Capturing Paris (8 page)

Annie looked down at the picture of an old woman, a cloth coat pulled tightly across her rounded back, sitting on a bench in what looked like the Luxembourg Gardens. Her swollen ankles were crossed, and her feet were barely contained in worn, unfashionable shoes. The light, soft and ethereal, was dreamlike. The photographer had captured her either in the first moments of dawn or at dusk. More likely dawn, as there was a freshness, a tenderness to the scene that implied the start of something. The photograph of this woman, alone on the bench, the row of trees behind her, and in the background a glimpse of an ornate marble statue from a more glorious era, infused Annie with a terrible feeling of loss.

“What do you think?” Valmont asked her.

“Lovely, sad … no, that's too simple.” Her voice came out in a whisper. She tried to pull herself back together. “It's an extraordinary photograph,” she said in a more normal voice.

He nodded, turned it over, and lifted another vellum sheet. The next photograph depicted three children playing on a merry-go-round, the old-fashioned kind, with benches set around a circular frame. Two of the children sat and held the center bar as the third, a boy with knee socks puddled around his ankles, held the wooden frame and ran beside it to keep it in motion. His legs looked airborne. The playground was tucked in a small park behind Notre-Dame Cathedral. Annie knew this park; she had taken Sophie there when she was a little girl. Again, the light was astounding. The picture was both intimate and grand, balancing the sweetness of children at play against the majesty of the cathedral.

“The light—there's such a tangible softness,” she said.

He stood back from the table. “It makes me think of the Italian word
sfumato
. François achieves that same smoky edge in his photographs. Leonardo da Vinci was the first painter to create that effect.”

Annie met his intense gaze. “Yes, that's it exactly,” she said.

“Here's the one of Saint-Eustache. When I read your poem I thought immediately of François's photo. Your words and his image are in”—he hesitated—“harmony, yes, perfect harmony.” He didn't pronounce the
h
. This made her smile.

His deep voice seemed gentler than when he'd telephoned. His accented English reminded her of the typical seductive Frenchmen in American movies, but his serious demeanor quickly dismantled this impression. “Please, take some time and study the others.” He motioned to the portfolio. I'll go and see if François has arrived.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I've been anxious to look at them.”

Annie was glad to have a few minutes alone to gather her thoughts. She hoped that over time he would become easier to talk to. Was it her own reserve or his formal nature that colored their conversation? He'd called her Madame when he telephoned to set up their appointment, but today she asked him to call her Annie. She liked the way he pronounced her name. It fell easily from his lips. He told her to call him Paul.

She had been struck by their difference in height when he stood next to her looking at the photographs—he was shorter by several inches. His upper body appeared strong and well muscled, but his legs looked thin under his heavy corduroy trousers. She noticed the hint of a limp when he left the office to look for the photographer. Annie wondered if he was recovering from an injury. Maybe it was the result of polio or some childhood illness.

She looked back at the pictures, turning them over one by one. They captured Paris in all her shades of beauty, all her moods, the traditional Paris along with the modern city that throbbed to a contemporary beat. They also had an introspective quality. On one level, the images told a story, but they held something back as well. Annie found herself trying to see beyond the edges of the photographs, as if there was something more the photographer was keeping from view. While not exactly secretive, they had a suggestive quality.

She stopped at the last two pictures, pulling in her breath. They were nudes, and while the previous scenes of the people and places of Paris had a sensual energy, they had not prepared her for these. The pictures
worked as a pair and depicted a female torso from both sides. More abstract than the photographs of the city, they were still breathtakingly lifelike, and the breasts, rounded and petal soft, made Annie think of her own breasts, untouched for so long. The woman's back was long and serpentine, a fluid line. She felt flushed and imagined Valmont whispering
sfumato
. What was she thinking? She inserted the final sheet of vellum and closed the portfolio.

Annie could hear muffled voices beyond the closed door. Something about this man captured her imagination. She looked around his office again, hoping to discover more about him. She went behind the desk and studied some of the titles on the bookshelves. Unable to erase the image of the nude torsos, she closed her eyes, amazed at the powerful effect of those photographs. Turning back to the desk, she noticed an arresting photograph in a silver frame. She picked it up. The lovely heart-shaped face of a young woman with dark hair falling to one shoulder and huge doelike eyes stared back at her. From her clothing, Annie guessed it had been taken at least twenty years before. Nonetheless, the woman's energy seemed to pulse right through the frame. Paul had positioned it on the desk so the photograph would be in view any time he paused to look up from his work. It must be his wife. Judging from the picture, she would have been about Annie's own age if she were still alive. Annie was embarrassed to be found holding the picture when the door opened a moment later.

“A portrait of my wife,” Valmont said.

Annie put the picture down. “I'm terribly sorry.” She felt like she'd been caught trespassing. “She's very beautiful. I—”

He didn't let her complete her sentence, but he didn't appear angry. “Now you can meet the man responsible for that one as well as the others.” He walked toward her, this time his limp more apparent, with his arm drawn around the shoulders of an elderly gentleman. “Madame Reed, Annie, I'd like to present François Naudin. He's eager to meet you.”

“Indeed, madame, I have been longing to make your acquaintance.”

Annie came from behind the desk and offered her hand. “I am delighted to meet you, Monsieur.” Instead of shaking her hand, he bowed graciously and kissed it. “Please, call me Annie.”

“And you must call me François.”

Despite his advanced years, François walked with a jaunty step. Paul led him over to another chair near the desk, helping him the way a son would a father, François's eyes shone through his glasses, a clear hyacinth blue. His thick wiry hair, smoothed back behind his ears, was the same color as his neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper mustache. Annie sat beside him and Paul returned to his desk.

