The Ladies of the Secret Circus Read online

  While he worked, he often gazed at pieces of me—a hand, a foot—but I noticed everything about him: his white shirt with paint stains on the forearms, the ones that he rolls so I won’t see; the quiet way he can work for hours without talking; and his strong chin, which is the telltale indicator of frustration when he is unhappy with some detail. And those eyes—the sad, dirty-green eyes that gaze up at me, hungrily. Toward the end of my sitting our eyes lingered until the end, when we found ourselves sitting in silence simply taking each other in, watching each other breathe.

  May 30, 1925

  Tonight Émile asked me to accompany him to Le Select. Outside the café, it was a warm night, so there were hordes of people sitting on cane chairs. Inside, patrons were packed like in a crowded cafeteria. This is not the romantic notion of Montparnasse anymore. I heard the American and German accents and saw that what they said is true: There are more tourists than artists here now.

  For dinner, we were meeting with Man Ray and his girlfriend, Kiki, but the photographer’s French was as terrible as my English, so we talked at each other, gesturing and requiring Émile to translate, until we both nearly fell over in our chairs with laughter at our wild arm movements. Man Ray had a hook to his nose and the most intense eyes I have ever seen on a man, yet I found him handsome. When you spoke, he focused intently on your voice—even if he could not understand a word of my French. It’s a heady, sensual thing, as though I am the only person in the restaurant. I think Émile’s gaze has opened something up in my soul, like the breeze that flows from the window after a stuffy summer night. While Man has made a living as a portrait photographer, he longs to be a painter. There was something about Émile’s work that inspired him. At first, I was intimidated by both Man and Kiki, but to my surprise, they’d had a ticket to Le Cirque Secret recently and were in awe of me?

  While they don’t know it and would completely disagree about it for hours, Émile and his friends were not unlike circus performers—each night they displayed their works and read their poems to the growing crowd of admirers outside places like Le Dôme Café or Café de la Rotonde, never seeing that they, too, were contained under their own big top. They are too close to observe that there is change coming to Montparnasse, subtle for now, but I fear it will soon loom large. The artists and intellects have become the attractions. The tourists go back to their Right Bank hotel, then back home to America, Germany, or England to regale their friends with their proximity to the writer Hemingway or the photographer Man Ray like they bought tickets to see them. As an outsider to this world, I’ve observed that the sea of expats with extra pocket money don’t care about Dada versus cubism nor understand the art of the unconscious mind as dear Salvador Dalí does. Émile’s friends, so wrapped up in their own conversations, haven’t seen the shift that has occurred around them, but I fear this special place is coming to an end. I can almost smell it around me, like that most fragrant scent of the ripest fruit just before it begins to rot.

  From across the table, Émile glanced at me. He was excited that he’d been permitted to do what no other artist has done—paint Le Cirque Secret. There were two more paintings to complete, and Man was telling him how to frame the next one. There was a part of me that felt a sense of dread for Émile, like he had agreed to something before he was fully aware of the consequences. As always, with Father there is the fear he has struck some terrible, mortal bargain. Émile doesn’t know how the world—my world—works. There are always consequences.

  While our dinner companions dined on oysters, I chose boeuf. Overhead, I heard the fan cycling above me and felt its cool waves of air as they hit my forearms.

  “You need to push yourself.” Man lit a cigarette and dismissed him with the shrug of his hand. “You are an old romantic.”

  Like in a tennis match, they volleyed ideas back and forth, trying them on. What is surrealism? Who is a true surrealist? What role does art play in a mad world?

  I realized the idea was to shock or subvert with art. To my horror, it occurred to me that this is what they think we do with Le Cirque Secret. What we do isn’t a performance—what they see each night is not some dream of Hell. It is Hell. That I come and go freely makes it seem like I’m an actress who dons a part and shakes it off cleanly each night. But for Doro and the others, their Hell is hardly metaphorical, and their costumes are not so easily tossed.

  Halfway through drinks, Man began to chastise Émile for being too much like a man named Modigliani, saying he hasn’t pushed against the vein enough. At the mention of Modigliani, Émile became quiet, almost forlorn.

  When they were talking among themselves, Émile leaned in to whisper to me. “Amedeo has been dead for five years, but I feel as though it were yesterday.”

  I must have registered confusion on my face because Kiki leaned in and whispered, “Amedeo Modigliani was Émile’s mentor. Terrible shame about him. He died of tuberculosis. His pregnant wife, Jeanne, leapt to her own death two days later. Her family won’t even let her be buried next to him.” Kiki touched my arm for emphasis, her blood-red nails lightly tapping my forearm.

  From across the table, Émile picked up the saltshaker and rotated it with such intensity, that the little glass shaker hit the table, causing it to vibrate.

  June 2, 1925

  Today I found Émile painting Sylvie. I stood behind him to admire the many sketches of her standing by the steed—an old horse who might have been a king in his previous life. Naturally, the horse couldn’t tell us anything, but Father has alluded to his true identity several times.

  This was not the pose that Émile wanted, so I called to Sylvie for her to try an easy stand on the horse’s back since she would need to re-create it several times in order to capture the sketch.

