Madame Picasso. Anne Girard

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 me, Fernande Olivier cares far more for the title than the man. They have grown apart. She is already married, you know, so she can never truly be Madame Picasso, but that doesn’t stop her from going about posing as if she were.”

      Mistinguett spoke the revelation in a low gossipy tone. It was an hour before the Friday night show and they were in the dressing room. Mistinguett stood, statuesque, wearing Eva’s yellow kimono for a fitting, the garment melting across her distinctive curves. Her hair was done up under a black wig, and her face was powdered and painted white, her lips made red, in a cliché imitation of a geisha. She was going to try out the new number tonight in the first act.

      Something was missing however from the kimono. It lacked the dramatic flare it needed to compete with the other glittery costumes. But what? Eva silently inspected her beloved garment as she stood facing the star. She assessed the hem, and then the long, bell-shaped sleeves, remembering the small sachet of her father’s pipe tobacco that she had sewn inside the cuff. She felt the familiar guilty tug at her heart.

      But then she knew.

      She went to a large box of old costumes, bits and pieces in a nook behind the stage, and drew out a long strip of vermilion silk she had seen there. A moment later, she held up the glittering red fabric for Mistinguett’s approval.

      “What if we cuff the sleeves and collar with something more dramatic like this? The contrasting fabric beneath the lights should make it look quite remarkable.”

      Mistinguett gave a pleased smile. “That’s brilliant!”

      “Thank you.” Eva nodded.

      “I had no idea you were a designer.”

      “Nor did I.”

      “Well, you certainly are now! Let’s do it!”

      Full of the heady new sensation of success, Eva dared then to change the subject. But even as she did, she was terrified to ask the question for what she feared they would discover.

      “So, why is Monsieur Picasso still with Fernande if she is so contrary to his Spanish roots?”

      “A great mystery in Paris, I assure you. He’s had quite a reputation for some time with the ladies. And he took up a new studio in some derelict old building in Montmartre where he used to paint when he first began. They say it’s to get away from Fernande’s demands. Personally, I bet it’s a place to take women.”

      “I thought she was your friend,” Eva said, thinking that with friends like her, Fernande Olivier most certainly did not need enemies.

      “With her growing new sphere of influence here in the city, because of him, I would be foolish not to be her friend,” she replied. “But there is a desperation about Fernande that is off-putting, at least to me. I think she would fight to the death over anything that mattered to her. It’s as if she’s never quite certain if she is happy or if she’s on the verge of some great tragedy.”

      Eva nodded in agreement, though she didn’t really see Fernande as anything but confident and beautiful.

      “And do be careful of Picasso,” Mistinguett added as she ran the slip of red silk through her fingers. “He’s broken more than a few hearts around here—pretty girls who actually thought they might have a chance against Fernande.”

      “I will bear that in mind,” Eva replied in a tone that said such a thing were beyond the realm of possibility.

      She took the kimono back from Mistinguett then and began carefully taking apart the cuffs of the sleeves, wishing that she could take apart the love affair between Picasso and Fernande just as easily, if she were given half a chance.

      * * *

      Eva still longed to tell Sylvette the whole story.

      She almost did a number of times as she dressed for the Circus Medrano Monday evening. She had chosen the same pale blue dress she had borrowed for the luncheon with Fernande because of how confident it made her feel, and tonight she certainly needed all of the confidence she could find.

      The Moulin Rouge was closed