Page 11 of The Velvet Hours
When they had finished gazing at the scroll, Ichiro rolled it closedand tied it with a string. “A hand scroll like this was once kept in the sleeve of a robe, to be pulled out and looked upon when one needed a little viewing of pleasure during the day.”
“How perfectly civilized,” Marthe said, clearly amused.
“I’ll take both the print and the scroll.” She pulled down the cuffs of her sleeve. She smiled at Ichiro. “It’s too bad, it can’t fit.”
***
She wondered if Charles could sense a change in her, for she was aware of how her secret prints were beginning to stretch her mind.
She began to dress in ways that mirrored her fantasies. Embroidered silk robes with images of exotic birds and flowers. Combs for her hair, made not of silver or gemstones, but rather of tortoiseshell or wood.
She would emerge from behind her dressing screen sometimes in a silk kimono, her body soon revealed as her loosely tied sash came undone. She closed her eyes as he embraced her and pulled up her robe, her mind transporting her from the tangled linen of her butterfly bed to the aromatic garden of a bamboo grove.
***
Afterward, when his body was spent and he reached for his pipe to relax in the tangles of their bed, she would bring up the need for money.
“I might need a little more this month,” she said as she threw a leg over him, caressing him with the inner softness of her thigh.
She could feel his body stiffen at the suggestion of money, and he let out a sigh.
“Darling, I think you’ve managed to decorate every corner of the apartment. There won’t be room for me if you spend any more.”
“There will always be room for you...” Marthe adjusted her leg to wrap herself even more tightly against him.
Charles’s long, slender body stretched the length of the bed. She opened her hand and placed it on his chest, feeling the rhythm of his breathing as he took small puffs from his pipe.
“And the extra money certainly wouldn’t be for knickknacks.”
“What then?” He took a finger and caressed the line of her neck, before circling it just above her breasts.
“It’s for my education... ,” she insisted. “I need the money for books.”
Her words had taken him by surprise. As naturally curious as he found her, he had never seen her show the slightest interest in books.
“Well, pages of books, actually... but I promise you, the investment will pay off.” She lifted his fingers from her skin and placed his palm on her cheek. “Why, you wouldn’t want me to become a bore, now would you? I need to feed my mind so I can inspire you.”
He grunted and stubbed out his pipe and reached to find her within the covers.
“Inspiration, hmm.” He kissed her. “I suppose that’s always worth a little something extra.”
4.
Solange
November 1938
My visits to my grandmother increased. Now instead of visiting her once a week, I was going two or three times. I was addicted to her stories; like opium, I wanted more and more.
When I was in her company, everything that appeared bleak or mundane melted away. I could have walked for several minutes in the rain to her house, and by the time Giselle had taken my coat, umbrella, and hat, I would have forgotten all about the clouds or the puddles that had ruined my boots. I had entered a place where there would always be comfort and beauty.
After I left, I carried her voice inside my head. At night, I could see her sitting in her velvet chair, her mantel filled with vases of fresh flowers, her shelves lined with porcelains. The image of her ignited my imagination and soothed me.
I began writing down nearly everything that she told me. Myfather had been right in believing she was the perfect muse. A woman, born in the dark corners of Paris, who elevated herself through her own cleverness and charm to carve out a better life for herself.
Her memory was as sharp as glass. She could recall everything with vivid detail, and nothing from her past embarrassed her. She believed me to be old enough to hear the truth. And it pleased me that she spoke so freely.
My journal became filled with every detail she relayed. I could imagine her Charles. Tall and slender. His stiff top hat. His pipe and its rings of blue smoke. I could see Ichiro’s antique shop with its dark walls and its storefront filled with beautiful ceramics. I could close my eyes and envision the more alluring treasures he concealed behind the curtain.