  Émile looked puzzled at the required pomp to mount His Majesty. So the horse would cooperate, Sylvie was required to address His Majesty by bowing to him before she began her routine. To an onlooker (and everyone but His Majesty), it is a comical gesture. After the bow, Sylvie walked him around the ring and stroked his mane and neck as she fed him carrots. If Father’s hints were to be believed, this horse was once a particularly randy king who seduced his entire court, so the idea that he is ridden for show is a rather interesting punishment.

  Sylvie mounted His Majesty and they began their routine. Using her leg, Sylvie hooked onto the horse’s back, dangling on the side, her arms outstretched, the only thing holding her to the horse being the power of her legs. Next, as the horse galloped, Sylvie, in one swift move, stood on the horse’s back then flipped midair, landing in a perfect stand. In this simple stand, both horse and rider were completely one, Sylvie’s body rocking in time with His Majesty. While Émile could have chosen a more complicated flip, it was the face of the horse and rider so perfectly in sync that made this sketch so compelling.

  “You try.” Émile handed me a charcoal. I gave him a quizzical look. I wasn’t an artist, but while Émile stood to the side watching Sylvie perform, I sketched the curves of the horse for him, the bob of his head rocking in perfect unison with Sylvie.

  From my life in the shadows, I knew every corner of the circus. This intimate knowledge has provided me with a watcher’s eye, an artist’s gaze. “You want this pose,” I said to Émile, motioning to Sylvie in the moment just after she finished a flip when she was flushed like she had been happily ravaged. If you saw her up close, there would be sweat on her upper lip and forehead.

  Immediately he sat down and began to sketch the outlines of Sylvie and the horse, attempting several versions to get the right amount of space on the canvas.

  “The painting is so small.” I’d imagined the three paintings on large, dramatic canvases.

  “I hate those giant things. My last painting was a hulking thing called The Vampire. I want to try something different. Honestly, I never know where the circus will be from week to week and I need to be able to carry everything.” He pointed to his case of paints.

  Sheet after sheet of poses litt
ered the floor. As quickly as they fell, he called on Sylvie to try the flip two more times. As she maneuvered on the horse, Émile altered the sketch until he had the final pose. It was an angle from above them in the stands. The composition was clever, and I remembered Man Ray suggesting an exaggerated angle for one. Smiling, I realized he had taken Man Ray’s advice. I feel that I am in the center of the creation of something brilliant.

  June 9, 1925

  Émile has nearly finished Sylvie’s painting. He let me tinker with the bronze shade of paint, instructing me how to layer it on and wipe it off. I was amazed at the skill he possessed. I couldn’t quite get the technique that he could do with one hand.

  “You have some talent.” Over my shoulder, he brought his lips close to my neck, so near I could feel the warmth of his breath.

  “No,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Use it to sign.” He pointed to the brush tinged with the brown shade.

  “I couldn’t.” I pointed the brush at him but turned it, positioning it over the lower right corner of the canvas. He took my hand and crouched down beside me and guided the E and the G. Nervous, I saw my lines quiver. I made a face. “It’s terrible.”

  “Marvelous,” he said, but he was not looking at the canvas; he was staring at me.

  Last night, I met him in Montparnasse. Paris was stifling and dinner was late, which was wondrous because some of the heat had left for the evening. The air filled the city like a bath with too-warm, stagnant water—none of us could breathe, and yet with the heat came freedom. Women used it as an excuse not to wear stockings for the night and raised their skirt hems above their knees. Parched and sweating, men ordered more drinks than they normally could tolerate. All the restaurants with overhead fans were crowded—so we headed to Le Dôme Café, which sat in a wedge between Boulevard du Montparnasse and Boulevard Raspail. We stood at the bar, envious of those who had secured early seats. I ordered a cognac and water. The café was overrun tonight so Émile suggested that we go to his apartment. I found myself sweating with nerves. Both Esmé and Sylvie routinely left with people, leaving me the one traveling back to the circus alone in a taxi, and I admit that I had no idea what to expect.

  Émile’s studio was one block from Le Dôme Café on Rue Delambre. The old staircase creaked as though it would pull away from the wall as we climbed. As he shut the door behind us, I was aware that we were alone for the first time. He cracked open the only two windows in the stuffy little apartment and pulled the biggest chair he had in front of them. I looked down and noticed that the two plates he’d placed in front of me were from the Café de la Rotonde. He appeared to have stolen a set of everything for our meal tonight. From Kiki, I know that all of the artists steal plates and cutlery from the Café de la Rotonde, but I find it charming. We sat together on the chair and listened to the sounds of Paris below us as we ate Gouda with some fresh bread and apples.

  Surrounding us were paintings in various stages of completion. The lights were off so we relied on the outside illumination from Montparnasse. Émile was a master of manipulating light, so I felt like he’d arranged this scene and I wondered how he saw me now. The moon was full and shining, giving me a good view of a stack of his paintings. Curious, I perused the canvases.

