The Memory of Scent (4 page)

‘I am making her look a little like you.’

‘My God no, this girl is beautiful … make her hair longer and her eyes wider. You can draw me another time.’

I have seen some of Maria’s sketches before, of herself, of her mother, of everyday objects, little pencil and charcoal drawings, but I have never watched as a few light lines stutter and shift into a recognisable image. It is truly a talent.

‘Fleur, we can go by Rue d’Orchampt to see if Auguste is at his studio today, and you can show this drawing around in case anyone else recognises this girl.’

‘Good. We’ll do that on the way to Agnes’s café with
Maman
’s linen.’

I carefully tie up one large bundle in brown paper and string. I knot my hair and tuck it into my straw hat. I fold Maria’s drawing and put it into my skirt pocket. We make our way down the hill passing the dance halls which will remain shut and sullen until five o’clock this evening before bursting open in a heady glow of excitement. Horse-drawn carriages clatter by, forcing us to jump to one side. And unfortunately, here comes our village idiot, bless him, old Edmond limping furiously towards us. He is known around here as ‘the windmill’, because he has no control over his right arm which constantly flails about. He also drags his left leg. He shoves a cracked tin daguerreotype into our faces of a handsome dark-haired young man with a steady gaze wearing a heavy coat. His elbow is resting on a shelf or table and his long fingers are clasped in front of him. ‘Have you seen my son?’

‘No, Edmond, not today’, we both coo reassurance. He then moves on to another man who has overtaken us at a quick pace. With the same aggressive gesture, he pushes the image towards his face, causing the man to step back and lose his balance, falling in a heap on the ground. Standing over him, he again shouts, ‘Have you see my son?’ before limping on. Maria and I rush to help the man on to his feet.

‘Are you all right?’

‘He’s insane.’ We look at each other mid-hoist. This man is clearly not at all sympathetic as he angrily dusts off the sleeves of his frock coat.

‘Well, he is actually. Poor Edmond lost his son at the barricades during the siege eleven years ago.’

‘Look at my coat.’

I am aware that Maria is beginning to square up to him, so I intervene.

‘His mind is gone. He was fighting along with his son, and the boy was shot in the head in front of him. Even though his brains were splattered on his coat, he couldn’t take it in.’

‘Ah yes, the glorious six-week siege. Well, if stories are to be believed, men ran bare-chested into hails of bullets.’

Now I am annoyed. ‘Yes,
Monsieur
, it was a glorious time, where briefly the working class and middle class came together in a common cause.’

‘Briefly indeed, young lady. Those of any wisdom, and may I say distinction, did the sensible thing and fled Paris for Versailles and elsewhere, tiring very quickly of all that wine-shop posturing. There was nothing noble about that uprising: twenty-five-thousand dead and all because of class hatred. That communard idiot who just assaulted me probably listened to too many bad writers and mediocre painters trumpeting their intellectual and moral degeneracy with a cheap beer in one hand and a bad speech in the other. Ladies, I wish you good day.’

We watch stunned as the stranger marches off and I am furious that I lacked his eloquence, for I wanted to shut him up, to fell him verbally with something incisive.

‘Damned tourists’, Maria sighs after a long pause and we both laugh because it is such a pathetic and belated rejoinder. I just had a horrible thought; that could be me years from now, waving my arms about and shoving Maria’s little sketch of my patchouli girl into the faces of perfect strangers. In years to come when they talk about the windmills of Montmartre, they could be talking about me and Edmond. We walk on.

‘This is silly. I’m sure she’s perfectly fine. She’ll be having all sorts of adventures to tell her grandchildren about.’

‘Your model? Are you sure?’

‘Of course. She is none of my business. Walrus says I have to stop befriending stray people.’

‘Good. Then if I said to you there’s Auguste’s bicycle leaning up against Julien Tanguy’s shop, you wouldn’t be interested?’

‘Is it?’

‘Definitely. He must be in buying some paints.’

I think about it only briefly and feel a flutter of excitement as I will hear for the first time how it will sound to verbalise this desperate and illogical hunt for a girl I know chiefly by scent. I hand my parcel to Maria. On second thoughts, I take it from her again, and nudge her in the back to go in first. She is the one who knows him after all. A small bell tinkles as the door opens up into the narrow shop. There are rows and rows of paintings hanging alongside and above and below each other, reaching high up to the ceiling, crowding every inch of the walls. There is a deep wooden counter and on the far side of it, the owner, Père Tanguy, is cutting into a large roll of canvas.

