Madame Picasso. Anne Girard

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СКАЧАТЬ have it with a pint of dark beer. Those penniless days for Pablo and me never do quite fully leave either of us, I’m afraid, and we both have begun to remember them rather fondly.”

      How could I have been so naive? Eva thought frantically, her stomach as tied in knots as her heart was. This was the man—another woman’s man—to whom she had foolishly given her innocence. How could she think he might fall in love with her?

      Still, lunch was cordial. Eva did her best to participate in the conversation, in order to keep above any sort of suspicion. She would have preferred to keep hating Fernande Olivier, but she found that she could not. For the most part, other than that hitch in her tone, Fernande seemed an intelligent, funny, if slightly quirky, young woman with a bit of a flair for the dramatic. By the end of lunch Eva had no difficulty seeing how Picasso—or any man—could have fallen completely, hopelessly, in love with her.

      After the lunch, the women stood out on the boulevard waiting for a cab. Eva now noticed Fernande’s trendsetting hobble skirt. She had seen ads for them from the Maison de Poiret. It was the height of fashion. “You really didn’t need to pay,” Eva said as a coal-laden cart trundled past them, along with several shiny black automobiles.

      “It was my pleasure,” Fernande replied. “Anyone who would risk their own employment in order to help my dear friend is certainly a friend to me.”

      “Sylvette and I are off to the theater for rehearsal. How about the two of you?” Mistinguett asked.

      “Back to the passage Dantzig,” replied Eva, not wanting Fernande to know about the humble artists’ colony at la Ruche where she and Sylvette had their room.

      “Same direction,” said Fernande. “Please do share my cab.”

      There was no way she could have refused the offer. And she didn’t want to, anyway. A curiosity about the young woman so different from herself but who had attracted the same man had begun to build inside of her.

      It was the first time Eva would be riding in a motorcar, so she stepped tentatively onto the running board, fearing it might move suddenly and carry her away. Motorcars had always seemed rather loud and a little frightening as they chugged up and down the busy Paris boulevards. Yet they were clearly the wave of the future and she was excited to experience now what so many others already had. Even though it was a vehicle for hire, when she stepped inside, it seemed to Eva the most elegant conveyance in the world.

      “You wouldn’t know it to look at me now, dressed up in all this finery, but I came from the banlieue myself,” Fernande suddenly admitted as the cab merged out into busy traffic. “When Pablo found me, I was modeling for two francs for an eight-hour day and he was a starving artist who could barely speak French. And when he did it was comical. He really seemed quite the caveman to me.”

      Eva looked over at her as she spoke but she didn’t respond. She wouldn’t have known what to say, anyway. She had never been so confused by her emotions or all that was happening.

      “I’m not sure why I am telling you this,” Fernande admitted, feeding the silence that had suddenly fallen between them.

      “I can confess something, too.” Eva was surprised at herself but she continued. “I ran away from my home.”

      “So did I.”

      “Marcelle isn’t even my real name,” Eva went on, feeling as though she needed to share something after Fernande had confided in her. She hoped Fernande would reveal something more about herself and Picasso. “It’s Eva, Eva Gouel. I’m half Polish, half French. Not Parisian at all.”

      Fernande smiled at her and a spark of understanding flared between them. “My given name is Amélie Lang, but I have been using Fernande Olivier since the day I arrived in Paris. I use whichever name the moment dictates. I like the sound and the feel of each, for different reasons, I suppose.... It seems like we have quite a lot in common, you and I.”

      “It would seem so,” Eva agreed.

      When they arrived at la Ruche on the passage Dantzig, the motorcar chugged to a stop, the glass front windshield clattering. A moment later, the driver came around to open the door for her. Eva was glad that the humble beehive-shaped building was hidden behind an ivy-covered stone wall.

      “Do you like the circus?” Fernande asked as Eva was exiting the car. She turned back to Fernande.

      “I’m not sure. I’ve never been.”

      “You’ve never been to the circus? Oh, heavens, we go to the the Medrano all the time. Pablo was keen on it for a while so he could paint the performers—the harlequins and clowns. He found the ragtag lot of them appealingly vulnerable, he said. For me, it’s just a night’s diversion, but I confess, I’m weary of it all. You would spice things up a bit if you joined our regular group.”

      More than you know, Eva thought as she smiled innocently at Fernande.

      “Have you a gentleman you could bring along? A suitor, perhaps?”

      Louis came to mind. Eva knew she could not very well agree to join Picasso and his lover without a man beside her. At the very least, Louis would give her strength to go through with such an absurd proposition. She was still angry with Picasso for deceiving her, and yet it was beyond her to decline an invitation that would permit her to see him again. And to see how he would react.

      “I suppose so,” she finally replied.

      “Not one you’re mad for, then?” Fernande asked inquisitively.

      “He’s only a friend, so far.” Eva shrugged as the driver waited at the open car door. She knew she was batting her eyes with rather irritating frequency, but she was doing so intentionally. The theater had already taught her many things.

      “Good, then, so you are open to a new suitor. Because we generally bring friends, and Monsieur Picasso and I have been trying for ages to set up our friend, Guillaume Apollinaire, who has recently separated from his lover. He would like you, you’re just his type. He’s something of a noted poet. You may have heard of him?”

      “The name sounds familiar,” she demurred, not wanting to sound like the outright fan she was, since that would set her at an obvious disadvantage.

      “He’s Polish like you, so the two of you should get on like a house on fire.”

      “Thank you for the invitation, Madame Picasso.”

      Eva nearly choked on the title, but since they had only just met that day, it seemed the appropriate way to address her until she was invited to do otherwise. She certainly couldn’t call her Mademoiselle Olivier, after the stand she had made for Picasso. Fernande reached out of the cab and took Eva’s hand.

      “Monday evening, then. It’s all settled. It will be great fun. And you must call me Fernande. All of my real friends do. I shall leave two tickets for you at the door and there will be someone to see you to our seats. Perhaps we can all go for a drink afterward.”

      “I look forward to it,” Eva forced herself to say while she smiled as sweetly as she could. But her anticipation of the Circus Medrano was for very different reasons than Fernande ever could have thought. She looked forward to it only so that she could see Picasso again, and confront him.

      * * *

      “Believe СКАЧАТЬ