But I never go there.’

‘Well, perhaps you should some time,’ Kristina offered gently.

Madeleine’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I hate to think of her dead. What is the purpose of life if it ends so dreadfully, with disease and decay?’ Then looking at Kristina with a desperate earnestness, she asked, ‘If I die, will you come and listen to me?’

It was a strange thing to say. Why is she so fixated on death? Kristina wondered.

‘I should certainly hope that you would sing to me,’ she said, trying to infuse some levity into the conversation. Then standing up, she grasped Madeleine’s hand. ‘The purpose of life is to be brilliant while it lasts. No one lives forever. But I don’t think it’s something you and I need to ponder on too much today. Come on, let’s have lunch.’

But Madeleine didn’t move. Instead, she looked directly at Kristina as the light came back to her face. It was as if she was the sun and had only been temporarily covered by a cloud.

‘You are very kind,’ she said, smiling through her tears. ‘If I should die before you, Kristina, I’m going to become an angel and watch over you.’

*

Once they arrived at La Rotonde, Madeleine was back in her element. Every man in the café turned to look at her and it seemed the world gravitated around her. Max and Serge were on the terrace. Max smiled boyishly as he held out chairs for them while Serge seemed lost for words, as if struck dumb by Madeleine’s beauty.

‘Madeleine is my new model,’ Kristina told them. ‘She sings magnificently and poses with the discipline of a ballerina.’

The waiter brought them a basket of bread and a bottle of wine. Madeleine tore off the tiniest portion of the bread and chewed it carefully while Serge poured everyone a glass.

‘So you sing?’ he asked Madeleine, recovering his composure. ‘What style?’

Madeleine burst into an operatic aria that had everyone in the café look in their direction again.

‘Truly?’ asked Serge. His face beamed as if he was being drawn into a magical circle from which there was no escape.

Madeleine giggled. ‘I trained for the opera, but I am a chanteuse réaliste ,’ she said. ‘I write songs about the sorrows and joys of life.’

‘You write your own songs?’ Serge asked.

‘Yes, the music and the lyrics.’

‘We must see you perform,’ said Max.

‘I’m singing at Le Coucou tonight. You are welcome to come,’ Madeleine said, her gaze drifting from Max and Kristina and settling on Serge, who looked back at her as if he had discovered a rare and unusual painting.

‘What made you switch styles from opera to cabaret?’ he asked.

Madeleine took a sip of her wine before answering. ‘I wanted to go to the conservatorium and sing opera on the stage, but my family wouldn’t hear of it. So I ran away and, you know, a girl’s got to make a living.’

Kristina listened with fascination as Madeleine told Serge that her family had been so adamant that she should not make a spectacle of herself by performing on stage, that they had sent her away to a convent in the Loire Valley, but she had escaped and come back to Paris.

Within a few minutes, Serge had elicited more information from Madeleine than Kristina had managed to squeeze out of her all morning. But that was Serge, she thought. He had a kind of grace that drew people to him.

‘If you need more modelling jobs,’ offered Max, ‘I would be happy to introduce you to some artists.’

‘Don’t steal her from me so quickly,’ said Kristina with a laugh. ‘I’m desperate for good models. They’d rather pose for men. They don’t believe I will make them famous.’

Max put his hand on Kristina’s back. ‘Now, I have some good news for you. Serge sold your Girls at the Piano to the American collector, James Terry. He is taking back one of your still lifes to show an art dealer in Los Angeles. While France might be conservative, the Americans are more open-minded so you might find success there.’

‘You’re art dealers?’ asked Madeleine with a bright smile. ‘Kristina didn’t say anything about that. She only said that you were both exceedingly handsome men. And she was right!’

Max laughed but Serge’s face blushed as red as the wine. Kristina was sure of her relationship with Max and didn’t mind Madeleine’s flirtatiousness. But to her surprise she felt slightly put out that Serge seemed so taken with her new friend.

‘Well, Kristina is so beautiful herself,’ said Max, squeezing her hand, ‘it’s hard to believe she is a living, breathing person. The first time I met her, I was sure I was looking at Botticelli’s Venus come to life. I am the luckiest man alive.’

‘I’d say Kristina is also lucky to have a man who looks at her the way you do,’ replied Madeleine. ‘Let’s toast to that!’

The four raised their glasses and the conversation turned to the Americans who were populating the Left Bank, driving up the rents yet buying paintings by the truckload.

‘They say the American collector, Gertrude Stein, is always on the lookout for a new artist to discover and that the walls of her apartment are filled with works by Cézanne, Bonnard and Matisse,’ said Serge.

‘The Americans have such wonderful salons,’ agreed Madeleine. ‘Such panache! Such flair! I’ve been to one where the guests sat in hassocks instead of chairs and we ate with our fingers.’

As the conversation continued, it occurred to Kristina that they made a pleasant and spirited foursome.

‘I have an idea,’ she said, taking Max’s arm and looking at Serge and Madeleine. ‘Max and I are planning to spend the rest of summer at my parents’ villa in Nice. It would be wonderful if you two would join us. We’d have so much fun together and I could continue to paint Madeleine.’

Madeleine’s smile broadened so wide that for the first time Kristina realised she had a gap between her upper front teeth. It was a trait the French found so charming that they referred to it as les dents du bonheur : lucky teeth. And it did seem to Kristina to enhance Madeleine’s beauty rather than detract from it. But while she was beguiled, a look passed between Max and Serge.

‘I wouldn’t want to impose,’ Serge said, a note of hesitancy in his voice.

‘You wouldn’t be,’ Kristina insisted.

He nodded uncertainly at Max. ‘Perhaps you intended to have Kristina all to yourself. You don’t need us in the way.’

‘Of course, it’s all right,’ said Max, topping up the wineglasses. ‘What a splendid way for you and Kristina to get to know each other better and Madeleine is more than a welcome addition.’

Madeleine elbowed Kristina in the ribs and whispered, ‘I hope you aren’t trying to matchmake me with Serge. I don’t deserve a man like that. He’s too good.’

Kristina turned to her, sure she must be joking. But when she looked into Madeleine’s eyes, she saw in the depth of them a lost soul and that she had meant every word. Despite her abundance of beauty, charm and talent, Madeleine truly thought Serge was too good for her.