Montparnasse. Thierry Sagnier

in the retelling of gauche moments. However, she was a wedded woman now. Did the same freedoms of expression—even in private—still hold sway?

      *****

      I prepared as best as I could for this event, minding the endless discussions with Charlotte and Enid. I wonder now if my two best friends lied to me. More likely, they claimed experiences they’ve never had. Also (and I make this confession for the first time), I did read excerpts from The Pearl. Charlotte gave me a tattered copy filched from her brother’s room. I found some parts of it mildly arousing and did harbor a measure of curiosity about the act.

      I was ready for a certain amount of pain and discomfort, but never could I have imagined that my future husband was (I strive to put it delicately) so endowed. To be honest, I might have suspected this, that afternoon on the lake when we were caught in a horrendous downpour and both soaked to the skin. Frederick’s bathing costume quite clung to him, and I remember thinking he must have something secreted in a front pocket, his wallet or perhaps a set of keys kept in a clever holder. This would explain the unaccountable bulge... but I am getting ahead of myself.

      First, the setting: Frederick rented the bridal suite at the Ponchartrain. It had a large bedroom, a bathroom, and a small dressing room, all appointed with dark, polished furniture, damask upholstery and too many mirrors. The rooms bore a faint aroma of cigar smoke, which made me wonder whether smoking cigars might be part of the rites and, if so, whether it was done before or after the act.

      There were several garish bouquets of silk roses in vases around the room, and the wedding gifts were piled in a far corner. Frederick tipped the bellboy (the man winked and made a thumbs-up gesture, which was uncalled for), then locked himself in the bathroom. I changed into my new peignoir and got into bed with minor trepidation. My main concern was to fulfill his expectations; I was very much in love with Frederick that night.

      *****

      Easter nibbled on the end of her pen. All her writing tools had teeth marks, even the expensive ones. After a moment’s thought, she bent back over the page.

      *****

      I heard the water running in the bathroom, and soon Frederick returned, freshly shaven and smelling of cognac. He wore silk pajamas beneath the same bathrobe I saw hanging in his apartment the one time I visited there. We had embraced that night and he had touched my breasts—but only for a moment. He extinguished the light, entered the bed and rolled on top of me, squeezing the very breath from my lungs. He fumbled for my buttocks, ran his hand across them a time or two as if squeezing the stuffing of a chair, all the while gasping into my ear. I could feel his manhood prodding my stomach. It was insistent, like an ill-mannered dog yapping at a door to get in. I found this rude and so kept my legs tightly closed. He tried to kiss me, breathing alcoholic vapors up my nose, and I went quickly from dismayed to disgusted. I don’t think he noticed any of this; the lights were off and the entire episode occurred in silence, save for here and there a grunt as Frederick tried to lodge himself.

      In the end he managed it, but only after I pushed him off, went to the bathroom, and applied a liberal amount of Miss Nelly’s Smoothing Skin Cream to the place he so desperately sought. The cream was recommended by Enid, and in this, at least, she was right. It eased the pain somewhat, but not enough that I would want to repeat the act too often in future.

      At least it was not dreadfully bloody. I have read that in Sicily, the mother-in-law of a new bride proudly displays the soiled wedding sheets for all to see, and that the greater the stain, the deeper the respect for the groom!

      It did hurt a bit, but not as badly as I was led to expect. What I was not ready for, as I mentioned earlier, was the sheer size of Frederick’s appendage! I felt stretched. I imagined a large and dumb animal attempting to enter a small burrow. I suppose that birthing a child will create even greater distention. This does not give me encouraging thoughts of motherhood.

      The episode lasted a minute or two. Frederick ejaculated (another new word from Enid) or at least I believe he did, withdrew, attempted once again to kiss me (by then I had buried my face into the pillow), then rolled over and went to sleep. I did not.

      Is this really how the human race pursues its lineage? Where was the pleasure, the ecstasy described at such great length in The Pearl? Let me say that I, for one, can only hope science will discover a way to ensure future generations without the performance of this unseemly deed.

      Now, I fear Frederick is getting randy again. Luckily, he seems to know that in my sorry state, his advances annoy me. I suppose that once we reach Paris, I shall have to make it up to him. That is what a good wife would do.

      Paris! We shall soon be in Paris! Life magazine called it the very center of today’s artistic expression. Enid, who spent a Parisian summer with her family, told me that the morals there are loose. She spoke of sneaking away while her parents were at the theater, taking a cab to Montparnasse, and eating with artists and writers and such at the Café de Versailles. She says she met Pablo Picasso, the young Spaniard who is causing quite a furor, and that he tried to pinch her bottom. I don’t believe her—she does have a tendency to overstate—and I understand from reading the European magazines that Mr. Picasso is now happily married after a tragic love affair that saw his first soulmate die. I have seen a photograph of the woman he wed, Olga Koklova, and she is far more attractive than Enid.

      I am as excited as a child in a toy store! I have wanted to go to Paris ever since I was small and Mama took me to the museum where we saw an exhibit of the works of Mr. Matisse (or should I say Monsieur Matisse?). As we returned home, I forced Mama to stop at Kresge’s, and we bought heavy paper and a box of colored pencils. That was more than a decade ago, and I haven’t stopped sketching and painting since.

      Frederick sees this “hobby” of mine as charming, not realizing the depth of my commitment. I tried to explain it to him, but could tell from the glazed look in his eyes that his interest in the arts is, at best, cursory. He does admire some watercolors I did of the lake, and had two of them framed. I thought this quite sweet, but in retrospect I also remember that he did this after we had a fight, so it may have been nothing more than an act of apology. I assume his tastes will run to the cabarets I have read about, where women (some of them Negro Americans) dance in various stages of undress. I will tolerate his attending such garish places if, in turn, I have my way.

      I expect that by day we will seek out the artists’ lairs; by night he can, within reason, do what he wants.

      Eight more days before we reach Le Havre, and a brief train ride from there to Paris! I cannot wait to step upon solid ground again!

      *****

      She put the pen down, blotted the ink, quickly reread what she had written and closed her notebook, then went to the minuscule bathroom to rinse her face with cold water before returning to her bunk. Moments later Frederick returned, slightly disheveled, slightly drunk. He gave her a wan smile, lurched into the bathroom and latched the door. He was in there a long time.

      Chapter 3

      There were times when Landru opened his eyes early in the morning having forgotten who he was. He didn’t like the feeling; it implied a weakness easily exploited, so he would lie in the bed and rediscover himself by staring at the woman sleeping close by. Was it his wife of 18 years? His most recent lover? The latest war widow from the personal advertisement in Le Matin? It was easier if there was no woman, no middle-aged Dômestic with folds of pale skin beneath her chin and a government pension. Then he could choose who he was that day.

      He had worn so many names. His life had been a series of small crimes marred by unforeseen evidence and followed by arrest, prosecution and sentence, parole and release. Then, a new name and a new identity. He was a failed criminal, what the gendarmes called a petit forban, rarely showing a profit from his schemes. If there was money, it sifted through his fingers, apportioned to his wife and four children, to his mistress of the moment, to planning the next doubtful adventure. He considered himself an exemplary father and a doting husband. His own father, an honest provider, had been so ashamed of his son’s endless skirmishes with the law that one somber day in October 1913 he had hanged himself in the Bois de Boulogne.

      Henri