Page 40 of The Velvet Hours
She took a finger and stroked her pearls, considering the steep price.
“It is more than I’d imagined, but I do think my friend will appreciate the beauty and rarity of the piece... ,” she answered, trying to justify the purchase.
“Madame does have the most exquisite taste.”
Marthe smiled. “Will you put it on my account, Ichiro. I will settle it at the end of the month.”
She watched as he slowly put both vases back in their boxes and gently repositioned the straw around the vessels so they would not break.
“I will wrap it in the back for you, Madame de Florian, so it appears like a propercadeau.”
“Thank you.” She nodded as she replaced her gloves.
She began to imagine the scenario of presenting the vase to the artist. But then she reconsidered, deciding it would be far more elegant to have Ichiro send the package directly to Boldini’s studio. In that way, she would avoid any embarrassment if he didn’t like it as much as she hoped.
Marthe reached for one of her cards in her purse and wrote in her careful, elegant handwriting:
Giovanni Boldini
41 Boulevard Berthier
When Ichiro returned, she pressed it into his hand.
19.
Solange
October 1939
Late October was a difficult month. The tension between those in Europe who would surrender to Hitler’s demands and those who would fight him had begun to intensify. Not only had France’s prime minister Édouard Daladier, refused Hitler’s “offer” for peace, but so too had Britain’s Prime Minister Chamberlain. Over several radio broadcasts we had heard that Jews from Poland were being deported.
My mind kept returning to Alex and his father and their shop, which could have easily been my maternal grandfather’s shop had he still been alive. Although I had no intention of selling my mother’s rare books, I still had a strong desire to visit them again.
So on a Monday afternoon, the day I typically reserved for my writing, I returned to the Rue des Écouffes.
***
On the Métro that afternoon, passengers clutched their newspapers as though they were Bibles. The front page ofLe Mondeblared the headlines that the first air attack occurred at the Firth of Forth in Scotland. How much longer, I wondered, until my father and I were crouching under our kitchen table as bombs shattered through Paris? Already children were being instructed to use gas masks in school, and air raid drills were becoming routine.
As I came up from the Métro station, I paused momentarily to reacquaint myself with my surroundings. The neighborhood of the Marais was filled with so many small streets that it was easy to get lost, even for someone like me who was a Parisian. I walked down the Rue Pavée and headed toward the Jewish quarter, my arms feeling empty without the security of my mother’s books I had held the last time I visited. When I walked past one of the bakeries, I went inside hoping to buy a small gift to bring Alex and his father, even though I had only a few francs in my purse.
If the bakeries in our neighborhood held little selection since the war began, the bakeries here had even less. Weeks before I had seen several delicate pastries with nuts and dried fruits, and miniature breads with chocolate rolled inside. Now, nearly every basket in the bakery was empty. Only a small tray of cookies dusted lightly with cinnamon and a few loaves of bread remained.
I asked for a box of the cookies and left the bakery with a heavy heart. The custom of bringing something sweet when visiting friends was part of the French soul, but the cookies I purchased looked lifeless, hardly something that one would consider a special treat. Still, it felt comforting to hold something between my nervous hands.
In the crisp autumn sunlight, the area’s labyrinthine streets held a special magic to them. The mezuzahs on some of the doorways reinforced the bridge between two worlds within the city. And themen who in their heavy black coats and hats made me feel as though I had entered a place exotic and unfamiliar.
Yet, at the same time, I was unmistakably drawn to it.
I wondered if some of the men or women I passed there were people who had once known my mother, or perhaps had even visited my grandfather’s store.
When I finally reached the Armels’ storefront, I hesitated for a moment before entering, trying to think what I would say when I saw them. I could no longer rely on the excuse that I wanted my books appraised. I saw my reflection in the window, my hat pulled to my eyes, my coat buttoned over my skirt and blouse, and I realized that I was returning to a place where I was still very much an outsider, despite my curiosity to learn more about my connection to this place and its people.
I turned around and saw a few more people walking past the store, none of them taking notice of me at all. Then, I took a deep breath and walked inside.
***
The smell of the store immediately soothed me. The scent of paper and ink. There is nothing else like it for those who love books. It was the fragrance of my childhood, what I considered my mother’s perfume. Immediately it brought back the memory of her turning the pages of my nursery books, her breath sweet and warm against my neck.
