Page 102 of The Seven Sisters
‘You like stars?’ Laurent ventured, although he had long ago accepted he would never receive a reply.
The boy gave a short smile and nodded.
‘There is the belt of Orion.’ Laurent pointed to it. ‘And close by are The Seven Sisters in a cluster together. With their parents, Atlas and Pleione, watching over them.’
Laurent saw the boy was following his finger and listening intently. ‘My father was interested in astronomy, and kept a telescope in one of the attic rooms on the top floor of our chateau. Sometimes, he would take it up to the roof on clear nights and teach me about the stars. I once saw a shooting star, and thought it the most magical thing I had ever seen.’ He looked at the young boy. ‘Do you have parents?’
The boy pretended not to hear him, and simply continued to gaze upwards.
‘Ah well, I must be going.’ He patted the boy on the head. ‘Goodnight.’
Laurent managed to hitch a lift on the back of a motorcycle for part of the journey back to Montparnasse. When he arrived in his attic room, he saw a shape huddled in his bed. Another body lay asleep on a mattress on the floor. This wasn’t unusual, especially as these days he so often stayed at Landowski’satelier.
Normally, he would leave the sleeper alone for a few hours longer while he joined his friends in the bars of Montparnasse, returning later to remove the body from his bed and climb into it himself. But tonight he felt unusually tired and not in the mood for socialising.
In fact, his generaljoie de vivreseemed to have deserted him completely since the moment Izabela Bonifacio boarded her ship back to Brazil.
Even Landowski had noticed that he was quieter than usual and had commented on it.
‘Are you sick, Brouilly? Or perhaps pining?’ he’d asked him with a knowing glint in his eye.
‘Neither,’ Laurent had replied defensively.
‘Well, whichever kind of sickness it is, remember that these things always pass.’
Laurent had taken comfort from Landowski’s perceptive and sympathetic words. Often he thought the professor lived so much in his own world he hardly noticed Laurent’s presence, let alone his mood. Currently, he felt as though someone had gouged his heart out and then trampled it underfoot for good measure.
Walking towards his bed he shook the body in it, but the man simply groaned, opened his mouth and let out a whistle of stale alcohol before rolling over. Laurent knew there’d be no rousing him, so with a heavy sigh, he decided to give him a couple of further hours to sleep off his drunkenness while he went in search of supper.
The narrow streets of Montparnasse were as vibrant as usual, with the sound of the gay chatter of people glad to be alive. Even though it was a cold night, the pavement cafés were overflowing and a cacophony of different music from inside the bars assaulted Laurent’s senses. Normally Montparnasse and its vivacity exhilarated him, but lately it had irritated him. How could everyone be so happy when he himself seemed unable to rise from the torpor and misery of his affliction?
Avoiding La Closerie des Lilas, as there would be too many acquaintances who would drag him into witless conversation, Laurent made his way to a quieter establishment, sat down on a stool at the bar and ordered himself an absinthe, knocking it back in one. He looked around at the tables, and immediately noticed a dusky brunette who reminded him of Izabela. Of course, when he looked closer, he saw the girl’s features were not as fine, and that her eyes were hard. But these days, it seemed that everywhere he went, he saw her.
Ordering another absinthe, Laurent pondered his situation. In the past, he’d been known as a Casanova, a charming, attractive man envied by his friends, as it seemed that with the merest blink of an eye he could have any woman he chose to warm his bed. And yes, he’d made the most of it, for he enjoyed women. Not only for their bodies, but for their minds.
As for love . . . he had thought on a couple of occasions in the past that he was perhaps experiencing what all the great writers and artists spent their lives describing. But both times the feeling had passed quickly enough and Laurent had begun to convince himself that he would never truly know how it felt.
Until Izabela . . .
When he’d first met her, he’d used all his usual tricks to seduce her, and had enjoyed watching her blush as she slowly fell under his spell. Sure enough, it had been a game he’d excelled at playing many times in the past. But usually, once the fish was hooked and was dangling on his line to do with as he wished, the novelty would wear off and he’d become bored and move on.
And then, when he’d realised Izabela was leaving, and that, perhaps for the first time, what he felt for her was genuine, he’d made his first and only heartfelt declaration of love and asked her to stay on in Paris.
And she had refused him.
In those first few days after she’d left France, he’d put his misery down to the fact that it was the first time a woman had not succumbed to him. Perhaps the fact she was unattainable made the idea of her even more provocative, and the thought that she was sailing across the sea to be chained to a man she didn’t love for the rest of her life heightened the drama of the situation.
But no . . . it seemed it had been none of these things. Because eight weeks on, despite taking other women to his bed to see if that helped – which it hadn’t – and getting so drunk that he’d managed to sleep through the entire following day – which had incurred the wrath of Landowski – he felt no different.
He still thought of Izabela every waking moment. At theatelier, he found himself staring into space, remembering when she had sat so serenely in front of him and he’d been able to feast his eyes on her day after day, for hours at a time . . .whyhad he not appreciated it more? She was unlike any woman he had ever met, so innocent, so good . . . Yet, as he’d discovered when he’d questioned her that first day as he sketched her, she was also so full of passion and eagerness to discover all that life could hold. And her kindness that night, when she’d so tenderly carried the young boy in her arms, brooking no discussion about the rights and wrongs of her actions . . .
As Laurent drained his glass and ordered another, he decided she was truly a goddess.
At night in bed, he’d often go over their conversations, mentally kicking himself for ever playing with her emotions, wishing he could take back any of the outrageousdoubles entendreshe’d embarrassed her with in the beginning. She hadn’t deserved them.
And now she was gone forever. And it was too late.
Besides, he thought morosely, what had he to offer a woman like her? A dirty shared attic where even the bed was rented out by the hour, no form of steady income and a reputation with women that she must surely have heard of any time she had visited Montparnasse. He had seen Margarida Lopes de Almeida watching him knowingly, and Laurent was sure she’d have commented to Izabela on what she thought of him.
