“Ah, there she is again, my little redhead,” said the man and I saw that it was the Spaniard, Pablo Picasso. With him was an olive-skinned girl, half a head taller than he was, with a scarf wound around her head gypsy-style and black flashing eyes. “You see, Fernande,” he said to her. “Now you see why I should like to paint her—such unusual coloring and a good strong jawline.”
The tall one glared at me in unfriendly fashion. “Only if you let Max paint me,” she said, and played with her scarf.
“You know what I have said to that,” he snapped. “Nobody else sees you naked. Don’t mention it again.”
“And yet you think you can paint other women and I won’t mind?”
“It is the head that interests me, you silly goose,” he said. “You can sit beside me, if you wish. And she is an American. A visitor. No threat to you.”
“She is no better than she should be.” Fernande was still glaring at me. “No respectable woman sits alone in the evening.”
“I assure you I do not want to sit alone,” I said. “I was supposed to stay with friends here, but something must have happened to them. They have vanished. Nobody has seen them.”
“Did you find your Mr. Reynold Bryce? Did he not know where they are?” Picasso asked.
“I—” I stopped, remembering the inspector’s desire to keep the murder hushed up for now. “I went to his residence but I was not able to speak to him.”
“If these friends are American, she should go to La Stein,” Fernande said. “That place is always full of Americans. So boring.”
I remembered he had mentioned something about La Stein that morning. “‘La Stein’—what is that?”
“You mean who is that,” he said. “She is an American lady. A rich American lady. She buys paintings. She bought one of mine so she must have good taste for an American. And there are always gatherings at her house.”
“Where is this house?” I asked.
“On the Left Bank, by the Jardin du Luxembourg,” he said. “Rue de Fleurus. What is the number, Fernande?”
She shrugged. “Why should I remember? I only went there once with you and it was boring. Nobody spoke French and they ignored me. Me, I do not like being ignored, especially by you.”
“As if I ever ignore you, my darling. You know I cannot bear to be parted from you for an instant.” He gazed at her with such intensity that I felt distinctly embarrassed.
“Rue de Fleurus,” I repeated, before they could fall into a passionate embrace, right there in the restaurant.
“Ask anybody. They will know the number. Her parties are loud and go on all night.”
“Thank you,” I said. My wine and the rum in the dessert suddenly made the room swing around. “I must go back to my son,” I said.
“If you decide you would like to model for me, you can usually find me at the café, if I am not working,” Picasso called after me. “And if I work, I’m at Le Bateau-Lavoir.”
I thought that any woman who went to model for Picasso would be taking her life in her hands. And I smiled until those words echoed in my head. Had Sid and Gus taken their life in their hands doing something foolish? These people in Paris were not like New Yorkers. They were passionate and wild and jealous. They spoke of duels and pistols. And one of them had killed Mr. Reynold Bryce, a respectable American, in his own home.
I pulled my shawl around me, bid everyone a hasty good-night and hurried home. The Rue des Martyrs, where it met the boulevard near Pigalle, was now coming to life. A girl wearing a short skirt and showing black fishnet stockings almost up to her knee was leaning against a lamppost on the corner. A couple walked past, arms entwined about each other. A group of young men came toward me, singing lustily—something about “Auprès de ma blonde, qu’il fait bon dormir,” meaning “It would be good to sleep next to my blonde”? Such things would never be heard in New York.
They called out to me as they passed on the other side of the street. “Hello, ma belle. Come with us. We go to the Moulin Rouge. Come and dance and drink.”
I ignored them, suddenly feeling alone and vulnerable. I heard ribald comments as I fled toward my front door and went inside. Madame was back on alert this time. “You’ve been walking the streets, I see.”
“I had no food for my evening meal. I needed to eat.”
“It is not wise to wander the streets alone in this part of the city,” she said. “People will get the wrong idea about you.”
“I’ll remember that. Thank you.” I gave her a civil nod. As I went to walk past her up the stairs she called after me, “How long do you think you’ll remain here to see if your friends will return?”
“Until I find out what has happened to them,” I said. “You told me that the rent had been paid until the end of the month so it doesn’t really concern you whether anyone stays in their apartment or not, does it? Good night, madame.”
Then I stomped up the stairs. I had had a long, frustrating, and frightening day and I was not prepared to tolerate Madame Hetreau’s attempts to intimidate me.
Seventeen