Page 88 of The Velvet Hours
“Careful, Papa,” cautioned Alex.
“I have been climbing ladders for years, Alex. This is the least of my worries.”
From the top shelf, he pulled down a slender volume.
“Perhaps she’ll enjoy this one.” He placed his palms on the dark brown leather cover. Around the perimeter was a floral design that had been tooled into the leather and rubbed afterward with gilt. “It’s a book of poetry from the Ottoman empire. The illustrations reflectan Oriental influence, so I suspect it will appeal to her artistic sensibility.” He closed his eyes as if he were conjuring up an image of Marthe before him.
“Even though your grandmother won’t be able to decipher the words, I think she’ll enjoy the illustrations and calligraphy.”
“How thoughtful of you,” I said, as I gently traced a finger over the cover’s sensual, arabesque design. “I’m sure it will delight her.”
“Please tell her how grateful we are for what she’s done for me,” Alex added as he locked his eyes with me. “I’m still in a state of disbelief...”
“We would also like to reciprocate with a dinner at our apartment... ,” Monsieur Armel interrupted. “It is the first night of Passover in a little over two weeks’ time. Solomon’s wife, Rachel, will make dinner at our apartment. Do you think you and your grandmother might wish to come?”
His invitation touched me in its warmth and intimacy. But as much as I wanted to go, I did not think Marthe would join me.
“My grandmother seldom leaves her apartment, as her health has been rather fragile lately. But it would be my pleasure to come.”
“Well, still, please ask her,” Monsieur Armel insisted. “The meal will be simple and the accommodations far less sumptuous, but we’d be honored to welcome her into our home.”
I promised them both that I would ask her.
***
I left the Armel residence shortly afterward and entered the warm early afternoon light. I decided to use my extra time to return to my old apartment and retrieve a few lightweight dresses and some additional notebooks. I knew I still had quite a few empty ones stored away in my desk.
Although the Métro would have been faster, I opted to walk through the Gardens of Avenue Foch. With Alex no longer headingoff to war, I wanted to savor this rare pause of calm. I knew Alex’s father would continue making plans to leave France. But this afternoon my heart felt as if it were a tightly petaled flower that was finally opening to the warmth of spring. I wanted to walk amongst beauty, under the shade of protective elm trees, and feel the joy of being alive.
***
Along the winding paths lined by the canopy of foliage, I watched young children ride their tricycles, and a nanny as she stretched out a large blanket and offered two little girls and their dolls tiny ceramic cups of tea.
My attention softened as I walked the quiet path. I hadn’t written in my journal for several days, not wanting to waste a single moment of those hours I could spend with Alex. But now I felt the familiar urge to once again return to my writing.
Less than an hour later, I emerged from the gardens and set off to the closest Métro station to take me closer to home. Once in my own neighborhood, I passed by Augustin’s grocery shop, the Alsatian baker, and the crèmerie where my mother and I had always shopped. When I reached the doorstep of our old apartment building, I stood outside for several seconds, surprised that I felt the need to adjust my eyes to what I saw. For well over a year and a half I had traveled between my grandmother’s apartment and my own, slipping seamlessly between both worlds. But now the modesty of our own building felt somehow jarring.
I turned the key and pressed open the heavy door. Once inside, I immediately noticed that the lobby didn’t smell of marble and brass as in Grandmother’s or the Armels’ building. Rather, a vague mustiness clung to the air. Beneath my feet, the linoleum tile was worn and in need of replacement. The walls were not chalk white, but rather the color of yellowed, faded paper. Although my father hadstopped the mail, I took the newsprint flyers from the box, and slowly began to mount the stairs.
***
Our apartment looked like a dollhouse when I entered. The wooden furniture. The dishes in the cupboard that were white and functional. On the kitchen table sat the radio with the Bakelite dials. If the books on the living room shelf reminded me of my mother, that radio connected me to my father. Immediately, I felt a void when I saw it, a palpable longing to see him again. I yearned for that hum of the radio as we searched for a station on which we could hear the news. I wanted the comforting sight of his mustache, his eyes framed by his wire-rimmed glasses. The security of his measured voice, his unflappable ability to never appear frightened or alarmed. It felt strange that the onset of the war had brought us closer, only to take him away from me just when we were beginning to form a connection.
As I moved through the apartment, I felt my father’s absence profoundly, and it seemed almost like trespassing to be there without him. I could see traces of his last movements as I glanced around the apartment. The icebox had been defrosted, the door left open. The toaster had been unplugged. On his desk was an open-faced ledger with the list of utility companies and a notation showing they had been contacted and knew to forward the bills to his new address at the military hospital. His last gestures were like a marble frieze, every action showing his careful and meticulous nature in high relief.
I entered my bedroom and looked at it with fresh eyes. It was darker and more crowded than I had remembered it. I had grown accustomed to my small room at Marthe’s—the elegant rosewood desk and the diamond-shaped window that cast a kaleidoscope of colors during the different hours of the day. I scanned the shelves filled with not only my books and journals, but also my many knickknacks and souvenirs: the porcelain rabbit where I had once storedthe coins of my weekly allowance, and the milk jar that contained my vast marble collection. Tucked in the corner was a Mickey Mouse doll that my father had uncharacteristically bought for me after taking me to the cinema to seeSteamboat Williewhen I was still young enough to hold his hand.
I knelt down and reached for my mother’s old carpetbag from underneath my bed and pulled it open. I knew I could place my two remaining spring dresses and a few notebooks inside its deep vault of black-skinned leather. I went to my wardrobe and took out my dresses. Both were the same A-line flattering cut with a nipped waist and flared skirt that hovered just over the knee. One was in navy crepe and the other in a red chevron stripe. I put the notebooks on the bottom of the bag and carefully laid the folded dresses on top. On the way out, I was overcome with wanting something from my father. I reached for the Mickey Mouse doll and squeezed it inside the bag.
45.
April 1940
ASeder?” Marthe said the word as though it was the name of an exotic fruit she had never tasted before. “Why, it sounds intriguing. I actually think I would like to go, Solange.”
She held the book of Turkish poetry that the Armels had gifted to her between her paper-white hands.
“I haven’t been out since that night with you a few weeks ago, and of all the salons and parties I’ve participated in over the years, I’ve never once attended a Passover meal.” Marthe looked out the window. “Perhaps I’ll wear my trousers.” She grinned mischievously. “The occasion does sound rather exotic.”
