Montparnasse. Thierry Sagnier

colorful posters and several portraits of a young woman. When I asked him, he admitted the paintings were his, and that the girl in question was a local model by the name of Kiki, but that he had painted them from memory. I sensed some embarrassment.

      He mentioned in passing that he has a brother, Daniel, who is among the missing.

      He offered me tea and cakes, and we then spoke for some time about the people whom I had read about in Chicago. He knows Modigliani!!!

      I could not hide my exaltation, and he found this amusing.

      “Tell me,” he asked, “is Modi that well-known in the U.S.? I would have thought people there worshipped the Fauves, like Matisse or Dufy. Surely Americans are still enamored of wild colors and daring landscapes.”

      How embarrassing! I did not know who the Fauves or Dufy were. I’ve since found out. Dufy is a watercolorist. He illustrated some poetry books and became quite famous. The Fauves—it means “The Wild Animals”—are members of an artists’ movement launched by Henri Matisse that is seeking to change the very concepts of what art is. At the time, however, I had to admit my ignorance.

      Mr. Johnson—I shall call him James from now on, at his request—smiled at my lack of knowledge, and I might have been offended save that, for a moment, the sadness left his eyes. He is really quite handsome, but here is the exciting thing: he has promised to introduce me to Modigliani. He made the offer without prompting, as if he performed such services daily for American visitors, which, for all I know, he may.

      Frederick did not accompany me on my visit. I hope James did not think it forward of me to come alone. The truth is that Frederick would have been bored and fidgety. Talk of culture fatigues him, and judging from his enjoyment of last night’s performance, he is more at home in a popular music hall than in an artist’s studio.

      Tonight at dinner, I will broach the subject of lengthening our stay. James mentioned several inexpensive furnished apartments in his Montparnasse neighborhood, including two in his building. He also said he would gladly approach the concierge if I were interested in securing one. I told him I had not yet spoken to my husband and he winked at me, as if we shared a secret, which I suppose we do.

      *****

      Easter blotted the entry, drank the last of her now-tepid tea and left some change on the tray. She returned to her room and undressed quietly in the dark, slipped into her nightgown and got into bed. Frederick was sleeping on his back, mouth ajar, snoring very lightly. She thought for a moment of waking him, but then reconsidered. He might want to seduce her. Was that the right word? Seduce? Probably not. She kissed him on the cheek and he didn’t stir. She turned on her side and in moments was asleep.

      Chapter 12

      And why, Frederick wondered, did the man at the hotel suggest that particular show? Granted, it had been great fun, a splendid tale to tell the boys back home, but not what he’d had in mind.

      The subterfuge was obvious; those were men on the stage. It was evident to him and should have been to anyone, Easter included. She’d been shocked, or at least feigned her disapproval, and that had surprised him. Wasn’t it obvious that the singers’ falsettos were strained, that the legs were too stout, the hands too large? It seemed to him that everyone in the audience, save his bride, had recognized the buffoonery for what it was.

      In fact, it was exactly the same sort of merriment he and his fraternity brothers had put on one year during the spring semester; excerpts from Romeo and Juliet with an all-male cast. The seniors cajoled him into playing Juliet; he hadn’t wanted to, had done his best to overplay the female lead and to make her farcical, and been cheered for it. He had liked it. By the end of the skit, he understood how Juliet felt, had developed feelings for Romeo (played by a burly junior who forgot half the lines), and had relished the attention and ribald comments of the others who, after the performance, drunkenly pinched his rear and squeezed his padded breasts. He’d maintained the Juliet persona the entire evening, and the next day had felt a void as he put on his trousers, tie and blazer.

      He dressed carefully for dinner. Tonight there would be an opera, something unobjectionable by Massenet; Le Cid, Easter had said. It would be in French, of course.

      “Large costumed women bellowing their problems to a hushed crowd leave me cold,” he told Easter. “I’ve never quite understood the attraction.”

      “It’s an adventure story. You’ll like it.” She reached into her purse, brought out a small wrapped package. “Here, wear these. I purchased them today, and you’ll look devastatingly handsome.”

      He stripped the paper wrapping and opened a small leather box. Four gold studs and a matching pair of cufflinks glinted within. He took them out and fitted them to his shirt.

      “You shouldn’t have, darling. They look expensive.”

      Easter shook her head. “They weren’t. Don’t be offended, but they’re secondhand. I bought them in a shop that sells estate items and got quite a bargain. I think the shop owner had weak spot for American ladies.” She adjusted his shirtfront, stepped back to inspect him. “Handsome and dashing. They fit you.”

      She went into the bathroom, fussed with her hair. “And anyway, I know how we can save a great deal of money. It’s just an idea; we can talk about it over dinner. I’ve reserved a table at La Tour d’Or. It’s reputed to be quite good.” He had suggested she choose a place, still feeling some culpability for the preceding night’s spectacle.

      He nodded, took her in his arms. “And after dinner,” he said, “we’ll go somewhere special. La Rotonde. Bechtel‘s Guide to Paris says this is where all the artists meet.”

      She smiled, pondered the offer. “Then I shall have to wear a hat. I’ve heard it is gauche to enter La Rotonde bareheaded.”

      They took a taxi, a black Citroën driven by an older man who whipped the automobile around the Place de la Concorde and pounded his klaxon horn with abandon. A large tan and white dog was asleep on the seat beside him. The man drove with one hand, using the other to stroke the animal’s flank. “Mon meilleur ami. A man’s best friend, you say in England.”

      Frederick, not partial to dogs, nodded. “America, actually. And there, we seldom hire them as copilots.” It seemed dangerous. “That’s something I can’t get used to in this country,” he added to Easter. “You have to be exceedingly careful of where you step. Dogs everywhere.”

      Easter shrugged. “It doesn’t bother me. In fact, I think it’s rather sweet.” She liked animals, had been raised with puppies and kittens. It surprised her—but not much—that Frederick didn’t.

      “Did you know,” she continued, “that there were 29 million dogs and cats before the war, and now fewer than 2 million are left?”

      The driver threw a glance over his shoulder. “People eated them. No food during the war. People eat dogs, cats, rats sometimes. People eat animals in zoo. Elephants and giraffes, monkeys, everything.”

      Frederick made a face. “That may explain some of the more esoteric items on the menus. I’m certain I saw one dish that said cheval, and that means horse. Horse steak.”

      Easter wasn’t amused. “That’s dreadful.”

      “It better than rat,” the driver muttered.

      Easter leaned forward, “You’ve eaten horsemeat?”

      The driver nodded. “Oh yes. Not bad. A little hard, yes? My wife fixes. In soup.”

      The rest of the ride was silent. Easter made sure Frederick tipped generously.

      Le Cid bored them both. Frederick dozed during the final act and Easter fidgeted. They were among the first spectators out of their seats.

      “I think the term ‘portentous’ applies to this music; excuse me for taking the opportunity to catch up on my sleep,” Frederick said. “Did I miss anything?”

      Easter shook her head, arranged her hat properly. “No. But