Page 68 of The Seven Sisters
But here . . . Bel realised she felt like a prim princess from a bygone age, transplanted into a world that had left the rules of society far behind. It was obvious that no one in this room cared a fig for convention; in fact, she thought, perhaps they felt it their duty to do all in their power to fight against it.
As the teacher announced the end of the class, and the students gathered their notebooks and began to leave the room, Bel felt out of her depth.
‘You look pale,’ Margarida said, studying her. ‘Are you feeling quite well, Izabela?’
‘I think the room must be stuffy,’ she lied as she followed Margarida out of the classroom.
‘And smelly, yes?’ Margarida giggled. ‘Don’t worry, you get used to it. I’m sorry if that class was not a good introduction for you. I promise the practical lessons are far more exciting. Now, we shall take a walk together and find some lunch?’
Bel was glad to be out on the streets, and as they walked along the Rue Bonaparte in the direction of Montparnasse, she listened as Margarida chatted about her time in Europe.
‘I’ve only been here in Paris for six months, but it already feels like home. I was away in Italy for three years, and will be here for another two. I think it will be hard to go back to Brazil after more than five years in Europe.’
‘I’m sure,’ agreed Bel with feeling, as the streets began to narrow and they passed cafés teeming with customers sitting at small wooden tables outside, shaded from the midday sun by colourful parasols. The air was heavy with the rich aromas of tobacco, coffee and alcohol.
‘What is that liquid in small glasses that everybody seems to be drinking?’ she asked Margarida.
‘Oh, it’s called absinthe. All the artists drink it because it’s cheap and very strong. Personally, I think it tastes disgusting.’
While a few men glanced appreciatively in their direction, here their status as two unaccompanied ladies without an older chaperone did not raise so much as an eyebrow of disapproval.Nobody cares, Bel thought, her mood lifting at the heady reality of being in Montparnasse for the first time.
‘We’ll go to La Closerie des Lilas,’ Margarida announced, ‘and if we’re lucky, you may see some familiar faces there.’
Margarida indicated a café that looked similar to the ones they had just passed and, after weaving a path between the heaving outdoor tables that were crammed together on the wide pavement in front of it, she led Bel inside. Speaking in rapid French to the waiter, Margarida was shown to a table in the front corner of the room by the window.
‘Now,’ she said as they sat down on the leather-covered banquette, ‘this is the best vantage point from which to watch as the residents of Montparnasse go about their business. And we will see how long it takes them to spot you,’ Margarida added.
‘Why me?’ Bel asked.
‘Because,chérie,you are astoundingly beautiful. And as a woman, there is no better currency to trade with in Montparnasse than that. I give them ten minutes before they are over here, eager to know who you are.’
‘You know many of them?’ Bel asked in awe.
‘Oh yes. It’s a surprisingly small community here, and everyone knows everybody else.’
Their attention was caught by a man with swept-back grey hair who was moving towards a grand piano, cheered on by the table he had arisen from. He sat down and began to play. The entire café fell silent and Bel too listened spellbound, as the wonderful piece of music slowly, tantalisingly, built to a crescendo. As the final note hovered in the air, a roar of appreciation went up and the man was cheered and stamped back to his table.
‘I’ve never heard anything quite like that,’ said Bel, breathless with enjoyment. ‘And who was the pianist? He is truly inspired.’
‘Querida,that was Ravel himself, and the piece he was playing is calledBoléro. It hasn’t even had its official premiere yet, so we’re honoured indeed to hear it. Now, what shall we order for lunch?’
Margarida had been correct in her assumption that they would not be left alone for long. A stream of men, ranging from young to very old, came to their table and greeted her, then promptly enquired who her beautiful companion was.
‘Ah, another dark-eyed and hot-blooded woman from that exotic land of yours,’ commented one gentleman, who Bel was sure was wearing lipstick.
The men would pause and stare at her face until she knew she was blushing as pink as the radishes in her untouched chef’s salad. She was far too exhilarated to eat.
‘Yes, I can paint you,’ some would say languidly, ‘and I will immortalise your beauty forever. Margarida knows where my studio is.’ Then the artist concerned would give a small bow and leave the table. Every few minutes, a waiter would appear with a glass of strange-coloured liquid, and announce ‘with the compliments of the gentleman at table six . . .’
‘Of course, you will pose for none of them,’ said Margarida pragmatically. ‘They are all Surrealists, which means they will only capture theessenceof you and not your physical form. In all likelihood, your image would turn out to be a red flame of passion, with your breast in one corner and your eye in the other!’ she giggled. ‘Try this one, it’s grenadine. I like it.’ Margarida proffered a glass full of scarlet-coloured liquid, then said suddenly, ‘Izabela, quickly! Look over there by the door.’
Bel drew her uncertain gaze from the glass in front of her and turned it towards the entrance of the café. ‘You know who it is?’ asked Margarida.
‘Yes,’ she breathed as she took in the slight figure and dark wavy hair of the man Margarida was indicating. ‘It’s Jean Cocteau.’
‘Indeed, the prince of the avant-garde. He’s a fascinating, albeit sensitive, man.’
‘Youknowhim?’ said Bel.
