Montparnasse. Thierry Sagnier

up and delivered, brewed a perfect cup of coffee, screened the rare calls he received, and made sure his personal bills and rent were paid promptly. He took her to lunch twice a year and saw to it that her salary was above the norm of the company’s other women employees.

      Twice a week he played cards with male friends and once a month, with these same friends, he ate dinner at the same restaurant and visited a nightspot, usually one where there was music and dancing. He danced with the girls and on three different occasions, when they were willing, he’d bedded them quickly in hotels. He always left a small tip in an envelope as his friends had told him this was the proper thing to do after an encounter with a working girl. “They appreciate the hell out of it,” one had said. “And if you ever want to have a second round, they’re a lot more receptive.”

      Only one time had he seen the same girl twice and the second evening had ended early with a rapid and unhappy coupling at the apartment she shared with two others from the steno pool. Lying in her narrow bed was unsettling, and though he promised to be in touch the next day, he avoided for months returning to the club where they’d met.

      One colleague, Jack Corrigan—the one with the dirty comic strip—was married and said it was the best of both worlds. “I get some at home—two, three times a night if I feel like it, any time of the week except Sunday—and I get some away from home whenever I want, and no one’s the wiser.” This seemed to be Corrigan’s obsession and only topic of conversation. Truthfully, Frederick had never liked Corrigan at all, and found him a bore and a boor. In fact, he rarely enjoyed the twice-weekly gatherings. He went because young men of his age and social position did that. He had never bothered to ponder the lives of his companions, to inquire about their inner workings or their ideas, their families, their daily existences. He didn’t know their middle names, where they lived, what they thought on most basic issues. The group seldom discussed anything more momentous than the latest baseball score or a recently opened show. When Frederick, on a few occasions, tried to turn the conversation to more consequential things, the group as one stared at him blankly, save for Corrigan who’d called him “our intellectual.” They hadn’t even given him a decent bachelor gift—instead anted up to purchase an illustrated marriage manual translated from the Japanese—and had roared at his discomfiture when he’d opened the package. He’d stashed the gift in a box full of old college clothes, and had not shown it to anyone.

      Frederick wondered whether he might be a prude when it came to his wife. Were the marriage vows an entitlement for Easter to act as she did, so wantonly out of character? Perhaps this was where marital passion led, or perhaps there was something wrong with Easter. She might not be as well-balanced as it had appeared. Perhaps the recent loss of both her parents to influenza had deeply unsettled her.

      Perhaps she was insane.

      The idea hit him with such force that he sat up in his bunk. Much as he tried to dispel the notion, he began to categorize her actions, placing them in a harsh and demanding light. The thoughts cascaded; thoughts of her use of color and shapes in her paintings, colors that had nothing to do with reality—red skies, purple waters—of the elongated faces that looked like African masks. He thought of her manner of speech, how she addressed everyone in such a friendly way—was there more there than met the ear? What of how she dressed sometimes, with little care for current fashions? She showed a complete lack of interest in all things that should interest women: social events, gossip, magazine recipes. She had told him early on that she couldn’t cook and would probably never learn. At the time, it had seemed a charming admission and he’d not given it a moment’s reflection. Now that simple deficiency was foreboding. She kept a secret diary, claiming every woman was entitled to private convictions. The journal had irked him in the past but now took on darker significance. She refused to be called Catherine, but instead insisted on using her middle name, Easter, and again Frederick had thought this irresistible at first, another beguiling singularity. Was Easter really a name? That had been his mother’s first question, for which he’d had no ready answer at the time. Why would a rational woman want to be called Easter?

      What would she be like in Paris, where morals were worn like loose-fitting robes?

      A few weeks before his marriage, Frederick had begun perusing the European edition of the Chicago Tribune with a mind to becoming familiar with events overseas and impressing his wife-to-be. He’d read about Paris, about the models who shed their clothes for a pittance and offered God knew what favors for a franc or two. There had been a breathless report by a special correspondent (the footnote identified the author as a well-known Christian painter from the Midwest; Frederick did not recognize the name) about an artists’ benefit soirée—orgy might be a more appropriate word—held in Montparnasse. Young women (some no older than 16) had bared their breasts in a contest to see who would be crowned la plus belle poitrine de Paris. Hundreds of nymphs and nymphets had paraded semi-naked before a horde of drunken mustachioed men who clamored their assents or whistled their disapproval. He suddenly saw Easter’s breasts in such a contest, smelled the unwashed artists’ garlicky breath, and witnessed grubby hands reaching for her flesh.

      He shook his head, rubbed his temples with two forefingers, rose from his bunk, threw a glance at his sleeping wife, and rearranged the covers where they had fallen from her feet.

      The list of shortcomings grew.

      He recalled Easter, bare-legged, insisting they have dinner together in an Irish bar where she was the only female, and telling a risqué story about a woman friend’s involvement with a music hall performer. Indeed, her friends seemed inappropriate. One, Enid, had ground her hips suggestively against every man she’d danced with at the wedding party, then, deliriously drunk, had done an obscene shimmying gyration as Easter clapped delightedly.

      Frederick checked his watch; it was 1:30 in the morning. He dressed quietly, made his way to the bar and ordered a straight gin and lime with ice. Three men sipped their drinks at a nearby table. Toward the rear of the small room, he spotted the French physician who raised his glass and beckoned. Frederick returned the toast, decided to join the man and perhaps, indirectly, lead the conversation to Easter’s bizarre behavior.

      In the end they spoke about the weather.

      Chapter 5

      In her dreams, Easter spoke French. She purchased quaint items in quaint shops, ordered exotic dishes at restaurants, conversed with people she met on the streets who assumed she was Parisian. In her dreams, her French was flawless. In her waking hours, she recited the phrases taught her by Mademoiselle Yvonne Février, the seamstress of her wedding dress. Mademoiselle, only in America two years, had an amusing accent, both guttural and sibilant, but was an excellent instructress.

      Mademoiselle had lived in Paris prior to immigrating to Chicago, and, though only in her mid-20s, could lay claim to making acquaintances with Scandinavian novelists and poets, attending artists’ bals costumés, and (this she only whispered) having an affair with a married man who arranged for her apprenticeship in a popular maison de couture. She mentioned artists who asked her to model, and why she had not done so—her hips and waist were not correctly proportioned, she said. Easter did not know if all these tales were true, but it didn’t matter. Mademoiselle Février had supplied her young American friend with several names to look up once the couple got to Paris.

      *****

      Aboard La Savoie, Tuesday, April 8, 1919

      Only six more days. The storm is past. I am still queasy and rarely venture from our cabin. Frederick says I should be feeling better. He has had the good grace to not refer to that night.

      I have no explanation for it. Some unholy spirit took me, discarded my common sense and good upbringing, and substituted instead the soul of a harlot, for that is how I behaved with Frederick. I used words that never before crossed my tongue, employed my body in ways never even contemplated. Those realities make me blush.

      I wonder what Frederick thinks? I don’t know how deeply I shock him. I know he has had some experiences, but I am certain he never thought his wife capable of such ardor. We almost fell off the bunk twice!

      *****

      Easter tried to suppress a smile, then laughed. Her