Madame Picasso

“Good, then, so you are open to a new suitor. Because we generally bring friends, and Monsieur Picasso and I have been trying for ages to set up our friend, Guillaume Apollinaire, who has recently separated from his lover. He would like you, you’re just his type. He’s something of a noted poet. You may have heard of him?”

“The name sounds familiar,” she demurred, not wanting to sound like the outright fan she was, since that would set her at an obvious disadvantage.

“He’s Polish like you, so the two of you should get on like a house on fire.”

“Thank you for the invitation, Madame Picasso.”

Eva nearly choked on the title, but since they had only just met that day, it seemed the appropriate way to address her until she was invited to do otherwise. She certainly couldn’t call her Mademoiselle Olivier, after the stand she had made for Picasso. Fernande reached out of the cab and took Eva’s hand.

“Monday evening, then. It’s all settled. It will be great fun. And you must call me Fernande. All of my real friends do. I shall leave two tickets for you at the door and there will be someone to see you to our seats. Perhaps we can all go for a drink afterward.”

“I look forward to it,” Eva forced herself to say while she smiled as sweetly as she could. But her anticipation of the Circus Medrano was for very different reasons than Fernande ever could have thought. She looked forward to it only so that she could see Picasso again, and confront him.

* * *

“Believe me, Fernande Olivier cares far more for the title than the man. They have grown apart. She is already married, you know, so she can never truly be Madame Picasso, but that doesn’t stop her from going about posing as if she were.”

Mistinguett spoke the revelation in a low gossipy tone. It was an hour before the Friday night show and they were in the dressing room. Mistinguett stood, statuesque, wearing Eva’s yellow kimono for a fitting, the garment melting across her distinctive curves. Her hair was done up under a black wig, and her face was powdered and painted white, her lips made red, in a cliché imitation of a geisha. She was going to try out the new number tonight in the first act.

Something was missing however from the kimono. It lacked the dramatic flare it needed to compete with the other glittery costumes. But what? Eva silently inspected her beloved garment as she stood facing the star. She assessed the hem, and then the long, bell-shaped sleeves, remembering the small sachet of her father’s pipe tobacco that she had sewn inside the cuff. She felt the familiar guilty tug at her heart.

But then she knew.

She went to a large box of old costumes, bits and pieces in a nook behind the stage, and drew out a long strip of vermilion silk she had seen there. A moment later, she held up the glittering red fabric for Mistinguett’s approval.

“What if we cuff the sleeves and collar with something more dramatic like this? The contrasting fabric beneath the lights should make it look quite remarkable.”

Mistinguett gave a pleased smile. “That’s brilliant!”

“Thank you.” Eva nodded.

“I had no idea you were a designer.”

“Nor did I.”

“Well, you certainly are now! Let’s do it!”

Full of the heady new sensation of success, Eva dared then to change the subject. But even as she did, she was terrified to ask the question for what she feared they would discover.

“So, why is Monsieur Picasso still with Fernande if she is so contrary to his Spanish roots?”

“A great mystery in Paris, I assure you. He’s had quite a reputation for some time with the ladies. And he took up a new studio in some derelict old building in Montmartre where he used to paint when he first began. They say it’s to get away from Fernande’s demands. Personally, I bet it’s a place to take women.”

“I thought she was your friend,” Eva said, thinking that with friends like her, Fernande Olivier most certainly did not need enemies.

“With her growing new sphere of influence here in the city, because of him, I would be foolish not to be her friend,” she replied. “But there is a desperation about Fernande that is off-putting, at least to me. I think she would fight to the death over anything that mattered to her. It’s as if she’s never quite certain if she is happy or if she’s on the verge of some great tragedy.”

Eva nodded in agreement, though she didn’t really see Fernande as anything but confident and beautiful.

“And do be careful of Picasso,” Mistinguett added as she ran the slip of red silk through her fingers. “He’s broken more than a few hearts around here—pretty girls who actually thought they might have a chance against Fernande.”

“I will bear that in mind,” Eva replied in a tone that said such a thing were beyond the realm of possibility.

She took the kimono back from Mistinguett then and began carefully taking apart the cuffs of the sleeves, wishing that she could take apart the love affair between Picasso and Fernande just as easily, if she were given half a chance.

