Luncheon of the Boating Party by Susan Vreeland Page A

money. It makes Madame Tanguy happy, my colorman’s wife, this constant need for new palettes.”
    “Are you tempted to offer yours?”
    “And be labeled a tinhorn?”
    While they were walking the periphery looking for Angèle, Thérèsa, still popular after fifteen years on the cabaret circuit, took the stage with a flourish and opened her large red mouth to sing, “J’ai tué mon capi-taine,” accompanied by lewd gestures. Out poured the coarsest female voice he had ever heard, but after the refrain, her voice slid into something as delicate and tender as a choir of wood nymphs.
    “Just when I think I’m getting too old for Montmartre, she sweetens a middle-aged man’s fancy,” Auguste said.
    “Then why not her instead of Angèle?”
    “That old cockroach?”
    Paul guffawed. “Is Angèle here?”
    “No luck. Onward.”
    “I want a drink,” Paul said.
    “Outside the octroi. ”
    They headed toward boulevard Rochechouart, which marked the
    old city walls and tax district. Beyond it, establishments were permitted to charge less for wine. These days the octroi was taken over by street-walkers and hôtels de passe where cheap rooms were rented by the hour.
    One in flounced violet sidled up to them, but they ducked into the closest doorway, La Roche, a shabby café where La Macarona, a belly dancer from Algiers, was jiggling everything that would jiggle. An odd four-some was playing dominoes within spitting distance of her. Père Léonard, a violinist; Dupray, the military painter; the editor Lemoine; and a knacker from a slaughterhouse in La Villette, a notoriously clever man, hunched over their games, oblivious to the dancing.
    “Perverse powers of concentration, those fellows,” Paul said, taking down some notes, his face close to the page.
    “She’s not here.” He thumped Paul on the chest. “You got an eyeful?”
    • 68 •
    L u n c h e o n o f t h e B o a t i n g P a r t y
    “Aw.” Paul put on an exaggerated pout.
    In front of Auberge d’Audace, Paul said, “You go in. I’ll stay out here.” He moved away from the light of the gas lamp.
    “Why?”
    “Someone I don’t want to see might be in there.”
    “How do you know?”
    “He’s a habitué. You go in, but come back quickly.”
    It was Paul’s own business, but Auguste was concerned. Inside, a shadow theater was being performed. He had to wait until the lamps flickered and brightened. When he didn’t find her, he hurried out.
    Near Cirque Fernando, Offenbach’s La Vie Parisienne poured out of Cabaret Elysée-Montmartre. The chorus line of dancers onstage was doing a wild cancan, hopping, knees up to their chins, kicking, fl inging up their skirts to show white ruffles and black stockings.
    “How about one of them?” Paul asked.
    “I told you. I don’t want anyone I can’t imagine loving.”
    Shouts from the audience urged the dancers to kick higher and show more skin. The dancers shouted back, working up to a frenzy of kicking, pivoting in one-legged hops while holding their ankles above their shoulders, impossibly straight-legged, falling in exact formation into the splits, to a thunderous roar from the audience.
    “ ‘Bread! Bread!’ they demanded a century ago. ‘Spectacles and hussies’
    is what they cry today,” Paul said in an overloud voice. Heads turned.
    The police inspector Père la Pudeur leapt onto the low stage and fi ned two dancers for revealing too much underwear. The crowd jeered.
    “Père le Prude,” Auguste said.
    “A fine job you have, Monsieur le Prude,” Paul shouted, “being
    forced to look at that indecency.”
    Everyone laughed, including the chorus line. One of the dancers who was fined tossed the inspector a ten-franc coin that had been heating up between her breasts. “Let that burn your pocket,” she bellowed.
    The other protested that she had no money. “Please let it pass this time, monsieur. I’ll be more careful.”
    “You should have been more careful this time,” the inspector