Luncheon of the Boating Party by Susan Vreeland Page B

barked.
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    S u s a n V r e e l a n d
    Paul dug into his pocket and smacked a ten-franc coin into the inspector’s hand. “Now lay off the poor girl. She busted her corset stays on that one and now she has to go out and buy more.”
    Laughter exploded from the audience again.
    “Bravo, Paul!” shouted a blond at a front table. “Aren’t you a prince!”
    Paul squinted to see who she was and a burly man sitting next to her sprang up and climbed over other people to grab Paul by the lapels. He fought to free himself, but the man got him in an armlock behind his back and pushed him out the door. Auguste followed, shouting, “Lay off him!”
    The man slammed Paul against the building, nose first. “Stay out of my sight, you bastard.”
    Auguste tried to pull him away, but the man shook him off, and
    said, “Butt out. This isn’t your affair.”
    Paul turned to get away and the man grabbed him by his coat and slammed him against the wall again. “Stay away from Gabrielle, or something worse will happen.” He stormed back inside.
    “Jesus Christ, Paul. What was that about?”
    “Don’t take a step! Do you see my glasses?”
    Auguste picked them up and they hurried away. “A wonder
    they’re not broken. Are you going to tell me, or do I have to fight you to fi nd out?
    Paul rubbed the back of his neck. “He thinks I’m after his tart.”
    “Are you?”
    “No. She just uses me to make him jealous. Let’s get out of here.”
    “So he roughs you up whenever he sees you?”
    “I don’t want to talk about it. Where are we going next?”
    They walked to the corner before Auguste said, “There’s one more place Angèle might be, but it’s a climb. Cabaret des Assassins.”
    Paul groaned. It was nearly on top of the Butte. “Nice name.”
    Before leaving Montmartre d’en bas, Paul wanted to stop for a brandy at Brasserie Liberté, one of the cafés that had ignited the Commune.
    The place reeked of cigarette smoke and sauerkraut. Only steady, sod-den, near-silent tippling here, elbows on black-lacquered tables, wait-
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    resses sitting and drinking with the clientele. It was little more than a dramshop selling petits verres of brandy and rum.
    “How about that one?” Paul tipped his head sideways to a woman
    alone.
    “Good God, no. She looks like she’s thinking.”
    He was glad Angèle wasn’t here. He had found Margot drunk here
    with some rogues when he had gone looking for her because she didn’t show up on time to model. He didn’t want to relive that with Angèle.
    Paul was absorbed in his own thoughts while they climbed to Montmartre d’en haut, and Auguste was too, wondering why Margot had drunk herself into a stupor so many times when she’d known he was waiting for her with a half-finished canvas. Why had she purposely disappeared whenever he needed her most? The complexities of love baf-fl ed him. He had known she wasn’t dependable, but he’d kept asking her to pose anyway.
    So many things about her he didn’t know, yet they had been lovers for three years. He hadn’t thought to ask why she was attracted to dis-reputable men, or whether her family was still living, or what was on her mind when she was posing. He hadn’t asked her if her soul was at ease with God, but wouldn’t asking that have been selfish? He would have wanted a yes answer so he could be at ease. Maybe that was the highest form of love, one soul easing another. But it wasn’t him. He wasn’t sure if it ever could be him. Yet even now he wanted that from her.
    He knew even less about Lise, his first love, so shy he’d had to coax her to model nude. He remembered less about her too, though he should remember more. Seven years with her, and a child, maybe his, maybe not, probably ten years old by now. Then she married well and stopped modeling, and he’d lost track of her. After Lise, there had been Nini and Henriette and Anna. And the earlier