‘
Bonjour, Mesdemoiselles
. I’ll be with you in a second.’

‘No, it’s Monsieur Renoir I wanted a quick word with.’ I shuffle forward as I say this. The painter is holding the canvas taut along the counter to allow for ease of cutting. He turns towards me and swiftly appraises me from head to toe, one sweeping glance taking in the length of my body. He simply smiles and says; ‘Yes, mademoiselle?’ He is a handsome man, though his beard is not as full as I like to see on a man. Fullness seems to me to indicate virility. His is a little on the thin side, though I know his conquests are many, and that they include Maria, whom he now notices.

‘Ah, my little acrobat, what brings you here?’ He has let go of the canvas, much to Père Tanguy’s annoyance as it
springs back over his cutting hand. Maria stands with her hands behind her back and sways slightly, as a little girl does in anticipation of some ice cream. She says nothing, just smiles a smile I’m sure he has often been thrown. It says, ‘I know your secrets; I know what you really like. I have brought you to your knees.’ I hand Maria my parcel and take her sketch from my pocket to show to him.

‘Monsieur, I am trying to find somebody. She is a model, long black hair, slim with violet eyes. Has she ever modelled for you or do you know of her? She sat recently for the Spanish painter.’

Renoir takes my sketch but doesn’t yet look at it. He plucks at his lips.

‘That Spaniard. I’m sure the last time I saw him was in here.’

Père Tanguy looks up. ‘Vermilion and burnt umber. You were low on both.’

‘Of course.’ He now looks at the sketch while I continue.

‘I’m trying to find this girl, and I thought maybe you may have used her at some point.’

‘Never liked that Spaniard. Didn’t know much about him except that he had a bit of a reputation as a scoundrel and scrounger. He’ll pull up a chair beside you at the Nouvelles-Athènes, and manage to drink all night without dipping in his own pocket once. Do you know him, Julien?’

‘He sounds like someone I would make pay up front.’ He looked again at the sketch. ‘No, the description is not familiar to me.’

I feel deflated and thank both gentlemen for their time while I reach for the latch of the door.

‘Nice little sketch there.’

Maria steps forward. ‘Thank you Monsieur Renoir. That would be mine. And if you’d like to buy me some tubes, I
would be happy to paint it for you. It has been suggested to me that I change my name to “Suzanne”. Do you think that would suit me – “Suzanne Valadon”? She is a figure in literature who keeps older men in thrall apparently.’

I try to steer ‘Suzanne’ towards the door. She has clearly not forgiven Renoir his angry mistress. We tumble out onto the street and walk past the Crémerie, where occasionally we treat ourselves to a nice afternoon coffee and some cakes. And why shouldn’t we? Women of every class like to eat cake. I am thankful that I am unable to afford these sweet diversions more often that I do, as the band of my skirt leaves a red indent on my midriff, warning me each night as I undress for bed, that the slimness of my younger days will soon be a distant memory. The pink welt is like some horrible precursor to a slovenly middle age where the corsets become more restrictive and the attempted allure becomes something you can only snatch at with little, constrained breaths in case you faint, or explode. I’ll be fortunate if I can get into my twenties without having to add some more side fastenings.

I am in the habit of watching the way other women carry themselves and, extraordinarily, age has little to do with magnetism. I observe the way men glance as if their heads have been yanked by an invisible string when certain women walk by. They could be walking with their wives and children and still that string will tug. I am more intrigued by what it is about the woman to cause this tug, what connects that string to her, as it is not always evident to me. Is it in the carriage? The swing of the hips? The toss of hair? Agnes is one such woman and we are now here at her strange little café. No tin-top tables here, her café has a shabby elegance, not unlike herself. Though now slightly stouter in appearance, she has the dignified deportment and captivating
profile that so many artists have scrambled to paint over the past two decades. Her long grey-flecked hair still has a tint of its former auburn glory. The eyes remain the blue pools of mischievousness that have lured many to her bed.

‘Fleur, my darling, come into the back so I can inspect your mother’s handiwork. And Maria, here take this wine and glasses and find us a nice quiet corner. Look, that small table over there.’