“So what do you think?” Paul asked.

“I loved them all.” Annie looked over at the portfolio. “They are extraordinary photographs.”

“I am pleased that you like them,” François said.

“I envision the final book composed of twenty-five to thirty photographs with the poems on the facing page.” He looked at Annie. “François has had many photographs published over the years, but this would be the first time an entire series would appear in one book.”

“Paul is so kind to indulge me.”

“Nonsense. This project is long overdue.” Paul smiled warmly at the old man. First we must decide which photographs to include and—”

“Oh, I leave that to you,” François said excitedly. “You are the one making the book.”

Annie found it hard to believe that she was sitting here in this office. Daphne had given Paul her poems as promised, and to her amazement, he'd called almost immediately to arrange this meeting.

“Well, of course the photographs speak for themselves,” Paul said, “but I think that the poems need to reflect the beauty of the images and in some way reinforce the visual message. Do you agree?” He looked at Annie.

“Oh, certainly.” She could see that the project meant a great deal to him.

“A good idea,
non
?” François said. “Pictures and poems together?”

“I think it's a terrific idea,” she said. “François, you are truly an artist, the very best. You capture the essence of Paris.”

“François and I have talked about this book for many years. My father had wanted to do a book of François's photographs, but in those years when my father was still alive, François was too busy traveling and taking pictures for the newspapers.”

“You're a photojournalist?” Annie asked.

“Not for many years, but that is how I spent my working life. A long time of living from the
valise
, you say—ah, yes, suitcase.”

“How fascinating.”

“I loved it,
mais oui
, but when I was a young man I wanted to make pictures as art. I had not thought of journalism then. You know of Eugene Atget? He began in the 1890s and photographed Paris every day for more than twenty years. Some call him the architectural historian of Paris. He influenced me greatly,
enormément
. But then came the war, and I used my camera for the army and later for the newspapers. There was no time for my art.”

“It was not all bad, the war, I mean,” Paul said. “After all, that is when you met Eileen. Sometimes good things come of bad situations.”

“
Oui, oui, ma belle Eileen
. Paul is right. I met my wife during the war. She was a nurse, American, like you. Life is not the same without her.”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Annie said.

“She died fifteen years ago.” François became more subdued. “I think of her every day. She left a hole in my heart.”

Annie saw that Paul was no longer paying attention to them but staring at the picture of his wife. François noticed too. “Paul, I am sorry,” he said. “I know it is still very painful.”

“I am fine, François.” Paul appeared weary, drained of the enthusiasm he'd shown earlier. He looked at Annie. “You must excuse me. My wife and I were in an accident. On the
autoroute
, last spring. She did not survive.” He folded his hands together and rested them on the desk as if trying to pull himself together.

Annie ached for this man. “Yes, Daphne told me that your wife had died. I'm so very sorry. I can't think of anything worse.” Her words sounded inadequate and empty in her ears. To lose his wife in a grisly car crash seemed so cruel. His wife had been yanked away, taken from him while still in her prime.

“Tell me about your work, Annie,” François said. “When did you discover you were a poet?”

“I've always loved writing.” Annie liked the way he asked the question. She'd always known that it wasn't a matter of deciding to become
a poet. Writing poetry had been part of her life for as long as she could remember. “When I was a little girl I wrote mostly stories. I was an only child and I loved to create stories about imaginary brothers and sisters. My aunt Kate saved them all, saying one day they would make up a book. Just childish scribblings, and they've since been lost. Her encouragement kept me going though. By the time I was in high school I knew that poetry was my first love.”

“How do you begin a poem? Do you know right away where to start? I wonder if the process, the artistic process I mean, is the same as photography.” François had removed his glasses and waited for her answer.

“I imagine it might be like when you decide to take a picture. It's usually something I see that triggers a new poem. It could be a place or an object. If it's a person, it might be the slightest gesture, a movement or glance, that becomes the kernel of an idea.”

“And then what do you do?” Paul asked.

“I'm always making notes, and if the image keeps appearing, if it won't go away, I know that's it's worth continuing.”

“That must take time,” Paul said.

“Sometimes the idea and the images evolve very quickly, and other times I may linger on a piece for weeks. It's an organic process. I guess you could say that some poems grow more quickly than others. After that, there's the endless process of revising.”

“François's photographs should lend themselves very well to your process,” he said.

“Paris has always inspired me to write,” she said. “I would love to try writing poems based on your pictures, François. They are already a poetic form.”

“You are very kind, my dear.” He bowed his head.

“What I suggest,” said Paul in a more businesslike tone, “is that you select four or five photographs from this group and write about them. We like very much the poems you gave us, but we need to see if you can work from the pictures. Maybe you could send me a few poems early in the new year.”

“I'd be happy to.”

“Here are some copies of the originals,” François said, handing her a thick brown envelope. “If you please, choose a few from this group. You can take them with you today.”

Annie accepted the envelope. She had passed the first hurdle, but now she would have to prove that she could create the poems. Could she finish several poems in just a few weeks? And would they be good enough for those incredible photographs?

“It is quite amazing,” Paul said. “If I hadn't told Daphne about looking for a poet, I never would have found you.”

“I'm certainly grateful to her as well.” Annie wondered how well he knew Daphne.

“Have you been to God House?” Paul asked.

“No. But I love the name. Daphne talks so much about it.”

“I can see you there. It's a poet's kind of place.”

“We must thank this English lady for bringing us together,” François said, getting to his feet. “But enough talk of business. Now that I have met this charming poet, it would give me great pleasure to take you both to lunch. We will mark this day with
un bon repas
, a good meal. Are you free, Paul?”