  A few of his paintings were interesting attempts at cubism, the shadows of a man’s face perfectly drawn, yet angular. Where the shadows fell in the hollows of the cheekbones, he’d created landscapes using an elaborate crosshatch technique. The scene wasn’t entirely visible until the eye was close. There were also several nudes of one woman—a woman with golden hair—and I found that I was struck with a pang of jealousy, certain that while the oil was drying on the canvas, he was making love to her in the threadbare sheets on his tiny bed. My calves brushed against the bedspread and I was imagining myself tangled in the sheets, our bodies sticking together in the heat.

  “She’s beautiful,” I said. He’d come to stand behind me.

  “Oui.”

  I was struck by his honesty, yet he gave nothing away, no hint that she was a lover past or present. I wanted to run out, fearing that I was not built for this vulnerability.

  “I wish every one of these paintings were of you.” I felt his presence behind me, then his hand resting softly on the center of my back. “Then I might not miss you as much.”

  I turned to see his face in the moonlight. It was the sincerest look. “I want to be surrounded by you, Cecile.”

  I shook my head. “You could paint me every night. And every morning your canvas would be blank.”

  “I do have the one painting of you.”

  True. And his painting would be the only likeness of me ever created. Somehow the thought gave me a great wave of melancholy.

  “For my final portrait, I will paint you again.”

  “Non,” I said. “You must paint Esmé. She is the natural third painting.”

  “But I don’t want to paint Esmé. Everyone in Montparnasse has painted her.”

  “She is a phantom, like me. Only your painting of her will survive,” I said. “It will make you famous—rich even.” I glanced around his apartment, realizing he probably struggled to buy paints and pay the rent each month.

  “Why am I the only one who can paint you?”

  “Because we are of the circus,” I said, rubbing my arms. “It is magic, Émile. True magic and not some trick of light.”

  “My mysterious Cecile.” He took my hand and led me over to the bed.

  “What did you do before you painted?” I asked, changing the subject.

  He sat down on the bed heavily. “I was in the war and then I came back and worked in a building, the Sacré-Coeur. After that had finished, I worked at the factory painting cars.”

  Our legs touched, and I felt the heat of him. When he kissed me, I tasted cognac on his breath.

  “In the morning will you disappear?”

  “Non.” My hand touched his lightly.

  “Promise?” He slid on top of me and his kisses were erratic, frantic, both short and long, like he would devour me if he could. I unbuttoned his shirt and felt the beads of sweat on his chest from the sweltering apartment. He pulled me up and unfastened my dress. It pooled around my feet. I unbuttoned his trousers and slipped my hands between his shirt and shoulders and let the shirt fall into a pile next to my dress; then I returned to his trousers, which he had already begun to lower. We spun against the wall next to the open window and the breeze hit me. I didn’t tell him as he entered me that I had not done this before with anyone, but his face changed when he realized there had been no one before him. As he moved, I also saw the realization alter him. He took my face in his hands and kissed me until he came with rough, erratic thrusts. When we were done, our sweat combined and we were dripping.

  “You are not like the other girls I have known.” He caught his breath so this came out in short bursts, so much so that I struggled to hear him.

  I was not sure what this meant, nor was I sure that I wanted to be reminded of other girls he has known.

  The church bells clanged and reminded us that, outside, life would start again soon.

  “We could go to Jardin du Luxembourg today. I could paint you.”

  I frowned.

  “I know.” He looked down. “But I could change a detail so it wouldn’t be you exactly. It would stay; I know it would.”

  “I need to get back to the circus.” I met his eyes and saw they were hungry for more. I scrambled, gathering my clothes. His shirt was open as I left, and I looked back at him with such longing. Realizing now how light my life was before him—how easily I moved through each arrondissement in Paris with Esmé and Sylvie each weekend, drinking champagne with socialites, musicians, and writers until we caught the door at Le Cirque Secret. But now it is as though I have caught an illness that will addle my brain and weigh on my heart until it bursts.

  It is sad that in this moment of what should be carnal joy, I am aware that we are already doomed.

&n
bsp; Paris

  July 3, 2005

  You should have called me,” said Gaston, first adjusting his sunglasses, then his cane chair, his hair still wet from the shower. “You have no idea who might have been lurking in the hallways. Audrey would kill me if something happened to you.”

  Lara smiled; that was definitely the reason he was in such a panic. She took a first sip of her cappuccino. “I’m sure you got a bunch of safety instructions for me before you left.”

  He rolled his eyes and sipped his espresso but didn’t disagree.

  “Ha.” She pointed her finger at him. “I knew it.”

  Gaston made a face as he watched the morning commuters rush past dressed in their sneakers and business clothes. “Let’s just say if anything happened to you, I would not be going back to Kerrigan Falls, so please help me to go home again. Just stay with Barrow and me today so we know you will be safe.”

  “I agree.” Barrow’s spoon clinked against the porcelain cappuccino cup.

  The three of them were seated outside the café at Métro Quatre Septembre, named for the day the Third Republic was announced upon the death of Napoleon III. The trio faced Rue Réaumur. Although it was only ten, Gaston was alternating between a glass of champagne and his second cup of espresso. As she recounted the story of her day, both men were speechless.