‘Of course.’

Agnes pulls back a curtain leading into the kitchen and, placing my parcel on a long wooden table, she unties the string. She picks through each item, carefully studying corners and hems and happily declares everything to be up to its usual standard.

‘Now! Refreshments!’ She grabs a plate of cheese and tears off some bread and we sit down beside Maria.

‘
Salut
. Now, my lovelies, some gossip please. On whose canvases can we view your peachy little bottoms these days?’

‘I did have some work, only the painter dropped dead. Maria is keeping Henri busy.’

‘Oh, of course, the Spaniard. What a mystery. Did he drop dead or was there anything more sordid afoot? It’s all very intriguing. It makes a welcome change from the boring speculation that passes for conversation around here at the moment. It’s all about jockeying to be represented in the new independent
salon
. Did either of you get to that exhibition in the Tuileries Garden? It was so disorganised; held in what was just a huge wooden shed. And, oh, the squabbling and jealousy that has been breaking out here lately. All too full of their own importance. Enough of them. Who is kicking their legs too high at the Moulin de la Galette these days? If only I could cartwheel across a floor the way I used to.’

‘Fleur is on a mission.’ Maria appears hugely amused and is making fun of me a little. Nonetheless, I take her sketch out and show it to Agnes.

‘I’m not sure if you could call it a mission, but have you seen a young model who looks a little like this, Agnes? I came across her modelling for the Spaniard, and one of his models found him and is now being sought by the police. It is a slim chance that she could have fallen into some difficulty.’

I would like to pretend that there is a strong bond of sisterhood amongst all the models, those of us at the lower echelons of life, those of us who at times feel low enough to consider allowing any man with a few francs to lift our skirts in a back alley for a few fevered seconds of grunting and a slimy discharge. But in truth, each is highly protective of her own patch. Each is one gutter away from oblivion. Agnes tenderly holds the sketch in both hands as she strokes it with one of her thumbs. To our surprise, tears spring to her eyes.

‘How sweet. Just look at her.’ She stares hard at me. ‘This young model could be any young model.’

She places it on the table and slides it back over to me. She pours some more wine and lifts the corner of her white apron to dab at her eyes. We are unsure what to say next.

‘Do you know her?’ I ask in both dread and hope. The garrulous hostess and larger-than-life Agnes, now needs a few moments of stillness to compose herself. I bite my lip in anxiety at Agnes’s discomfort. Agnes sniffs into her hankie.

‘No, I don’t think so. But these young girls can be so innocent. They can be so taken in by some of these painters who use them up, then toss them aside like a turpentine-soaked rag. Of course there can be the odd genuine love story, but very rarely do they survive the scrutiny of class or the novelty
of fresh flesh. A differently shaped thigh, a new cascade of tumbling curls.’

I am disappointed and Agnes is misty eyed, becoming lost in recollection. I am irrelevant at this point.

‘You know my mother was very pretty with fine features and fair hair. She was a noted beauty. She could pose as if a countess or a street girl. When my father chose her to model, she didn’t mind the hours of cold and boredom because she knew that they would then go for a stroll and find a warm café, drink wine and talk for hours. She would visit his little apartment and pick his clothes off the floor and tidy away his books and papers. On Sundays they would take a picnic basket and find a pleasant river-view spot to idle and eat while watching the sailing boats and rowing skiffs.’

‘They must have been madly in love.’ Maria is becoming enthralled.

‘I think they were, for a while. But it was when my mother was pregnant with me, that Papa started looking around for other models. The one he settled most quickly on was a very young red-haired Irish girl. I was told that my mother immediately hated her.’ Agnes laughs a little, then goes over to a high shelf and reaches for another bottle of wine which she opens and slowly pours.

‘My mother had to watch as Papa slowly became besotted with this new girl. This girl, Josie – the name is seared in my brain – her father was an aspiring writer and a drunk, and he had dragged the young girl to Paris. From what I understand, she seemed to have a delicacy that drove my father wild in his need to be protective of her. His best friend told me that he painted feverish portraits of her for hours on end then would bring her outside for fresh air and they would visit different cafés. He probably just wanted to show her
off. Can you imagine how my mother was feeling at this stage?’