* * *

Eva still longed to tell Sylvette the whole story.

She almost did a number of times as she dressed for the Circus Medrano Monday evening. She had chosen the same pale blue dress she had borrowed for the luncheon with Fernande because of how confident it made her feel, and tonight she certainly needed all of the confidence she could find.

The Moulin Rouge was closed on Mondays so this was the only opportunity to attend such an event. She knew she should be excited to have been invited, but she was also nervous about seeing Picasso again.

Louis held her arm as they approached the crowd gathered in front of the circus building. Neither one of them knew quite what to expect.

“I still don’t understand how you managed such an invitation,” he said excitedly, taking in all of the activity and the rollicking circus music spilling out from inside.

“Well, I owed you, certainly, after you took me to the exhibition. You told me that you would be pleased to meet such a celebrated young artist as Picasso, so I thought this might be fun. Everyone in Paris talks of him.”

“Of course I am pleased. I’m hoping he might be able to give me a few pointers about my own work since they say, for all of his success, he, too, had a rough go of it in the beginning.”

Eva cringed inwardly at the note of desperation in his voice. Louis had painted some beautiful watercolors but his work did not come from the place of passion Picasso’s did, and he certainly had nothing of the celebrity about him. Louis was a man who played at art. Picasso was a man who lived it.

Once Eva had given their names at the box office they were ushered inside by a young man dressed in a red-and-black harlequin costume. They passed a clown, a juggler and two girls in scanty dresses, each with huge bobbing feathers attached to their headdresses. Eva could tell from their expressions that only important guests were seated by a host.

Her heart began to race as they neared the front row. She spotted Picasso, Fernande and their group of friends prominently seated there. Suddenly she was not sure that she could go through with this. Her stomach squeezed into a tight knot and rocketed into her throat. Fernande stood, smiled broadly and waved to call them over.

“I’m so pleased you made it. I know you will love the show,” she said, embracing Eva as if they’d known each other for years, not days. “Pablo, this is Marcelle Humbert and her friend. Both of you, may I present, Pablo Picasso.”

She felt a brief spark of defiance and almost announced that they had already met, but her nerves overcame her and, beneath Picasso’s bold, dark gaze, she simply nodded.

“I’m Louis Markus,” Louis offered affably.

“And these are our dear friends, the very beautiful Germaine and her husband, Ramón Pichot, a wonderful artist himself,” she said of the attractive young couple with them. “And of course this is Guillaume Apollinaire.”

Apollinaire stood to greet them. He was exceedingly tall with a long heavy chin and sloping shoulders. Reading his poetry in Vincennes, Eva had always envisioned someone entirely more dashing and modest-sized. Still, he was a man with a likable aura and with the most wonderfully warm smile, she thought. He looked like a gentle giant.

“What an interesting beauty you possess,” Apollinaire remarked with a noticeable lisp, and she could hear the familiar Polish accent behind his words. He did not seem to remember having met her backstage at the Moulin Rouge.

“Listen to nothing he says. He is a dreadful flirt, and currently on the rebound. But of course they will reconcile—like everyone else in our little group. We are all bound together for eternity,” said the pretty young woman called Germaine as she extended her hand to Eva. Her hair was a similar shade to Fernande’s and she had the same striking green eyes. Eva thought they could have been sisters. “It’s a pleasure to meet any friend of Fernande.”

“Thank you,” Eva said. She glanced at Picasso then and saw that he was still staring at her. She was not certain what his strong gaze was telling her but she reveled in how awkward the situation must be for him, too. It was the only power she wielded over him and she wanted desperately to enjoy it. Was that not what a worldly woman did in a situation like this?

“Oh, it’s starting! Monsieur Markus, come sit beside me. Pablo loves to chatter on about all of the acts, and I, of course, have heard it all before,” Fernande instructed as if she were directing servants at a dinner party. “I’m told you’re a painter. Louis Markus, hmm. Did you ever consider changing your name? If you’re going to be a great artist in Paris, you really should be called something far more grand and memorable.”

Eva heard him chuckle since he had changed it once already. Louis Markus had been a vast improvement by Parisian standards. “Have you anything in mind?”

“Not yet, but I will,” Fernande announced.